Plato · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
I went down to Piraeus yesterday with Glaucon son of Ariston, to pray to the goddess, and also because I wanted to see how they would put on the festival, since this was its first time. The procession of the local people struck me as fine, but no less impressive was the one the Thracians put on. We said our prayers, watched the show, and were heading back to the city, when Polemarchus son of Cephalus caught sight of us
from a distance as we were setting off for home, and told his slave to run and tell us to wait for him. The boy caught hold of my cloak from behind and said, "Polemarchus wants you to wait." I turned around and asked where he was. "There," he said, "coming up behind — just wait." "All right, we'll wait," said Glaucon. And a little later Polemarchus
arrived, along with Adeimantus, Glaucon's brother, and Niceratus son of Nicias, and a few others, apparently coming from the procession. Polemarchus said, "Socrates, it looks to me like you two are setting off back to the city." "Your guess isn't far wrong," I said. "Well," he said, "do you see how many of us there are?" "Of course." "Then either prove stronger than the lot of us, or stay
right here." "Isn't there still one option left," I said, "that we persuade you it's better to let us go?" "Could you really persuade people who won't even listen?" he said. "Not a chance," said Glaucon. "Well, plan on us not listening, then." And Adeimantus said, "Don't you even know there's going to be a torch relay this evening, on horseback, for the goddess?"
"On horseback?" I said. "That's new. You mean they'll pass torches to each other, racing on horses? Is that what you mean?" "Just that," said Polemarchus. "And besides, they're holding an all-night festival, well worth seeing. We'll get up after dinner and watch the night celebration, and we'll spend time there with a lot of the young men and talk with them. So stay, and don't argue." And
Glaucon said, "It looks like we'd better stay." "Well, if you think so," I said, "that's what we should do." So we went to Polemarchus's house, and there we found Lysias and Euthydemus, Polemarchus's brothers, and also Thrasymachus of Chalcedon, and Charmantides of Paeania, and Cleitophon son of Aristonymus. Also inside was Polemarchus's father,
Cephalus. He struck me as quite an old man now — it had been a long time since I'd seen him. He was sitting on a cushioned chair, wearing a garland, since he happened to have just finished making a sacrifice in the courtyard. We sat down beside him, since there were chairs arranged there in a circle. As soon as he saw me, Cephalus greeted me warmly and said, "Socrates, you don't come down to visit us
in Piraeus often enough. You really ought to. If it were still easy for me to make the trip to the city, there'd be no need for you to come here — we'd come to you. But as it is, you need to come here more often. I want you to know that for me, just as the other pleasures of the body wither away, my desire and pleasure in conversation
grow all the stronger. So don't do otherwise — spend time with these young men, and come here to us regularly, as to friends, indeed as to family." "And you know, Cephalus," I said, "I do enjoy talking with the very old. It seems to me we ought to learn from them, as from people who've gone ahead of us on a road that
we too will likely have to travel, what sort of road it is — rough and hard, or smooth and easy going. And in particular I'd be glad to hear from you what it seems like to you, now that you've arrived at that time of life which the poets name "old age's threshold" — whether you find it a hard stretch of life, or how you'd describe it." "I'll tell you, Socrates, by Zeus,
exactly how it seems to me. A number of us who are about the same age often get together, keeping up the old saying. Now most of us, when we meet, lament — longing for the pleasures of youth, recalling sex, and drinking parties, and feasts, and all the other things that go along with that sort of life, and taking it hard, as if they'd been deprived of something great,
as though they'd lived well then and are barely living now. Some of them also complain about how their families disrespect their old age, and on that basis they sing old age's praises as the cause of all their troubles. But it seems to me, Socrates, that these men aren't blaming the real cause. Were old age truly to blame, then I myself would have suffered these very same things because of it,
and so would everyone else who's reached this time of life. But as it happens I've met others who don't feel this way at all — and in particular I was once present when someone asked the poet Sophocles, "Sophocles, how are you doing when it comes to sex? Can you still have relations with a woman?" And he said, "Quiet, man — I was only too glad to escape it, like escaping from some raving,
savage master." I thought that was well said at the time, and I think so no less now. For in old age there comes a great peace and freedom from things like that: once the desires slacken and let up their pull, exactly what Sophocles said comes to pass — one is rid of a great many masters, and mad ones at that. But as for these complaints, and the ones about
how families treat old people, there's one real explanation, and it isn't old age, Socrates — it's a person's character. If people are orderly and easy to get along with, then even old age is only moderately burdensome; if not, then for such a person both old age and youth turn out hard." I admired what he'd said, and wanting to draw him out further, I
said, "Cephalus, I think when you say this most people don't accept it — they think it's not your character that makes old age easy for you to bear, but the fact that you have a great deal of property; for the rich, they say, have many comforts." "That's true," he said, "they don't accept it. And they have a point, though not as much of one as they think — there's truth in Themistocles' reply,
when the man from Seriphus insulted him, saying he owed his fame not to himself but to his city, and Themistocles answered that he himself would never have become famous if he'd been from Seriphus, nor would the other man have, even if he were an Athenian. The same reasoning applies to those who aren't rich and bear old age badly: a decent man wouldn't find old age very easy to bear
together with poverty, and a man who isn't decent wouldn't become easy to live with even if he grew rich." "Now tell me, Cephalus," I said, "of the wealth you possess, did you mostly inherit it, or did you add to it yourself?" "Add to it, Socrates? I've turned out to be a money-maker somewhere between my grandfather and my father. My grandfather, who shared my name,
inherited about as much property as I now own, and multiplied it many times over; but my father Lysanias made it even smaller than it is now. As for me, I'm content if I leave these boys here not less than I inherited, but a little more than I received." "The reason I asked," I said, "is that you don't seem to me to be terribly attached to money — and that's usually how it goes with people who haven't
earned their own money; those who have made it themselves are twice as attached to it as everyone else. Just as poets are fond of their own poems, and fathers of their children, so those who've made money take it seriously as something of their own making, beyond even its ordinary usefulness to others. That makes them hard to be around, since they have nothing good to say about anything except wealth."
"That's true," he said. "It certainly is," I said. "But tell me one more thing: what's the greatest benefit you think you've gotten from possessing such wealth?" "Something," he said, "that I probably couldn't persuade many people of. Let me tell you, Socrates — when a man comes near to thinking he's going to die, fear and worry come over him about things
that never troubled him before. The stories told about the underworld — that a person who's done wrong here must pay the penalty there — stories he used to laugh off, now twist his soul with the worry that they might be true. And whether it's from the weakness of old age, or because, being closer now to those things, he somehow sees them more clearly — in any case he becomes full of suspicion and fear,
and starts reckoning up and examining whether he's wronged anyone. And the man who finds many wrongs of his own in his life often wakes from sleep in terror, like a child, and lives in dread; but the man who's conscious of no wrongdoing in himself always has a sweet hope beside him, a good nurse for his old age — as Pindar puts it. He put it beautifully, Socrates,
when he said that whoever lives out his life justly and in reverence — 'sweet hope attends his heart, nursing it, fostering it in old age, hope which most of all steers the ever-shifting mind of mortals.' That's remarkably well put. And it's for this reason above all that I count the possession of wealth valuable — not for every man, but for the decent and orderly one. For
not having to cheat or lie to anyone even unwillingly, and not having to go off to that other place in fear because one owes some sacrifice to a god or money to a person — wealth contributes a great deal toward that. It has many other uses too, but weighing one thing against another, I would say that this, Socrates, is where wealth proves most useful
to a man of sense." "Beautifully put, Cephalus," I said. "But this very thing, justice — shall we simply say it is just this: telling the truth, and giving back whatever one has taken from someone? Or are these very acts sometimes done justly and sometimes unjustly? Take an example like this: everyone would agree that if a man took weapons from a friend
who was sane, and then the friend, gone mad, demanded them back, he shouldn't give them back, and the one who gave them back wouldn't be acting justly — nor should he be willing to tell the whole truth to someone in that state." "You're right," he said. "So this isn't the definition of justice — telling the truth and giving back what one has taken." "It certainly is, Socrates," Polemarchus broke in, "if we're to trust
Simonides at all." "Well then," said Cephalus, "I hand the argument over to you. It's time for me to see to the sacred rites." "Then," said Polemarchus, "am I not the heir to what's yours?" "Certainly," he said, laughing, and off he went to the sacrifices. "Tell me, then," I said, "you, the heir of the argument — what do you say
"Do you think Simonides is right about justice?" "Yes," he said, "that it is just to give back to each what is owed—in saying that, he seems to me to speak well." "Well," I said, "it isn't easy to disbelieve Simonides—he's a wise and inspired man—but what exactly he means, Polemarchus, you perhaps know, though I don't. Clearly he doesn't mean
what we just said—that one should give back to anyone whatever he has deposited with you, even when he asks for it back unreasonably. And yet what was deposited is surely something owed—isn't it?" "Yes." "But it must not be given back at all, when the one asking for it back is not in his right mind?" "True," he said. "Then Simonides must mean something other than that when he says that giving back what is owed is just."
"Something else indeed, by Zeus," he said. "He means that friends owe it to friends to do them some good, never any harm." "I follow," I said—"that a man who gives back gold that was deposited with him is not giving back what is owed, if the giving and the receiving turn out harmful, and giver and receiver happen to be friends—isn't that what you say Simonides means?"
"Certainly." "Well then—should one give enemies whatever happens to be owed them?" "By all means," he said, "what is owed them—and what is owed, I think, from an enemy to an enemy is exactly what is fitting: some harm." "So it seems," I said, "that Simonides was speaking in riddles, poet-fashion, about what justice is. For what he had in mind, apparently, was
that this was justice—to give each what is fitting for him—and this he called 'what is owed.'" "What else do you think he meant?" he said. "Then, by Zeus," I said, "suppose someone asked him: Simonides, the art that gives to what, and what that is owed and fitting, is called medicine—what do you think he would answer us?" "Clearly," he said, "the art that gives to bodies drugs, food, and
drink." "And the art that gives to what, and what owed and fitting, is called cookery?" "The one that gives seasonings to dishes." "Good. Then the art that gives to what, and what, would be called justice?" "If one must follow, Socrates, what was said before, it is the art that gives benefits to friends and harms to enemies." "So he calls doing good to friends
and harm to enemies justice?" "I think so." "Then who is most capable of doing good to friends who are sick, and harm to enemies, with regard to disease and health?" "A doctor." "And to those sailing, with regard to the danger of the sea?" "A pilot." "And the just man—in what activity and for what task is he most capable of benefiting friends and harming enemies?" "In waging war and
in alliance, it seems to me." "Very well—but to those who are not sick, my dear Polemarchus, a doctor is useless." "True." "And to those not sailing, a pilot is useless." "Yes." "Is the just man then useless to those not at war?" "That doesn't seem right to me at all." "So justice is useful in peacetime too?" "Useful." "So is farming—isn't it?" "Yes." "For getting a crop?" "Yes." "And so too
shoemaking?" "Yes." "For getting shoes, you'd say." "Certainly." "Well then—for what use or acquisition, in peacetime, would you say justice is useful?" "For contracts, Socrates." "By contracts do you mean partnerships, or something else?" "Partnerships, indeed." "So is the just man a good and useful partner for placing checkers, or is the checkers-player?"
"The checkers-player." "But when it comes to setting bricks and stones in place, does the just man make a better, more useful partner than the builder?" "Not at all." "Then in what sort of joint enterprise does the just man outdo the builder or the harpist as a partner, the way the harpist outdoes the just man where striking notes is concerned?" "For dealing with money, it seems to me." "Except perhaps, Polemarchus, for the actual use of money, when one needs to use money
in common to buy or sell a horse—then, I think, the horseman is better." "Right?" "So it seems." "And when it's a ship, the shipbuilder or the pilot?" "So it seems." "So when is it that money or gold needs to be used in common, and the just man is more useful than the others?" "When it needs to be deposited and kept safe, Socrates." "You mean, then, when there's no need to use it at all, but
just to have it lying there?" "Exactly." "So when money is useless, that's when justice is useful for it?" "So it seems." "And when a pruning-hook needs guarding, justice is useful both in common and privately; but when it needs to be used, the vine-dresser's skill is what's needed?" "So it seems." "And you'll say that a shield and a lyre too, when they need guarding and no use at all, justice is useful for them; but when they need to be used, it's the soldier's skill
and the musician's?" "Necessarily." "And so about everything else, justice is useless when a thing is in use, but useful when it's not in use?" "So it seems." "Then justice, my friend, could hardly be anything very serious, if it turns out to be useful only for useless things. Let's look at this, though. Isn't the man most skilled at striking a blow in a fight—whether boxing or
any other—also the one best able to guard against it?" "Certainly." "And isn't the one clever at guarding against a disease also cleverest at inflicting it undetected?" "So it seems to me." "And surely the same man makes a good guard of an army who is also able to steal the enemy's plans and other doings?" "Certainly." "So whatever a man is a clever guard of, he is also a clever thief of." "So it seems." "So if the just
man is clever at guarding money, he is also clever at stealing it." "That, at least, is what the argument shows," he said. "So the just man has turned out, it seems, to be a kind of thief—and you're in danger of having learned this from Homer. For he too is fond of Odysseus's grandfather on his mother's side, Autolycus, and says of him that he surpassed all men in thievery and false oaths. So justice, it seems,
according to you and Homer and Simonides alike, is a kind of thievery—for the benefit of friends, though, and to the harm of enemies. Isn't that what you were saying?" "No, by Zeus," he said, "I no longer know what I was saying. But this much still seems right to me: that justice benefits friends and harms enemies." "By friends do you mean
those who seem good to a person, or those who really are, even if they don't seem so—and enemies the same way?" "It's likely," he said, "that one loves those one takes to be good and hates those one takes to be bad." "But don't people make mistakes about this, so that many seem good to them who are not, and many the opposite?" "They do make mistakes." "So for these people the good are enemies,
and the bad are friends?" "Certainly." "But all the same it's just, in that case, for them to benefit the bad and harm the good?" "So it seems." "But surely the good are just, and the sort not to do injustice?" "True." "Then by your account it's just to treat badly those who do nothing unjust." "Not at all, Socrates," he said, "the argument seems to be a bad one." "Then it's the unjust,"
I said, "that it's just to harm, and the just that it's just to benefit?" "That looks better than the other." "So it will turn out for many, Polemarchus, all those who have misjudged people, that it is just to harm their friends—for they are bad to them—and to benefit their enemies—for they are good; and so we'll end up asserting the exact contrary of what we claimed Simonides meant." "Yes indeed," he said, "that's how it turns out. Let's change our position, though—we seem
to have set down friend and enemy wrongly." "How did we set them down, Polemarchus?" "That the one who seems good is a friend." "And now how should we change it?" I said. "That the one who both seems good and is good is a friend; and the one who seems good but is not, seems but is not a friend. And the same holds for the enemy."
"So on this account, it seems, the good man will be a friend, and the bad man an enemy." "Yes." "So you'd have us add to our account of the just—beyond our first statement, that a just man does well by his friend and ill by his enemy—now to say further, this way: that justice means doing good to a friend who is good,
and to harm an enemy who is bad?" "Yes indeed," he said, "that seems to me to be well said, put that way." "So it is the part of a just man," I said, "to harm any human being whatsoever?" "Certainly," he said, "the bad and the hostile ought to be harmed." "And when horses are harmed, do they become better or worse?" "Worse." "In respect of the excellence of dogs, or
of horses?" "Of horses." "And when dogs are harmed, don't they become worse in respect of the excellence of dogs, not of horses?" "Necessarily." "And men, my friend—shall we not say the same, that when harmed they become worse in respect of human excellence?" "Certainly." "But isn't justice human excellence?" "That too is necessary." "So men who are harmed
must, my friend, become more unjust." "So it seems." "Well then, can musicians by their music make men unmusical?" "Impossible." "Or horsemen by horsemanship make men unhorsemanlike?" "No." "Then can just men by justice make men unjust? Or in general can the good by excellence make men bad?" "That's impossible." "For it's not the function of heat, I think, to cool, but of its opposite." "Yes." "Nor of dryness
to moisten, but of its opposite." "Certainly." "Nor of the good to harm, but of its opposite." "So it appears." "And the just man is good?" "Certainly." "So it is not the function of the just man, Polemarchus, to harm anyone, friend or anyone else, but of his opposite, the unjust man." "You seem to me to be speaking the whole truth, Socrates," he said. "So if someone says that giving each man what is owed him is
justice, and understands by this that harm is owed to enemies from the just man, and benefit to friends, the one who said that was not wise. For he was not speaking the truth—since it has appeared nowhere true that it is just to harm anyone at all." "I agree," he said. "Then we shall do battle together, you and I," I said, "if anyone
says that Simonides said this, or Bias, or Pittacus, or any other of the wise and blessed men." "I for one," he said, "am ready to join in the battle." "But do you know," I said, "whose saying I think this is—that it is just to benefit friends and harm enemies?" "Whose?" he said. "I think it belongs to Periander,
or Perdiccas, or Xerxes, or Ismenias of Thebes, or whatever other rich man fancied himself very powerful." "Very true," he said. "Well then," I said, "since it has appeared that neither this nor justice itself is what we thought, what else might one say it is?" And Thrasymachus, who had many times in the course of our discussion tried to break in and take over the argument, then
He was stopped by the people sitting near him, who wanted to hear the argument out. But when we had finished and I had said this, he could no longer keep quiet, but gathering himself up like a wild animal, he came at us as if he meant to tear us apart. Polemarchus and I were terrified and scattered. Thrasymachus burst out into the middle of us and said: "Socrates, what is this nonsense that's been possessing you two all this time? And why do you keep bowing and scraping to each other like fools?"
"If you really want to know what justice is, then don't just ask questions, and don't preen yourself on refuting whatever anyone says, once you've grasped that it's easier to ask than to answer — no, answer yourself, and tell me what you say justice is. And don't you dare tell me it's the obligatory, or the beneficial, or
the profitable, or the advantageous, or the expedient — say clearly and precisely what you mean, because I won't put up with that kind of drivel from you." When I heard this I was thunderstruck, and looking at him I was afraid, and I think if I hadn't caught sight of him before he saw me, I would have been struck dumb. But as it was,
when he began to get savage over the argument, I had already looked at him first, so I was able to answer him, and I said, trembling a little: "Thrasymachus, don't be hard on us. If Glaucon and I are making some mistake in examining the argument, you can be sure we're making it unwillingly. Don't imagine that if we were searching for gold we would ever willingly defer to each other
in the search and ruin our chance of finding it — yet when we're searching for justice, a thing worth more than any amount of gold, you think we'd give in to each other so foolishly and not do everything we could to bring it to light? Think again, my friend. It's not that we don't want to — we simply can't. So it's much more fitting that we should be pitied by clever men like you than treated harshly." And when he heard this he burst into a great scornful laugh
and said: "By Heracles, there it is — that's Socrates' usual irony! I knew it, and I told these people beforehand, that you'd refuse to answer, and would play the innocent and do anything rather than answer, if someone asked you something." "That's because you're clever, Thrasymachus," I said. "You knew perfectly well that if you asked someone
how much twelve is, and in asking you told him in advance — 'now don't you tell me, my good man, that twelve is six doubled, or four taken three times, or two taken six times, or three taken four times — I won't put up with that kind of drivel from you' — it must have been obvious to you that no one could answer a question put that way. Suppose he'd said to you: 'Thrasymachus,
what do you mean? Am I not to give any of the answers you named? Not even if that happens to be the true one, my good sir, but I have to say something other than the truth? Or what do you mean?' What would you have said to him in reply?" "Well," he said, "as if that case were anything like this one!" "There's nothing to stop it being so," I said. "Even if it isn't alike, but it appears so
to the person asked, do you think he'll answer any the less with what appears true to him, whether we forbid it or not?" "Is that what you're going to do too, then?" he said. "Are you going to give one of the answers I ruled out?" "I wouldn't be surprised," I said, "if that's what seemed right to me on reflection." "Well then," he said, "suppose I show you another answer about justice, beside all these, and a better one — what
do you think you deserve?" "What else," I said, "than what's fitting for someone who doesn't know — to learn from someone who does know? That's what I think I deserve." "You're a delight," he said. "But besides learning, you must also pay money." "Certainly, once I have some," I said. "But you do have it," said Glaucon. "For the sake of the money then, Thrasymachus, speak —
we'll all contribute for Socrates." "Oh, I'm sure," he said, "so that Socrates can do his usual trick — not answer himself, but latch onto someone else's answer and refute it." "But how," I said, "my excellent fellow, could anyone answer, when in the first place he doesn't know and doesn't claim to know, and then, even if he does have some opinion about it, he's forbidden to say anything
of what he thinks by a man who's no fool? It's much more fitting that you should be the one to speak — for you claim to know and to have something to say. So don't hold out, but do me the favor of answering, and don't begrudge teaching Glaucon here and the rest of us." When I said this, Glaucon and the others begged him not to hold out. And
Thrasymachus was clearly eager to speak, so as to win their admiration, since he thought he had a magnificent answer; but he pretended to insist that I should be the one to answer. In the end he gave in, and then said: "So this is Socrates' wisdom — he himself refuses to teach, but goes around learning from others and doesn't even thank them for it." "That I learn
from others, Thrasymachus, is true enough," I said, "but that I don't pay them thanks — there you're lying. I pay as much as I'm able. And all I'm able to pay is praise, since I have no money. But how eagerly I do this, when someone seems to me to speak well, you'll know soon enough, as soon as you answer — for I think you're going to speak well." "Listen then," he said. "I
say that justice is nothing other than the advantage of the stronger. Well, why don't you praise that?" "Ah, but you won't let me — not till I understand it," I said. "For now I don't yet know. You say the advantage of the stronger is justice. What on earth do you mean by that, Thrasymachus? You surely don't mean something like this: if Polydamas
the pancratiast outmatches us in strength, and beef is advantageous for his body, then this same food is also advantageous — and just — for us who are weaker than he is?" "You're disgusting, Socrates," he said, "you take my argument in whatever way will let you do it the most damage." "Not at all, my good man," I said. "Just tell me more clearly what you mean." "Don't you know," he said,
"that some cities are ruled by tyranny, others by democracy, others by aristocracy?" "Of course." "And in each city, isn't it the ruling power that holds control?" "Certainly." "And each government makes its laws with a view to its own advantage — a democracy makes democratic laws, a tyranny tyrannical ones, and so on with the rest — and having made them, they declare this to be just for their subjects,
namely what is to their own advantage, and they punish anyone who steps outside it as a lawbreaker and a wrongdoer. This, then, my good man, is what I say is the same in all cities: justice is the advantage of the established government. And that government holds power, so that anyone who reasons correctly concludes that justice is everywhere the same thing: the advantage of the stronger." "Now," I said, "I've understood
what you mean. Whether it's true or not, I'll try to find out. So you too, Thrasymachus, have answered that the advantageous is just — although you forbade me to give that very answer — except that you add to it 'of the stronger.'" "A small addition, perhaps," he said. "It's not yet clear whether it's small — but it's clear that we must examine whether what you say is true. Since I too agree
that justice is something advantageous, but you add and say it's specifically the advantage of the stronger, and I don't know that part, we must look into it." "Look into it, then," he said. "So I shall," I said. "Now tell me: don't you also say that it's just to obey the rulers?" "I do." "And are the rulers in each city infallible, or are they the sort who can
also make mistakes?" "Surely," he said, "they're the sort who can make mistakes too." "So when they set about making laws, they make some correctly and some not correctly?" "I suppose so." "And 'correctly' means making laws that are to their own advantage, and 'not correctly' means ones that are not to their advantage? Or how do you mean it?" "That's how I mean it." "And whatever they lay down must be done by their subjects, and this is what's just?"
"Of course." "Then according to your own argument, it's just not only to do what's to the advantage of the stronger, but also the opposite — what's not to their advantage." "What are you saying?" he said. "Just what you're saying, I think — but let's look more closely. Haven't we agreed that the rulers, in commanding their subjects to do certain things, sometimes make mistakes about what's best for themselves, and yet that whatever the rulers command
is just for their subjects to do? Haven't we agreed on that?" "I think so," he said. "Then consider," I said, "that you've also agreed that doing what's disadvantageous to the rulers and the stronger is just, whenever the rulers unintentionally command what's bad for themselves — while you say it's just for the subjects to do what they were commanded. Doesn't it necessarily follow then, most wise Thrasymachus, that
the very opposite results — that it's just to do the opposite of what you say? For surely what's disadvantageous to the stronger is being commanded to the weaker to do." "Yes, by Zeus, Socrates," said Polemarchus, "that's absolutely clear." "If you're going to testify for him," said Clitophon, breaking in. "What need is there of a witness?" he said. "Thrasymachus himself admits that the rulers sometimes command what's bad for themselves,
and yet that it's just for the subjects to do it." "That's because Thrasymachus laid it down, Polemarchus, that doing what's ordered by the rulers is just." "And he also laid it down, Clitophon, that the advantage of the stronger is just. Having laid down both of these, he then went on to agree that the stronger sometimes command the weaker and their subjects to do things disadvantageous to themselves. And from these admissions
the advantage of the stronger is no more just than the disadvantageous." "But," said Clitophon, "he meant by the advantage of the stronger whatever the stronger man believes to be advantageous to himself — that's what the weaker must do, and that's what he was defining justice as." "But that isn't how it was said," said Polemarchus. "It makes no difference, Polemarchus," I said,
"if that's how Thrasymachus puts it now, let's take it that way from him. So tell me, Thrasymachus: was this what you meant to say justice was — what seems advantageous to the stronger to be to the stronger's advantage, whether it actually is or not? Shall we say that's your meaning?" "Not in the least," he said. "Do you think I call a man 'stronger' when he's making a mistake, at the very moment he's making it?" "I did think," I said, "that this was what you meant, when
you agreed that rulers are not infallible, but can also make mistakes." "That's because you're a sophist in argument, Socrates," he said. "For instance — do you call a doctor a 'doctor' the moment he makes a mistake about his patients, in respect of that very mistake? Or a mathematician, when he errs in a calculation, at the moment he errs, by that same error? No — I think we say it in that manner of speaking,
The doctor made a mistake, and the accountant made a mistake, and the schoolteacher made a mistake — but each of them, I think, insofar as he is what we call him, never makes a mistake. So on the strict account, since you insist on being strict, no craftsman ever makes a mistake. It's when his knowledge fails him that the one who errs errs, and at that point he is no craftsman.
So no craftsman, no wise man, no ruler makes a mistake at the moment he is ruling — though of course anyone would say the doctor made a mistake, or the ruler made a mistake. That's the kind of loose talk you should take my earlier answer to have been. But the most precise statement is this: the ruler, insofar as he is a ruler, does not make mistakes, and since he makes no mistakes, he sets down what is best for himself — and that is what the ruled party must do. So what
I said from the start still stands as just: doing what is to the advantage of the stronger. — All right, I said, Thrasymachus — do you think I'm being a pettifogger? — I certainly do, he said. — You think I'm asking these questions on purpose, out of malice, to trip you up in the argument? — I know it very well, he said. — And it will get you nowhere. You couldn't slip a foul move past me,
and even if it slipped past you couldn't force it through by argument. — I wouldn't even try, my dear fellow, I said. But so that nothing like that happens to us again, define clearly which sense you mean when you speak of the ruler and the stronger — the loose, everyday sense, or the strict sense you meant just now, whose advantage, since he is the stronger, it will be just for the weaker to serve. — I mean the ruler in the strictest sense of the word, he said,
the one who really and precisely rules. Go on then, play your foul tricks against that if you can — I'm giving you nothing — though you won't be able to. — Do you think, I said, I'm mad enough to try shaving a lion, playing tricks on Thrasymachus? — Well, you just tried, he said, for all the good it did you. — Enough of that sort of thing, I said. But tell me — the doctor, in the strict sense, the one you were just talking about,
is he a moneymaker, or someone who treats the sick? Tell me about the one who is really a doctor. — A healer of the sick, he said. — And what about the ship's captain? Is the true captain a ruler of sailors, or a sailor himself? — A ruler of sailors. — The fact that he sails on the ship doesn't count for anything, I take it, nor should he be called a sailor on that account; he isn't called captain because he sails but because of
his skill and his authority over the sailors. — True, he said. — Now each of these has some advantage proper to it? — Certainly. — And isn't it the nature of the skill itself, I said, to seek out and provide what is of advantage to each thing? — Yes, that is its nature, he said. — And does each skill have any other interest besides being as complete as possible? — What do you
mean by that? he asked. — Look at it this way, I said: if you asked me whether it's enough for a body to be a body, or whether it needs something more, I'd say: certainly it needs more. That's exactly why the art of medicine has been developed — because the body is deficient and it isn't enough for it to be just as it is. So the art was devised to provide what's advantageous to the body. Would
that be a correct way of putting it, do you think, or not? — Correct, he said. — Well then — is medicine itself deficient, or does any other skill need some added excellence — the way eyes need sight and ears need hearing, so that some further skill is required for them, one that will consider and supply what's advantageous to those very things — is there some deficiency built into
the skill itself, so that each skill needs another skill to look after its interest, and that one needs yet another in turn, and so on without end? Or does a skill look after its own interest by itself? Or does it need nothing at all, neither itself nor anything else, to look after the deficiency proper to it — since no deficiency or fault is present in any skill at all,
nor is it fitting for a skill to seek the advantage of anything but that for which it is the skill of, while the skill itself, so long as it remains exactly and wholly what it is, is faultless and sound? Consider this in that strict sense of the words — is it so, or otherwise? — It appears to be so, he said. — Then medicine, I said, does not look to its own advantage but to the body's. — Yes, he said.
— Nor does horsemanship look to its own advantage but to that of horses; no other skill looks to its own interest either — it has no need to — but to that of the thing it is the skill of. — So it appears, he said. — But surely, Thrasymachus, the skills rule over and have power over the very thing they are skills of. — He conceded this point too, though very grudgingly. — Then no science whatsoever looks to the advantage of the stronger, or gives orders for it, but rather to the advantage of the weaker,
the one under its rule. — He agreed to this as well in the end, though he tried to fight me on it along the way. Once he had agreed — well then, I said, isn't it also true that no doctor, insofar as he is a doctor, looks to what's advantageous to the doctor, or gives orders for it, but rather to what's advantageous to the patient? For it's been agreed that the strict doctor is a ruler of bodies, not a moneymaker. Hasn't that been agreed? — He agreed.
— And isn't the true ship's captain likewise a ruler of sailors, not a sailor himself? — That's been agreed. — Then such a captain and ruler will not look to and prescribe what's to his own advantage as captain, but what's to the advantage of the sailor, the one under his command. — He agreed, though grudgingly. — Then, I said, Thrasymachus, isn't it true that no one in any position of authority, insofar as he is in authority,
looks to his own advantage or gives orders for it, but rather to the advantage of the one he rules and for whom he practices his craft — keeping that person's interest and benefit always in view, and saying whatever he says and doing whatever he does with that in mind? Well, once we had reached this point in the argument, and it was plain to everyone that his account of justice had turned into its very opposite, Thrasymachus, instead
of answering, said: Tell me, Socrates, do you have a nurse? — What do you mean by that? I said. Shouldn't you be answering rather than asking such things? — Because, he said, she lets you run around with your nose dripping and doesn't wipe it for you, needy as you are — you who can't even tell her sheep from her shepherd. — What exactly do you mean by that? I said. — I mean that you think shepherds and cattlemen consider the good of
the sheep or the cattle, and fatten and tend them looking to something other than the good of their masters and their own good; and further, that you imagine rulers in cities — real rulers, that is — think about their subjects any differently than one would think about sheep, or that they have anything else in view
day and night besides where their own profit is going to come from. You're so far off about justice and injustice, about what's just and unjust, that you don't even realize that justice, the just, is really someone else's good — the advantage of the one who is stronger and rules — while it's a harm to the one who obeys and serves; and injustice is
the opposite: it rules over the truly simple-minded and just, and those who are ruled do what's advantageous to the ruler, being the stronger, and make him happy by serving him, while they themselves get nothing of the kind. You have to look at it this way, Socrates, you utter innocent: the just man everywhere comes off worse than the unjust. Take first their private dealings with one another: wherever such a man goes into partnership with
one of that sort, you'll never find, when the partnership is dissolved, that the just man has come out ahead of the unjust — he always comes out behind. Then in their dealings with the city: when there are taxes to be paid, the just man pays more on the same property, the unjust less; and when there are handouts, the one gets nothing, the other makes a large profit. And likewise whenever each of them holds
some office: the just man, even if he suffers no other penalty, finds his own affairs in worse shape from neglect, while gaining nothing from the public funds because he's just, and on top of that he becomes hateful to his relatives and acquaintances when he refuses to do them favors against justice — while the unjust man has all the opposite advantages. I mean, of course,
the man I was just describing, the one with the power to grab the lion's share. Consider him, if you want to judge how much more it profits a man privately to be unjust than just. And you'll learn it most easily of all if you turn to the most complete injustice, which makes the wrongdoer supremely happy and those who are wronged and would never do wrong themselves supremely wretched. This is tyranny, which takes what belongs to others
not in small amounts, by stealth or by force, but wholesale — sacred and profane, private and public alike. When someone commits injustice in some one part of this and isn't caught, he's punished and utterly disgraced — such partial wrongdoers, when caught at this sort of crime, are called temple-robbers, kidnappers, housebreakers, swindlers, thieves. But when a man goes beyond seizing
citizens' property to enslaving and subjugating the citizens themselves, instead of these shameful names he's called happy and blessed, not only by his fellow citizens but by everyone else who hears that he has committed injustice in its entirety. For it isn't the doing of injustice but the suffering of it that people fear, and that's why those who denounce injustice denounce it. That's how it is, Socrates: injustice, when it's done thoroughly enough, is stronger,
freer, and more masterful than justice — and, as I said from the start, the just is really what serves the advantage of the stronger, while the unjust is what is profitable and advantageous to oneself. Having said this, Thrasymachus intended to leave, like a bathhouse attendant who had just poured a great flood of words over our ears all at once. But the people present wouldn't
let him go — they forced him to stay and give an account of what he'd said. And I myself begged him too, and said: My dear Thrasymachus, do you mean to hurl an argument like that at us and then leave, before you've properly taught us — or learned yourself — whether things are as you say or not? Do you think you're attempting some small matter, to define the whole conduct of a life, the way each of us
could live it to live most profitably? — Do I think it's otherwise? said Thrasymachus. — You seem, I said, either to care nothing at all for us, or to have no concern for whether we'll live worse or better lives in our ignorance of what you claim to know. Come, my good man, be willing to show us too — it won't be a bad investment for you, doing a good turn to as many of us as there are here. For my part, I tell you plainly,
I'm not convinced, and I don't believe that injustice is more profitable than justice, even if one lets it go unchecked and doesn't hinder it from doing what it wants. No, my good man — grant that a man is unjust, and capable of acting unjustly either by escaping notice or by fighting it out openly — still he doesn't convince me that this is more profitable than justice. And perhaps others among us feel the same way, not I alone.
So convince us properly, my good man, that we're wrong to rank justice above injustice. "And what would it take to persuade you?" he said. "If what I said just now didn't persuade you, what more can I do for you? Am I supposed to take the argument and stuff it into your soul?" "God, no," I said, "don't do that. But first, stick to what you say, and if you shift your ground, do it openly and don't try to deceive us."
"Because right now, Thrasymachus—let's look back at what came before—you see that when you first defined the true doctor, you didn't think it necessary later to be equally careful about the true shepherd. Instead you think he fattens his sheep, insofar as he's a shepherd, not with an eye to what's best for the sheep, but the way a dinner guest
who's about to feast looks toward the good meal, or the way a businessman looks toward selling them—not as a shepherd at all. But the shepherd's craft surely cares about nothing except providing what's best for that over which it's set—since as for its own excellence, that's been sufficiently provided for, as long as it lacks nothing needed to be shepherding—so I thought just now
we were bound to agree that every kind of rule, insofar as it is rule, looks to what's best for nothing but that which is ruled and cared for, whether in public or private rule. But do you think that the rulers in our cities, the true rulers, rule willingly? "God, no," he said, "I know it for a fact." "Well, what about it, Thrasymachus?"
"Don't you notice that with the other offices, no one is willing to rule for free, but they demand pay, on the assumption that the benefit from ruling will come not to themselves but to those they rule? Now tell me this: don't we always say that each of the crafts is distinct from the others precisely because each has a distinct capacity? And, my good man, don't answer against your own judgment, so we can actually get somewhere." "Yes," he said,
"each is distinct in that way." "And doesn't each of them provide us with some benefit peculiar to itself, not a common one—medicine health, say, and navigation safety at sea, and so on with the others?" "Certainly." "And doesn't wage-earning provide pay? For that is its own particular power. Or do you call medicine and navigation the same thing? Or if you want to distinguish precisely, as
you proposed, would you call it medicine any more, just because someone who navigates well happens to become healthy from the benefit of sailing at sea?" "Certainly not," he said. "Nor, I imagine, would you call it wage-earning if someone stays healthy while earning wages." "Certainly not." "Well then? Do you call medicine wage-earning, if someone earns wages while healing?" He said no. "So we've agreed that the benefit of each craft
is peculiar to it?" "Let it be so," he said. "So whatever common benefit all craftsmen get in common, clearly they get it in common by making use of some further thing which is the same for all." "So it seems," he said. "And we say that craftsmen benefit from earning wages by making additional use of the wage-earning craft." He agreed reluctantly. "So this benefit—the receiving of pay—doesn't come to each
from his own craft, but if we're to look at it precisely, medicine produces health, while wage-earning produces pay, and building produces a house, while wage-earning, which accompanies it, produces pay, and so with all the others: each performs its own work and benefits that over which it is set. But if pay isn't attached to it, does the craftsman get any benefit
from his craft?" "It doesn't appear so," he said. "So he provides no benefit either, when he works for free?" "I think not." "So this much is now clear, Thrasymachus: that no craft or rule provides what's beneficial to itself, but, as we've been saying all along, it provides and prescribes what's beneficial to the one ruled, looking to the advantage of that weaker party, not to that of the stronger. That's
why, my dear Thrasymachus, I said just now that no one is willing to rule of his own accord and take on other people's troubles to straighten them out, but they ask for pay—because the man who is going to practice his craft well never does or prescribes what's best for himself, when he prescribes according to the craft, but what's best for the one ruled. That's why, it seems, pay must be provided for those who are going to be willing to rule,
either money or honor, or a penalty if they refuse to rule." "What do you mean by this, Socrates?" said Glaucon. "I recognize the first two kinds of pay, but I don't understand what penalty you mean, or how you count it as a kind of pay." "Then you don't understand the pay of the best men," I said, "the one for the sake of which the most decent men rule, when they're willing to rule at all. Don't you know
that being ambitious for honor or money is called disgraceful, and is disgraceful?" "I do," he said. "That's why good men are unwilling to rule either for money or for honor—they don't want to be openly called hired hands for taking pay from ruling, nor thieves for secretly taking it from their office. Nor again do they rule for honor's sake, since they're not
ambitious for honor. So compulsion and the threat of a penalty must be attached, if they're to be willing to rule at all—which is presumably why it's considered shameful to seek office willingly instead of waiting to be compelled. And the greatest of these penalties is being ruled by someone worse than oneself, if one isn't willing to rule oneself. It's fear of this, I think, that makes decent men rule when they do rule, and then they go to office not as if approaching
something good or something they'll enjoy, but as something necessary, and because they have no one better than or even equal to themselves to hand it over to. For if a city of good men ever came to exist, it's likely there'd be as much competition to avoid ruling as there now is to get it, and it would become clear there that a true ruler by nature does not aim at his own advantage but at
that of the one ruled—so that everyone who understood this would choose to be benefited by someone else rather than take on the trouble of benefiting someone else himself. So on this point, at any rate, I in no way agree with Thrasymachus, that justice is the advantage of the stronger. But we'll look into that again later. What Thrasymachus is saying now seems to me a far bigger matter—that the life of the unjust man
is better than that of the just man. Which way do you choose, Glaucon," I said, "and which do you think is spoken more truly?" "I think the life of the just man is more profitable." "Did you hear," I said, "all the good things Thrasymachus just now listed for the unjust man?" "I heard," he said, "but I'm not convinced." "Do you want us to try to convince him, then, if we can find some way,
that he's not telling the truth?" "Of course I want that," he said. "Well then," I said, "if we set speech against speech and list off all the good things justice has on its side, and he does the same again, and we answer again, we'll have to count up and measure how many goods each side names in each speech, and then we'll need some judges to decide between us. But if instead we examine the question
by coming to agreement with each other as we just were doing, we ourselves will be both judges and advocates at once." "Quite so," he said. "Whichever way pleases you, then," I said. "That way," he said. "Come then, Thrasymachus," I said, "answer us from the beginning. You say that complete injustice is more profitable than complete justice?" "I certainly do say so," he said, "and I've told you why."
"Well, tell me this about them—one of the pair you name virtue, and the other vice?" "Of course." "So you call justice virtue and injustice vice?" "That's likely, my sweet fellow," he said, "seeing as I also say that injustice is profitable and justice is not." "Then what do you say?" "The opposite," he said. "Is justice vice, then?"
"No, but a very noble simplemindedness." "So you call injustice ill-mindedness?" "No, good judgment," he said. "And do you really think the unjust are wise and good, Thrasymachus?" "Those who can practice injustice completely," he said, "and who can bring whole cities and nations under their power. Perhaps you think I mean people who cut purses. That kind of thing is profitable too,"
he said, "as long as it goes undetected—but it's not worth mentioning next to what I was just talking about." "I understand well enough what you mean by that," I said, "but this is what surprised me—that you place injustice in the category of virtue and wisdom, and justice in the opposite category." "Well, that's exactly how I place them." "Now that," I said, "is a much firmer position, my friend,
and it's no longer easy to know what to say. For if you had claimed that injustice is profitable, while still admitting, as some others do, that it's a vice or a shameful thing, we could have said something in reply, arguing from conventional views. But as it is, you clearly will say that it's fine and strong, and you'll attach to it all the other qualities we were attaching to justice, since
you've had the nerve to place it in the category of virtue and wisdom." "You prophesy very truly," he said. "Well, even so," I said, "I mustn't shrink from pursuing the argument through to the end, as long as I take you to be saying what you actually think. For you seem to me, Thrasymachus, to be genuinely not joking right now, but stating your real views about the truth." "What difference does it make to you," he said, "whether
it's my real view or not—why don't you just refute the argument?" "None at all," I said. "But try to answer me this as well, in addition: do you think the just man would want to have more than another just man?" "Not at all," he said, "otherwise he wouldn't be as refined and simple as he is now." "And what about a just action?" "Not that either," he said. "And what of the unjust man—
would he claim the right to have more than a just man, and think it just to do so, or would he not think so?" "He would think so," he said, "and would claim the right, but he wouldn't be able to get it." "But that's not what I'm asking," I said, "but whether the just man does not claim the right to have more than a just man, or want to, but does claim the right to have more than an unjust man." "That is indeed the case," he said. "And what about the unjust man?"
"Does he claim the right to have more than a just man and a just action?" "Of course," he said, "since he claims the right to have more than everyone." "So the unjust man will seek to outdo both an unjust man and an unjust action, and will strive to get the most for himself out of everything?" "That's so." "Let's put it this way, then," I said: "the just man does not seek to outdo his like, but only his unlike, while the
unjust man seeks to outdo both like and unlike?" "You've put that excellently," he said. "And is the unjust man wise and good, while the just man is neither?" "That too is well said," he said. "So the unjust man, it seems, resembles the wise and the good, while the just man does not resemble them?" "Of course he must," he said, "being the kind of man he is, and
—to resemble such people, while the other does not resemble them? —Well put. —Then each of them is such as those he resembles? —Of course, why not? he said. —Very well, Thrasymachus. You say one man is musical, and another unmusical? —I do. —Which is wise, and which foolish? —The musical man, surely, is wise, and the unmusical man foolish. —And whatever is wise is good, and whatever is foolish is bad? —Yes. —And what
—about the doctor, the same? —The same. —Do you think, then, my good man, that a musician tuning a lyre would want to outdo another musician in tightening and loosening the strings, or claim to have the advantage over him? —Not I. —What about over the unmusical man? —Necessarily, he said. —And what about the doctor? In matters of food or drink, would he want to outdo another doctor, either the man or the practice involved?
—Certainly not. —But over a non-doctor? —Yes. —Consider this, then, in the case of every kind of knowledge and ignorance: does it seem to you that any knowledgeable person would want to choose more, in action or speech, than another knowledgeable person, rather than the same as someone like himself with respect to the same action? —Well, perhaps, he said, that must be so. —And what of the person without knowledge? Would he not
—try to get the better both of the knowledgeable and of the unknowledgeable alike? —Perhaps. —And the knowledgeable person is wise? —I agree. —And the wise person is good? —I agree. —Then the good and wise person will not want to get the better of his like, but only of his unlike, his opposite. —So it seems, he said. —Whereas the bad and ignorant person will want to get the better of both his like and his opposite. —So it appears. —Well then, Thrasymachus,
I said, doesn't the unjust man, on our account, get the better of both his unlike and his like? Or isn't that what you were saying? —I was, he said. —And the just man will not get the better of his like, but only of his unlike? —Yes. —Then it seems, I said, that the just man is like the wise and good man, and the unjust man is like the bad and ignorant one. —So it appears. —But surely we agreed that whatever
each man resembles, that is what each man is. —We did agree to that. —Then the just man has turned out for us to be good and wise, and the unjust man ignorant and bad. Now Thrasymachus agreed to all of this—not as easily as I now report it, but dragged along and reluctant, sweating a remarkable amount, since it was also summer. It was then that I saw
—something I had never seen before—Thrasymachus blushing. So then, since we had agreed that justice is virtue and wisdom, and injustice is vice and ignorance, well, I said, let that stand as settled for us. But we also said that injustice was strong. Or don't you remember, Thrasymachus? —I remember, he said. But I'm not satisfied even with what you're saying now, and
I have things to say about them. If I were to speak, I know well you'd say I was making a speech. So either let me say as much as I want, or, if you'd rather ask questions, go on asking; and I'll just say 'very well' to you, the way one does to old women telling their tales, and nod and shake my head. —Not that, I said, against your own opinion. —Well, so as to please you,
since you won't let me speak. And yet what else do you want? —Nothing, by Zeus, I said, but if you're going to do this, do it, and I'll ask the questions. —Ask away, then. —Well, this is what I'm asking, the very thing I asked just now, so that we may go on and examine the argument in order: what sort of thing justice turns out to be in relation to injustice. For it was said, I believe, that injustice is more capable and stronger than justice; but now,
if justice is indeed wisdom and virtue, I said, it will easily be shown, I think, to be stronger than injustice as well, since injustice is ignorance—no one could still fail to see that. But I don't want to look at it so simply, Thrasymachus; rather I want to examine it this way. Would you say that a city can be unjust, and try to enslave other cities unjustly, and has enslaved them, and holds many
under its own power, enslaved? —Of course, he said. —And the best city will do this most of all, and most completely, being the most unjust. —I understand, I said, that this was your point. But here is what I want to consider about it: will the city that becomes stronger than another city have this power without justice, or must it necessarily have it together with justice? —Well, he said, if it's as you were just saying—that
justice is wisdom—then with justice; but if it's as I was saying, then with injustice. —I quite admire you, Thrasymachus, I said, for not merely nodding and shaking your head, but answering very well indeed. —That's because I'm doing you a favor, he said. —And doing well by it; but please do me one more favor and tell me: do you think that a city, or an army, or bandits, or thieves, or
any other group, all of whom set out together on some unjust venture, would be able to accomplish anything if they acted unjustly toward one another? —No indeed, he said. —And what if they didn't act unjustly toward one another—would they not do better? —Certainly. —For injustice, Thrasymachus, produces factions and hatreds and quarrels among people, while justice produces harmony and friendship, doesn't it? —Let it be so, he said,
so that I won't disagree with you. —Well done, my good man. Now tell me this: if it is the function of injustice to produce hatred wherever it is present, then when it arises among free men and slaves alike, won't it make them hate one another and form factions and be unable to act together in common? —Certainly. —And what if it arises in just two people?
Won't they be at odds and hate each other and become enemies both to one another and to just people? —They will, he said. —And if, my remarkable friend, injustice arises in a single person, will it lose its power, or will it keep it just the same? —Let it keep it just the same, he said. —Then it appears to have this sort of power: whatever it arises in, whether a city, a family, an army,
or anything else whatsoever, it first makes that thing unable to act in concert with itself, on account of faction and disagreement, and moreover makes it an enemy to itself and to everything opposed to it, and to the just. Isn't that so? —Certainly. —And I think that when it is present in a single individual, it will produce these very same effects that it is naturally suited to produce: first it will make him unable to act, since he is at odds with himself and not of one mind
with himself, and next an enemy both to himself and to the just. Isn't that so? —Yes. —And the gods too, my friend, are just? —Let it be so, he said. —Then the unjust man will be an enemy to the gods as well, Thrasymachus, and the just man a friend. —Feast on your argument, he said, without fear; I won't oppose you, so as not to make enemies of these people here. —Come then, I said,
fill out the rest of the feast for me by answering just as you have now. For it appears that the just are wiser and better and more capable of action, while the unjust are not even able to act together with one another—indeed, when we say that certain unjust men have at some time vigorously accomplished something together in common, what we say is not entirely true; for they would not have kept their hands off
one another if they were utterly unjust; rather it is clear that some justice was present in them, which kept them at least from also wronging one another along with those they were jointly attacking—and it was through this that they accomplished what they did accomplish, while they set out on their unjust deeds being only half-corrupted by injustice, since those who are utterly wicked and completely unjust are also completely incapable of action. So I understand that this is how matters stand,
not as you first proposed it. Now whether the just also live better than the unjust and are happier—which is the further question we set out to examine—we must examine. From what we have said, they do appear to, at least as it seems to me; but all the same we must examine it still more closely. For our argument is not about just any chance matter, but about the way in which one ought to
live. —Well, examine it then, he said. —I am examining it, I said. Now tell me: does it seem to you that a horse has a function? —It does to me. —Would you then define the function of a horse, or of anything else, as that which one can do only with that thing, or best with it? —I don't understand, he said. —Well, look at it this way: is there anything else with which you could see, other than your eyes? —No indeed. —What about this: could you hear
with anything other than your ears? —No, none at all. —Then don't we rightly say that these are the functions of these organs? —Certainly. —Well now: could you cut off a vine shoot with a dagger, or a chisel, or many other things? —Of course. —But with none of them, I think, as well as with a pruning-knife made for that very purpose. —True. —Then shall we not set this down as its function? —We shall indeed. —Now then
I think you'll understand better what I was just asking, namely, whether the function of each thing is not that which it alone can perform, or which it performs better than anything else. —Well, he said, I do understand, and it seems to me that this is indeed the function of each thing. —Very well, I said. And does it also seem to you that each thing to which some function is assigned also has a virtue? Let's go back to
the same examples again. Do eyes, we say, have a function? —They do. —Then do eyes also have a virtue? —A virtue too. —What about ears—did they have a function? —Yes. —And then a virtue as well? —A virtue too. —And what about all the other things? Isn't it the same? —The same. —Now hold on: could eyes ever perform their function well if they lacked their own proper virtue,
but had vice instead of virtue? —How could they? he said; you must mean blindness instead of sight. —Whatever their virtue actually is, I said—for I'm not yet asking that, but whether the things that perform functions will perform their own function well by their proper virtue, and badly by vice. —What you say is true, he said. —Then won't ears too, deprived of their own
virtue, perform their function badly? —Certainly. —Shall we then put all the other cases under the same account? —It seems so to me. —Come then, next consider this. Does the soul have a function that you could not perform with anything else that exists, something like the following: caring for things, ruling, deliberating, and all such things—is there anything else besides the soul
to which we could rightly attribute these and say they belong to it alone? —To nothing else. —And what about living—shall we not say that is a function of the soul? —Most certainly, he said. —And do we also say the soul has some virtue? —We do. —Then could the soul ever perform its functions well, Thrasymachus, if deprived of its own proper virtue, or is that impossible? —Impossible. —It is necessary, then, that a bad soul rule and care for things badly,
while a good soul does all these things well. —Necessarily. —And didn't we agree that the virtue of the soul is justice, and its vice injustice? —We did agree to that. —Then a just soul — a just man — will live well, while the unjust man lives badly. —So it appears, he said, according to your argument. —But surely the man whose life goes well is blessed and happy, and the
— and not the opposite. How could it be otherwise? So the just man is happy, and the unjust man wretched. — Let that stand, he said. — But surely it doesn't pay to be wretched, but to be happy. — How could it not? — Then never, my blessed Thrasymachus, is injustice more profitable than justice. — Let this, he said, Socrates, be your feast at the Bendideia. — Thanks to you, I said, Thrasymachus,
since you turned gentle with me and stopped being harsh. And yet I haven't feasted well — my own fault, not yours. I'm like those greedy sorts who snatch a taste of whatever dish is carried past before they've properly enjoyed the one before it: that's what I seem to have done. Before finding what we set out at first to look for — what justice actually is — I let go of that question and rushed off to examine
whether it is vice and ignorance, or wisdom and virtue; and then, when an argument came up afterward claiming that injustice pays better than justice, I couldn't hold myself back from moving on to that from the other, so that the upshot of the whole discussion, for me, is that I know nothing. Because as long as I don't know what justice is, I'm hardly going to know whether it turns out to be a virtue
or not, and whether the one who has it is unhappy — or happy.