Euthydemus

Plato · a new plain-English translation from the Greek

CRITO: Socrates, who was that man you were talking with yesterday in the Lyceum? There was such a crowd standing around you both that I went up wanting to listen, but couldn't make out anything clearly. Still, I craned my neck and got a glimpse, and it looked to me like some foreigner you were talking with. Who was it? SOCRATES: Which one do you mean, Crito? There wasn't just one — there were two. CRITO: The one I mean was sitting third on your right. Between the two of you was that boy, Axiochus's son. He seemed to me to have grown a great deal, Socrates — hardly any different in age now from our Critobulus. But Critobulus is thin, while this boy is more mature-looking, and handsome and well-built. SOCRATES: That's Euthydemus you're asking about, Crito. The one sitting on my left was his brother, Dionysodorus — he takes part in the discussions too. CRITO: I don't know either of them, Socrates. Some new sophists, it seems. Where are they from, and what's their expertise? SOCRATES: Their family is originally from around Chios, I believe, but they emigrated to Thurii, and then, exiled from there, they've been spending many years now around these parts. As for the expertise you're asking about, Crito, it's amazing — the two of them are simply all-wise. I didn't even realize until now what all-round fighters were. These two are truly complete all-round fighters. It's not like those pankration brothers from Acarnania — those two could only fight with their bodies, but these two are first of all tremendously skilled fighters with the body, and in a form of combat that can master anyone

SOCRATES: — for the two of them are quite expert at fighting in armor, and can make anyone else expert too, if he pays the fee — and beyond that, they're the best at the kind of battle waged in the courts, both at arguing a case themselves and at teaching someone else how to speak and to compose speeches suited for the courts. So before, they were only formidable at these things, but now they've crowned it all with the art of the pankration itself. The one kind of fighting they had left undeveloped, they've now perfected, so that no one can even stand up against them anymore — they've become so formidable at fighting with words and refuting whatever is said, whether it's false or true. So I've a mind, Crito, to hand myself over to these two men — they say they could make anyone else, in a short time, just as formidable at these very things. CRITO: But Socrates, aren't you worried about your age? Aren't you rather old for this now? SOCRATES: Not in the least, Crito. I have good enough proof and reassurance not to worry. These two men themselves, you might say, were old when they took up this expertise I'm so eager for — the art of disputation. Just last year, or the year before, they weren't wise at it yet. The only thing I'm afraid of is that I might bring disgrace on the two foreigners, the way I did on Connus, son of Metrobius, the lyre player, who's still teaching me the lyre even now — my fellow students see this and laugh at me, and call Connus 'the old man's teacher.' So I'm afraid someone might level that same charge at the two foreigners — and maybe they, fearing just this themselves, won't want to take me on. As it is, Crito, I've persuaded some other old men to come study the lyre with me there, and here I'll try to persuade others to join in. Why don't you come along too? And we'll use your sons as bait for them — since I know that in their eagerness to get your sons, they'll end up educating us as well. CRITO: There's nothing to stop it, Socrates, if you think it's a good idea. But first tell me what this expertise of theirs actually is, so I know what we'll be learning. SOCRATES: You'll hear it without delay — I couldn't claim that I wasn't paying attention to them; in fact I paid very close attention and I remember it, and I'll try to tell you the whole thing from the beginning. By some stroke of fortune I happened to be sitting right where you saw me, in the changing room, alone, and I was already about to get up, when, as I was rising, my usual sign, the divine one, came to me.

SOCRATES: So I sat back down, and a little later the two of them came in — Euthydemus and Dionysodorus — along with a good many other students, it seemed to me. Once inside, they began walking up and down in the covered running track. They hadn't gone around more than two or three laps when Cleinias came in — the one you say has grown so much, and truly he has. Behind him were a great many admirers, among them Ctesippus, a young man from Paeania, quite handsome and well-bred by nature, only a bit reckless because of his youth. Cleinias, seeing me sitting alone as he came in the door, walked straight across and sat down on my right, just as you say. When Dionysodorus and Euthydemus saw him, they first stopped and talked with each other for a moment, glancing over at us now and then — I was watching them closely — and then they came over; one of them, Euthydemus, sat down beside the boy, and the other sat beside me on my left, and the rest sat wherever they happened to land. I greeted the two of them, since I hadn't seen them in a while, and then I said to Cleinias: 'Cleinias, these two men are wise, you know — not in small things, but in great ones. They know everything to do with war, all that a future general needs to know — troop formations, command of armies, everything that must be taught about fighting in arms — and they're also able to make a man capable of defending himself in the courts, if anyone wrongs him.' Having said this, I was met with their scorn. Both of them laughed, looking at each other, and Euthydemus said: 'No, Socrates, we don't take those things seriously anymore — we treat them as side matters.' Amazed, I said: 'Then your real work must be a fine thing indeed, if things of that size are mere side issues for you — and by the gods, tell me what this fine thing is.' 'Virtue,' he said, 'Socrates — we believe we're able to hand it over better and faster than anyone.' 'Zeus!' I said, 'what a thing you're describing! Where did you two come by this windfall? I was still thinking of you, as I was just saying, as formidable mainly in fighting with weapons, and that's what I was saying about you both — for I remember, the last time you were here, that's what you were professing.'

SOCRATES: 'But if you really do have this knowledge now, be gracious to me — I address you, quite literally, as gods, and I ask your pardon for what I said before. But look, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, and tell me if you're speaking the truth — given the size of the claim, it's no wonder to be skeptical.' 'But you can be sure, Socrates,' they both said, 'that this is exactly how it is.' 'Then I count you happier in this possession than the Great King is in his empire. But tell me this much — do you intend to give a demonstration of this wisdom, or how have you two planned it?' 'That's exactly why we're here, Socrates — to demonstrate it and to teach it, to anyone who wants to learn.' 'Well, I can guarantee you that everyone who lacks it will want to — myself first, then Cleinias here, and besides us, Ctesippus here, and these others,' I said, pointing to Cleinias's admirers, who by now had gathered around us. Ctesippus happened to be sitting some way off from Cleinias, and it seems that, as Euthydemus was talking with me, leaning forward with Cleinias sitting between us, he was blocking Ctesippus's view. So Ctesippus, wanting to see his beloved and being naturally curious besides, jumped up and came and stood right across from us first, and seeing him do it, the others gathered round us too — both Cleinias's admirers and the companions of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus. Pointing to these, I told Euthydemus that they were all ready to learn. Ctesippus agreed most eagerly, and so did the others, and they all urged the two of them together to give a demonstration of the power of their wisdom. So I said: 'Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, by all means oblige these men, and give a demonstration for my sake too. Most of it, clearly, would be no small task to demonstrate — but tell me this: could you make a good man out of someone already convinced that he ought to learn from you, and only him — or can you do it also with someone not yet convinced, either because he doesn't believe at all that virtue is teachable, or because he doesn't think you two are teachers of it? Come — is persuading a man in that condition — that virtue is teachable and that you are the very ones from whom one could best learn it — the work of this same art, or of some other?' 'Of this very same art, Socrates,' said Dionysodorus.

SOCRATES: 'Then you two,' I said, 'Dionysodorus, would be the best of all people now living at turning someone toward philosophy and the care of virtue?' 'We think so indeed, Socrates.' 'Then set aside the demonstration of everything else for another time,' I said, 'and show us just this one thing — persuade this young man here that he ought to practice philosophy and care for virtue, and you'll be doing a favor both to me and to all these others. Something like this happens to be the case with this boy: I myself and all these men here happen to desire that he become as good as possible. He is the son of Axiochus, grandson of the elder Alcibiades, and first cousin of the Alcibiades of today; his name is Cleinias. He is young, and we're anxious about him, as one naturally is about someone young, for fear someone gets to him first and turns his mind toward some other pursuit and corrupts him. So you two have come at the best possible moment — unless it makes some difference to you, put the young man to the test and talk with him in front of us.' When I had said more or less this, Euthydemus said, boldly and with confidence: 'It makes no difference at all, Socrates, so long as the young man is willing to answer.' 'Well,' I said, 'he's quite used to that — these friends of his come to him often and ask him many questions and talk with him, so he's fairly comfortable answering.' What happened after that, Crito, how could I possibly tell it to you properly? It's no small task to be able to recall and go through such boundless wisdom, so that, like the poets, I feel I ought to begin my account by invoking the Muses and Memory. Euthydemus began, as I recall, from somewhere around here: 'Cleinias, which people are the ones who learn — the wise, or the ignorant?' And the boy, since it was such a weighty question, blushed and, at a loss, looked over at me. I saw he was flustered and said, 'Take courage, Cleinias, and answer bravely, whichever way seems right to you — it may well do you the greatest good.' And just then Dionysodorus leaned in close to my ear, smiling broadly, and said: 'I tell you now, Socrates, whichever way the boy answers, he'll be refuted.'

SOCRATES: While he was still speaking, Cleinias happened to answer, so I had no chance to warn the boy to be careful — he answered that it was the wise who learned. And Euthydemus said: You speak of teachers, don't you? — He agreed. — So teachers are teachers of learners — just as your lyre teacher and your writing teacher were teachers of you and the other boys, and you were their pupils? — He agreed. — And when you were learning, you didn't yet know the things you were learning? — He said no. — Were you wise, then, when you didn't know those things? — Certainly not, he said. — And if not wise, then ignorant? — Quite so. — So you, in learning what you didn't know, were learning while ignorant. — The boy nodded. — So it's the ignorant who learn, Cleinias, not the wise, as you supposed. At this, as if a chorus had been cued by its trainer, Dionysodorus's and Euthydemus's followers burst out laughing and cheering together; and before the boy could catch his breath properly, Dionysodorus took it up and said: Well, Cleinias, when your writing teacher used to dictate to you, which of the boys learned what was dictated — the wise ones or the ignorant ones? — The wise ones, said Cleinias. — So it's the wise who learn, not the ignorant, and your answer to Euthydemus just now was wrong. At this the admirers of the two men laughed and cheered very loudly indeed, marveling at their cleverness; the rest of us sat in stunned silence. Euthydemus, noticing we were stunned, and wanting us to admire him even more, wouldn't let the boy go, but kept questioning him, and like a skilled dancer he turned the questions on the same point twice over, and said: Do learners learn what they know, or what they don't know? And Dionysodorus whispered to me again: This too, Socrates, is another one just like the last. Good heavens, I said, the previous question certainly did seem fine to us. Everything we ask, Socrates, he said, is like that — inescapable. Well then, I said, it seems you two are quite popular with your students.

SOCRATES: Meanwhile Cleinias answered Euthydemus that learners learn what they don't know; and he questioned him through the same steps as before: Well now, don't you know your letters? — Yes, he said. — All of them? — He agreed. — And when someone dictates anything at all, isn't he dictating letters? — He agreed. — So he's dictating something you know, if indeed you know them all? — He agreed to that too. — Well then, he said, don't you fail to learn whatever is dictated, while the one who doesn't know his letters learns? — No, he said, I do learn. — So you learn what you know, he said, since you know all the letters. — He agreed. — Then your answer wasn't correct, he said. Euthydemus had barely finished saying this when Dionysodorus, catching the argument like a ball, took aim at the boy again and said: Euthydemus is deceiving you, Cleinias. Tell me — isn't learning acquiring knowledge of whatever one learns? — Cleinias agreed. — And knowing, he said, is nothing other than already having knowledge? — He agreed. — So not knowing is not yet having knowledge? — He agreed with him. — So are those who acquire something the ones who already have it, or those who don't have it? — Those who don't. — And you've agreed that those who don't know belong among those who don't have it? — He nodded. — So learners belong among those who are acquiring, not among those who have? — He agreed. — So it's those who don't know who learn, Cleinias, he said, not those who know. Euthydemus was now rushing in for a third throw on the young man, like a wrestler; and I, seeing the boy going under, wanting to give him a rest so he wouldn't lose his nerve with us, spoke to comfort him: Cleinias, don't be surprised if these arguments seem strange to you. Perhaps you don't notice what our two visitors are doing with you — they're doing just what the initiates do in the rites of the Corybantes, when they perform the enthronement around the one they're about to initiate. There too there's a kind of dance and play, if indeed you're being initiated; and now these two are doing nothing but dancing around you, playing and cavorting, as a prelude to initiating you afterward. So now think of yourself as hearing the opening rites of sophistic mysteries.

SOCRATES: For first, as Prodicus says, one must learn the correctness of names — which is exactly what our two visitors are showing you, since you didn't realize that people use the word 'learn' both when someone, having no knowledge at all about some matter from the start, later acquires knowledge of it, and also — using this very same word — when someone who already has the knowledge uses that same knowledge to examine that same matter, whether it's being done or said — though this they call 'understanding' more than 'learning,' though sometimes they do call it learning too — and this distinction, as our friends here are showing, has escaped you: that the same word applies to people in opposite conditions, both to the one who knows and to the one who doesn't. Something similar applies to the second question, where they asked you whether people learn what they know or what they don't know. These are just the playful games of learning — which is why I say these two are playing with you — and I call it play for this reason: even if someone learned many or even all such things, he'd be no better off knowing how matters actually stand; he'd only be able to toy with people, tripping them up and knocking them over through the ambiguity of words — just as those who yank stools out from under people about to sit down enjoy laughing when they see someone thrown flat on his back. So consider what you've gotten from these two so far to have been play; but afterward, clearly, these two will show you serious things, and I'll guide them so they deliver what they promised. For they said they'd display their skill at exhortation — but now, it seems, they thought they should play with you first. So, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, let this playing be enough — perhaps it's sufficient — and now show, in what follows, by way of exhortation, how the boy should attend to wisdom and virtue. But first let me show you two what I take that to mean and what kind of exhortation I want to hear. So if I seem to you to be doing this in an amateurish and laughable way, don't laugh at me — it's out of eagerness to hear your wisdom that I'll venture to improvise in front of you. So bear with me without laughing, both you and your students. Now, son of Axiochus, answer me: don't all of us human beings wish to do well? Or is this one of those questions I was just now afraid was laughable? For surely it's foolish even to ask such a thing — who among people doesn't wish to do well?

SOCRATES: There's no one who doesn't, said Cleinias. — Well then, I said, the next question: since we wish to do well, how would we do well? Would it be if we had many good things? Or is this an even sillier question than the last? For surely this too is obvious, that it's so. — He agreed. — Come then, what sorts of things among those that exist happen to be good for us? Or does this not seem difficult either, nor something requiring a solemn man to supply? For anyone would tell us that wealth is good — right? — Quite so, he said. — And so is being healthy, and being good-looking, and being adequately equipped in other bodily respects? — He agreed. — But surely good birth, power, and honors in one's own city are clearly good things. — He agreed. — What then, I said, is left to us among goods? What about being moderate, and just, and courageous? By Zeus, Cleinias, do you think we'll be right to set these down as goods, or not? Someone might dispute it with us — what do you think? — They're goods, said Cleinias. — Well then, I said, where shall we rank wisdom in the chorus? Among the goods, or how do you put it? — Among the goods. — Now think carefully whether we're leaving out any good worth mentioning. — But it seems to me, said Cleinias, that we're leaving out nothing. — And I, recalling something, said: By Zeus, we're in danger of having left out the greatest of the goods. — What's that? he said. — Good luck, Cleinias — which everyone says, even quite ordinary people, is the greatest of goods. — True, he said. — And then I, changing my mind again, said we'd nearly made ourselves ridiculous before our visitors, both you and I, son of Axiochus. — How so? he said. — Because, having already set down good luck earlier, we're now again talking about the same thing. — What do you mean by that? — It's surely ridiculous, I said, to bring up again what's already been proposed, and to say the same things twice. — How do you mean this? he said. — Wisdom, surely, I said, is good luck — even a child would know that. — And he was amazed — so young and naive is he still. — And I, noticing his amazement, said: Don't you know, Cleinias, that in flute-playing it's the flute players who are luckiest at succeeding? — He agreed. — And in reading and writing letters, the writing teachers? — Quite so. — Well then, in the dangers of the sea, do you think anyone is luckier than skilled pilots, generally speaking? — Certainly not.

SOCRATES: Well then — on campaign, with which commander would you rather share the risk and fortune of war, a wise one or an ignorant one? — With a wise one. — And if sick, with which doctor would you rather risk it, a skilled one or an unskilled one? — With a skilled one. — Isn't this, I said, because you think you'd fare more fortunately acting with a skilled person than with an unskilled one? — He agreed. — So wisdom makes people fortunate in every case; for surely wisdom could never err — it must act rightly and succeed, or it wouldn't be wisdom at all. We finally agreed, somehow, in sum, that this is how things stand: where wisdom is present, whoever has it needs nothing further of good luck. And once we'd agreed on this, I went back to ask him how our earlier agreements stood. For we'd agreed, I said, that if we had many good things, we'd be happy and do well. — He agreed. — Would we be happy, then, because of the goods present with us, if they did us no good, or if they did? — If they did good, he said. — Would something do us good if we merely had it but didn't use it? For instance, if we had much food but didn't eat it, or drink but didn't drink it, would we be benefited at all? — Certainly not, he said. — And what about craftsmen — if each had all the equipment necessary for his own work prepared, but didn't use it, would they do well because of possessing it, simply because they possessed everything a craftsman needs to possess? Take a carpenter — if he had all his tools ready and enough wood, but didn't do any carpentry, would he be benefited at all by the possession? — Not at all, he said. — And what if someone possessed wealth and all the other goods we just mentioned, but didn't use them — would he be happy because of possessing these goods? — Certainly not, Socrates. — It seems, then, I said, that one who is going to be happy must not only possess such goods but also use them; otherwise there's no benefit from possessing them. — True. — Well then, Cleinias, is this now sufficient to make someone happy — both possessing the goods and using them? — It seems so to me. — Whether, I said, one uses them rightly, or even if not? — If rightly.

SOCRATES: Well said, I told him. Because I suppose it does make a difference whether a person uses a thing wrongly or simply leaves it alone: the one is bad, while the other is neither bad nor good. Isn't that our position? He agreed. Now then: in working with wood and using it, is there anything that produces correct use other than the carpenter's knowledge? Certainly not, he said. And in the making of implements, too, it is knowledge that produces the correctness. He agreed. Then, I said, take the use of those goods we mentioned first — wealth and health and beauty. Was it knowledge that guided the correct use of all such things and steered the action straight, or was it something else? Knowledge, he said. So knowledge, it seems, supplies people not merely with good luck but with good doing, in every acquisition and every action. He conceded it. Then in heaven's name, I said, is there any benefit in the other possessions without good sense and wisdom? Would a man profit from owning much and doing much with no intelligence — or rather from owning little, with intelligence? Look at it this way: doing less, wouldn't he make fewer mistakes; making fewer mistakes, wouldn't he fare less badly; and faring less badly, wouldn't he be less miserable? Certainly, he said. And who would do less — a poor man or a rich one? A poor man, he said. A weak man or a strong one? A weak one. A man held in honor, or one without honor? One without honor. Would a brave and temperate man do less, or a coward? A coward. And a lazy man rather than a hardworking one? He agreed. And a slow man rather than a quick one, and a man whose sight and hearing are dull rather than sharp? On all points of this kind we kept agreeing with each other. To sum it up, Clinias, I said, it looks as if, with all the things we first called goods, the question is not how they are in themselves naturally good; rather it seems to stand like this: if ignorance is in command of them, they are greater evils than their opposites, in proportion as they are more capable of serving a commander who is bad; while if good sense and wisdom lead, they are greater goods — but in themselves neither sort is worth anything at all. It appears, he said, to be just as you say. Then what follows for us from what has been said? Surely this: that of all the rest nothing is either good or bad, while of these two, wisdom is good and ignorance is bad. He agreed.

SOCRATES: Well then, I said, let us examine what remains. Since we all long to be happy, and since we turned out to become happy by using things — and using them correctly — and since it was knowledge that supplied the correctness and the good fortune, then every man, it seems, must by every means equip himself for this: to become as wise as possible. Or not? Yes, he said. And a man who thinks he ought to receive this from his father — far more than money — and from guardians and friends, from the others and from those who profess to be his lovers, from strangers and fellow citizens alike, begging and imploring them to share their wisdom: there is nothing shameful in that, Clinias, nothing to resent, if for its sake he serves and slaves for a lover or for any man at all, willing to perform any honorable service in his eagerness to become wise. Or don't you think so? I said. You seem to me to speak exactly right, he said. Yes, Clinias, I said — if, that is, wisdom can be taught, and does not come to people of its own accord. For that is still unexamined between us; you and I have not yet settled it. But to me, Socrates, he said, it seems teachable. And I was delighted and said: Beautifully spoken, best of men! And you have done me a favor, sparing me a long inquiry into that very question, whether wisdom is teachable or not. So now, since you think it is both teachable and the only thing in the world that makes a person happy and fortunate, wouldn't you say the pursuit of wisdom is necessary — and do you intend to pursue it yourself? Absolutely, Socrates, he said, as much as I possibly can. And I, glad to hear all this, said: There, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, is my model of what I want exhortation-speeches to be — an amateur's effort, perhaps, laboring along at length. Now let whichever of you wishes do the same thing for us by art. Or, if you don't want that, then pick up where I left off and show the boy the next step: whether he must acquire every kind of knowledge, or whether there is some single one that a man must get in order to be happy and good — and what it is. For as I said at the start, it matters a great deal to us that this young man become wise and good.

SOCRATES: That, Crito, is what I said; and I gave my whole attention to what would come next, watching how they would take up the argument and where they would begin in urging the young man to practice wisdom and virtue. The elder of them, Dionysodorus, started the argument first, and we all fixed our eyes on him, expecting to hear some marvelous arguments on the spot. And that is exactly what happened to us: the man launched an argument that was marvelous indeed, Crito, and worth your hearing — such a spur to virtue it was! Tell me, he said, Socrates, and all the rest of you who say you want this young man to become wise: are you joking when you say it, or do you truly desire it in earnest? It crossed my mind that they must have assumed we were joking earlier, when we asked the pair of them to talk with the boy, and that this was why they had played around and not been serious. So with that in mind I said, still more emphatically, that we were extraordinarily in earnest. And Dionysodorus said: Take care, Socrates, that you don't end up denying what you say now. I have taken care, I said; I will never deny it. Well then, he said: you say you want him to become wise? Certainly. And at present, he said, is Clinias wise or not? He says not yet, I said — and he is no braggart. And you people, he said, want him to become wise, and not to be ignorant? We agreed. So you want him to become what he is not, and no longer to be what he now is. When I heard that I was thrown into confusion; and while I was still reeling he pounced: Then since you want him no longer to be what he now is, you want him — apparently — to be destroyed? Fine friends and lovers these must be, who would give anything to have their darling annihilated! And Ctesippus, hearing this, grew angry on his favorite's behalf and said: Stranger from Thurii, if it weren't rather rude to say it, I would say: on your own head! Whatever put it into you to tell such a lie about me and the others — a thing I think it is not even holy to utter — that I would want this boy destroyed?

SOCRATES: What, Ctesippus, said Euthydemus — do you think it is possible to lie? Good God, yes, he said, unless I'm out of my mind. Speaking the thing the statement is about, or not speaking it? Speaking it, he said. Then if he speaks it, he speaks no other thing among the things that are than the very one he speaks? How could he? said Ctesippus. And that thing he speaks is itself one of the things that are, distinct from the rest? Certainly. So the man who speaks that thing, he said, speaks what is? Yes. But surely the man who speaks what is, and speaks things that are, speaks the truth — so that Dionysodorus, if he speaks things that are, speaks the truth and tells no lie against you. Yes, said Ctesippus, but a man who says those things, Euthydemus, is not speaking things that are. And Euthydemus said: The things that are not — surely they are not? They are not. Then nowhere are the things that are not, things that are? Nowhere. Then is there any way a person could do something about them — the things that are not — so that anyone at all could make things that are nowhere? I don't think so, said Ctesippus. Well then: when the orators speak before the people, are they doing nothing? They are doing something, he said. Then if they do, they also make? Yes. Speaking, then, is doing and making? He agreed. Then no one, he said, speaks things that are not — for he would already be making something, and you have admitted that no one can make what is not — so that by your own account nobody tells lies; and if Dionysodorus speaks, he speaks true things and things that are. By God, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus, he does speak things that are, in a manner of speaking — only not as they really stand. What do you mean, Ctesippus? said Dionysodorus. Are there people who say things as they stand? There certainly are, he said — gentlemen, the men who speak the truth. Well then, he said: good things stand well, don't they, and bad things badly? He conceded it. And you admit that gentlemen speak of things as they stand? I admit it. Then, Ctesippus, he said, the good speak badly of the bad — if they speak of them as they stand. Yes, by God, emphatically so, he said — of bad men, at any rate; and if you take my advice you will be careful not to be one of them, so that the good don't speak badly of you. For you may be sure the good speak badly of the bad. And do they speak of big men, said Euthydemus, in a big way, and of hot men hotly? Certainly, said Ctesippus — and of frigid men they speak frigidly, and say their way of arguing is frigid too. Now you are being abusive, Ctesippus, said Dionysodorus — abusive!

SOCRATES: Not I, by God, Dionysodorus, said Ctesippus — I'm fond of you. I'm admonishing you as a comrade, and trying to persuade you never again to say to my face, so crudely, that I want these people destroyed — people I value more than anything. So, since they seemed to me to be getting rather fierce with each other, I started teasing Ctesippus and said: Ctesippus, my view is that we ought to accept from the strangers what they tell us, if they are willing to give it, and not quarrel over a word. If they know how to destroy people in such a way as to turn worthless fools into decent, sensible men — whether the two of them discovered it themselves or learned from someone else this kind of ruin and destruction, by which they abolish a man who is worthless and produce him again as a good one — if they know how to do this (and clearly they do: they said, after all, that their newly discovered art was to make people good who were bad), then let us concede the point to them. Let them destroy the boy for us and make him sensible — and all the rest of us too. And if you young men are afraid, let the risk fall on me, as they say it should fall on the Carian: since I am an old man anyway, I am ready to take the chance, and I hand myself over to Dionysodorus here as if to Medea of Colchis. Let him destroy me — boil me, if he likes, or do whatever he wants — only let him turn me out good. And Ctesippus said: I too, Socrates, am ready to offer myself to the strangers — even if they want to flay me worse than they are flaying me now — provided my hide does not end up as a wineskin, like the hide of Marsyas, but ends up as virtue. And yet Dionysodorus here thinks I am angry with him. I am not angry; I am contradicting what I think he has said improperly against me. Come, noble Dionysodorus, he said, don't call contradicting abuse — abuse is something else entirely. And Dionysodorus said: Do you build your arguments, Ctesippus, on the assumption that there is such a thing as contradicting? Of course I do, he said — emphatically. Or do you, Dionysodorus, think there is no such thing as contradicting? Well, you at least, he said, could never prove that you have heard one man contradicting another. Is that so? he said. Then let me prove it to you right now, as you listen: Ctesippus contradicting Dionysodorus. And would you stand behind that claim? Absolutely, he said.

SOCRATES: Well then, he said, does each of the things that are have its own account? Certainly. And that account states how the thing is, not how it is not? How it is. Because if you remember, Ctesippus, we just showed that no one speaks of what is not — no one was ever caught saying the nonexistent. So what does that prove? said Ctesippus. Does it stop you and me from contradicting each other? Well, he said, could we contradict each other while both giving the account of the very same thing — or wouldn't we then be saying the same thing? He agreed. But when neither of us states the account of the thing, could we contradict each other then? Or in that case would neither of us even be talking about the thing at all? He granted this too. But what if I state the account of the thing, and you state some other account of some other thing — is that when we contradict? Or rather: I am speaking of the thing, and you are not speaking at all — and how could someone who is not speaking contradict someone who is? At this Ctesippus fell silent, and I, astonished at the argument, said: What do you mean by this, Dionysodorus? I have heard this argument from many people, many times, and I am always amazed by it — Protagoras and his circle made heavy use of it, and even older thinkers before them. To me it always seems a marvel, since it topples everyone else and itself along with them. But I think I will learn the truth of it best from you. Is it your claim that it is impossible to say something false? That is what the argument holds, isn't it? Yes — either one speaks the truth, or one does not speak at all. He agreed. So is it impossible to speak falsely, but possible to hold a false belief? Not even that, he said. Then there is no such thing at all as false belief? No, he said. Then there is no ignorance either, nor ignorant people — since wouldn't ignorance, if it existed, be exactly this: being in error about things? Certainly, he said. But that is impossible, I said. He agreed it was impossible. Are you saying this, Dionysodorus, just for the sake of argument, to say something paradoxical — or do you truly believe that no human being is ignorant? No, he said, you refute it. And can that even be done, by your own argument — to refute someone, when no one speaks falsely? It cannot, said Euthydemus. Then Dionysodorus was not, just now, telling me to refute him? he asked. How could anyone tell you to do what does not exist? Yet you are the one telling me to. Because, Euthydemus, I said, I do not fully grasp these clever and elegant points — my understanding is rather crude. Perhaps my next question will be somewhat coarse, but bear with me.

SOCRATES: Look at it this way: if it is impossible to speak falsely, or to hold a false belief, or to be ignorant, then surely it is also impossible to make a mistake when one does something — for one who is doing a thing cannot fail to do the very thing he is doing. Isn't that what you're saying? Certainly, he said. Well, I said, now here is the coarse question. If we make no mistakes, whether in acting or speaking or thinking, then in the name of Zeus, what are you here to teach, if that is really so? Didn't you just claim you could hand down excellence better than anyone, to whoever wishes to learn? Really, Socrates, said Dionysodorus, breaking in, are you such an old fossil that you remember what we said at the start, and if I said something last year you'd remember that too, yet you can't find anything to say to what's being said right now? Well, I said, they are hard sayings indeed — understandably so, since wise men utter them — since even this last one of yours is very hard to know what to do with. What do you mean, Dionysodorus, by 'I can't find anything to say'? Isn't it clear that I mean I can't refute him? Come now, tell me — what else could this phrase mean, 'I can't find anything to do with the arguments'? Well, he said, what you're saying is very hard to do anything with — go on, answer. Before you answer, Dionysodorus? You won't answer? he said. Is that even fair? Perfectly fair, he said. On what principle? I said — or is it obvious: because you have arrived among us now as an utter master of arguments, and you know when one should answer and when not, and now you won't answer anything at all, knowing full well one shouldn't? You're babbling, he said, instead of bothering to answer. Come, my good man, obey and answer, since you agree that I am wise. Then I must obey, I said, and it seems I have no choice, since you are in command. Go on, ask. Well then — does 'thinking' apply to things that have a soul, or also to soulless things? To things that have a soul. Do you know of any utterance, he said, that has a soul? No, by Zeus, I do not. Then why did you just ask what the utterance 'thinks' to me? What else, I said, except that I made a mistake out of my own stupidity? Or did I not make a mistake, but actually speak correctly when I said that utterances think? Do you say I made a mistake, or not?

SOCRATES: For if I did not make a mistake, then not even you, wise as you are, will be able to refute me, nor will you have anything to do with the argument. But if I did make a mistake, then you are not speaking correctly either, when you claim that making mistakes is impossible. And I am not saying this against what you said last year, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus. But it seems, I said, that this argument stays exactly where it was and, just as in the old story, falls down again as soon as it's set up — and that your art, remarkable as it is at precision in arguments, hasn't yet discovered a way to keep it from doing so. And Ctesippus said, You say the most marvelous things, gentlemen of Thurii, or Chios, or wherever and however you like to be called — you don't care in the least that you're talking nonsense. And I, afraid a quarrel would break out, again tried to calm Ctesippus down and said: Ctesippus, what I said just now to Cleinias I say to you as well — that you don't recognize how marvelous these strangers' wisdom is. But they aren't willing to demonstrate it to us seriously — instead they're imitating the Egyptian sophist Proteus, working their tricks on us. So let's imitate Menelaus, and not let the two men go until they reveal to us what it is they're serious about. I imagine something quite splendid will appear from them once they start being serious. So let's beg them, coax them, and pray to them to reveal it. And I think I should myself go back and describe the kind of thing I'm praying will appear to me — from where I left off before, I'll try to continue as best I can, in case I can call it forth, and the two of them, taking pity and having mercy on how earnest and intent I am, will themselves grow serious too. So, Cleinias, I said, remind me where we left off. As I recall, it was somewhere around here: we ended up agreeing that one must pursue philosophy — yes? Yes, he said. And philosophy is the acquisition of knowledge, isn't it? I said. Yes, he said. Then what kind of knowledge should we acquire, to acquire it rightly? Isn't the simple answer: whichever knowledge will benefit us? Certainly, he said. Would it benefit us at all, then, to know how to go around and find where in the earth the most gold is buried? Perhaps, he said.

SOCRATES: But, I said, we already refuted that earlier — that it would be no advantage even if all the gold in the world came to us without any effort or digging in the earth. So even if we knew how to turn rocks into gold, that knowledge would be worth nothing. For if we don't also know how to use the gold, it turned out to be of no benefit at all — or don't you remember? I said. I remember perfectly, he said. And it seems that no other knowledge is of any benefit either — not moneymaking, not medicine, not any other art that knows how to make something but not how to use what it makes. Isn't that so? He agreed. Nor would there be any benefit even in a knowledge of how to make people immortal, without knowing how to use immortality — if we're to judge by what we've agreed on so far. We agreed on all this. So we need some kind of knowledge, my fine boy, I said, in which making and knowing-how-to-use what one makes coincide in the same thing. Apparently, he said. Then it's far from necessary, it seems, that we become lyre-makers or acquire that sort of knowledge. For there, the art of making is one thing and the art of using is another, though both concern the same object — lyre-making and lyre-playing are quite different from each other. Isn't that so? He agreed. And clearly we don't need flute-making either — that's another case of the same kind. He agreed. But, I said, in the name of the gods, if we learned the art of speech-writing, is that the one whose possession would make us happy? I don't think so, said Cleinias, breaking in. On what evidence, I said, do you base that? I see, he said, some speechwriters who don't know how to use their own speeches, the ones they compose themselves — just as lyre-makers can't use lyres — while others are capable of using what those men produced, though they themselves are incapable of writing speeches. So it's clear that with speeches too, the art of making and the art of using are separate. That seems to me, I said, sufficient evidence that this is not the art whose possession would make someone happy — the art of the speechwriters. And yet I thought that here, somewhere, the knowledge we've been seeking all along would turn up. Because the speechwriters themselves, whenever I'm with them, seem to me exceedingly wise, Cleinias, and their art itself seems something divine and lofty. And that's no wonder, really — it is a branch of the art of incantation, only slightly inferior to it.

SOCRATES: For the art of incantation charms away vipers, and spiders, and scorpions, and other creatures, and diseases too; while the other kind charms and soothes jurors, assemblymen, and other crowds — or does it seem otherwise to you? he asked. No, it appears to me just as you say, he said. Where, then, I said, could we still turn? To what art? I'm at a loss, he said. But, I said, I think I have found it. Which one? said Cleinias. Generalship, I said, seems to me, more than anything, the art whose possession would make one happy. It doesn't seem so to me, he said. Why not? I said. This is a kind of hunting art, applied to human beings. What of it? I said. No hunting art, he said, extends any further than hunting and capturing; once they have captured what they were hunting, they cannot use it themselves — hunters and fishermen hand their catch over to the cooks, and again the geometers, astronomers, and calculators — for they too are a kind of hunter, since none of them makes the figures, but discovers things that already exist — since they themselves don't know how to use their finds, but only how to hunt them down, they hand them over to the dialecticians to make use of their discoveries, at least those of them who aren't utterly senseless. Well then, I said, most excellent and wisest Cleinias, is this how it stands? Quite so. And generals, he said, do the very same thing: whenever they capture some city or army, they hand it over to the statesmen — since they themselves don't know how to use what they've captured — just as quail-hunters, I imagine, hand their catch over to quail-keepers. So if, he said, we need that art which, whatever it acquires — whether by making it or by hunting it down — also knows how to use it, and such an art would make us blessed, then we must look for some other art besides generalship. CRITO: What are you saying, Socrates? That mere boy said things like that? SOCRATES: Don't you believe it, Crito? CRITO: No, by Zeus, I don't. In fact I think that if he really said that, he'd have no more need of Euthydemus, or anyone else, for his education. SOCRATES: But then, in the name of Zeus, could it have been Ctesippus who said this, and I've simply forgotten?

CRITO: What Ctesippus? SOCRATES: Well, this much I know for certain — it wasn't Euthydemus or Dionysodorus who said that. But, my good Crito, could it be that one of our betters was standing by and spoke those words? For that I heard them, I'm quite sure. CRITO: Yes, by Zeus, Socrates — one of the higher powers, I'd say, and by a wide margin. But after that, did you go on hunting for some skill? And did you find the one you were after, or not? SOCRATES: Where would we have found it, my good man? We were completely ridiculous — like children chasing larks, we kept thinking we'd catch each science in a moment, and it kept slipping away from us. Why should I bore you with the whole business? When we came to the kingly art itself and examined whether this was the one that supplies and produces happiness, right there, as if we'd fallen into a maze, thinking we were at last near the end, we turned a corner and found ourselves back where we started, needing just as much as when we first began. CRITO: How on earth did that happen to you, Socrates? SOCRATES: I'll tell you. We had decided that statesmanship and the kingly art were one and the same. CRITO: Well, what then? SOCRATES: That this art hands over command of all the works that generalship and the other arts produce to itself alone, since it alone knows how to make use of them. So it seemed clear to us that this was the very thing we were after — the cause of right action in the city, and, in the plain words of Aeschylus, the one that sits alone at the stern of the state, steering everything, ruling everything, making everything useful. CRITO: So it seemed to you both a fine conclusion, Socrates? SOCRATES: You be the judge of that, Crito, if you want to hear what happened to us next. We looked at it again this way: come now, ruling over everything, what work does the kingly art actually produce for us — anything, or nothing? Surely something, we said to each other. Wouldn't you agree, Crito? CRITO: I would. SOCRATES: Then what would you say its product is? Suppose I asked you: medicine rules over everything it rules — what product does it supply? Wouldn't you say health? CRITO: I would.

SOCRATES: And what about your own art, farming? Ruling over everything it rules, what product does it produce? Wouldn't you say it supplies us nourishment from the earth? CRITO: I would. SOCRATES: And the kingly art, ruling over everything it rules — what does it produce? Perhaps you're not quite sure. CRITO: No, by Zeus, Socrates. SOCRATES: Nor were we, Crito. But you know at least this much — that if this is really the art we're after, it must be beneficial. CRITO: Certainly. SOCRATES: So it must hand over to us some good, mustn't it? CRITO: It must, Socrates. SOCRATES: And Cleinias and I agreed with each other that good is nothing other than a certain knowledge. CRITO: Yes, that's what you said. SOCRATES: Well, all the other products that people would attribute to statesmanship — and there'd be many, of course, such as making the citizens wealthy, free, and free of civil strife — none of these turned out to be either bad or good; it had to make people wise and give them a share of knowledge, if it was really going to be the art that benefits and produces happiness. CRITO: That's right — that's how it was agreed between you at the time, as you've reported the conversation. SOCRATES: So does the kingly art make people wise and good? CRITO: What's to stop it, Socrates? SOCRATES: But does it make everyone good at everything? And is this the art that hands over every science — shoemaking, carpentry, all the rest? CRITO: I don't think so, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then which science does it hand over? For what use will we put it? Since it need not be the maker of any of the works that are neither bad nor good, but must hand over no other knowledge than itself. So let's say what on earth this is, and what use we'll make of it. Shall we say, Crito, that it's the knowledge by which we'll make other people good? CRITO: By all means. SOCRATES: But good for what, and useful for what, to us? Or shall we go on saying that they'll make yet others good, and those others still others? But as for what they're actually good for, that never appears anywhere, since we've dismissed all the works said to belong to statesmanship. Really and truly, as the saying goes, it becomes 'the Corinthian son of Zeus' — and, as I was saying, we're just as far, or farther, from knowing what that knowledge is that will make us happy. CRITO: By Zeus, Socrates, it seems you two got yourselves into quite a puzzle.

SOCRATES: And I myself, Crito, once caught in that puzzle, was crying out in every voice, begging the two strangers, as if calling on the Dioscuri, to save us — me and the boy — from the great wave of the argument, and to make every effort, and having made it, to show us plainly what that knowledge was that we needed to get hold of in order to live out the rest of our lives well. CRITO: Well then? Was Euthydemus willing to show you anything? SOCRATES: Of course he was! And he began, my friend, in quite a grand manner, like this — 'Tell me, Socrates,' he said, 'shall I teach you this knowledge you've been so long puzzling over, or shall I demonstrate that you already have it?' 'My good man,' I said, 'is that actually up to you to choose?' 'Certainly,' he said. 'Then by Zeus, demonstrate that I have it,' I said, 'for that's a good deal easier than teaching a man of my age.' 'Well then, answer me this,' he said. 'Is there anything you know?' 'Yes indeed,' I said, 'many things, though small ones.' 'That's enough,' he said. 'Now, do you think it's possible for any existing thing — the very thing it happens to be — not to be that thing?' 'No, by Zeus, I don't.' 'Now, you know something?' he said. 'I do.' 'Then you're a knower, since you know?' 'Certainly — of that thing, at least.' 'It makes no difference. But mustn't you, being a knower, know everything?' 'No, by Zeus,' I said, 'since there's a great deal else I don't know.' 'Then if there's something you don't know, you're not a knower.' 'Not of that thing, my friend,' I said. 'Are you any less a non-knower for that?' he said. 'Just now you claimed to be a knower — and so you happen to be this very person that you are, and again, by the same reasoning, you're not, at one and the same time.' 'Well now, Euthydemus,' I said, 'as the saying goes, you're making fine noise indeed. But how do I know that particular knowledge we were after? Since it's impossible for the same thing both to be and not to be — if I know one thing, I know everything, for I couldn't be both a knower and a non-knower at once — and since I know everything, I therefore have that knowledge too. Is that what you mean, and is this the wisdom?' 'You're refuting yourself with your own words, Socrates,' he said. 'But tell me, Euthydemus,' I said, 'haven't you suffered this same fate yourself? For with you, and with Dionysodorus here, dear as he is to me, whatever I might suffer I wouldn't be too upset about it. Tell me — don't the two of you know some things that exist, and not know others?' 'Far from it, Socrates,' said Dionysodorus. 'What do you mean?' I said. 'Do you two then know nothing at all?' 'Quite the opposite,' he said.

SOCRATES: 'Then you know everything,' I said, 'since you know even the smallest thing?' 'Everything,' he said, 'and you too, moreover, since if you know even one thing, you know everything.' 'Zeus above,' I said, 'what a marvel you're describing, and what a great good has come to light! Do all other people too know everything, or nothing at all?' 'Surely they don't,' he said, 'know some things and not know others, being at once knowers and non-knowers.' 'Then what?' I said. 'Everyone,' he said, 'knows everything, if they know even one thing.' 'By the gods, Dionysodorus,' I said — for it was now clear to me that the two of you were in earnest, and I'd only just managed to get you to be so — 'do you two really and truly know everything? Carpentry, for instance, and shoemaking?' 'Certainly,' he said. 'And can you two also stitch leather?' 'Yes, and cobble shoes too, by Zeus,' he said. 'And things like this — how many stars there are, and the grains of sand?' 'Certainly,' he said. 'Don't you think we'd admit as much?' And Ctesippus broke in: 'By Zeus, Dionysodorus,' he said, 'give me some proof of this sort, by which I'll know that you two are telling the truth.' 'What shall I demonstrate?' he said. 'Do you know how many teeth Euthydemus has, and does Euthydemus know how many you have?' 'Isn't it enough for you,' he said, 'to hear that we know everything?' 'Not at all,' he said, 'just tell us this one more thing, and show us that you're telling the truth — if you tell us how many teeth each of you has, and it turns out you're right when we count them, then we'll believe you about the rest too.' They thought they were being mocked and refused, but they did agree that they knew everything, when questioned point by point, one thing at a time, by Ctesippus. For Ctesippus, quite shamelessly, ended up asking absolutely everything, even the most indecent things, whether they knew them — and the two of them charged straight at the questions with the greatest boldness, admitting they knew, like wild boars charging straight into the blow, so that I myself, Crito, out of sheer disbelief, was finally forced to ask Euthydemus whether Dionysodorus even knew how to dance. 'Certainly,' he said. 'Surely,' I said, 'you haven't come so far in wisdom that, at your age, you also tumble among knives and spin on a wheel?' 'There's nothing,' he said, 'that we can't do.' 'Do you two,' I said, 'know everything only now, or always as well?' 'Always,' he said. 'And when you were children, and just born, did you know everything then too?' Both of them said yes, together.

SOCRATES: This struck us as quite unbelievable. But Euthydemus said, 'Do you disbelieve it, Socrates?' 'Only,' I said, 'insofar as it seems likely that you two are wise.' 'Well,' he said, 'if you're willing to answer me, I'll show that you too admit these marvels.' 'Why, that,' I said, 'is the pleasantest way for me to be refuted. For if I've been wise all this time without knowing it myself, and you're going to show that I know everything, and always have, what greater windfall could I find in my whole life?' 'Answer then,' he said. 'Ask away, since I'm ready to answer.' 'Well then, Socrates,' he said, 'are you a knower of something, or not?' 'I am.' 'Then is it by that very thing by which you're a knower that you also know, or by something else?' 'By that by which I'm a knower — I suppose you mean the soul, or don't you mean that?' 'Aren't you ashamed, Socrates,' he said, 'to answer a question with a question?' 'Well,' I said, 'what am I to do? I'll do just as you tell me. When I don't know what you're asking, are you telling me to answer anyway, rather than ask for clarification?' 'Surely you grasp something,' he said, 'of what I mean?' 'I do,' I said. 'Then answer according to what you grasp.' 'But what,' I said, 'if you mean one thing by your question and I grasp another, and then answer according to that — is it enough for you if I answer nothing to the point?' 'It's enough for me,' he said, 'though not, I think, for you.' 'Then, by Zeus,' I said, 'I won't answer at all until I understand.' 'You won't answer,' he said, 'according to whatever you happen to grasp each time, because you're being deliberately tiresome and more old-fashioned than you ought to be.' And I realized he was annoyed with me for picking apart what was said, since he wanted to hunt me down by cornering me with words. So I remembered Connus, who also gets annoyed with me whenever I don't yield to him, and afterward pays me less attention, thinking me a dullard; and since I'd made up my mind to keep studying under him too, I thought I'd better give way, so he wouldn't think me a hopeless pupil and refuse to take me on. So I said, 'Well, if that's how you think it should be done, Euthydemus, it must be done that way — for surely you know how to argue far better than I do, having the art, while I'm just an amateur. So ask again from the beginning.' 'Answer then,' he said, 'once more — do you know things by means of something, or not?' 'I do,' I said, 'by my soul.'

SOCRATES: "There he goes again," he said, "adding something extra to his answers. I didn't ask you what it is you know something by — I asked whether you know something by anything at all." "Well," I said, "I answered more fully than I needed to, out of sheer inexperience. Forgive me — I'll answer simply from now on: yes, I know the things I know by something." "Is it always," he said, "the same thing, or sometimes this and sometimes something else?" "Always," I said, "whenever I know anything — by that same thing." "Will you stop tacking things on!" he said. "Watch that this 'always' doesn't trip us up." "It won't trip us up," I said, "if it trips anyone, it's you." "Just answer — do you always know by this same thing?" "Always," I said, "since I have to drop the 'whenever.'" "So you always know by this thing. And knowing always, do you know some things by the thing you know by, and other things by something else, or do you know everything by this one thing?" "By this one thing," I said, "everything I know." "There it is again," he said, "the same little addition creeping back in." "Fine, I'll drop 'everything I know,'" I said. "Don't drop even that," he said, "I don't need you to drop anything. Just answer me — could you know everything if you didn't know everything?" "That would be a miracle," I said. And he said, "Then add whatever you like from now on — you've already agreed you know everything." "So it seems," I said, "since 'the things I know' turns out to carry no weight, and I know everything." "And haven't you also agreed that you always know by the same thing you know by, whether 'whenever you know' or however you like to put it? You've agreed you always know, and everything, all at once. So clearly you knew even as a child, and while you were being formed in the womb, and before that — before you yourself existed, and before heaven and earth existed, you knew everything, if indeed you always know." "And by Zeus," he said, "you will always keep on knowing everything, yourself, if I so wish it." "I do wish you would wish it, my most honored Euthydemus," I said, "if what you say is really true. But I don't quite trust that you're capable of it on your own, unless your brother here, Dionysodorus, joins in the wishing with you — then perhaps it might happen. Tell me both," I said — "for on everything else I have no idea how I could argue with men so monstrously wise, given that I don't know everything, since you two say I do — but how am I to say I know something like this, Euthydemus: that good men are unjust? Come, tell me, do I know this or not?" "You certainly know it," he said. "Know what?" I said. "That good men are not unjust."

SOCRATES: "Quite so," I said, "I've known that for ages. But that's not what I'm asking — I'm asking where I learned that good men ARE unjust." "Nowhere," said Dionysodorus. "Then I don't know that," I said. "You're ruining the argument," Euthydemus said to Dionysodorus, "he'll turn out not to know something, and be knowing and unknowing at the same time." And Dionysodorus blushed. "But you, Euthydemus, what do you say?" I said. "Don't you think your brother is right, the one who knows everything?" "Am I not Euthydemus's brother?" Dionysodorus cut in quickly. And I said, "Let it be, my good man, until Euthydemus teaches me that I know good men to be unjust — don't begrudge me the lesson." "You're running away, Socrates," said Dionysodorus, "you don't want to answer." "Naturally," I said, "I'm weaker than even one of you, so I'm a long way from being ashamed to run from two. I'm a good deal feebler than Heracles, who couldn't fight off both the hydra — a sophist of a sort, who for all her wisdom sprouted many heads to replace the one you cut off — and a certain crab, another sophist freshly arrived from the sea, just landed, I imagine. When the crab annoyed him by biting from the left as he argued, he called on his nephew Iolaus for help, and Iolaus helped him well enough. But if my Iolaus, Patrocles, were to come, he'd only make things worse." "Well, answer this," said Dionysodorus, "since you keep singing that song — was Iolaus more Heracles's nephew than yours?" "My best course, Dionysodorus," I said, "is simply to answer you. You'll never stop asking — I'm quite sure of that — out of sheer spite, trying to keep Euthydemus from teaching me that clever thing." "Answer, then," he said. "I answer," I said, "that Iolaus was Heracles's nephew, and not mine at all, as far as I can tell. Patrocles, my brother, wasn't his father — his father was someone with a similar name, Iphicles, Heracles's brother." "And Patrocles," he said, "is your brother?" "Certainly," I said, "on my mother's side, though not on my father's." "Then he's your brother and not your brother." "Not on the father's side, my excellent friend," I said. "His father was Chaeredemus, mine was Sophroniscus." "And was Sophroniscus a father," he said, "and Chaeredemus too?"

SOCRATES: "Certainly," I said, "mine, and his." "Then," he said, "Chaeredemus was different from your father?" "Different from mine, yes," I said. "So then was he a father while being different from a father? Or are you the same as a stone?" "I'm afraid," I said, "you'll show me to be the same — though I don't think I am." "Then you're different from a stone?" he said. "Different indeed." "Well then, being different from stone, aren't you not-stone? And being different from gold, aren't you not-gold?" "That's so." "Then Chaeredemus too," he said, "being different from a father, wouldn't be a father." "It seems," I said, "he isn't a father." "Well then if Chaeredemus is a father," said Euthydemus, taking it up, "then by the same reasoning Sophroniscus, being different from a father, isn't a father, so you, Socrates, are fatherless!" And Ctesippus jumped in: "Hasn't your own father suffered the very same fate? Isn't he different from my father?" "Far from it," said Euthydemus. "So he's the same?" "The same, indeed." "I wouldn't wish that on him. But tell me, Euthydemus, is he only my father, or everyone else's too?" "Everyone's," he said. "Or do you think someone can be a father and not be a father?" "I did think so," said Ctesippus. "And what of it?" he said. "Can something be gold and not be gold? Or a man and not a man?" "Don't," said Ctesippus, "Euthydemus, as the saying goes, don't tie linen to linen — you're saying something outrageous, that your father is everyone's father." "But he is," he said. "Everyone's, as in all men's?" said Ctesippus, "or of horses too, and all the other animals?" "Of all," he said. "And your mother too — is she everyone's mother?" "My mother too." "Then your mother is also the mother of sea urchins." "So is yours," he said. "Then you're the brother of gudgeons, and puppies, and piglets." "And so are you," he said. "So a boar is your father, and a dog." "And yours too," he said. "And soon enough," said Dionysodorus, "if you answer me, Ctesippus, you'll admit all this. Tell me — do you have a dog?" "A wretched one," said Ctesippus. "Does he have puppies?" "He does, several just like him." "So the dog is their father?" "I saw him myself," he said, "mounting the bitch." "Well then — isn't the dog yours?" "Certainly." "Then, being a father, he's yours, so the dog becomes your father, and you're the brother of puppies!" And Dionysodorus quickly cut in again, before Ctesippus could say anything, "And answer me one more small thing — do you beat this dog?" And Ctesippus laughed and said, "By the gods, yes — since I can't beat you." "So you beat your own father?" he said.

SOCRATES: "It would be far more just," he said, "for me to beat your father, for raising sons so wise. But surely, Euthydemus," said Ctesippus, "your father — and the puppies' father — has enjoyed plenty of good from this wisdom of yours." "But neither he nor you, Ctesippus, has any need of plenty of goods." "And you yourself, Euthydemus," he said, "don't need them either?" "Nor does any other man on earth. Tell me, Ctesippus — do you think it's a good thing for a sick man to drink medicine, or not good, when he needs it? Or when a man goes to war, is it better to go armed or unarmed?" "I'd say armed," he said, "though I suspect you're about to say something clever." "You'll soon know best," he said, "just answer. Since you've agreed it's good for a man to drink medicine when he needs it, doesn't it follow that this good thing should be drunk in the greatest possible quantity, and it would be well done if someone ground up a whole cartload of hellebore and mixed it in for him?" And Ctesippus said, "Very much so, Euthydemus — provided the drinker is the size of the statue at Delphi." "And in war too," he said, "since it's good to have weapons, shouldn't one have as many spears and shields as possible, since it's a good thing?" "Quite so, surely," said Ctesippus. "But you don't think that, Euthydemus — you'd settle for one shield and one spear?" "I would." "And would you arm Geryon and Briareus that way too?" he said. "I thought you'd be cleverer than that, being a master of arms yourself, and your friend here too." Euthydemus fell silent. But Dionysodorus, picking up on Ctesippus's earlier answers, asked, "And don't you think gold is good to have?" "Certainly, and plenty of it," said Ctesippus. "Well then — don't you think one ought to have good things always and everywhere?" "Very much so," he said. "And you agree gold is a good thing?" "I've agreed to that," he said. "Then one ought to have it always and everywhere, and as much of it as possible within oneself? And wouldn't a man be happiest who had three talents of gold in his belly, a talent in his skull, and a gold stater in each eye?" "Well, Euthydemus," said Ctesippus, "they do say the happiest and best men among the Scythians are those who carry a great deal of gold in their own skulls — just as you said the dog was my father a moment ago — and what's even more remarkable, they drink from their own gilded skulls, and look right down inside them, holding their own crown in their hands."

SOCRATES: "Do the Scythians, and other men," said Euthydemus, "see what is possible to see, or what is impossible?" "What is possible, surely." "And you too?" he said. "I too." "Do you see our cloaks?" "Yes." "Then these are possible to see." "Remarkably so," said Ctesippus. "What of it?" he said. "Nothing. But perhaps you don't think they're actually visible — you're such a delight. You seem to me, Euthydemus, to be sound asleep with your eyes open — and if it's possible to say something while saying nothing, that's exactly what you're doing." "Isn't it possible," said Dionysodorus, "to speak while being silent?" "Not in any way at all," said Ctesippus. "Or to be silent while speaking?" "Even less so," he said. "Then when you speak of stones and sticks and bits of iron, aren't you speaking while being silent?" "Not if I'm speaking of them," he said — "unless when I walk past the blacksmiths' shops, the bits of iron speak and shout at the top of their lungs when someone strikes them! So your wisdom made you say nothing there without noticing it. But show me the other one still — how it's possible to speak while being silent." And Ctesippus seemed to me terribly on edge over his boyfriend's honor. "When you're silent," said Euthydemus, "aren't you silent about everything?" "I am," he said. "Then you're also silent about the things that speak, if speech belongs among all things." "What?" said Ctesippus, "isn't everything silent?" "Surely not," said Euthydemus. "Then, my good man, does everything speak?" "The things that speak do, surely." "But that's not what I'm asking," he said, "I'm asking whether everything is silent or everything speaks." "Neither, and both," said Dionysodorus, snatching it up, "for I know well you won't know what to do with that answer." And Ctesippus, as he always did, burst out in a great roar of laughter and said, "Euthydemus, your brother has hedged the argument both ways at once — he's lost, and beaten." And Cleinias was thoroughly delighted and laughed, so that Ctesippus grew more than tenfold pleased with himself. And it seemed to me, given how crafty he is, that Ctesippus had picked up these very tricks from these two men themselves — for no one else among men today has wisdom quite like it. And I said, "Why are you laughing, Cleinias, at such serious and noble matters?" "Have you ever yet, Socrates," said Dionysodorus, "seen a noble thing?" "I have," I said, "and many, Dionysodorus."

SOCRATES: "Are they different from the beautiful," he said, "or the same as the beautiful?" And I was in complete confusion, and I thought I deserved it for having yelped in the first place, but still I said they were different from the beautiful itself—though each of them does have some beauty present in it. "Well then," he said, "if an ox is present to you, you're an ox? And since I'm present to you right now, are you Dionysodorus?" "Don't say such a thing," I said. "But in what way," he said, "could one thing become another just because another thing is present to it?" "Is that what's puzzling you?" I said—and by now I was trying to imitate the cleverness of these two men, since I was so eager for it. "Of course I'm puzzled," he said, "and so is everyone else, about what doesn't exist." "What do you mean, Dionysodorus?" I said. "Isn't the beautiful beautiful, and the ugly ugly?" "If it seems so to me," he said. "Well, does it seem so?" "Certainly," he said. "And isn't the same the same, and the different different? Surely the different isn't the same—I wouldn't have thought even a child would be puzzled that the different is different. But, Dionysodorus, you let that one go on purpose, since in everything else you two seem to me like craftsmen who each turn out exactly what belongs to their trade, and you two turn out arguing most beautifully of all. So do you know," he said, "what belongs to each of the craftsmen? First, do you know who ought to do metalwork?" "I do—a smith." "And who ought to do pottery?" "A potter." "And who ought to slaughter and skin animals and cut up the meat and boil and roast it?" "A cook," I said. "Then if someone does what belongs to him, he'll do it correctly?" "Certainly." "And it belongs to the cook, as you say, to cut up and skin? You agreed to that, didn't you?" "I agreed," I said, "but forgive me." "Then it's clear," he said, "that if someone slaughters the cook and cuts him up and boils and roasts him, he'll be doing what belongs to him—and if someone forges the smith himself, or pots the potter, he too will be doing what belongs to him." "By Poseidon," I said, "now you're putting the crowning touch on your wisdom! Will it ever come to me, so that it becomes my own?" "Would you recognize it, Socrates," he said, "once it had become your own?" "If you're willing, clearly I would," I said. "Well," he said, "do you think you know what belongs to you?" "Unless you mean something else by it—since we have to begin with you, and end up with Euthydemus here."

SOCRATES: "Well then," he said, "do you consider those things to be yours which you have authority over and are permitted to use however you wish? For instance, an ox or a sheep—would you consider those yours, things you'd be permitted to sell, give away, or sacrifice to whichever god you liked? And whatever isn't like that, isn't yours?" And I—knowing that something fine was about to hatch out of these questions, and eager to hear it as quickly as possible—said, "Yes indeed, that's exactly how it is; only things of that sort are mine." "Well then—do you call living things those which have a soul?" "Yes," I said. "Do you agree, then, that among living things only those are yours over which you have the authority to do all the things I just mentioned?" "I agree." And he, pausing very ironically as if considering some weighty matter, said, "Tell me, Socrates, do you have a Zeus of your fathers?" And I, suspecting where the argument would end up, tried some evasive twist, turning this way and that like someone caught in a net already. "I don't," I said, "Dionysodorus." "Then you're a wretched sort of man, and not even an Athenian, if you have no ancestral gods, no shrines, nothing else fine and good." "Enough, Dionysodorus," I said, "don't say such things, and don't lecture me so harshly. I do have altars and shrines, both household and ancestral, and everything else that other Athenians have of that kind." "Then don't other Athenians," he said, "have Zeus as their ancestral god?" "They don't," I said. "That title belongs to none of the Ionians, neither those who colonized from this city nor us—rather, Apollo is our ancestral god, because of the birth of Ion. Zeus isn't called 'ancestral' for us, but 'of the household' and 'of the clan,' and Athena is 'of the clan' too." "Well, that's enough," said Dionysodorus. "You do have Apollo, it seems, and Zeus, and Athena." "Certainly," I said. "Then these would be gods that are yours?" he said. "Ancestors," I said, "and masters." "But yours all the same," he said, "or haven't you agreed they're yours?" "I've agreed," I said, "what else can I do?" "Then," he said, "aren't these gods also living things? You've agreed that whatever has a soul is a living thing. Or do these gods not have souls?" "They do," I said. "So they're living things?" "Living things," I said. "And among living things," he said, "you've agreed that those are yours which you're permitted to give away, sell, and sacrifice to whatever god you please." "I've agreed," I said—"there's no wriggling out of it for me, Euthydemus."

SOCRATES: "Come then, tell me right away," he said: "since you agree that Zeus and the other gods are yours, are you permitted to sell them, or give them away, or do whatever else you like with them, just as with your other property?" As for me, Crito, I lay there speechless, as if struck by the argument. And Ctesippus came to my rescue, saying, "Well, by Heracles, what a fine argument!" And Dionysodorus said, "So is Heracles 'well' or is 'well' Heracles?" And Ctesippus said, "By Poseidon, what terrible arguments! I give up—the two of you are unbeatable." At that point, dear Crito, every single person present praised the argument and the two men to the skies, and they nearly collapsed from laughing and clapping and rejoicing. At every earlier point Euthydemus's own admirers alone had cheered gloriously, but this time even the pillars in the Lyceum practically cheered for the two men and delighted in them. As for me, I too was so affected that I admitted I had never seen men so wise, and, thoroughly enslaved by their cleverness, I turned to praising and extolling them, and said: "How blessed you two are in your marvelous natures, to have accomplished such a feat so quickly and in so little time! Your arguments have many other fine qualities, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, but among them this is the most magnificent: you care nothing for the majority of people, the dignified ones who think themselves somebody, but only for people like yourselves. I know well that very few people, only those like you, would enjoy these arguments, while the rest are so ignorant of them that I'm sure they'd be more ashamed to refute others with such arguments than to be refuted themselves. And here's another thing about your arguments, democratic and gentle: whenever you say that nothing is beautiful, nor good, nor white, nor anything else of that sort, and that nothing at all differs from anything else, you quite literally stitch shut people's mouths, just as you claim to do. But that you'd seem to do this not only to others' arguments but to your own as well—that's really quite charming, and it takes away the offensiveness of the whole business. And the greatest thing of all is that you have this worked out so skillfully that anyone at all could learn it in a very short time. I saw this myself, watching Ctesippus, how quickly he was able to imitate you on the spot."

SOCRATES: This cleverness of yours, then, is fine for handing on quickly, but it isn't suitable for arguing in front of people—rather, if you'll take my advice, you'll be careful not to speak in front of a crowd, so that people don't learn it quickly and then feel no gratitude toward you. Best of all, converse with each other alone, just the two of you; or if in front of anyone else, only in front of whoever pays you money. And if you're wise, you'll give your students this same advice: never argue with anyone at all except with you two and with each other. For what is scarce is precious, Euthydemus, while water—the best thing there is—is the cheapest, as Pindar said. "But come," I said, "see to it that you take on both me and Cleinias here as students." We talked about this, Crito, and a few other small things, and then we left. So think about how you'll join in studying with these two men, since they claim to be able to teach whoever is willing to pay, and that no nature and no age bars anyone—and this especially concerns you—that nothing prevents you from making money either, so nothing should stop anyone at all from easily taking up their wisdom. CRITO: Well, Socrates, I'm certainly fond of listening, and I'd gladly learn something; but I'm afraid I too may be one of those unlike Euthydemus—one of those, as you were saying, who would rather be refuted by such arguments than refute others with them. Still, though it seems ridiculous to me to lecture you, I do want to report what I heard. As you were all leaving, someone came up to me while I was walking about—a man who thinks himself very wise indeed, one of those clever at the arguments used in the lawcourts—and said, "Crito, aren't you listening to these wise men at all?" "No, by Zeus," I said, "I couldn't get close enough to hear anything over the crowd." "Well," he said, "it would have been worth hearing." "Why is that?" I said. "So that you could have heard men speaking who are now the wisest at this kind of argument." And I said, "Well, what did you think of them?" "What else," he said, "but what one always hears from such people—babbling nonsense and making a great fuss over things worth nothing?" (That's more or less how he put it in his own words.) And I said, "But surely philosophy is a charming thing."

CRITO: "Charming, my dear fellow?" he said. "Worth nothing at all! And if you'd been there just now, I think you'd have been quite ashamed on behalf of your friend—he was so out of place, willing to expose himself to men who don't care in the least what they say, and who latch onto every single word. And these two, as I was just saying, are among the best at it today." "But really, Crito," he said, "the thing itself, and the men who spend their time on it, are worthless and ridiculous." Now, Socrates, it seemed to me that he wasn't right to find fault with the thing itself, whether it was him or anyone else finding fault with it—but he did seem right to me in objecting to their willingness to argue that way in front of a crowd of people. SOCRATES: Crito, men of that sort are astonishing. But I still don't know what I'm about to say. Which kind of man was it who came up to you and found fault with philosophy? One of those formidable at contesting cases in the lawcourts, an orator, or one of those who supply such men, a composer of the speeches orators use in their contests? CRITO: Certainly not an orator, by Zeus—I don't think he's ever set foot in a lawcourt. But they say he understands the subject, by Zeus, and is clever, and puts together clever arguments. SOCRATES: Now I understand—I was about to say the same thing myself just now about men of this kind. These, Crito, are the ones Prodicus called the borderland between the philosopher and the statesman; and they think themselves the wisest of all people, and, beyond actually being so, also seeming so among a great many, so much so that they think the only people standing in the way of their being esteemed by everyone are those devoted to philosophy. So they suppose that if they can bring these philosophers into disrepute, so that they seem worth nothing, then they'll carry off the prize for wisdom uncontested in everyone's opinion. For they truly believe themselves the wisest, but when they get caught out in their own private discussions, they're cut down to size by the likes of Euthydemus. And they think themselves quite wise—reasonably enough, since they have a moderate share of philosophy and a moderate share of statesmanship, on a quite reasonable calculation—for they partake of both just as much as they need, while staying out of dangers and contests and reaping the fruits of their wisdom. CRITO: Well then—do you think they have a point, Socrates? For indeed, the argument does have a certain plausibility to it, as far as these men go.

SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, and in fact it has more surface plausibility than truth. It's not easy to convince them that when human beings, or anything else, stand between two things and share in both, then whatever is composed of a bad thing and a good thing is better than the one and worse than the other; but whatever is composed of two good things not aimed at the same purpose is, in relation to whichever purpose each of those components was good for, worse than both; while only what is composed of two bad things not aimed at the same thing, and stands between them, is better than each of those things it shares a part of. So if philosophy is a good thing, and statesmanship is a good thing, but each aims at something different, and these men, sharing in both, stand between them, then they're talking nonsense — because they're inferior to both. But if one is good and the other bad, then they're better than the practitioners of the bad one and worse than the practitioners of the good one. And if both are bad, then there's some truth in what they say — but in no other case. So I don't think they'd ever admit that both are bad, or that one is bad and the other good. No, the truth is that these people, sharing in both, fall short of both in relation to whatever it is that makes statesmanship and philosophy each worth taking seriously, and being in truth third-rate, they're trying to seem first-rate. Well, we should forgive them their ambition and not be harsh with them, but we should recognize them for what they are. After all, we ought to have some regard for any man who says anything at all that touches on wisdom, and who works hard and bravely to see an argument through. CRITO: And yet, Socrates, as I keep telling you, when it comes to my own sons I'm at a loss what to do with them. The younger one is still small, but Critobulus is already of an age and needs someone who'll do him some good. Whenever I'm with you, I find myself thinking it's sheer madness that for the sake of children people take such great pains over so many other things — over the marriage, so that the children will come from the noblest possible mother, and over money, so that they'll be as rich as possible — and yet neglect their children's own education. But then whenever I look at one of these men who claim they can educate people, I'm astonished, and each one of them, on examination, strikes me as thoroughly bizarre — to tell you the truth. So I don't know how I'm supposed to steer the boy toward philosophy.

SOCRATES: My dear Crito, don't you know that in every pursuit the mediocre are many and worth nothing, while the serious ones are few and worth everything? Take gymnastics, for instance — don't you think it's a fine thing? And money-making, and rhetoric, and generalship? CRITO: I certainly do, in every case. SOCRATES: Well then — in each of these, don't you see that the majority of people, measured against the real work of it, are laughable? CRITO: Yes, by Zeus, that's very true. SOCRATES: So is that any reason for you to run from all these pursuits yourself, and to forbid your son from taking them up? CRITO: No, that wouldn't be fair, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then don't do what you shouldn't, Crito. Instead, let the practitioners of philosophy be — whether they're good or worthless — and examine the thing itself carefully and well. If it looks to you like something worthless, then steer everyone away from it, not just your sons. But if it turns out to be what I believe it is, then take heart and pursue it — and train in it, as the saying goes, both you yourself and your children.

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