Plato · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
—Well, said I, that's more or less the sort of thing that should and shouldn't be said about the gods, it seems, told to children from the very start—children who are going to honor the gods and their parents, and not treat their friendship for one another lightly. Yes, he said, and I think that's rightly said to us. But what about this—if they're going to be brave? Shouldn't we also tell them the sort of stories that will make them
least afraid of death? Or do you think anyone could ever become brave while harboring this terror inside him? By Zeus, he said, I don't. And what about this—do you think a man who believes there really are terrible things in Hades will be fearless in the face of death, and choose death over defeat and slavery in battle? Not at all. So it seems, then,
that we must oversee those who undertake to tell these myths, and require them not simply to run down the underworld like that, but rather to praise it—since what they'd be saying would be neither true nor useful to men who must become warriors. Yes, we must, he said. So we'll strike out, said I, starting from this very line, all such things as—'I would sooner work the soil as another man's hireling'
and slave to another, a man with no portion, who has little to live on himself, than be king over all the dead who have perished,' and this—'and their house should appear terrible to mortals and immortals alike, dank, decaying, things which even the gods themselves abhor,' and this—'ah, so there really is, even in the house of Hades, a soul and a phantom, but no wits at all within it,' and this—'to him alone was understanding given, while the others',
'flit about as shadows,' and—'and the soul, flying from his limbs, went down to Hades, mourning its fate, leaving behind manhood and youth,' and this—'and the soul went beneath the earth like smoke, gibbering,' and—'as when bats in the depths of some awesome cave flutter about gibbering, when one of them falls from the cluster on the rock, and they cling to one another'—so did they go, gibbering together. All these
and all such passages we shall ask of Homer and the rest of the poets: that they take no offense at our deleting them—not because they aren't poetic and pleasant for the many to hear, but because the more poetic they are, the less they should be heard by children and men who must be free and who fear slavery more than death. Absolutely, he said. And then there are also all the names attached to these things, all the fearsome
and terrifying names, that must be thrown out too—Cocytus and Styx, and 'those below,' and 'the wasted dead,' and all the other names of that type that make everyone who hears them, as the poets suppose, shudder. And perhaps that's fine for some other purpose, but as for us, we're afraid on behalf of our guardians that from that kind of shuddering they'll become more feverish and softer than they ought to be. And we're right, he said, to be afraid.
So they must be taken away? Yes. And the opposite kind of thing must be said and composed instead? Clearly so. And we'll also remove the lamentations and wailings of famous men? Necessarily so, he said, if the earlier things must go too. Consider, then, said I, whether we'll be right to remove them or not. We say, don't we, that the decent man will not think it terrible
for another decent man, who is also his companion, to have died. We do say that. So he wouldn't grieve for him as though he had suffered something dreadful. No, he wouldn't. But surely we also say that such a man is, more than anyone else, self-sufficient for living well, and least of all others in need of someone else. True, he said. So it's least of all terrible for him to be deprived of a son or a brother or money
or anything else of that kind. Least of all, indeed. So he'll also grieve the least, and bear it as gently as possible, whenever some such misfortune befalls him. Very much so. So we'd be right to remove the lamentations of famous men, and assign them to women—and not even to serious women at that—and to the cowardly among men, so that those we say we're raising to guard
the land will be disgusted at doing anything like what these people do. Rightly so, he said. So again we'll ask Homer and the other poets not to portray Achilles, the son of a goddess, as—'lying now on his side, now again on his back, now on his face, then standing up straight and wandering distraught along the shore of the barren sea,' nor 'taking in both hands the sooty dust and pouring it down over his head,' nor weeping and
wailing in all the many ways that poet made him do, nor Priam, close kin to the gods, as pleading and—'rolling in the dung, calling out each man by name.' And still much more than these we'll ask them not, in any case, to portray the gods as lamenting and saying—'woe is me, wretched, woe is me who bore the best of men to such sorrow'; and if they must portray gods at all, let them at least not dare to have the greatest of the gods misrepresent himself so badly as to
say—'ah me, that a man dear to me is chased around the city before my eyes, and my heart grieves,' and—'alas for me, that it is fated that Sarpedon, dearest of men to me, be slain by Patroclus, son of Menoetius.' For if, dear Adeimantus, our young men took such things seriously and didn't laugh at them as unworthy of being said, hardly would any of them, being merely a man, think it
beneath himself and rebuke himself, if some such feeling or act came over him, but instead, without any shame or self-restraint, he would sing many laments and dirges over the smallest of misfortunes. What you say is very true, he said. But that's not how it should be, as our argument just now showed—and we must be persuaded by it, until someone persuades us with a finer one. No, indeed it shouldn't be that way. But
surely they mustn't be overly fond of laughter either. For pretty much whenever someone gives way to violent laughter, that sort of state tends to provoke a violent reaction in turn. So it seems to me, he said. So then, if someone portrays men of worth as overcome by laughter, that's not to be accepted—and still less if it's gods. Much less, he said. So we won't accept from Homer things like this about the gods—'unquenchable
'and unquenchable laughter seized the blessed gods as they watched Hephaestus puffing through the halls'—that's not to be accepted, by your reasoning. If you want to call it mine, he said—well, in any case, it's not to be accepted. But surely truth, too, must be highly valued. For if we were right just now in saying that falsehood is truly useless to the gods, but useful to men in the manner of a drug, it's clear
that such a thing should be given to physicians, but ordinary people shouldn't touch it. Clearly so, he said. So it belongs to the rulers of the city, if to anyone, to use falsehood, whether against enemies or citizens, for the benefit of the city, but no one else should touch such a thing—rather, for a private citizen to lie to rulers of this kind we'll say is the same sort of error, and even worse, than for a sick man
not to tell the truth to his doctor, or an athlete not to tell his trainer, about the state of his own body, or for someone not to tell a helmsman the true facts about the ship and the sailors—how things stand with himself or one of his fellow sailors. Very true, he said. So if he catches anyone else lying in the city—among those who are craftsmen, whether a seer or
a healer of ills or a builder of ships—he will penalize him as one who brings in a pursuit as subversive and fatal to a city as it would be to a ship. Yes, he said, provided the deeds actually follow from the words. What then—won't our young men also need moderation? Of course. And for the majority, isn't the greatest part of moderation this: to be obedient to their rulers, and themselves to rule over their own
pleasures in drink and sex and food? It seems so to me. So we'll say, I think, that things like this are well said—the sort of thing Diomedes says in Homer—'Friend, sit in silence and obey my word,' and what follows on from that, the—'the Achaeans went on, breathing fury, in silent fear of their commanders,' and all the other things of that kind. Well said. But what about things like—'heavy with wine, dog-eyed, with the courage of a deer,'
and what follows on from that, and all the other insolent things anyone has said, in speech or poetry, spoken by ordinary men against their rulers—are those well said? Not well said. No, for I don't think such things are fitting for young people to hear, at least not for the sake of moderation—though if they provide some other kind of pleasure, that's no surprise. Or how does it seem to you? Just as you say, he said. And what about this—portraying the wisest of men as saying that the
finest thing of all, in his view, is when—'the tables stand full beside them, laden with bread and meat, and the wine-pourer draws wine from the mixing-bowl and carries it round and pours it into the cups'—does that seem to you a fitting thing for a young man to hear for the sake of self-control? Or this—'to die of hunger is the most pitiable fate to meet'? Or Zeus, while all the other gods and men slept, lying awake alone plotting his schemes, and then, forgetting all of it
easily on account of his desire for sex, and being so struck at the sight of Hera that he doesn't even want to go into the bedroom, but wants to lie with her right there on the ground, saying he's seized by such desire as he never felt even when they first came together as lovers in secret from their parents—nor the binding of Ares and Aphrodite by Hephaestus, for similar reasons. No,
by Zeus, he said, that doesn't seem fitting to me. But if there are any instances of endurance in the face of everything, spoken and done by famous men, those we should see and hear, such as—'he struck his breast and rebuked his heart with these words: endure, my heart; you have endured worse than this before.' Absolutely, he said. Nor, on the other hand,
must we allow our men to be takers of bribes or lovers of money. Not at all. Nor should they be made to sing that—'gifts persuade the gods, gifts persuade revered kings'; nor should we praise Phoenix, Achilles' tutor, as speaking reasonably when he advised him to defend the Achaeans if he received gifts, but not to give up his wrath without them. Nor will we think it worthy of Achilles himself, nor agree that he was so fond of money as
to accept gifts from Agamemnon, and then again to release the corpse only for a ransom, and otherwise be unwilling to. It's not right, he said, to praise such things. And I hesitate, said I, on account of Homer, to say that it isn't even pious to say such things of Achilles, or to believe others who say them, and again how he spoke to Apollo—'you have harmed me, far-shooter, most destructive of all
gods; truly I would take revenge on you, if only I had the power'; and how he was disobedient toward the river, though it was a god, and was ready to fight it; and again, how he said that his sacred hair, consecrated to the other river, Spercheius, he would 'give to the hero Patroclus to carry with him'—Patroclus being a corpse—and that he actually did this, we shouldn't believe; nor again the dragging of Hector around the tomb
of Patroclus, and the slaughter of the captives upon the pyre—all of this together we will say was not truly told, nor will we allow our people to be persuaded that Achilles, born of a goddess and fathered by Peleus—a man of the utmost moderation, third in descent from Zeus—and raised by the wisest Chiron, was so full of turmoil as to have within himself two opposing afflictions—ignoble stinginess together with greed for money
"—and again, arrogance toward gods and men." "You're right," he said. "So then," I said, "let's not believe this either, and not allow it to be said, that Theseus son of Poseidon and Pirithous son of Zeus set out on such terrible acts of rape, nor that any other child of a god, any hero, would dare to do the dreadful, impious things now falsely told of them—rather let us compel the poets"
"either to say these are not the deeds of such men, or that these men are not children of gods—not to say both—and not to try to persuade our young people that gods beget evil, and that heroes stand no higher than ordinary humans. That, as we said before, is neither pious nor true; for we showed that it's impossible for evil to come from gods." "Of course."
"And moreover it's harmful to those who hear it. Everyone will forgive himself for being bad once persuaded that such things are done, and were done, by—'those close kin to the gods, near neighbors of Zeus, whose ancestral altar to Zeus stands on Ida's peak, high in the air'—and 'in whom the blood of the gods has not yet run dry.' For these reasons such stories must be stopped, lest they breed in our young people a great readiness"
"toward wickedness." "Quite so," he said. "Well then," I said, "what kind of discourse is still left for us to settle, as to what may and may not be told? We've said how gods should be spoken of, and how divine spirits, heroes, and the dead in Hades should be spoken of." "Quite so." "Then what's left would be about human beings?" "Clearly."
"But that, my friend, we can't arrange right now." "How so?" "Because I think we'll have to say that poets and storytellers speak badly about the most important things concerning human beings—saying that many unjust people are happy and many just people wretched, that injustice pays if it goes undetected, and that justice is someone else's good but one's own loss; and"
"we'll forbid them to say such things, and instead order them to sing and tell stories that say the opposite. Don't you think so?" "I know very well we must," he said. "So if you agree that I'm right to say this, shall I say you've agreed to what we've been looking for all along?" "You've understood correctly," he said. "So we'll agree that such things must be said about human beings only once we've discovered what justice is, and how it is by nature"
"advantageous to the one who has it, whether or not he seems to be just." "Very true," he said. "So much, then, for the content of stories. Their manner—how they should be told—must, I think, be examined next, and then everything about what should be said and how it should be said will be fully considered." And Adeimantus said, "I don't understand what you mean by that." "Well," I said, "you must—"
"perhaps you'll understand it better this way. Isn't everything said by storytellers or poets a narrative about things past, present, or future?" "What else could it be?" he said. "And don't they accomplish this either by simple narration, or by narration through imitation, or by a combination of both?" "That too," he said, "I still need to understand more clearly." "I seem to be a ridiculous"
"teacher, and an unclear one. So, like people who can't express things as a whole, let me take a part and try to show you through it what I mean. Tell me: you know the opening of the Iliad, where the poet says that Chryses begs Agamemnon to release his daughter, and Agamemnon grows angry, and Chryses, since he doesn't get his way, prays against the"
"Achaeans to the god?" "I do." "Then you know that up to these lines—'and he begged all the Achaeans, but above all the two sons of Atreus, marshals of the people'—the poet himself is speaking, and doesn't even try to turn our thought elsewhere, as though someone other than himself were speaking. But after this he speaks as if he himself were Chryses, and tries"
"to make us think, as much as possible, that it's not Homer speaking but the priest, an old man. And he's composed nearly all the rest of his narrative this way too, both about events at Troy and about events in Ithaca and throughout the Odyssey." "Quite so," he said. "So it's narration both when he delivers the speeches each time and when he gives"
"what comes between the speeches?" "Of course." "But when he delivers a speech as though he were someone else, won't we say that then he makes himself as much as possible like the person he has told us in advance is going to speak?" "We'll say that; of course." "And to make oneself like someone else, in voice or in bearing, is to imitate the one whom one"
"makes oneself like?" "Of course." "In cases like this, then, it seems, this poet and the others compose their narrative through imitation." "Quite so." "But if the poet nowhere concealed himself, his whole poem and narrative would have come about without imitation. And so you won't say again that you don't understand, let me tell you how this would come about"—
"I'll explain. If Homer, after saying that Chryses came bringing ransom for his daughter and as a suppliant to the Achaeans, especially to the kings, had gone on speaking not as if he had become Chryses but still as Homer, you know it wouldn't be imitation but simple narration. It would go something like this—I'll put it without meter, since I'm no poet—"
"the priest came and prayed that the gods would grant them, after taking Troy, to return home safely themselves, and that they would release his daughter, accepting the ransom and showing reverence for the god. When he had said this, the others were respectful and agreed, but Agamemnon grew savage, ordering him now to leave and never to come again, lest the scepter and the god's"
"garlands fail to protect him; and he said that before his daughter was released, she would grow old in Argos with him; and he ordered him to go away and not provoke him, so that he might get home safely. The old man, hearing this, was afraid and went away in silence, and having withdrawn from the camp he prayed at length to Apollo, invoking the god's titles, reminding him and asking in return, if ever"
"he had given any pleasing gift, whether in the building of temples or in sacrifices at his shrines—for the sake of which he now prayed that the Achaeans pay for his tears with the god's arrows. So, my friend," I said, "that's how simple narration comes about without imitation." "I understand," he said. "Then understand too," I said, "that the opposite of this comes about when someone, cutting out the poet's words between the"
"speeches, leaves only the exchanges." "That too I understand," he said, "that this is what happens in tragedies." "You've grasped it exactly right," I said, "and I think I've now made clear to you what I couldn't before—that of poetry and storytelling, one kind is entirely through imitation, as you say, namely tragedy and comedy, and another is through the narration of the"
"poet himself—you'd find this especially, I think, in dithyrambs—and yet another is through both, in epic poetry and in many other places as well, if you follow me." "But I do understand," he said, "what you meant to say before." "And recall what came before that, that we said what should be said has already been stated, but how it should be said still needs to be examined." "Yes, I remember." "Well,"
"this, then, was just what I was saying: that we need to agree on whether we'll let the poets make their narratives for us by imitation, or partly by imitation and partly not—and in that case, which kind is which—or not imitate at all." "I suspect," he said, "you're considering whether we should admit tragedy and comedy into our city, or not." "Perhaps," I said, "and perhaps even more than"
"that; for I myself don't yet know—we must go wherever the argument, like a wind, carries us." "That's well said," he replied. "Then consider this, Adeimantus: should our guardians be imitators or not? Or does this too follow from what we said before, that each person can practice one occupation well, but not many; and that"
"if he tries to do so, dabbling in many things, he'll fail at all of them, so as never to become distinguished in any?" "Of course." "Doesn't the same argument apply to imitation—that the same person can't imitate many things well, as he could one?" "No, indeed." "So he'll hardly be able both to practice some worthwhile occupation and at the same time imitate many things and be a good imitator, since not even"
"two forms of imitation that seem closely related to each other can be practiced well at once by the same people—for instance, writing comedy and tragedy. Or didn't you just call those two things imitations?" "I did—and you're right that the same people can't do both." "Nor can the same people be both rhapsodes and actors." "True." "Nor indeed are the same actors used for comedy and for tragedy—yet all these"
"are forms of imitation, aren't they?" "Forms of imitation." "And it seems to me, Adeimantus, that human nature is chopped up into even smaller pieces than these, so that a person is incapable of imitating many things well, or of doing the very things themselves of which the imitations are copies." "Very true," he said. "So if we're to preserve our first principle, that our guardians, freed from all other crafts, should"
"be exact craftsmen of the city's freedom, and practice nothing else that doesn't tend toward this, then they shouldn't do or imitate anything else. And if they do imitate, they should imitate from childhood what's fitting for them—people who are courageous, self-controlled, pious, free, and all such things—but they shouldn't do, or be skilled at imitating, anything unfree, nor any other"
"shameful thing, so that from the imitation they don't come to partake of the reality itself. Or haven't you noticed that imitations, if practiced continuously from youth on, settle into habits and become second nature, in body, in voice, and in mind?" "Very much so," he said. "Then we won't allow those we say we care for, and who must become good men, to imitate a woman—being men—whether young or older,"
"whether reviling her husband, or quarreling with the gods and boasting, thinking herself happy, or caught up in misfortunes, griefs, and lamentations; and still less a woman who is sick, or in love, or in labor—we'll keep well clear of all that." "Absolutely," he said. "Nor slaves, male or female, doing what slaves do."
"Not that either." "Nor, it seems, bad men—cowards, and people doing the opposite of what we just described, abusing and mocking one another and using foul language, drunk or even sober, or committing all the other offenses that such people commit in word and deed against themselves and others. And I don't think they should even be trained to make themselves like madmen in"
—not in words, and not in deeds either. One must know about madmen and wicked men and women, but one must not do or imitate any of that. — Very true, he said. — And what about this? — I went on — should they imitate men working bronze, or plying some other craft, or rowing triremes, or giving the stroke to rowers, or anything else connected with such things? — How could they, he said, when they're not even permitted to pay attention to any of that?
— Will none of these be allowed to them? What about this? Horses neighing, bulls bellowing, rivers roaring, the sea crashing, thunder, and all such things — will they imitate these? — No, he said, they've been forbidden even to be mad or to make themselves like madmen. — Then, I said, if I understand what you mean, there is a certain kind of style and narration in which the man who is truly good and fine would narrate
whenever he had to say something, and another kind, unlike this one, which the man of the opposite nature and upbringing would always cling to and use in his narration. — What are these kinds? he said. — It seems to me — I said — that the moderate man, when he comes in his narration to some speech or action of a good man,
will be willing to report it as if he himself were that man, and won't be ashamed of such imitation — imitating the good man above all when he acts steadily and sensibly, less and more reluctantly when he's thrown off balance by sickness or love or drunkenness or some other misfortune. But whenever he comes to someone unworthy of himself, he won't be willing to model himself in earnest on the
inferior man — except briefly, when the man does something good — but will be ashamed, partly because he's unpracticed at imitating such people, and partly because he recoils from molding and fitting himself into the patterns of worse men, holding them in contempt in his mind, except as a game. — That's likely, he said. — So he'll use the kind of narration we went through a little earlier concerning Homer's
verses, and his style will partake of both — imitation and plain narration — but the imitative part will be a small portion within a large discourse. Or am I talking nonsense? — Not at all, he said, that's bound to be the pattern for such a speaker. — Then — I said — the man who is not like this, the more inferior he is, the more he will narrate everything
and think nothing beneath him, so that he'll undertake to imitate everything in earnest and before large crowds — the things we just mentioned, thunder and the noise of winds and hailstorms, axles and pulleys, the sounds of trumpets and flutes and pipes and every instrument, and even the cries of dogs, sheep, and birds. And so this man's
whole style will consist of imitation in voice and gesture, with only a small portion of plain narration. — That too is bound to be so, he said. — These, then — I said — are the two kinds of style I meant. — Yes, there are, he said. — Now one of them has small variations, and if one gives the diction a fitting harmony and rhythm, it comes close to being the same
speech throughout for one who speaks correctly, and in one harmony too — since the variations are small — and likewise in a rhythm that's fairly similar? — Quite so, he said, that's exactly how it is. — And what about the form of the other one? Doesn't it need the opposite — all the harmonies and all the rhythms, if it's to be spoken appropriately — since it has variations of every shape? — Very much
so. — Now do all the poets and all who say anything hit upon one or the other of these two patterns of style, or on some mixture blended from both? — They must, he said. — Then what shall we do? — I said. Shall we admit into the city all these poets, or one of the unmixed kinds, or the blended one? — If my view — he said — prevails,
the unmixed imitator of the decent man. — But surely, Adeimantus, the blended kind is pleasant too — and far the most pleasant to children and their tutors is the opposite of the one you choose, and to the great mass of people. — Yes, it is the most pleasant. — But perhaps — I said — you'd say it doesn't fit our constitution, because with us no man is double or manifold, since
each one does one thing. — No, it doesn't fit. — And isn't that the reason why in this city alone we'll find the shoemaker being a shoemaker and not a pilot in addition to his shoemaking, and the farmer being a farmer and not a judge in addition to his farming, and the soldier a soldier and not a moneymaker in addition to soldiering, and so with everyone? — True, he said. — So a man, it seems,
capable through skill of becoming all things and imitating everything — if such a man should arrive in our city, wanting to display himself and his poems, we would bow down to him as someone sacred and marvelous and delightful, but we would tell him that there is no such man among us in the city, nor is it lawful for one to arise, and we would send him off to another city, pouring myrrh over his
head and crowning him with wool, but we ourselves would employ the more austere and less pleasant poet and teller of tales, for the sake of usefulness — one who would imitate for us the style of the decent man and say what he says within those patterns which we laid down as law at the start, when we undertook to educate our soldiers. — Yes indeed — he said — that is what we would do, if it were up to us. — Well then, my friend,
I said, it seems that the part of music concerning speeches and stories has been thoroughly finished for us — for both what must be said and how it must be said have been stated. — I think so too, he said. — Then after this — I said — what remains is the manner of song and melodies? — Clearly so. — Now wouldn't everyone already be able to find what we must say about them,
what they should be, if we're to be consistent with what's been said before? And Glaucon laughed and said, Well then, Socrates, I'm afraid I'm outside the whole discussion — I'm not really able at the moment to guess what sorts of things we ought to say, though I do have a suspicion. — Surely — I said — at least this much you're well able to say, that melody is composed of three things,
words, harmony, and rhythm. — Yes, he said, that much. — Now insofar as it consists of words, surely it's no different from unsung speech in needing to be spoken in the same patterns we just laid down, and in the same way? — True, he said. — And indeed the harmony and rhythm must follow the words. — Of course. — But we said that laments
and wailing have no place among the words. — No, indeed. — Then which harmonies are mournful? Tell me, you're the musician. — Mixolydian, he said, and tense-Lydian, and certain others like these. — Then these — I said — must be removed? They're useless even for women who should be decent, let alone for men. — Quite so. — And moreover drunkenness is most unfitting for guardians, and softness, and
idleness. — Of course. — Then which harmonies are soft and suited to drinking parties? — Ionian, he said, and some Lydian ones too, called 'relaxed.' — Will you make any use of these, my friend, for warlike men? — None at all, he said. But it seems you have Dorian and Phrygian left. — I don't know the harmonies — I said — but leave that harmony which
would fittingly imitate the sounds and accents of a brave man engaged in warlike action and in every violent undertaking, and who, when he fails and meets wounds or death or falls into some other misfortune, in all these circumstances stands his ground steadfastly and endures, warding off fortune; and another harmony, in turn, for one engaged in peaceful and non-violent, but voluntary action, either
persuading someone of something and making a request — either praying to a god or teaching and admonishing a man — or, conversely, submitting himself to another who is making a request of him, or teaching him, or trying to change his mind, and acting accordingly on his judgment, and not being arrogant about it, but acting in all these matters with self-control and moderation, and being content with the outcomes. Leave these two harmonies — the violent, the voluntary,
the harmonies of the unfortunate, the fortunate, the self-controlled, the brave — the ones that will best imitate their sounds. — Well, he said, you're not asking me to leave any others than the ones I was just talking about myself. — Then — I said — we won't need many-stringed or all-harmonic instruments in our songs and melodies. — It doesn't seem so to me, he said. — So we won't support craftsmen who make triangular harps and pektides and all instruments that are many-stringed and many-harmonied.
— We don't seem to, he said. — Well then, will you admit flute-makers or flute-players into the city? Or isn't the flute the most many-stringed of all, and aren't the all-harmonic instruments themselves just an imitation of the flute? — Clearly so, he said. — So the lyre and the kithara are left for you — I said — and these are useful in the city; and again in the countryside, for the herdsmen, there would be some kind of pipe. — At least — he said —
that's what our argument indicates. — We're doing nothing new, my friend — I said — in judging Apollo and Apollo's instruments ahead of Marsyas and his instruments. — By Zeus, he said, it doesn't seem so to me. — And by the dog, I said, without noticing it we've been purging again the very city we just called luxurious. — Yes, and sensibly so, on our part, he
said. — Come then — I said — let's purge what remains too. Following on the harmonies for us would be the matter of rhythms — not to pursue elaborate ones or every sort of metrical foot, but to see what the rhythms of an orderly and brave life are; and having seen these, to compel the foot and the melody to follow the words of such a man, rather than the words to follow the foot
and the melody. As for what these rhythms might be, it's your job, just as with the harmonies, to state them. — But by Zeus, he said, I can't say. That there are some three kinds from which the metrical feet are woven together, just as there are four in pitches, from which come all the harmonies, I could say if I'd studied it; but which are imitations of which kind of life, I cannot say. But
these matters — I said — we'll deliberate on together with Damon too, as to which feet are fitting for illiberality and insolence, or madness, or other vice, and which rhythms must be left for their opposites. And I believe I've heard him — though not clearly — naming a certain 'enoplian,' a composite one, and a dactyl, and a heroic one too, arranging it, I don't know how, and setting it equal above and below, resolving
into short and long; and, I think, he named an iamb, and another, a trochee, attaching to them lengths and shortnesses. And with some of these, I think, he criticized and praised the movements of the foot itself no less than the rhythms themselves — or perhaps some combination of both, I can't say — but these matters, as I said, let them be deferred to Damon; for to distinguish them properly
—That's no small subject. Or do you think otherwise?—No, by Zeus, I don't. —But can you at least distinguish this much: that good form and bad form follow good rhythm and bad rhythm?—Of course. —And that good rhythm and bad rhythm follow good style, resembling it, and the opposite follows the opposite style—and likewise good and bad harmony,
since rhythm and harmony follow speech, as we just said, rather than speech following them. —Yes, he said, that at least must follow speech. —And what of the manner of speech, I said, and speech itself? Don't they follow the character of the soul?—Of course. —And everything else follows the speech?—Yes. —So fine speech, fine harmony,
good form, and good rhythm follow a good character—not the silliness we affectionately call "simplicity" when we really mean foolishness, but the mind that is truly and beautifully ordered in character. —Absolutely, he said. —Then must young people pursue these qualities everywhere, if they're to do their own proper work?—They must indeed. —And painting, surely, is full of them, and every craft of that kind,
and weaving is full of them, and embroidery, and architecture, and likewise the making of all other furnishings, and further the nature of bodies and of all other growing things. For in all of these there is good form or bad form. And bad form, bad rhythm, and bad harmony are kin to bad speech and bad character, while their opposites are kin to and images of the opposite—
a sound and good character. —Absolutely, he said. —So must we oversee only the poets and compel them to embody the image of good character in their poems, or else not compose among us—or must we oversee the other craftsmen as well, and prevent them from expressing this evil character—licentious, slavish, and misshapen—whether in images of living things
or in buildings or in any other work of craft, and if someone isn't capable of that, must we not allow him to practice his craft among us? This is so that our guardians won't be raised among images of vice, as if in a bad pasture, cropping and grazing daily little by little from many such things, until without noticing it they gather one great evil into their own souls—but instead
we must search out those craftsmen whose natural gifts let them track down the nature of the beautiful and graceful, so that our young people, living as if in a healthy place, may draw benefit from everything, and wherever, from the beautiful works around them, something strikes their sight or hearing, it will be like a breeze bringing health from wholesome regions, and lead them from childhood, without their realizing it, into likeness,
friendship, and harmony with beautiful speech. —Yes, he said, that would be by far the finest way for them to be raised. —Then is this, Glaucon, I said, why upbringing in music and poetry is most sovereign—because rhythm and harmony sink most deeply into the inner part of the soul and take hold of it most powerfully, bringing gracefulness with them, and making a person graceful if he's raised rightly,
and if not, the opposite? And also because someone raised as he should be there will perceive most keenly whatever is deficient or badly made or badly grown, and rightly displeased by it he will praise the beautiful things, and welcoming them into his soul with joy, will be nourished by them and become beautiful and good, while he will rightly blame the shameful things
and hate them even while still young, before he's able to grasp the reason for it—and when reason does come, he who has been so raised will welcome it, recognizing it as something akin to himself, more than anyone else? —That, at least, is how it seems to me, he said—that this is why upbringing in music and poetry matters. —Just as with letters, I said, we were satisfied then that we knew the letters, when their few forms
did not escape us wherever they occur, and we didn't disregard them whether in something small or something large, thinking we needn't notice them, but were eager everywhere to recognize them, on the grounds that we wouldn't be literate until we could do that—true. —And likewise images of letters, if they appeared reflected somewhere in water or in mirrors, we wouldn't recognize until we knew the letters themselves, but this belongs to the same
skill and practice? —Absolutely. —Then, by the gods, is what I'm saying true—that in just the same way we won't be musical, neither we ourselves nor those we say must be educated as our guardians, until we recognize the forms of moderation, courage, generosity, magnanimity, and all their kin, and their opposites in turn, wherever they occur, and perceive them
present in whatever they're present in, both the things themselves and their images, disregarding them neither in small things nor in large, but believing this belongs to the same skill and practice? —It's altogether necessary, he said. —Then, I said, whenever it happens that beautiful character in the soul coincides with a form that corresponds and harmonizes with it, sharing the same pattern, wouldn't that
be the finest sight for anyone able to see it? —By far. —And surely the most beautiful is also the most lovable? —Of course. —And the musical person would love, above all, those most closely of this kind; but if there's discord, he wouldn't love it. —He wouldn't, he said, if there's any deficiency in the soul—though if it's in the body, he might tolerate it enough
to be willing to embrace it anyway. —I take your point, I said; you have such favorites now, or once did, and I concede it. But tell me this: is there any partnership between moderation and excessive pleasure?—How could there be, he said, when excessive pleasure unbalances the mind no less than pain? —Or with virtue generally? —Not at all. —What about with insolence and licentiousness? —Most of all with those. —Can you name any pleasure
greater or more intense than that of sex? —I can't, he said, nor any madder. —Whereas correct love is by nature to love, in a moderate and cultivated way, what is orderly and beautiful? —Quite so, he said. —Then nothing mad, nothing akin to licentiousness, should be brought near correct love? —It shouldn't. —So this pleasure shouldn't be brought near it, nor should lover and beloved share in it,
if they love and are loved rightly? —No, by Zeus, Socrates, he said, it shouldn't be brought near. —Then it seems you'll legislate, in the city we're founding, that a lover may kiss, spend time with, and touch his beloved as a father would a son, for the sake of beautiful things, if he persuades him, but otherwise must associate with anyone he's serious about in such a way that it never seems they
go further than this—otherwise he'll be liable to reproach for lack of culture and taste. —So it shall be, he said. —Then, I said, does it seem to you too that our discussion of music and poetry has reached its end? —It has ended, he said, where it should end—for surely discussions of music and poetry ought to end in matters of the love of the beautiful. —I agree, he said. —After music and poetry, our young men must be nourished by gymnastic training.—Certainly.
They must indeed be trained carefully in this too, throughout life from childhood. Now I think the matter stands as follows—consider it yourself too. It doesn't seem to me that a good body, by its own virtue, makes the soul good, but rather the opposite—a good soul, by its own virtue, makes the body as good as it can be. What do you think?
—I think the same, he said. —Then if, having adequately cared for the mind, we were to hand over to it the detailed care of the body, while we ourselves merely sketch out the general outlines so as not to speak at length, would we be doing right? —Certainly. —We already said they must abstain from drunkenness; for anyone would be more excused than a guardian for getting drunk and losing all sense of his own whereabouts. —It would be absurd, he
said, for a guardian to need a guardian. —And what about food? These men are athletes in the greatest contest, aren't they?—Yes. —So would the regimen of these ordinary athletes suit them?—Perhaps. —But, I said, that's a rather sleepy regimen and precarious for health. Don't you see that they sleep their whole life away,
and if they depart even slightly from their prescribed diet, these athletes fall gravely and severely ill?—I see that. —A more refined kind of training is needed, I said, for warrior-athletes, who must be like watchdogs, sleepless, seeing and hearing as keenly as possible, and enduring many changes of water and other food and of
heat and cold during campaigns without becoming unsteady in health. —So it seems to me. —Then would the best gymnastic be a kind of sister to the simple music we went through a little earlier?—How do you mean?—A simple and decent gymnastic, especially the kind suited to war. —How so?—One could learn such things even from Homer, I said. You know
that on campaign, at the heroes' feasts, he doesn't feast them on fish, even though they're by the sea at the Hellespont, nor on boiled meats, but only roasted, which would be most convenient for soldiers—for it's easier, so to speak, everywhere to use fire itself than to carry pots around. —Quite so. —Nor, I think, does Homer ever
mention seasonings. Or is this something even other athletes know—that anyone meaning to keep his body in good condition must abstain from all such things? —And rightly, he said, they know it and abstain. —Then, my friend, you clearly don't approve of a Syracusan table and Sicilian variety of relishes, if you think this is correct. —I don't think I do. —So you also disapprove of a Corinthian girl as a fond companion
for men meaning to keep their bodies in good condition? —Absolutely. —And also of the reputed delicacies of Attic pastries? —Necessarily. —For I think if we compared this whole kind of diet and regimen to melody and song composed in the all-harmonic mode and in every rhythm, the comparison would be apt. —Of course. —And there, variety bred licentiousness, while here
it breeds disease, whereas simplicity in music breeds moderation in souls, and in gymnastic breeds health in bodies? —Very true, he said. —And when licentiousness and disease multiply in a city, don't law courts and clinics spring up everywhere, and don't law and medicine give themselves airs, when even many free citizens take them very seriously? —Of course they must.
—But of bad and shameful education in a city, could you find any greater proof than needing top-notch doctors and judges—not only among the base and manual laborers, but also among those who pride themselves on having been raised as free men? Or doesn't it seem shameful, and a great sign of lack of education, to have to use justice imported from others, as masters and judges, because
—to be forced to use justice for lack of anyone of his own to fall back on. Of all things, he said, the most shameful. And does it seem to you, I said, still more shameful than this, when a man not only wears out most of his life defending and prosecuting suits in the courts, but even, from sheer lack of taste, is persuaded to pride himself on this very thing—on being clever at wrongdoing and skilled
at twisting through every dodge and worming his way out of every trap, bending and writhing so as to avoid paying the penalty—and all this for the sake of small and worthless stakes, not knowing how much finer and better it is to arrange one's life so as never to need a drowsy juror at all? No, he said, that is even more shameful than the other. And needing medicine, I said—not for wounds or
the seasonal illnesses that strike us, but because of idleness and the kind of regimen we described, filling ourselves up like stagnant pools with humors and gases, and forcing the clever sons of Asclepius to invent names like 'flatulence' and 'catarrh' for our ailments—doesn't that seem shameful? Very much so, he said. Truly these are strange, newfangled names for diseases. Such names, I said, as I believe did not exist in the time of Asclepius. And I infer
this from the fact that at Troy his sons, when Eurypylus was wounded, did not find fault with the woman who gave him Pramnian wine to drink with barley sprinkled generously on top and grated cheese—things thought to cause phlegm—nor did they reproach Patroclus, who was treating him. And yet, he said, that is a strange drink for a man in his condition. Not if you consider, I said, that this modern medicine's coddling treatment of illness
was not used by the sons of Asclepius, so they say, before Herodicus came along. Herodicus was a trainer who became sickly, and by mixing gymnastic training with medicine wore out first and foremost himself, and afterward many others. In what way? he asked. By making his own death, I said, a long one. For keeping pace with his fatal disease, he was, I think, unable to cure
himself, so he lived his whole life doctoring himself, neglecting everything else, tormented whenever he strayed at all from his accustomed regimen, and by this cleverness, dying hard, he dragged himself into old age. A fine reward indeed, he said, for his art. Just what you'd expect, I said, from a man who does not know that Asclepius did not fail, from ignorance or inexperience, to reveal this kind of medicine to his descendants,
but because he knew that in every well-ordered city each person has some task assigned to him in the community which he must perform, and no one has the leisure to spend his whole life being sick and doctored. This we notice, absurdly enough, in the case of craftsmen, but fail to notice in the case of the rich and those who are thought to be happy. How so? he asked. A carpenter, I said, when he is sick, expects the doctor to give him a drug
to drink and vomit up the disease, or to be purged from below, or treated with cautery or the knife, and so be rid of it; but if someone prescribes a long regimen for him, wrapping bandages round his head and all that goes with it, he quickly says he has no leisure to be sick, and that such a life—paying attention to illness and neglecting the work before him—is not worthwhile. And after that, bidding farewell to
that kind of doctor, he goes back to his usual way of life, and either recovers his health and lives on doing his own work, or, if his body cannot bear up, dies and is rid of his troubles. And it does seem, he said, fitting for a man like that to use medicine this way. Is it, I said, because he has some work to do, and if he cannot do it, life is not worth living to him? Clearly so, he said. But
the rich man, as we say, has no such work set before him that makes life unlivable if he is forced to give it up. So it is said, at least. Haven't you heard, I said, how Phocylides puts it—that once a man already has a livelihood, he ought to practice virtue? I think, he said, even before that. Let us not, I said, quarrel with him about this, but let us teach ourselves whether this is something the rich man must practice,
and life is unlivable for one who does not practice it, or whether excessive care of the body is an obstacle to carpentry and the other crafts by distracting the attention, while Phocylides' advice creates no such obstacle. Yes, by Zeus, he said. Indeed of all things this excessive attention to the body, beyond ordinary gymnastic training, is the greatest hindrance—for it is troublesome in managing a household, on campaign, and in
holding stable public offices in the city. But the greatest point is this: that it makes any kind of learning, reflection, or private study difficult, always suspecting headaches and dizziness and blaming philosophy for causing them, so that wherever this kind of virtue is practiced and tested, it is everywhere an obstacle—for it always makes one think one is ill and never stop fretting about the body. Likely enough, he said. So shall we say that Asclepius,
knowing this, revealed the art of medicine for those whose bodies were healthy by nature and by regimen but who had some isolated ailment in them—for these and this condition he established the art, driving out their diseases with drugs and surgery, and prescribing their usual regimen so as not to harm their civic duties; but that for bodies diseased through and through he did not attempt, by regimens gradually draining and pouring in,
to give a man a long and miserable life, and let him beget offspring likely to be just as sickly, but rather thought that one who could not live out his natural span should not be treated, since this would benefit neither himself nor the city? You are describing, he said, a political Asclepius. Clearly so, I said—and his
children too, because he was such a man. Don't you see how at Troy they showed themselves good in war, and practiced medicine in the way I describe? Don't you remember that for Menelaus, wounded by Pandarus—'they sucked out the blood and sprinkled soothing drugs on it'—but as to what he should eat or drink afterward, they prescribed nothing more
than they did for Eurypylus, believing the drugs sufficient to heal men who were healthy and disciplined in their regimen before being wounded, even if they happened at that moment to drink a mixed potion; but for a man diseased by nature and undisciplined, they thought it worthwhile neither for himself nor for others that he should live, and that the art should not exist for such people, nor should they be treated, not even if they were richer than Midas.
Quite clever, he said, you make the sons of Asclepius out to be. It is fitting, I said—and yet, disobeying us in this, the tragedians and Pindar say that Asclepius was the son of Apollo, but was persuaded by gold to heal a rich man already at the point of death, for which he was struck by lightning. We, however, in keeping with what has already been said, will not believe both of these claims about him, but will say: if a god was his father, he was
not greedy for gain; and if he was greedy for gain, then no god was his father. Quite right, he said, that much is so. But what do you say about this, Socrates? Must we not have good doctors in the city? And would they not be, above all, those who have handled the most bodies, both healthy and diseased—and likewise good judges, those who have had dealings with all sorts of natures? Yes indeed,
I said, I do mean good ones. But do you know whom I consider such? If you tell me, he said. Well, I will try, I said; but you have asked a question that is not quite parallel in form. How so? he asked. Doctors, I said, would become most skilled if, from childhood on, in addition to learning the art, they had dealings with as many and as sickly bodies as possible, and had themselves suffered every disease and
were not by nature very healthy. For I do not think they treat body with body—if that were so, it would never be permissible for their own bodies to be, or become, diseased—but they treat body with soul, and a soul that has become and remains diseased cannot treat anything well. Rightly said, he replied. But a judge, my friend, rules soul with soul, and it is not permissible for a soul to have been raised from youth among wicked souls, to have consorted with them,
and to have gone through the whole range of wrongdoing itself, committing every injustice, so as to judge sharply the wrongs of others from its own experience, the way one judges bodily diseases; rather, it must be inexperienced and unstained by evil characters while young, if it is to be truly noble and good and to judge justly and soundly. That is why decent young people appear naive and are easily deceived by the unjust, since they
have within themselves no examples that match the feelings of the wicked. Indeed, he said, they suffer this quite badly. That is why, I said, the good judge must not be young but old, having learned late what injustice is like—not having perceived it as something native present in his own soul, but having studied it over a long time as something foreign present in the souls of others, learning to discern the nature of the evil it is,
by knowledge, not by experience of his own. Such a judge, at any rate, he said, seems to be a very noble one. And good too, I said, which is what you asked—for the one who has a good soul is good. But that clever, suspicious fellow, who has himself committed many wrongs and thinks himself shrewd and wise, when he deals with his like, appears clever, being wary and watching
the models within himself; but when he comes near good and older men, he then appears foolish, distrustful out of season and ignorant of a sound character, since he has no model of such a thing. But because he meets more wicked people than good ones, he seems wiser to himself and to others than he really is. Absolutely true, he said. So then, I said, it is not this kind of person we must look for as the good and wise judge,
but the other one; for wickedness could never come to know both virtue and itself, whereas virtue, in a nature that is educated over time, will come to acquire knowledge both of itself and of wickedness together. So it is this man, it seems to me, who becomes wise, not the bad one. I agree with that too, he said. Then will you also establish by law in the city a medicine such as we have described, together with a judicial practice of this kind,
which will care for the bodies and souls of those citizens who are well-formed by nature, but as for those who are not—of those unsound in body they will allow to die, and those depraved in soul and incurable they themselves will put to death? At any rate, he said, this has been shown to be the best thing both for the sufferers themselves and for the city. And the young,
clearly, will be careful, I said, to avoid needing your kind of judicial practice, using instead that simple music we said produces temperance. Of course, he said. And will not the musical man, pursuing gymnastic along these same lines, if he wishes, achieve it so as to have no need of medicine except when necessary? It seems so to me. And as for the gymnastic exercises and labors themselves, he will undertake them
looking to the spirited part of his nature and rousing that, rather than for the sake of mere strength—unlike other athletes, who manage their diet and exercise for the sake of bodily power alone. Quite right, he said. Then, I said, Glaucon, is it not the case that those who establish education in music and gymnastic do so not for the reason some suppose—that the one is to care for the body, the other for the
—soul? "What else?" he said. "It looks," I said, "as if both were established chiefly for the sake of the soul." "How so?" "Don't you notice," I said, "how the mind itself is affected in those who spend their whole lives at athletics without ever touching music, or conversely in those disposed the opposite way?" "What are you talking about?" he asked. "Savagery and hardness," I said, "and again softness and gentleness."
"Yes, I see it," he said. "Those who use unmixed athletics turn out more savage than they should, while those who use only music turn out softer than is good for them." "And yet," I said, "the savage element would come from the spirited part of one's nature, and if it's raised correctly it would be courage, but if it's stretched further than it should be, it would naturally become
hard and harsh." "So it seems to me," he said. "And what about gentleness? Wouldn't the philosophic nature possess it, and if that side is relaxed too far it becomes softer than it should, but if it's well raised it becomes gentle and orderly?" "That's so." "And we say the guardians must possess both these natures." "Yes, they must." "So mustn't
they be harmonized with each other?" "Of course." "And the soul in which they're harmonized is temperate and courageous?" "Quite so." "And the soul in which they're unharmonized is cowardly and boorish?" "Very much so." "So whenever someone lets music play its pipes over him and pour into his soul through his ears as through a funnel—as we were just now describing—those sweet, soft, and
mournful harmonies, and he spends his whole life humming and being enchanted by song, at first, if he had any spirit in him, that man softens it like iron and makes it useful instead of useless and hard; but when he goes on without letting up, and keeps being charmed instead, from that point on he melts it and dissolves it, until he has melted away his spirit entirely and cut out
the sinews, as it were, from his soul, and made a soft spearman of himself." "Quite so," he said. "And if he started out," I said, "with a naturally spiritless nature, he accomplishes this quickly; but if he was spirited, by weakening the spirit he makes it unstable, quickly provoked and quickly quenched by small things. So instead of being spirited such men become irritable and short-tempered, full of peevishness." "Exactly so."
"And what if, on the other hand, someone works hard at athletics and feasts very well, but never touches music or philosophy? At first, being in good bodily condition, doesn't he get filled with confidence and spirit and become more courageous than he was?" "Very much so." "But what happens when he does nothing else and has no share in the Muse at all? Even if there was some love of learning in
his soul, since it never tastes any study or inquiry, never takes part in argument or the rest of music, doesn't it become weak, deaf, and blind, since it's never roused or nourished, and its perceptions never get cleared out?" "That's so," he said. "Such a man becomes, I think, a hater of reasoned discourse and unmusical, and he no longer makes any use of persuasion through argument, but goes at everything by force and savagery,
like a wild beast, and lives in ignorance and awkwardness, without rhythm or grace." "That's exactly how it is," he said. "So for these two things, it seems, I would say some god has given human beings two arts, music and athletics, aimed at the spirited part and the philosophic part—not, strictly, at soul and body, except
incidentally—but at those two, so that they might be brought into harmony with each other by being stretched and relaxed to the proper degree." "Yes, it does seem so," he said. "So the man who blends music with athletics most beautifully and applies them to the soul in the best proportion—him we would most rightly call the truly musical and harmonious man, far more than the one who merely tunes the strings of an instrument together." "Rightly so, Socrates," he said. "And won't
we always need someone of this kind, Glaucon, as overseer in our city, if the constitution is to be preserved?" "We will need him, as much as possible." "These, then, would be the outlines of education and upbringing. Why should one go through the details of choral dances for such people, or their hunts and chases, their gymnastic contests and horse races?
It's fairly clear that these must follow from what we've said, and are no longer hard to find." "Perhaps not hard," he said. "Well then," I said, "what should we settle next? Isn't it the question of who among these people will rule and who will be ruled?" "Of course." "It's clear that the rulers must be the older ones, and the
ruled the younger?" "Clear." "And that the best of them must rule?" "That too." "And aren't the best farmers those who are most devoted to farming?" "Yes." "So now, since they must be the best of the guardians, mustn't they be most devoted to guarding the city?" "Yes." "So mustn't they be wise and capable for this task, and moreover have the city's interests at heart?" "That's so." "And a person would care most
about that which he happens to love." "Necessarily." "And he would love most that whose interests he believed coincided with his own, and where he thought that when it fared well, he himself fared well, and when it didn't, the opposite." "Just so," he said. "So we must select, from the rest of the guardians, men of this kind—those who, when we examine them, appear throughout their whole lives to be most eager
to do with all zeal whatever they believe benefits the city, and never willing to do, under any circumstance, what does not." "They would be suitable," he said. "It seems to me, then, that they must be watched at every stage of life, to see whether they keep guard over this conviction and are neither bewitched nor forced into casting it aside, forgetting the belief that one must do what is best for the city." "What
do you mean by this 'casting aside'?" he asked. "I'll tell you," I said. "It seems to me that a belief leaves the mind either willingly or unwillingly—willingly in the case of a false belief when someone learns better, unwillingly in every case of a true one." "I understand the willing case," he said, "but I need to learn about the unwilling one." "Well then, don't you too believe," I said, "that people
are deprived of good things unwillingly, but of bad things willingly? Or is it not bad to be deceived about the truth, and good to hold the truth? And don't you think holding true beliefs about things is what it means to speak truly?" "You're right," he said, "and it does seem to me that people are deprived of a true belief against their will." "So doesn't this happen to them through being robbed, or bewitched, or forced?" "I still don't
understand," he said. "I'm afraid I'm speaking too tragically," I said. "By 'robbed' I mean those who are argued out of their belief and those who forget it, because in the one case time, in the other an argument, takes it away without their noticing—do you follow now?" "Yes." "By 'forced,' I mean those whom some pain or suffering brings to change their belief." "I understood that too," he said, "and you're right." "And 'bewitched,' I think, you would agree describes those who
change their belief either because they are charmed by pleasure or frightened by some fear." "Yes, it does seem," he said, "that everything that deceives us bewitches us." "So, as I was just saying, we must look for the best guardians of the conviction within themselves that one must always do whatever seems best for the city. We must watch them, then, from childhood on, by setting them tasks in which
a person would be most likely to forget this principle or be deceived out of it, and we must select the one who remembers and is hard to deceive, and reject the one who is not. Isn't that right?" "Yes." "And we must also impose on them labors, pains, and contests in which the same qualities must be watched for." "Rightly so," he said. "Then," I said, "we must also set up a contest of a third kind, involving bewitchment, and observe them—just as people lead colts up to
noises and uproars to see if they're frightened—so too these young men must be brought into some terrors, and then again shifted into pleasures, testing them far more thoroughly than gold is tested in fire—to see whether each proves hard to bewitch and remains well-composed throughout, a good guardian of himself and of the music he was taught, showing himself rhythmic and well-attuned in all these trials, being the sort of person who would
be most useful to himself and to the city. And the one who is tested again and again, as a child, as a young man, and as a grown man, and comes through unspoiled—him we must establish as a ruler and guardian of the city, and give him honors both in life and after death, granting him the highest prizes in burial and other memorials. But the one who is not like this, we must reject. Something of this kind, I think,
Glaucon, is the process of selecting and establishing the rulers and guardians—as an outline, not spoken with precision." "And it seems that way to me too, more or less," he said. "So isn't it truly most correct to call these men, in the full sense, guardians against enemies from without and friends within—so that the latter will lack the will, and the former the power, to do harm—while the
younger men, whom we've just now been calling guardians, are auxiliaries and helpers to carry out the convictions of the rulers?" "That's how it seems to me," he said. "What device, then," I said, "could we find—one of those useful falsehoods we were just discussing—by which we might, through telling one grand falsehood, persuade above all the rulers themselves, or failing that, the rest of the city?" "What kind
of thing?" he asked. "Nothing new," I said, "but something Phoenician—something that has already happened many times in the past, as the poets say and have gotten people to believe, though it hasn't happened in our own time, and I don't know whether it could happen; it would take a great deal of persuading." "You seem," he said, "reluctant to say it." "You'll think," I said, "that I have very good reason to be reluctant, once I've said it." "Speak," he said, "and
don't be afraid." "I'll speak, then—though I don't know what boldness or what words I'll use to say it—and I'll try first to persuade the rulers themselves and the soldiers, and then the rest of the city, that all the upbringing and education we gave them were, as it were, things they only dreamed were happening to them, while in truth at that time they were being formed and reared beneath
the earth—themselves, their weapons, and all the rest of their equipment fashioned along with them—and that when they were completely finished, the earth, being their mother, sent them up; and now they must think of the land they're in as a mother and nurse, and take counsel for it and defend it if anyone attacks it, and regard the rest of the citizens
as brothers, born of the earth like themselves." "No wonder," he said, "you were so long ashamed to tell the falsehood." "Quite rightly so," I said. "But all the same, hear the rest of the story too. 'You are all brothers, all of you in the city'—so we shall say to them, telling the tale—'but the god who fashioned you mixed gold into those of you
"...mixed gold into their begetting — that's why they're the most honored — but silver into the auxiliaries, and iron and bronze into the farmers and the other craftsmen. Now since you're all related, for the most part you'll produce children like yourselves, but sometimes a silver child will be born from a golden parent, or a golden child from a silver one, and so on for all the rest, each from the other. So the god commands the rulers, first and above all, to be good guardians of nothing so much — to watch over nothing so intensely — as the children,
seeing which of these metals is mixed into their souls. And if a child of their own is born with an admixture of bronze or iron, they must show it no pity whatsoever, but give it the honor appropriate to its nature and thrust it out among the craftsmen or the farmers. And if,
conversely, one of these produces a child with gold or silver in it, they'll honor it and bring it up, some into the guardian class, some into the auxiliary — since there's an oracle that the city will be destroyed when an iron or bronze man guards it. So then — do you have some device by which they might be persuaded of this story?" "Not at all," he said, "not these men themselves — but perhaps their sons and those who come after, and the rest of humanity later on."
"Even that," I said, "would help make them more protective both of the city and of each other — for I pretty much understand what you mean. Well, this will go wherever rumor happens to carry it. As for us, let's arm these earthborn men and lead them forward, with the rulers
in command. Once they arrive, let them look for the best place in the city to make camp — a spot from which they could best hold down anyone inside who refuses to obey the laws, and best ward off anyone from outside, if an enemy comes at the flock like a wolf. And once they've made camp, after sacrificing to the proper gods, let them make their beds. Or how? "Just so," he said. "And these beds should be such as to keep out the cold in winter and be adequate for the summer" —
"of course." "For you seem to me to mean dwellings." "Yes," I said, "soldiers' dwellings, not money-making ones." "How do you mean this differs from that?" he said. "I'll try to tell you," I said. "It's surely the most terrible and shameful thing of all for shepherds to raise dogs as guardians of the flock in such a way, and to treat them so badly, that under the influence of indiscipline or hunger or some other bad habit the dogs themselves
turn to attacking the sheep and doing them harm, becoming more like wolves than dogs." "Terrible," he said, "of course." "So mustn't we guard in every way against our auxiliaries doing anything like that to the citizens — since they're stronger than the citizens — turning from kindly allies into savage masters?" "We must guard against it," he said. "And wouldn't they be equipped with the greatest safeguard against this
if they're truly well educated?" "But they are, surely," he said. And I said: "That point isn't worth insisting on too strongly, my dear Glaucon. What we were just saying is worth insisting on, though — that they must get the right education, whatever it turns out to be, if they're going to have the greatest thing needed for being gentle toward one another and toward those in their care." "And
rightly said," he replied. "Now besides this education, a person with sense would say that their dwellings and the rest of their property must be arranged in a way that neither stops them from being the best guardians possible nor incites them to do wrong to the other citizens." "And he'll say that truly." "See, then," I said, "whether they must live and be housed in some such manner as this,
if they're to be men of that sort. First, none of them should possess any private property, unless it's entirely unavoidable. Second, none should have a dwelling or storeroom into which anyone who wishes can't enter. As for their provisions — whatever is needed by disciplined and courageous men who are athletes of war — they should receive these, assessed from the other citizens, as pay
for their guardianship, enough for the year and no more; and they should attend common messes and live together like men in a military camp. As for gold and silver, we should tell them that they always have the divine kind within their souls, a gift from the gods, and have no further need of the human kind — that it would be impious to defile the possession of that divine gold by mixing it with the possession of mortal gold, since so much
unholy business has arisen over the currency the many use, while theirs remains untainted. Rather, alone among the people in the city, it isn't lawful for them to handle or touch gold and silver, or even come under the same roof as it, or wear it as ornament, or drink from vessels of silver or gold. In this way they'd be kept safe themselves and keep the city safe. But whenever they themselves acquire land
private land, together with dwellings and coined money, they'll turn into householders and farmers rather than guardians, and into hostile masters rather than allies of their fellow citizens; hating and hated in return, scheming and schemed against, they'll spend their entire lives fearing the people inside the city far more, and far more intensely, than the enemies outside — running, at that point, very close to ruin, themselves and
the rest of the city with them. For all these reasons, then," I said, "shall we say that the guardians must be arranged in this way regarding housing and everything else, and shall we legislate accordingly, or not?" "By all means," said Glaucon.