Plato · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
—The philosophers, Glaucon, I said, and those who are not, have finally come into view, though only after a long discussion, and with some difficulty—showing who each of them really is. Perhaps, he said, it isn't easy to show it briefly. It doesn't seem so, I said—at any rate it seems to me it would have come out better if this were the only thing we had to discuss, and we didn't have so much else left to go through in order to see how the just life differs from the unjust.
—So what comes next for us? he said. —What else, I said, but what follows? Since the philosophers are those able to grasp what is always the same in the same way, while those who cannot, but wander among the many things that take all sorts of forms, are not philosophers—which of the two must be the leaders of a city? —How could we put it, he said, and be putting it reasonably? —Whichever of the two, I said, show themselves capable of guarding the laws and practices of cities—those we should set up as guardians. —Right, he said.
—And is this clear, I said—whether it's the blind or the sharp-sighted who should keep watch over anything? —How could it not be clear? he said. —Well then, do you think there's any difference between the blind and those who are truly deprived of the knowledge of each thing that is—
who have no clear model in their soul, and cannot, as a painter looking always to what is most true and referring constantly to it, studying it as precisely as possible, in that way lay down here on earth, if it's necessary to lay them down, the customary rules about the beautiful, the just, and the good, and, once laid down, guard and preserve them? —No, by Zeus, he said,
there's not much difference. —Shall we then set these people up as guardians rather than those who have come to know each thing that is, and who fall no shorter than the others in experience, nor lag behind in any other part of virtue? —It would be strange, he said, to choose others, if these men are not lacking in the rest—since in this very thing, the most important thing, they would surpass the others. —So shall we say this, then—
in what way the same people will be able to have both that knowledge and these other qualities? —By all means. —Now, what we were saying when we began this discussion—we must first come to understand their nature. And I think, if we agree sufficiently about that, we'll also agree that the same people are capable of having these qualities, and that no others but these should be leaders of cities. —How so? —This much,
then, let us agree about the nature of the philosophers—that they always love the kind of learning that reveals to them something of that being which always is and does not wander about through coming-to-be and passing-away. —Let it be agreed. —And further, I said, that they love the whole of it, and are not willing to give up any part, small or great, more honored or less honored—just as we said earlier
about the lovers of honor and the erotic lovers. —You're right, he said. —Then consider this next point—whether those who are going to be as we've described must also, of necessity, have this further trait in their nature. —Which trait? —Truthfulness—being unwilling ever to admit falsehood in any way, but hating it, and loving truth. —That's likely, he said. —Not only likely, my friend,
but wholly necessary—that a person who is erotically inclined by nature toward something should love everything akin to and connected with the object of his love. —Right, he said. —And could you find any closer kin to wisdom than truth is? —How could I? he said. —Then is it possible for one and the same nature to love wisdom and also to love falsehood? —Not at all. —So the true lover of learning must, from earliest youth,
strive after all truth as much as possible. —Absolutely. —But surely when someone's desires incline strongly toward one thing, we know they're weaker toward everything else, like a stream diverted into that one channel. —Of course. —So in one whose desires have flowed toward learning and everything of that sort, I suppose they would be concerned with the pleasure of the soul itself, by itself, and would leave behind
those pleasures that come through the body—if he is truly a philosopher and not merely one in pretense. —That follows necessarily. —And surely such a person is moderate, and in no way a lover of money—since the things for the sake of which money is pursued with such great expense concern someone else far more than him. —So it is. —And there's also this we must consider, when you're going to judge a philosophical nature from one that isn't. —Which is?
—That it not escape your notice if there's some illiberality in it—for pettiness is most opposed to a soul that is always going to reach out toward the whole and the entirety of the divine and the human. —Very true, he said. —Then where a mind possesses greatness of vision and contemplation of all time and all being, do you think it's possible for such a person to consider human life something great? —Impossible, he said. —So such a person won't
regard death as anything terrible either, will he? —Not in the least. —Then a cowardly and illiberal nature, it seems, could have no part in true philosophy. —I don't think so. —Well then—could the orderly person, who is not a lover of money, not illiberal, not boastful, not cowardly, ever turn out to be dishonest or unjust in his dealings? —He couldn't. —So this too, when you're examining whether a soul is philosophical or not—not just when the person is young—
you'll observe: whether it is just and gentle, or unsociable and savage. —Certainly. —And surely you won't leave out this either, I imagine. —Which? —Whether it learns easily or with difficulty. Or do you expect anyone could love something adequately when he does it with pain and makes only slow, meager progress? —That couldn't happen. —And what if he could retain nothing of what he learns,
being full of forgetfulness? Could such a person fail to be empty of knowledge? —How could he not be? —And laboring to no purpose, don't you think he'll be forced in the end to hate both himself and that kind of activity? —Of course. —So let's never admit a forgetful soul among those adequately fitted for philosophy, but let's require that it be a soul with a good memory. —Absolutely. —And surely we can't say
that a nature lacking harmony and grace tends anywhere but toward disproportion. —Of course. —And do you think truth is akin to disproportion, or to proportion? —To proportion. —So, besides the other qualities, let us look for a mind naturally proportioned and graceful, one whose native disposition will lead it easily toward the form of each thing that is. —Of course. —Well then—do we seem to you
to have gone through qualities that aren't necessary, and that don't follow from one another, for a soul that is going to have adequate and complete participation in what is? —Most necessary indeed, he said. —Is there then any way you could find fault with such a pursuit—one that no one could ever pursue adequately unless he were by nature possessed of a good memory, quick to learn, magnificent, graceful, and a friend and kinsman of truth, justice, courage, and moderation? —Not even
Momus himself, he said, could find fault with that. —But, I said, once such people are made complete by education and by age, wouldn't you entrust the city to them and to no one else? And Adeimantus said: Socrates, no one could contradict you on these points. But here is what happens to those who hear you say what you're now saying each time: they think that because they are inexperienced
in questioning and answering, they're led astray a little bit at each question by the argument, and when these small concessions are gathered together at the end of the discussion, a great error appears, the opposite of what they first held—and just as in checkers, those who don't know how to finish get cornered by skilled players and have no move to make, so they too, in the end, get cornered and have nothing to say, in some other kind of game,
not played with counters but with words—though the truth is no more settled by that. I say this with an eye to our present case. For someone might now say to you that in argument he has no answer to give at each separate question, but that in fact he sees that of all who set out toward philosophy—not touching it for the sake of education and then, while still young,
leaving it behind, but lingering in it too long—most of them become quite strange, not to say thoroughly vicious, while even the most respectable of them are nonetheless affected in this way by the very pursuit you praise: they become useless to their cities. And when I heard this I said: Do you think, then, that those who say this are lying? —I don't know, he said, but I'd gladly hear what you think.
—You'll hear, then, that to me they seem to be telling the truth. —Then how, he said, can it be right to say that cities will have no rest from evils until philosophers rule in them—men we agree are useless to them? —You're asking, I said, a question that needs an answer given through an image. —And you, he said, are not accustomed, I think, to speaking through images. —Very well, I said—are you mocking me,
having thrown me into an argument so hard to prove? Listen to the image anyway, so you can see even more clearly how reluctantly I make comparisons. So harsh is the treatment the most decent men suffer at the hands of their cities that there is no single thing that has suffered the same way—one must gather the image from many things put together, defending them, the way painters paint goat-stags and
such creatures by combining features. Imagine something like this happening, whether on many ships or one: a shipowner surpassing everyone on board in size and strength, but a bit deaf and likewise a bit short-sighted, and knowing about as little about seafaring, while the sailors are quarreling among themselves over the piloting, each one thinking he ought to pilot, though he has never learned the art
and cannot point to a teacher of his, or even a time when he was learning it—and what's more, they claim it can't be taught at all, and are ready to cut to pieces anyone who says it can be taught—while they themselves are always crowded around the shipowner, begging him and doing everything they can to get him to hand over the helm to them; and sometimes, when they fail to persuade him and others succeed instead, they either kill
those others or throw them off the ship, and having bound the noble shipowner with mandrake or drink or something else, they take command of the ship using what's on board, and, drinking and feasting, sail as such men are likely to sail; and besides this they praise as a 'seaman,' a 'pilot,' one who 'knows the ship's business,' whoever is skilled at helping them get control, whether by persuasion or
by force, over the shipowner, while they denounce as useless anyone who isn't like that—having no notion at all about the true pilot, that he must of necessity concern himself with the year, the seasons, the sky, the stars, the winds, and everything that belongs to his art, if he means truly to be fit to command a ship, and how he will pilot it, whether some are willing or not—
never supposing it possible to acquire both this and the skill of piloting at the same time, together, through art or practice. Given that such things happen aboard ships, don't you think the truly fit pilot would be called a stargazer, a babbler, and useless to them by the sailors on ships thus arranged? —Very much so, said Adeimantus. —Well then, I said, I don't suppose
—that you need to look closely at the image, since it's how cities are disposed toward true philosophers—and just take in what I'm saying. —I will, he said. —First, then, teach that man who's amazed that philosophers aren't honored in cities the image, and try to persuade him that it would be far more amazing if they were honored. —I'll teach him, he said. And—
—that what you're saying is true: that the most decent people in philosophy are useless to the many. Still, tell him to blame those who don't make use of them for that uselessness, not the decent ones. It isn't natural for the pilot to beg the sailors to be ruled by him, nor for the wise to go knocking at the doors of the rich. Whoever made up that clever line was lying. The truth is naturally the other way—
whether a man is rich or poor, if he's sick, he has to go to the doctor's door, and everyone who needs to be ruled has to go to the one capable of ruling; it isn't the ruler, if he's truly of any use, who has to beg those he rules to be ruled. If you compare our present-day political rulers to the sailors we were just talking about, you won't go wrong, and the ones they call useless and idle stargazers to the true pilots—
—Quite right, he said. —So given all this, and in these circumstances, it isn't easy for the best pursuit to win a good reputation among people pursuing the opposite. And by far the greatest and strongest slander comes to philosophy from those who claim to practice it—the very people you say the accuser of philosophy has in mind when he says that most of those who go in for it are utterly rotten, and the decent ones—
—are useless, and I agreed you were right about that. Didn't I? —Yes. —So we've gone through the cause of the decent ones' uselessness. Do you want us to go on next and try to show, if we can, the necessity behind the wickedness of the many, and that philosophy isn't to blame for that either? —By all means. —Let's listen, then, and speak, recalling from where we set out in describing the—
nature that the man who's to become truly good and noble must have. What led him, if you recall, was first of all truth, which he had to pursue in every way and altogether, or else, being a fraud, have no share at all in true philosophy. That's how it was put. —Isn't this one point already quite contrary to what's now believed about him? —Very much so, he said. —So won't we be—
—not unreasonable in defending him, saying that the one who's genuinely a lover of learning is naturally driven to strive toward what is, and doesn't stay put among the many particular things believed to be, but goes on and doesn't blunt his desire or let go of his love before he grasps the very nature of each thing with that part of the soul fit to grasp such a thing—and it's fit to grasp it by kinship with it—and once he's drawn near to it and mingled with what truly is,
having begotten understanding and truth, he would know and truly live and be nourished, and only then let go of his labor pains, not before? —As reasonably as could be, he said. —Well then? Will there be any room in such a man for loving falsehood, or, quite the opposite, for hating it? —Hating it, he said. —And with truth leading the way, I don't suppose we'd say a chorus of evils could ever follow along with her. —How could it? —No, a sound and just—
—character, and with it self-control follows too. —Right, he said. —And do I need to marshal from the beginning all over again the rest of the chorus that belongs to the philosophic nature? You remember, I think, that courage, magnificence, ease of learning, and memory came out as fitting these people. And when you objected that everyone would be forced to agree with what we're saying, but that if he set the arguments aside and looked at the very people the argument concerns, he'd say he—
—saw some of them useless, and most of them thoroughly bad in every way. In examining the cause of that slander, we've now come to this: why are the many bad? And it's for that very reason we took up again the nature of the true philosophers and defined it out of necessity. —That's so, he said. —Well, said I, we need to look at the ways this nature is corrupted—how—
it's destroyed in most cases, while some small part escapes—the ones people call not wicked, but useless—and after that, in turn, at the natures that imitate this one and settle into its pursuit, what sort of souls they are that come to a pursuit unworthy of them and too great for them, and, going wrong in many ways, bring upon philosophy everywhere and among everyone the kind of reputation you're describing. —What corruptions do you mean? he said—
—I'll try, I said, to go through them for you if I can. Now I think everyone will agree with this much: that a nature having all the qualities we just now prescribed, if it's to become a complete philosopher, is rare among human beings, and there are few such. Don't you think so? —Very much so. —Now look how many and how great are the ways these few can be ruined. What are they? —The most—
—astonishing thing to hear is that each of the very qualities we praised in that nature destroys the soul that has it and drags it away from philosophy—I mean courage, self-control, and everything we went through. —Strange to hear, he said. —And besides these, I said, all the so-called goods corrupt it too and drag it away—beauty, wealth, bodily strength, powerful family connections in the city, and everything—
that goes along with these. You have the pattern of what I mean. —I do, he said, and I'd gladly hear more precisely what you're saying. —Grasp it rightly, then, I said, as a whole, and it will become clear to you, and what's been said about these things won't seem strange. —How do you mean, then? he said. —Of every seed, I said, or growing thing, whether of plants rooted in the earth or of—
—animals, we know that whatever fails to get the nourishment, season, or place proper to it—the more vigorous it is, the more it falls short of what's fitting for it; for evil is more opposed to good than to what isn't good. —Of course. —So it stands to reason, I think, that the best nature comes off worse than the poor one when it gets nourishment alien to it. —It does. —So then, said I—
—Adeimantus, shouldn't we say the same of souls—that the most naturally gifted, given a bad upbringing, become exceptionally bad? Or do you think great crimes and sheer wickedness come from a poor nature rather than from a vigorous one ruined by its upbringing, and that a weak nature will never be the cause of anything great, either good or bad? —No, he said, it's as you say. —So the nature we set down as—
the philosopher's, if it happens to get the education that suits it, is bound to grow into every virtue, but if it's sown and planted in unsuitable soil and raised there, it turns out the opposite in every way—unless some god happens to come to its aid. Or do you too believe, as the many do, that some young people are corrupted by sophists—by certain private individuals who act as sophists in a way that—
—matters and is worth mentioning—and not rather that the very people who say this are themselves the greatest sophists of all, and that they educate most completely and turn out just the kind of people they want, young and old, men and women alike? —When do they do this? he said. —Whenever, I said, sitting packed together in assemblies, courts, theaters, army camps, or any other public gathering of a crowd, with—
—great uproar they blame some of what's said or done and praise other parts, both to excess, shouting and clapping, and besides them the rocks and the place they're in echo and double the noise of the blame and the praise. In circumstances like that, what do you suppose a young man's heart is like, as the saying goes? Or what sort of private education—
—will hold out in him against this, and not be swept away by such blame or praise and carried off downstream wherever the current takes it, so that he'll say the same things are noble and shameful as they do, practice what they practice, and become just like them? —There's great necessity in that, Socrates, he said. —And yet, said I, we haven't yet spoken of the greatest necessity.
—What kind? he said. —The one these educators and sophists apply in deed when they fail to persuade by word. Don't you know they punish the one who won't be persuaded with disenfranchisement, fines, and death? —Very much so indeed, he said. —What other sophist, then, or what private arguments do you think could prevail against these, running counter to them? —None, I think, he said. —No indeed, said I—
—even attempting it is sheer folly. For no character is or ever has been or ever will be formed toward virtue against the education these people give—no human character, my friend—though we should except the divine, as the proverb says; you'll be right to say that whatever is preserved and turns out as it should amid such a state of constitutions is saved by a portion of god's doing.
—I don't think otherwise either, he said. —Then besides this, I said, let this too seem right to you. —What is it? —Each of these hired private individuals, whom these people call sophists and regard as rivals in the craft, teaches nothing other than the very opinions the many hold when gathered together, and calls that wisdom. It's just as if someone, in feeding a great and—
—powerful beast, studied its moods and appetites—how one must approach it and how handle it, when it's most dangerous or most gentle and from what causes, what sounds it's used to making on each occasion, and what sounds, made by another, tame it or make it savage—and having learned all this through long association and practice, called it wisdom—
—and, having put it together as a craft, turned to teaching it, knowing nothing in truth about which of these opinions and appetites is fine or shameful, good or bad, just or unjust, but applying all these names according to the great beast's own judgments—calling what pleases it good, what vexes it bad—and having no other account of them at all, but calling what's merely necessary just and fine, never having seen how—
—far apart, in reality, the necessary is from the good, nor being able to show anyone else. Wouldn't such a man, by Zeus, seem to you an absurd educator? —He would to me, he said. —Well, do you think he differs at all from the man who thinks he's grasped wisdom by having noted the moods and pleasures of the many and varied crowd when it gathers—
—whether in painting or in music or indeed in politics? For if a man associates with them displaying his poetry, or some other piece of craftsmanship, or a service to the city, making the many his masters beyond what's necessary, the so-called necessity of Diomedes will compel him to do whatever they praise. But that these things are truly good and fine—
—have you ever yet heard anyone give an account of that which wasn't laughable? I don't think I have, he said, and I don't expect to. —Keeping all this in mind, then, recall this: can a crowd possibly tolerate, or believe there is, the beautiful itself as opposed to the many beautiful things, or each thing itself as opposed to the many particular things? —Least of all, he said. —So a crowd can't possibly be philosophic—
—then it must be impossible for a great many people. —Impossible. —And so those who philosophize must inevitably be blamed by them. —Inevitably. —And by these private individuals too, all those who mingle with the crowd and are eager to please it. —Clearly. —Given all this, what safety do you see for a philosophic nature, that it might remain in that pursuit and reach its end? Think it through from what came before. For we have agreed
that quickness to learn, memory, courage, and magnificence belong to this nature. —Yes. —Then won't such a person, right from childhood, be first in everything, especially if his body grows to match his soul? —Of course he will, he said. —Then I suppose, once he grows older, his own household and his fellow citizens will want to make use of him for their own affairs.
—Of course. —So they will fall at his feet with requests and honors, currying favor and flattering in advance the power he is going to have. —That's certainly what tends to happen, he said. —Then what do you think such a person will do in such circumstances, especially if he happens to belong to a great city, and in it is rich and well-born, and handsome and tall besides? Won't he be filled
with impossible hope, thinking himself capable of managing the affairs of both Greeks and barbarians, and on the strength of this exalt himself, puffed up with pretension and empty pride devoid of sense? —Very much so, he said. —And if, while he is in this state, someone gently approaches him and tells him the truth—that he has no sense in him, though he needs it, and that it cannot be acquired except by slaving for its acquisition—
do you think it easy for him to listen, through all these evils surrounding him? —Far from it, he said. —But suppose, I said, because of his good nature and his affinity for reasoned argument, he does somehow perceive it, and is bent and drawn toward philosophy—what do we imagine those people will do, the ones who think they are losing his usefulness and his companionship? Won't they do everything
in word and deed, both to him, so that he won't be persuaded, and to whoever tries to persuade him, so that he won't be able to—plotting against him privately and setting him up in public contests? —Great necessity indeed, he said. —Is there any way, then, that such a person will philosophize? —Not at all. —You see, then, I said, that we weren't wrong to say
that the very parts of the philosophic nature itself, when it falls into bad nurture, become in some way the cause of its falling away from the pursuit—and so do the so-called goods, wealth and all such equipment? —No, that was rightly said, he replied. —This, then, my friend, is the ruin and corruption—so great and of such a kind—of the best nature
for the finest pursuit, a nature that is rare enough to begin with, as we say. And it is from among these very men that those who do the greatest harm to cities and to individuals come, and also those who do the greatest good, whenever the current happens to carry them that way; a small nature never does anything great, for either an individual or a city. —Very true, he said. —So these men,
falling away in this way, the very ones for whom it is most fitting, leave philosophy deserted and unfinished, and themselves live a life not fitting or true to them, while philosophy, like an orphan bereft of kin, is invaded by others unworthy of her, who shame her and heap reproaches on her—the very reproaches you say her detractors bring, that among those who consort with her, some are worthless and most deserve much evil.
—That is indeed, he said, what people say. —And reasonably said, I replied. For other little men, seeing this position now standing empty, yet full of fine titles and pretensions, dash out of their own trades into philosophy with delight, like men escaping from prison into a sanctuary—those, that is, who happen to be the cleverest at their own petty craft.
For even so degraded, philosophy still, compared with the other arts, retains a more majestic reputation, and it is this that many men with stunted natures reach for, men whose bodies have been maimed by their trades and crafts, and whose souls likewise have been cramped and worn down by their vulgar labors—or isn't that inevitable? —Very much so, he said. —Do you think, then,
I said, that they look any different from a bald little smith who has come into money, freshly released from bonds, bathed at the baths, wearing a new cloak, got up like a bridegroom, about to marry his master's daughter because of her poverty and lack of kin? —No, he said, not different at all. —What sort of offspring, then, are such men likely to father? Bastard and base ones, no? —Great necessity of it.
—And what of it? When men unworthy of education keep company with her and consort with her unworthily, what sort of thoughts and opinions shall we say they beget? Aren't they truly and fittingly called sophistries, nothing genuine or worthy of true understanding in them? —Absolutely so, he said. —A very small remnant is left, then, Adeimantus, of those who consort with philosophy as she deserves—perhaps some noble and well-reared
character, caught by exile, remaining true to her nature for lack of anyone to corrupt him; or one who, in a small city, has a great soul born in him and looks down on the city's affairs, holding them in contempt; and a small number too might come to her rightly, having with good reason held some other art in contempt because of their fine natural gifts. And the bridle of our companion Theages might also be the sort to hold someone back;
for in Theages's case everything else is arranged for his falling away from philosophy, but the ill health of his body, keeping him out of politics, holds him back. As for my own case, it is hardly worth mentioning—the divine sign; for it has happened, I think, to hardly anyone before me, or to no one at all. And of these few, those who have come to be and have tasted how sweet and blessed a
possession it is, and who have also seen well enough the madness of the many, and that no one does anything sound, so to speak, in the affairs of cities, nor is there any ally with whom one might go to the rescue of justice and be saved—but rather, like someone dropped into a den of wild animals, unwilling to join them in wrongdoing and yet unable alone to hold out against all their savagery, he would perish before he could
do any good for his city or his friends, and be useless to himself and to everyone else—when he has reckoned all this out, he keeps quiet and minds his own business, like a man who, in a storm of dust and hail driven by the wind, steps aside under a little wall, and seeing the others filled with lawlessness, is content if somehow he himself can live his life here free of injustice and unholy deeds, and
then, when he departs from it, depart in good hope, gracious and well-disposed. —Well, he said, that would be no small thing to have accomplished before departing. —Nor the greatest thing either, I said, if he does not chance upon a constitution suited to him; for in one that suits him, he himself will grow more, and along with what is his own he will save the common good as well. Now as to the reason why philosophy has incurred slander,
and that it is unjust, I think what has been said is enough, unless you have something else to say. —No, he said, I have nothing more to say on this; but which of our present constitutions do you say is suited to her? —None whatsoever, I said; that is exactly my complaint—that no present constitution of any city is worthy of a philosophic nature; which is why it gets twisted and altered,
just as foreign seed sown in another soil tends to be overpowered and to weaken away into the character of the local growth—so too this class of person now fails to hold its own power, but falls away into an alien character. But if it should ever gain the best constitution, just as it is itself the best, then it will show that it was truly divine, while the rest
are merely human—both natures and pursuits alike. —Clearly, then, you're going to ask next what this constitution is. —You haven't guessed it, he said; for that isn't what I was going to ask, but whether it is the same one we went through in founding our city, or a different one. —In other respects, I said, it is the same; but this very point was said even then, that there would need
always to be present in the city something that holds the same account of the constitution as you, the lawgiver, held when you laid down the laws. —Yes, that was said, he replied. —But it wasn't made clear enough, I said, out of fear of the very objections which you yourselves have shown make its demonstration long and difficult; and indeed what remains is not the easiest thing of all to go through either. —What is that?
—In what manner a city, taking philosophy in hand, will not be destroyed. For all great things are precarious, and, as the saying goes, fine things are truly hard. —Still, he said, let the demonstration be brought to completion, this much having been made clear. —It won't be unwillingness, I said, but rather, if anything, inability that will prevent it; you will see for yourself how eager I am. Notice now too how eagerly and recklessly I am about to say
that a city ought to take up this pursuit in a manner just the opposite of the present one. —How so? —At present, I said, those who do take it up are mere youths, who, right out of childhood, in the interval between household management and money-making, approach its hardest part—I mean the part concerning arguments—and then let it go, counting themselves the most philosophic of men; and later on, if, when others are doing the same thing, they are invited and are willing to become
listeners, they think it a great matter, considering it something one ought to practice only as a sideline; and as old age approaches, except in a few cases, they are extinguished far more thoroughly than Heraclitus's sun, in that they never light up again. —What ought they to do, then? he said. —Just the opposite entirely: while they are youths and boys, they should take up a youthful education and philosophy, and during that time, while their bodies are growing and maturing into manhood, take great care of them, thereby acquiring a service
for philosophy; and as their age advances, the age in which the soul begins to reach its completion, they should intensify its exercises; and when their strength fails and they are past political and military service, then at last let them range freely at pasture, doing nothing else except as a sideline—those, that is, who are going to live happily and, upon dying, to crown the life they have lived with a fitting portion in that other place. —Truly
you seem to me, he said, to speak with real eagerness, Socrates; yet I think most of those listening will resist even more eagerly still, and will not be persuaded in the least, starting with Thrasymachus. —Don't set Thrasymachus and me at odds, I said; we've only just become friends, though we weren't enemies before either. We won't relax our efforts, for we will keep on until we either persuade him and the others, or accomplish something
useful for that other life, whenever they come again upon such arguments, born anew. —You've spoken, he said, of a rather short span of time. —Of no time at all, in fact, I said, measured against the whole of it. Still, that the many are not persuaded by what has been said is no wonder at all; for they have never yet seen the very thing now being spoken of come to pass, but rather they have seen phrases of this sort deliberately fitted to one another
—made to resemble it, not thrown together by chance, as they are now. But a man matched to virtue and made like it, as far as possible, in perfect deed and word, holding power in another such city—that they have never seen, neither one nor several. Or do you think so? Not at all. Nor again, my good man, have they been adequate listeners to noble and free discussions, of the kind that seek
the truth strenuously, in every way, for the sake of knowing it, while holding at a distance those clever, contentious ones that aim at nothing else but reputation and strife, whether in lawsuits or in private company. Nor to those either, he said. It is for the sake of these things, then, I said, and foreseeing them, that we spoke then, though fearing to, compelled by the truth, that
neither city nor constitution, nor likewise a man, will ever become perfect, until some necessity, by chance, falls upon these few philosophers—who are not wicked, though now called useless—and compels them, whether they wish it or not, to take care of a city, and the city to be obedient to them; or until, by some divine inspiration, a true love of true philosophy falls upon the sons of those now in positions of power or kingship, or upon those men themselves.
That either or both of these should be impossible—I, for my part, say there is no argument for that. For then we would justly be laughed at, as saying things that are merely like wishes. Isn't that so? It is. If, then, a necessity for the best natures to take care of a city has, in the boundless time gone by, come about—
or is now, in some barbarian region far off, out of our sight, or will come about hereafter—concerning this we are ready to fight it out in argument, that the constitution we have described has come to be, and is, and will come to be, whenever this Muse gains mastery of a city. For it is not impossible for it to come about, nor are we saying impossible things; that they are difficult, even we agree.
Yes, and I think so too, he said. And will you say that the many do not think so? Perhaps, he said. My good man, I said, don't accuse the many so harshly. They will hold a different opinion, if you, without contentiousness but rather soothing them and clearing away their prejudice against the love of learning, show them whom you mean by the philosophers, and define, as we just did,
their nature and their pursuit, so that they don't think you mean those they themselves have in mind. Or even if they look at it that way, you will say they will take a different view and answer differently. Or do you think anyone is harsh with one who is not harsh, or envious of one who is not envious, being himself free of envy and gentle? I will say it before you: I think it is only among a few
that so harsh a nature comes to be, not among the multitude. And I too, of course, agree, he said. Then do you also agree with this, that the many being ill-disposed toward philosophy is the fault of those outsiders who have no business crashing the party, reviling one another, being contentious, and always making their arguments about persons—doing what is least fitting for philosophy? Very much so,
he said. Nor indeed, Adeimantus, is there any leisure for one whose thought is truly turned toward the things that are to look down at human affairs, and, contending with men, be filled with envy and ill-will; but rather, gazing upon things ordered and ever in the same state, seeing that they neither wrong nor are wronged by one another, but are all in order and according to reason,
he imitates them and, as far as possible, makes himself like them. Or do you think there is any device by which a man, admiring something he keeps company with, would not imitate it? Impossible, he said. So then the philosopher, keeping company with what is divine and orderly, becomes himself orderly and divine, so far as is possible for a human being; though there is much slander against everything of the kind. Quite so. If, then,
some necessity should fall upon him to practice putting what he sees there into the characters of men, both privately and publicly, and not merely to mold himself alone, do you think he will turn out to be a poor craftsman of moderation and justice and the whole of civic virtue? Least of all, he said. But if the many perceive that we speak the truth about him, will they be harsh with the philosophers and disbelieve us when we say
that a city could never be happy otherwise, unless it is sketched out by those painters who use the divine pattern? They will not be harsh, he said, if indeed they perceive it. But what manner of sketching do you mean? Taking, I said, the city and human characters as if they were a tablet, they would first make it clean—which is not at all easy; but you know that in this
they would at once differ from all others, in that they would be unwilling to touch either a private individual or a city, or write laws, until they either received it clean or made it so themselves. And rightly so, he said. Then after this do you think they would sketch in outline the form of the constitution? Of course. And then, I think, as they work it out, they would look often in both directions, toward what is by nature just and beautiful and moderate
and all such things, and again toward that other thing, working it into human beings—mixing and blending from their practices the semblance of a man, taking their measure from that which Homer too called, when it came to be in men, godlike and god-resembling. Rightly, he said. And one thing, I think, they would erase, and another again inscribe, until they made human characters as far as possible
dear to the gods, so far as that is possible. That would certainly be the most beautiful painting, he said. Do we then, I said, in some way persuade those you said were marching against us in full array, that such is the painter of constitutions whom we were praising to them before, on whose account they were angry with us because we were handing cities over to him—and are they now, hearing this, somewhat calmed? Yes, indeed, very much so,
he said, if they are sensible. For on what grounds could they still dispute it? Whether philosophers are not lovers of what is and of truth? That would be absurd, he said. Or that their nature, which we described, is not akin to the best? Not that either. What then? That such a nature, given the fitting pursuits, would not be perfectly good and philosophic, if any nature would
be? Or will they say rather that those others are, whom we set apart? Surely not. Will they still be savage when we say that, until the philosophic class gains mastery in a city, there will be no rest from evils for city or citizens, nor will the constitution we tell of in myth ever come to completion in deed? Perhaps less so, he said. Do you want us, then, I said, to say not merely that they are less savage, but that they have become altogether gentle
and persuaded, so that, if nothing else, out of shame they might agree? By all means, he said. Let these men, then, I said, be persuaded of this; but as to this other point, will anyone dispute that the offspring of kings or rulers might not turn out, by their natures, to be philosophers? Not a single person, he said. And can anyone say that, having become such, there is great necessity for them to be corrupted? That
it is hard for them to be saved, even we grant; but is there anyone who would dispute that in all time, out of all such men, not even one would ever be saved? How could there be? But surely, I said, one such man being sufficient, with a city obedient to him, would accomplish all the things now disbelieved. Yes, one is sufficient, he said. For when a ruler establishes the laws and
practices we have gone through, it is surely not impossible for the citizens to be willing to carry them out. Not impossible at all. But is it anything strange or impossible that others should come to think as we think? I for one don't think so, he said. And that these things are the best, if indeed they are possible, we have, I think, gone through sufficiently before. Sufficiently indeed. Now, it seems,
we agree, regarding the legislation, that what we describe would be best if it came about, but that it is difficult for it to come about—yet not impossible. That is what we agree, he said. Since this point, then, has with difficulty been brought to a close, we must next say what remains—by what manner and from what studies and pursuits the saviors of the constitution will be produced among us, and at what ages each will take up each task. We must indeed say, he said. It was no
cleverness on my part, I said, that made me pass over, earlier, the difficulty about the possession of women and the begetting of children and the establishment of the rulers, knowing that the perfectly true account would be resented and hard to accept; for now the need to go through it has come no less. And the matters concerning women and children have indeed been settled, but that
of the rulers must be taken up again as if from the beginning. We said, if you remember, that they must show themselves city-loving, tested in pleasures and pains, and must not be seen casting aside this conviction in labors, in fears, or in any other change of circumstance—or else the one incapable of this must be rejected, while the one who comes through everywhere unspoiled, like gold tested in fire, must be established
as ruler, and honors and prizes given to him both living and dead. Such were the things said as the argument slipped past and veiled itself, afraid to stir up what now confronts us. Very true, he said, what you say—I remember. It was hesitation, I said, dear friend, to say what has now been ventured; but now let this at least be ventured to say, that the most exact guardians must be established as philosophers. Let it be said, then,
he said. Consider, then, how reasonably they will be few for you; for the nature we went through, which must be present in them, is seldom willing to grow together into one whole in its parts—it grows, for the most part, torn apart. How do you mean? he said. Men who are quick to learn, retentive, sharp, keen, and all that follows from these, you know, are not willing to grow at the same time along with spirited and high-minded
dispositions such as would be willing to live in order, with quiet and steadiness; rather, such men are carried by their keenness wherever chance takes them, and all steadiness deserts them. True, he said. And on the other hand, those steady characters, not easily changeable, whom one would rather use as trustworthy, and who in war are hard to move against fears, behave the same way again toward learning:
they are hard to move and hard to learn, as if numbed, and are filled with sleep and yawning whenever something of that sort must be worked hard at. That is so, he said. But we say that a person must partake well and finely of both, or else neither the most exact education, nor honor, nor rule should be given to him. Rightly so, he said. Then don't you think this will be rare?
How could it not be? He must, then, be tested in the labors and fears and pleasures we spoke of then, and further, in what we then passed over but now mention, that he must also be exercised in many studies, watching whether his nature will be able to bear even the greatest studies, or whether it will play the coward, as some do when faced with cowardice in other matters. It is indeed fitting, he said, to look at it so
—to consider. But what exactly do you mean by the greatest subjects of learning? You remember, I said, that we distinguished three parts of the soul and used them to work out what justice, moderation, courage, and wisdom each are. If I didn't remember that, he said, I'd deserve not to hear the rest. And do you remember what was said before that, as a kind of preface? What was that?
We said that although it was possible to see them in the finest way, there was another, longer path by which one could travel around and get a clear view of them, but that it was possible to attach proofs to them consistent with what had been said earlier. And you all said that was enough, and so what was said then fell short of full precision, as it seemed to me — but if it satisfied you, you can say so yourselves. It satisfied me well enough, he said; and it seemed to satisfy the others too.
But, my friend, I said, when it comes to matters like these, any measure that falls short of the reality, even a little, is no measure worth having — nothing incomplete is ever the measure of anything. Yet some people think they've already done enough and needn't inquire any further. Yes, he said, plenty of people feel that way, out of laziness. But that, I said, is a feeling our guardian of the city and its laws should feel less than anyone.
Naturally, he said. Then, my friend, I said, he must travel the longer road, and put no less effort into learning than into physical training — otherwise, as we were just saying, he will never reach the end of the greatest and most fitting subject of study. Aren't these the greatest things, he said — justice and the rest we've gone through? Or is there something still greater?
Something still greater, I said — and of these very things we mustn't be content with a mere sketch, as we are now, but must not neglect the most complete working-out. Or isn't it ridiculous that, in matters of little worth, we strain every effort to make things as precise and pure as possible, while for the greatest matters we don't think the greatest precision is called for? Yes, he said, that's a fine thought — but this greatest subject of learning,
what do you mean by it, and what is it about — do you think anyone would let you off without asking what it is? Not entirely, I said — go ahead and ask yourself. You've certainly heard it more than once; but now either you aren't thinking of it, or you mean to give me trouble by pressing the question again. I think it's more the latter, since you've heard many times that the form of the good is the greatest thing to learn,
the thing by reference to which just things and everything else become useful and beneficial. And now you pretty much know I'm about to say this, and also that we don't know it adequately — and if we don't know it, then however well we might know everything else without it, you know it would do us no good, just as it would be no good possessing something without the good in it. Or
do you think there's any advantage in possessing every kind of property, if it isn't good? Or in understanding everything else without the good, understanding nothing fine or good? By Zeus, I don't, he said. But you also know this: to most people the good seems to be pleasure, while to the more refined it's understanding. Of course. And that, my friend,
those who hold the latter view can't explain what kind of understanding they mean, but are forced in the end to say it's understanding of the good. That's absurd, he said. How could it not be, I said, if they reproach us for not knowing the good, and then talk to us as if we did know it — for they say it is understanding of the good, as though we understood what they meant when they utter the word 'good.'
Very true, he said. And what about those who define the good as pleasure? Aren't they caught in no less confusion than the others? Aren't even they forced to admit that some pleasures are bad? Very much so. So it turns out, I think, that they end up agreeing that the same things are both good and bad. Isn't that so? Certainly. So it's clear there's great and widespread dispute about it? Of course.
And what about this — isn't it clear that with things just and fine, many people would choose what merely seems so, even if it isn't, and still act on it, possess it, and be thought to have it; but when it comes to good things, no one is content any longer with what merely seems good — everyone seeks what really is good, and here everyone despises mere appearance. Very much so, he said. This, then, which every soul pursues,
and for the sake of which it does everything, divining that it is something, yet perplexed and unable to grasp adequately what it is, or to have the same steady confidence about it that it has about other things, and so missing out — even on whatever benefit those other things might have offered — are we to say that about a matter of such magnitude and importance, even the best people in our city, the ones to whom we're going to entrust everything,
are we to leave them in the dark like this? Least of all, he said. I think, at any rate, that just and fine things, if it's unknown in what way they are good, won't have gained much of a guardian in someone who doesn't know that; and I divine that no one will know them adequately beforehand without this. You divine well, he said. So won't our constitution be perfectly ordered only if such a guardian, one who has knowledge of these things, oversees it? Necessarily, he said.
But you, Socrates — do you yourself say the good is knowledge, or pleasure, or something else besides these? There you go, I said — it's been obvious for a long time that you weren't going to be satisfied with what other people think about these matters. Because it doesn't seem right to me, Socrates, he said, to be able to state other people's views but not one's own,
after spending so much time on these questions. Well then, I said — do you think it's right to speak about things one doesn't know as though one knew them? Not as though I knew, certainly, he said, but I am willing to state what I believe as a matter of belief. Well then, I said — haven't you noticed that opinions without knowledge are all ugly things? Even the best of them are blind — or do you think
those who hold some true opinion without understanding differ at all from blind men who happen to walk the right road? Not at all, he said. Then do you want to look at ugly things, blind and crooked, when you could hear bright and beautiful ones from others? For god's sake, Socrates, said Glaucon, don't stop as if you were right at the end. It will be enough for us if you go through the good the way you went through justice, moderation, and
the rest. That would satisfy me too, my friend, I said, very much — but I'm afraid I won't be able to, and in my eagerness I'll only embarrass myself and be laughed at. No, blessed friends, let's leave aside for now what the good itself actually is — for that seems to me more than I could reach with my present effort,
given how it strikes me right now. But I am willing to speak about what appears to be an offspring of the good and most like it, if that pleases you too; if not, we'll let it go. Please, speak, he said — you can pay back the account of the parent another time. I only wish, I said, that I could give it in full, and that you could receive it, rather than, as now, only the interest. But do
take this offspring of the good itself, this interest, as your due. Only be careful I don't unintentionally deceive you, paying out counterfeit interest on the account. We'll be careful, as far as we can, he said — just speak. Only after I've come to an agreement with you, I said, and reminded you of what was said earlier, and of other things often said on other occasions. What things? he said. We often say
that there are many beautiful things, I said, and many good things, and that we speak of and distinguish each of these by definition. Yes, we do. And also the beautiful itself, and the good itself, and likewise for everything we then set down as many, we in turn set down according to a single form for each, as though each were one, and we call it what each thing is. That's so. And we say the many
are seen but not thought, while the forms, in turn, are thought but not seen. Absolutely so. Then with what part of ourselves do we see the things that are seen? With sight, he said. And do we hear the things that are heard with hearing, I said, and perceive all the other perceptible things with the other senses? Of course. Then have you noticed, I said, how much more lavishly
the craftsman of the senses fashioned the power of sight and of being seen? Not really, he said. Well, look at it this way. Is there any further thing, of another kind, that hearing and sound require — the one so that it may hear, the other so that it may be heard — some third thing without which the one won't hear and the other won't be heard? Nothing, he said. And I don't think, I said, that many
of the other senses need any such third thing either — not to say none of them do. Can you name one that does? Not I, he said. But don't you notice that sight and the visible do need something? How so? Given that sight is present in the eyes, and its possessor tries to use it, and color is present in the objects, unless a third thing of its own particular nature comes in besides,
you know that sight will see nothing, and the colors will be invisible. And what is this thing you mean? he said. What you yourself call light, I said. True, he said. So it's no small kind of yoke by which the sense of sight and the power of being seen are yoked together, and by a more honored bond than the other pairings, if light is not without honor. But indeed,
he said, it's far from being without honor. Then which of the gods in heaven can you point to as the cause of this — the one whose light makes our sight see in the finest way, and the things seen be seen? The one you mean, he said, and everyone else means — clearly you're asking about the sun. And is sight naturally related to this god in this way? How? Sight itself is not
the sun, neither sight itself nor that in which it arises, which we call the eye. No, indeed. But it is, I think, the most sun-like of all the organs of sense. By far. And doesn't it possess the power it has as something dispensed to it from the sun, like an overflow? Certainly. So isn't it also true that the sun is not itself sight, but, being the cause of sight,
is seen by that very sight? So it is, he said. This, then, I said, is what I meant by the offspring of the good, which the good begot as an analogue of itself — what the good is in the intelligible region, in relation to intellect and the objects of intellect, this is what the sun is in the visible region, in relation to sight and the objects of sight. How so? he said — explain further. Eyes,
I said, you know that when someone turns them no longer on things whose colors are covered by daylight, but on things lit by the gleams of night, they grow dim and appear nearly blind, as though clear sight were not in them at all. Very much so, he said. But when, I think, they're turned on things the sun shines on, they see clearly, and it appears that clear sight is present in these very same eyes.
—Of course. Well then, think of the soul in the same way. When it fixes itself on that region where truth and reality shine, it grasps and knows it and clearly has understanding. But when it turns to what is mixed with darkness—the realm of coming-to-be and passing away—it forms mere opinion and grows dim-sighted, shifting its opinions up and down, and seems
once again to have no understanding. So it does. This, then, that gives truth to the things known and confers on the knower the power of knowing—say that this is the idea of the good, and understand it as the cause of knowledge and of truth as it is known. Beautiful as knowledge and truth both are, if you consider the good to be something other than these, and even more beautiful, you will be right to think so. As for knowledge
and truth—just as it is right, in the other case, to consider light and sight sunlike, but wrong to think either of them is the sun, so here too it is right to consider both of these good-like, but wrong to think either of them is the good—rather the condition of the good must be honored still more highly. What extraordinary beauty you're describing, he said, if it provides knowledge and truth and yet is itself
beyond these in beauty—for surely you don't mean it is pleasure. Watch your tongue, I said. Look at the image of it further, this way instead. How? You would say, I think, that the sun provides visible things not only with the power of being seen, but also with generation, growth, and nourishment, though it is not itself generation. Of course. And for the objects of knowledge
you should say not only that being known comes to them from the good, but also that their being and reality are bestowed upon them by it, even though the good is not itself reality but is beyond reality, exceeding it in dignity and power. And Glaucon, quite comically, said: By Apollo, what a superhuman transcendence! You're the one to blame, I said, for forcing me to state my opinions
about it. Then don't stop, he said, on any account—except perhaps to go through the analogy with the sun once more, if you're leaving anything out. Well, I said, I'm certainly leaving out a great deal. Then don't leave out even the smallest part, he said. I think, I said, I will leave out a great deal even so; still, so far as is possible under present circumstances, I won't leave anything out willingly. Please don't, he said. Consider
then, I said, as we say, that there are two such things, and one reigns over the intelligible kind and region, the other over the visible—I won't say "heaven," so you don't think I'm playing games with the word. In any case you have these two forms, visible and intelligible? I have. Then, just as if you took a line divided into two unequal parts, divide each of those parts again in the same
ratio—the part standing for the visible kind and the part for the intelligible—and you will have, in terms of relative clarity and obscurity, in the visible section one part consisting of images—by images I mean first shadows, then reflections in water and in whatever is dense, smooth, and bright, and
everything of that sort, if you follow me. I do follow. Set the other part, then, as what this resembles—the living things around us, every kind of plant, and the whole class of manufactured things. I set it so, he said. Would you also be willing to say, I asked, that this has been divided as regards truth and its lack, so that the copy stands to
that which it resembles as the opinable stands to the knowable? I certainly would, he said. Now look in turn at how the section of the intelligible must be cut. How? This way: one part of it the soul is compelled to seek by means of the things previously imitated, treating them as images, proceeding from hypotheses not toward a first principle but toward a conclusion; the other part, by contrast—the part that moves toward an unhypothesized first principle—proceeds from a hypothesis but without the images used in the other case, making its way
by means of forms themselves, through them alone. I don't fully understand, he said, what you mean by this. Let me try again, I said; you'll understand more easily after what I'm about to say. I think you know that those who work with geometry and calculation and studies of that sort assume as hypotheses the odd and the even, the various figures, the three kinds of angles, and other
things akin to these in each field of study; treating these as known, they make hypotheses of them and no longer see any need to render an account of them to themselves or to anyone else, as though they were obvious to everyone; and starting from these, they go through the rest and arrive, consistently, at the very thing they set out to investigate. Yes indeed, he said, I know that much. And you also know that they make use of visible
figures and construct their arguments about them, though they are not thinking about these figures themselves but about those other things which these resemble—making their arguments for the sake of the square itself and its diagonal itself, not the diagonal they draw—and so with everything else, so that the very things they mold and draw, of which there are also shadows and reflections in water, they now use in turn as
images, seeking to see those realities themselves which one could not see otherwise than by thought. True, he said. This, then, is what I called the intelligible form—yet the soul, in seeking it, is compelled to use hypotheses, not proceeding to a first principle, since it cannot step above its hypotheses, but using as images the very things that are themselves copies made by the things below,
which, compared to those copies, are regarded and honored as if clear and distinct. I understand, he said, that you mean what falls under geometry and its sister arts. Then understand the other section of the intelligible as that which reason itself grasps by the power of dialectic, treating its hypotheses not as first principles but truly as hypotheses—stepping stones
and springboards, so to speak—so that, advancing all the way to the unhypothesized first principle of everything, it may, having grasped that, turn back again and, holding fast to what depends on it, descend in this way to a conclusion, making no use whatsoever of anything perceptible, but proceeding by means of forms themselves, through them, into them, and ending in forms. I understand, he said, not completely—what you're describing sounds to me like an enormous undertaking—but I do understand that you wish to distinguish as clearer
what is contemplated by the science of dialectic concerning being and the intelligible, than what is contemplated by the so-called arts, for which hypotheses serve as first principles; and though those who study these are compelled to view their objects by thought rather than by sense perception, still, because they investigate not by ascending to a first principle but from hypotheses, they seem to you not to possess understanding about these matters, even though the matters themselves are intelligible when taken together with a first
principle. And I think you call the state of mind of geometers and people of that sort thought, not understanding, treating thought as something between opinion and understanding. You have taken my meaning most adequately, I said. And now take these four states arising in the soul as corresponding to the four sections: understanding for the highest, thought for
the second, and to the third assign belief, and to the last, imagination; and arrange them in proportion, considering that they share in clarity to just the degree that their objects share in truth. I understand, he said, and I agree, and I arrange them as you say.