Plato · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
— It remains, then, I said, to examine the tyrannical man himself: how he emerges out of the democratic man, and once he has come to be, what sort of man he is, and how he lives — miserably or happily. Yes, he said, that one's still left. Do you know, I said, what I still miss? What's that? We haven't, I think, adequately distinguished the desires — what kinds there are and how many.
— we haven't finished that. And as long as that's lacking, our inquiry will be less clear than it should be. Well, he said, isn't it still a good time for it? Certainly — and consider what I want to see in them. It's this. Among the unnecessary pleasures and desires there seem to me to be some that are lawless — ones that are liable to arise in everyone, but which are held in check by the laws
and by the better desires, in alliance with reason; in some people they're altogether gotten rid of, or only a few weak ones remain, while in others they remain stronger and more numerous. Which ones do you mean? he asked. The ones, I said, that are stirred awake in sleep — when the rest of the soul, the rational, gentle, ruling part, is asleep, but the beastly and savage part,
gorged with food or drink, bucks and, having shaken off sleep, tries to go out and satisfy its own impulses. You know that in such a state it dares to do anything at all, as though it had been released and freed from all shame and reason. It doesn't hesitate to imagine having intercourse with its mother, or with anyone else at all — man, god, or beast — or to commit any bloody act,
or to refrain from any food whatever; in a word, it falls short of no folly and no shamelessness. Very true, he said. But whenever, I suppose, a man is in sound health and self-control, and goes to sleep having first awakened his rational part and feasted it on fine arguments and inquiries, arriving at communion with himself, while his appetitive part he has neither starved
nor overfed, so that it settles down and doesn't trouble the best part with its joy or its grief, but lets it alone to search out and reach for a perception, all by itself and undisturbed, of something it does not know — something of the past, present, or future — and likewise has soothed his spirited part too, and doesn't go to sleep with his temper stirred up from having gotten angry at someone,
but rather, having quieted these two parts and stirred up the third, in which understanding arises, so rests — you know that in such a state he grasps truth most nearly, and the visions that appear in his dreams are then least lawless. Entirely so, I think, he said. Well, we've been carried rather far afield in saying all this; but what we want to establish is this:
that there exists in each of us, even in those of us who seem quite moderate, some terrible, savage, and lawless species of desire — and this becomes evident in sleep. See whether I seem to be saying something and whether you agree. I do agree. Recall, then, what sort of man we said the democratic man was. He was, I believe, someone raised from youth by a stingy father who honored only the money-making desires,
and despised the unnecessary ones, the ones pursued for play and display. Isn't that so? Yes. Then he fell in with more sophisticated men, full of the desires we just went through, and, out of hatred for his father's stinginess, rushed toward every kind of arrogance and their way of life — but having a better nature than his corrupters, he was pulled in both directions and settled into a middle position between the two ways of life,
and, enjoying each in what he thought was a moderate measure, lives a life that is neither servile nor lawless — having become democratic out of oligarchic. That was, he said, and still is, the common opinion about such a man. Now suppose, I said, that this man, grown older in turn, has a young son raised in these same habits of his. I suppose it. Then suppose also happening to him
the same things that happened to his father — that he's led into every kind of lawlessness, which those leading him call total freedom, while his father and the rest of his household come to the aid of the middling desires, and others come to the aid of the opposite ones. And when these terrible sorcerers and tyrant-makers despair of holding the young man by any other means, they contrive to plant in him some love,
a kind of great winged drone, to preside over his idle desires, the ones that distribute what's readily available — or what else do you suppose the love felt by such people is? Nothing else, he said, than that. Then, whenever the other desires come buzzing around him, laden with incense and myrrh and garlands and wine and all the loosened pleasures found in
such company, feeding and swelling to the utmost the sting of longing they implant in the drone — then indeed this presiding power of the soul is escorted by madness as its bodyguard, and rages; and if it catches hold of any opinions or desires in him that are still decent and still capable of shame, it kills them and thrusts them out of doors, until it has purged him of moderation
and filled him with imported madness. You're describing exactly the birth of a tyrannical man. Then is it, I said, for some such reason that Eros has long been called a tyrant? It looks like it, he said. And isn't it true, my friend, I said, that a man who is drunk also has something of a tyrannical cast of mind? He does. And surely the man who is mad and deranged not only attempts
but expects to be able to rule not just men but gods as well. Very much so, he said. A man becomes tyrannical in the precise sense, I said, my good fellow, whenever, whether by nature or by habits or by both, he becomes drunken, erotic, and melancholic. Entirely so. Such a man comes to be this way, it seems; but how does he live? That, he said, is something for you — as they say in the game —
to tell me. I'll tell you, then, I said. I think that after this, feasts arise among such men, and revels, and banquets, and courtesans, and everything of that sort, wherever Eros the tyrant, dwelling within, governs the whole of the soul's affairs. That's inevitable, he said. So don't many terrible desires spring up alongside, day and night, each demanding much? Many indeed. So quickly
whatever resources there are get consumed. How could they not? And after that come borrowings and the whittling away of one's estate. Of course. And when everything runs out, isn't it inevitable that the desires, packed thick and urgent, cry out like nestlings, and the man, driven as if by goads — by the rest of his desires, and especially by Eros himself, who marshals all the others
like a bodyguard around him — rages and looks about to see who has anything that can be taken from him by deceit or by force? Very much so, he said. It's necessary, then, for him to plunder from every side, or else be held fast in great throes and pains. Necessary. And just as the pleasures that arose later in him got the better of the older ones and took what belonged to them, won't he too, being younger,
claim to deserve more than his father and mother, and take it, once he's spent his own share, by carving off a portion of his parents' property? Well, what else? he said. And if they don't yield it to him, won't he first try to steal from and deceive his parents? Absolutely. And when he can't manage that, won't he then seize it by force? I suppose so, he said. And if the old man and old woman resist and fight back,
will he, wondrous fellow, be careful and hold back from doing anything tyrannical? I'm not at all confident, he said, about the safety of such a man's parents. But, Adeimantus, by Zeus — for the sake of some newly beloved and unnecessary mistress, would he strike his long-beloved and necessary mother? Or for the sake of a newly beloved and unnecessary boy in his prime, would he strike his aged
and necessary father, the oldest of his friends — do you think such a man would go so far as to beat them and enslave them to those others, if he brought them into the same household? Yes, by Zeus, he said. It seems, I said, a truly blessed thing to father a tyrannical son! Quite so, he said. And what happens when the resources of father and mother
run out for such a man, and the swarm of pleasures gathered within him is already large — won't he first lay hold of someone's house wall, or the cloak of someone walking late at night, and after that rob some temple? And in all this, the opinions he held from childhood about what is fine and shameful, opinions accounted just,
are overpowered, along with Eros, by those newly released from slavery, who act as Eros's bodyguard — opinions that formerly were released only in dreams, during sleep, back when he was still under the rule of law and father, democratically governed within himself. But now, tyrannized by Eros, he becomes permanently what he rarely became before, only in dreams; he'll refrain from no dreadful murder, no food, no deed, but with Eros
ruling tyrannically within him, in complete anarchy and lawlessness, since Eros himself is sole monarch, he will drive the man who harbors him, as if he were a city, to every act of daring, so as to feed himself and the turmoil around him — partly imported from outside through bad company, partly from within, released and set free by his own character and habits. Isn't this
the life of such a man? That's the one, he said. Now if such men are few in a city, I said, and the rest of the people are moderate, they go abroad and serve as bodyguard to some other tyrant, or hire themselves out as mercenaries if there happens to be a war; but if they find themselves at peace and quiet, they do a great many small evils right there in the city. What kind
do you mean? he asked. The kind where they steal, break into houses, cut purses, strip men of their cloaks, rob temples, kidnap people into slavery; sometimes they act as informers, if they're capable speakers, and give false testimony and take bribes. Small evils indeed, he said, if only a few such men exist. Small things, I said, are small in relation to great things, and all of these, compared to a tyrant, in wickedness and misery for a city,
as the saying goes, don't even come close. For whenever many such men arise in a city, along with others who follow after them, and they become aware of their own numbers, then it is these very men, together with the folly of the populace, who beget the tyrant — that one among them who has, most of all, the greatest and most tyrannical power within his own soul. Naturally, he said — he would be the most tyrannical of all.
— and this happens if the people yield willingly; but if the city does not permit it, then just as that man once punished his mother and father, so again he will punish his fatherland, if he's able, by bringing in new companions, and it is under these men that he will keep and maintain his once-beloved motherland — as the Cretans call it — and fatherland, now enslaved. And this, indeed, would be the end of the
—the desires of such a man. "That's exactly right," he said. "So," I said, "aren't people like this already this way in private life, even before they rule? First, whoever they spend time with—either they keep company with flatterers of themselves, ready to serve their every whim, or, if they need something from someone, they grovel themselves, willing to strike any pose to seem like intimate friends—until they get what they want, at which point they become strangers again." "Very much so."
"So throughout their whole life they're never a friend to anyone—always either mastering someone or slave to someone else, and the tyrannical nature never tastes freedom or true friendship." "Quite so." "So wouldn't we be right to call such men untrustworthy?" "Of course." "And as unjust as it's possible to be, if we were right earlier in what we agreed about the nature of justice."
"Yes indeed," he said, "we were right." "Let's sum up, then," I said, "the worst man. He is, I think, the one who—awake—is what we described as a dream. And this is what happens to whoever, being tyrannical by nature in the highest degree, becomes sole ruler—and the longer he lives as a tyrant, the more he becomes this." "That must be so," said Glaucon, taking up the argument.
"So," I said, "whoever proves most wicked will also appear most wretched? And whoever is tyrant longest and most thoroughly, will in truth have become most wicked for the longest time—even if the majority think many things otherwise?" "That must be so," he said, "at any rate." "Isn't it the case, then," I said, "that the tyrannical man corresponds—
by resemblance—to the tyrannized city, and the democratic man to the democratic city, and so on for the others?" "Of course." "And as city stands to city in virtue and happiness, so does man to man?" "Naturally." "So how does the tyrannized city compare in virtue to the kingly city we described first?" "Exact opposites," he said, "the one is best, the other worst." "I won't ask," I said,
"which is which—that's obvious. But do you judge happiness and wretchedness the same way, or differently? And let's not be dazzled by staring at the single tyrant, or at the few around him, but let's actually enter the whole city and look at it, plunging in and seeing everything, and only then declare our judgment." "That's the right challenge," he said, "and it's clear to everyone that no city is more wretched than one under tyranny,
and none happier than one under kingship." "So," I said, "if I issued the same challenge regarding the men, wouldn't I be right to demand that the judge be someone able, in thought, to enter a man's character and see it through, not like a child looking from outside and being dazzled by the tyrannical façade that tyrants put on for outsiders, but
someone who sees clearly enough? If I thought we should all listen to that person—someone capable of judging, who has lived in the same house and been present at the man's private dealings with each member of his household, where he'd be seen most stripped of his tragic costume, and also present in public dangers—and having seen all this, we should tell him to report how
the tyrant compares to others in happiness and wretchedness?" "That would be the most correct challenge of all," he said. "Do you want us, then," I said, "to pretend to be among those capable of judging, who have already met such men, so we have someone to answer our questions?" "By all means." "Come then," I said, "consider it this way. Recalling the resemblance between the city and the man, examine them
one point at a time in turn, and describe the condition of each. What points?" he said. "First," I said, "speaking of the city, will you call the tyrannized city free or enslaved?" "As enslaved as possible," he said. "And yet you do see masters and free people in it." "I see that," he said, "a small part of it—but the whole, so to speak, in it
—and the most decent part—is dishonorably and wretchedly enslaved." "If, then," I said, "the man resembles the city, mustn't the same arrangement exist in him too—mustn't his soul be full of much slavery and unfreedom, with the most decent parts of it enslaved, while a small, most depraved and maddest part rules?" "Necessarily," he said. "Well then,
will you say such a soul is slave or free?" "Slave, I'd say, of course." "And doesn't the enslaved, tyrannized city do least of all what it wants?" "Very much so." "So the tyrannized soul too will do least of all what it wishes—speaking of the soul as a whole—but, dragged always by force by its gadfly, will be full of confusion and regret." "Of course."
"And must the tyrannized city be wealthy or poor?" "Poor." "So the tyrannical soul too must always be poor and insatiable." "So it is," he said. "And what about this—mustn't such a city, and such a man, be full of fear?" "Very much so." "And do you think you'll find more wailing, groaning, lamenting, and pain in any other city?"
"By no means." "And do you think a man has more of these things in anyone else than in this tyrannical man, maddened by desires and lusts?" "How could he?" he said. "Looking at all this and other such things, then, I think you were right to judge this city the most wretched of cities." "Wasn't I right?" he said. "Quite so," I said. "But about
the tyrannical man himself, looking at these same points, what do you say?" "By far," he said, "the most wretched of all others." "That," I said, "you're no longer right to say." "How so?" he said. "I don't think," I said, "that this one is yet the most wretched." "Then who is?" "This one, perhaps, will still seem to you more wretched than him." "Which one?" "Whoever," I said, "being tyrannical
in nature, doesn't live out his life as a private citizen, but is unlucky enough that some misfortune arranges for him to actually become a tyrant." "I gather from what's been said," he said, "that you're telling the truth." "Yes," I said, "but we shouldn't merely suppose such things—we should examine them thoroughly by this kind of argument, since the inquiry concerns the greatest matter: a good life versus a bad one." "Quite right,"
he said. "Consider, then, whether I'm making sense. It seems to me we need to think about him by starting from the following. From what?" "From each private individual—all those who are rich in the cities and own many slaves. These men have this much in common with tyrants: ruling over many. But the number differs." "Yes, it differs." "Do you know, then, that these men
live without fear and aren't afraid of their household slaves?" "Why would they be afraid?" "They wouldn't," I said—"but do you understand the reason?" "Yes—because the whole city comes to the aid of each individual." "Well put," I said. "But what if some god took one man who owns fifty or more slaves, and lifted him out of the city, him and his wife
and children, along with the rest of his property and his slaves, and set him down in a wilderness, where none of the free would be there to help him—in what sort of fear, and how much of it, do you think he'd find himself, for himself and his children and wife, that they might be destroyed by the slaves?" "In every kind," he said, "I'd think." "So wouldn't he be forced to start flattering some
of these very slaves, and promising them much, freeing them without needing to, and would he himself turn out to be a flatterer of his own servants?" "He'd be utterly compelled to," he said, "or else be destroyed." "And what if the god also settled around him many other neighbors who would not tolerate anyone claiming mastery over another, but if they caught anyone doing so, would punish him with the harshest penalties?"
"He'd be, I think, even worse off then, surrounded on all sides by enemies keeping watch." "So isn't the tyrant bound in just such a prison—being by nature what we've described, full of many and manifold fears and desires? And being greedy in soul, he alone of everyone in the city is unable to travel anywhere, nor to see the sights
that other free people desire to see, but stays shut up in his house for the most part, living like a woman, envying even the other citizens if any of them travels abroad and sees something good." "Absolutely so," he said. "So doesn't the man reap a greater harvest of such evils, the one who—governing himself badly, whom you just now judged most wretched, the tyrannical man—doesn't live as a private citizen
but is forced by some misfortune to become an actual tyrant, and, being unable to master himself, undertakes to rule others—just as if someone with a sick body, unable to master himself, were forced to spend his life not in private retirement but competing and fighting against other bodies." "You're speaking most fittingly and truly, Socrates," he said. "So," I said, "dear Glaucon, isn't this condition utterly wretched,
and doesn't the tyrant live a life even harder than the one you judged hardest?" "Absolutely," he said. "So it's true in reality, even if some don't think so, that the real tyrant is in truth a real slave, subject to the greatest flatteries and servilities, a flatterer of the worst people, and, far from satisfying his desires in any way at all, he appears most in need of the most things and truly poor, if
one knows how to look at his whole soul—and full of fear his whole life through, full of convulsions and pains, if indeed he resembles the condition of the city he rules. And he does resemble it, doesn't he?" "Very much so," he said. "And besides this, shall we also credit the man with what we said before—that he must be, and must become even more so through his rule,
than before, envious, untrustworthy, unjust, friendless, unholy, host and nurse to every vice, and as a result of all this, above all, wretched himself, and then also making those near him just as wretched." "No one with sense," he said, "will contradict you." "Come then," I said, "now, like the judge who decides over all, so too you—
judge in this way who is first in your opinion in happiness, and who is second, and rank the rest in order, all five: the kingly man, the timocratic, the oligarchic, the democratic, the tyrannical." "But the judgment is easy," he said. "For just as they entered, I judge them like choruses, by virtue and vice, happiness and its opposite." "Shall we hire a herald, then," I said, "or shall I myself proclaim that the son of Ariston
judged the best and most just man to be the happiest, and that this is the most kingly man, the one who rules himself, while the worst and most unjust man is the most wretched, and that this one turns out to be whoever, being most tyrannical, tyrannizes himself as much as possible and the city too?" "Consider it proclaimed," he said. "Shall I add, then," I said, "whether they escape notice as being such or not, to all mankind—"
"—and the gods too," he said, "add that." "Very well," I said. "That would be one proof for us. But look at this second one, and see if it seems to be anything. What is it? Since the city, as I said, has been divided into three classes, so too the soul of each individual is threefold, and it will admit, I think, of another proof as well." "What proof is that?" "This one. There being three parts—"
"—there also seem to me to be three kinds of pleasure, one proper to each of the three, and likewise three appetites and three ruling principles." "What do you mean?" he said. "One, we say, is that by which a person learns; another is that by which he feels anger; the third, because of its many forms, we could not address by any single name proper to it, but we named it after whatever was greatest and strongest in it—we have called it the appetitive part, because of its"
vehemence in the appetites concerned with food, drink, and sex, and all that follows in their train; and 'money-loving' too, because it is chiefly through money that such appetites are fulfilled." "And rightly so," he said. "So if we were to say that its pleasure and its affection are for gain, wouldn't we be pinning it down most accurately in speech to a single heading, one that would make something"
clear to us, whenever we spoke of this part of the soul—and wouldn't we be right to call it money-loving and gain-loving?" "That's how it seems to me, at least," he said. "Now what about the spirited part—don't we say that it is wholly bent, always, on mastery and victory and good reputation?" "Very much so." "So if we called it victory-loving and honor-loving, wouldn't that be fitting?" "Most fitting indeed."
"But surely, as for that by which we learn, it's clear to everyone that it is always stretched wholly toward knowing the truth, whatever that may be, and that of money and reputation this part cares least of all." "Very much so." "So if we called it learning-loving and philosophic, wouldn't we be calling it fittingly?" "Of course." "And does this part rule in some people's souls,"
"while in others one of the other two rules, whichever happens to?" "Just so," he said. "For this reason, then, do we say that there are three primary kinds of human beings—the philosophic, the victory-loving, and the gain-loving?" "Precisely." "And also three forms of pleasure, one underlying each of these?" "Certainly." "Do you know, then," I said, "that if you wanted to ask three such people, each in turn, which of these lives"
is the most pleasant, each will praise his own most highly? The moneymaker will say that the pleasure of being honored, or that of learning, is worth nothing compared to gain, unless it can be turned into money." "True," he said. "And what of the honor-lover? Doesn't he think the pleasure that comes from money is something vulgar, and again the pleasure that comes from"
learning—unless the learning brings honor—mere smoke and nonsense?" "That's how it is," he said. "And the philosopher—what do we suppose he thinks of the other pleasures compared to that of knowing the truth, whatever it may be, and of always being engaged in learning something of that kind? Isn't he pretty far from that pleasure of theirs? And doesn't he call the others truly necessary, since he would have no need of them at all if he"
weren't compelled to?" "He needs to know that clearly," he said. "Well then," I said, "since the pleasures of each kind, and the life itself, are disputed—not just which is nobler or baser, or worse or better, but which is actually more pleasant and less painful—how could we know which of them speaks most truly?" "I really can't say," he said. "But consider it"
this way. By what should things that are going to be well judged be judged? Isn't it by experience, understanding, and reasoned argument? Or could someone have a better criterion than these?" "How could he?" he said. "Consider then: of the three men, which is most experienced in all the pleasures we have named? Does the gain-lover seem to you, in learning the very truth of what it is, to be more experienced in the pleasure of"
knowing, than the philosopher is in the pleasure of gaining?" "There's a great difference," he said. "For the one, having begun from childhood, must taste of the other pleasures; but the gain-lover is not compelled to taste of this pleasure—of knowing how the things that are are by nature, and how sweet it is—nor to become experienced in it; rather, even if he were eager to, it would not be easy." "So the philosopher," I said, "differs greatly from"
the gain-lover in his experience of both pleasures." "Very much so." "And what of the honor-lover? Is he more inexperienced in the pleasure of understanding than the philosopher is in that of being honored?" "But honor," he said, "follows all of them alike, provided each accomplishes what he set out to do—for the rich man too is honored by many, and so is the brave man, and the wise man—so that"
as far as the pleasure of being honored goes, what it is like, all are experienced; but as for the pleasure in the contemplation of what truly is, no one but the philosopher can possibly have tasted it." "As far as experience goes, then," I said, "this man judges best among the three." "By far." "And moreover he alone has become experienced along with understanding." "Of course." "And further, the instrument by which judgment must be made is not"
an instrument belonging to the gain-lover, nor to the honor-lover, but to the philosopher." "Which one is that?" "We said, didn't we, that judgment must be made through argument?" "Yes." "And argument is above all his instrument." "Of course." "Now if what is judged were best judged by wealth and gain, then whatever the gain-lover praised and blamed would necessarily be truest." "Quite necessarily." "But if"
it were judged by honor, victory, and courage, wouldn't it be whatever the honor-lover and the victory-lover praised?" "Clearly." "But since it is judged by experience, understanding, and argument—" "Then necessarily," he said, "whatever the philosopher and the lover of argument praises is truest." "So of the three pleasures, the one belonging to that part of the soul by which we learn would be the most pleasant, and wherever this part rules within us,"
the life of that part is the most pleasant?" "How could it be otherwise?" he said. "For the understanding one, being the authoritative judge, praises his own life as its rightful praiser." "And what life, and what pleasure, does the judge say ranks second?" I said. "Clearly that of the warlike and honor-loving man, since it is nearer to his own than the moneymaker's is." "So last comes that of the gain-lover, it"
seems." "Of course," he said. "So that would make two wins in a row for the just man over the unjust—two falls out of three. But the third, in Olympic fashion, is dedicated to Zeus the Savior and Zeus of Olympia: notice that the pleasure of the others is not even wholly true, nor pure, but a kind of painted shadow, as I believe I have heard from one of the"
wise. And yet this would be the greatest and most decisive of the falls." "By far. But how do you mean?" "I shall work it out this way," I said, "seeking as you answer along with me. Ask, then," he said. "Tell me," I said, "don't we say that pain is the opposite of pleasure?" "Very much so." "And also that there is such a thing as feeling neither joy nor pain?" "There is." "A state in between the two, in"
the middle, a kind of stillness of the soul with respect to these things? Or is that not how you would put it?" "That's how it is," he said. "Now do you remember," I said, "the things sick people say, the things they say when they are ill?" "Which things?" "That nothing, after all, is more pleasant than being healthy—but it had escaped their notice, before they fell ill, that this was the most pleasant thing of all." "I remember," he said. "And don't you also hear people gripped by some great pain"
saying that nothing is more pleasant than the ceasing of the pain?" "I hear that." "And in many other such cases too, I think, you notice people saying that, when they are in pain, it is the not being in pain, and the stillness of that state, that they praise as the most pleasant thing—not the feeling of joy." "Yes," he said, "for at that time stillness becomes pleasant, and something to be content with, I suppose." "And so, when someone stops feeling joy," I said, "then the"
stillness of that pleasure will be painful." "Perhaps," he said. "So the thing we just said lay in between the two, this stillness, will sometimes be both—both pain and pleasure." "So it seems." "But is it really possible for a thing that is neither of two things to become both?" "That doesn't seem right to me." "And yet what arises in the soul as pleasant, and what arises as painful, are both a kind of motion, aren't they?" "Yes." "Whereas"
what is neither painful nor pleasant just now appeared to be stillness, and in between these two?" "Yes, it did." "How, then, can it be right to think that not being in pain is pleasant, or that not feeling joy is painful?" "In no way." "So this is not really so, but only appears so—it appears, I said, that stillness is pleasant alongside what is painful, and painful alongside what is pleasant, and there is nothing sound"
in these appearances, as measured against the truth of pleasure—it's a kind of sorcery." "That's certainly what the argument shows," he said. "Look, then," I said, "at pleasures that do not arise out of pains, so that you won't often think, on the strength of the present case, that this is the nature of the thing—that pleasure is just the cessation of pain, and pain the cessation of pleasure." "Where, then," he said, "and which pleasures do you mean?" "There are many others," I said, "but consider especially,"
if you're willing, the pleasures connected with smell. These, without any prior pain, suddenly become extraordinary in their intensity, and when they cease they leave no pain behind." "Very true," he said. "So let's not be persuaded that pure pleasure is relief from pain, or that pain is the loss of pleasure." "No, let's not." "And yet," I said, "the pleasures that reach the soul through the body—the ones called pleasures, that is—"
most of them, and the greatest, are of this kind: certain reliefs from pains." "Yes, they are." "And don't the anticipatory pleasures and pains that arise beforehand, from expecting such things to come, work the same way?" "The same way." "Do you know, then," I said, "what kind they are, and what they most resemble?" "What?" he said. "Do you think," I said, "that there is in nature such a thing as up, down, and"
middle?" "I do." "Do you suppose, then, that someone being carried from below toward the middle would think anything other than that he is being carried upward? And standing in the middle, looking back at where he had come from, would he think himself anywhere other than above, not having seen what is truly above?" "By Zeus, no," he said, "I don't think such a person could think anything else."
"But if he were carried back again, wouldn't he think he was being carried downward, and think it truly?" "Of course." "And wouldn't all this happen to him because he has no experience of what is truly above, and in the middle, and below?" "Clearly." "Would you be surprised, then, if people inexperienced in truth hold unsound opinions about many other things as well, and"
are disposed toward pleasure and pain and what lies between them in such a way that, when they are carried toward the painful, they think truly and are really in pain, but when they move from pain toward the middle, they strongly believe they are approaching fullness and pleasure—just as someone comparing gray to black, for lack of experience with white, mistakes it for white—so too, comparing painlessness to pain, they mistake it for"
—looking at things through their inexperience of pleasure, are they deceived? By Zeus, he said, I wouldn't be surprised—rather I'd be far more surprised if it weren't so. Well then, I said, consider it this way. Aren't hunger and thirst and things like that certain emptyings of the body's condition? Of course. And isn't ignorance and folly an emptiness of the soul's condition in turn? Very much so.
Yes. And wouldn't both the one who takes a share of food and the one who gets some understanding be filled? Of course. And is the fuller filling that of the less real thing or the more real thing? Clearly of the more real. Which class, then, do you think partakes more of pure being—the kind that consists of bread and drink and relish and food in general, or the form of true opinion and
of knowledge and understanding and, in sum, of all excellence? Judge it this way: does what clings always to the same, and to the immortal, and to truth, and is itself of that sort and comes to be in something of that sort, seem to you to have more being than what never clings to the same, and is mortal, and is itself of that sort and comes to be in something of that sort? It differs greatly, he said—the thing that clings always to the same.
Does the being of what is always the same partake of being any more than of knowledge? By no means. What then, of truth? Not that either. And if it partakes less of truth, doesn't it also partake less of being? Necessarily. So on the whole, then, the classes concerned with the care of the body partake less of truth and being than the classes concerned with the care of the soul? Very much so. And don't you think the body itself is so compared to the soul?
I do. And isn't what is filled with things that have more being, and is itself more real, more really filled than what is filled with things that have less being and is itself less real? Of course. So if being filled with what is naturally fitting is pleasant, then what is filled, in truth, with things that have more being would make one rejoice more really and more truly with a true pleasure, while what
partakes of things that have less being would be filled less truly and less securely, and would partake of a less trustworthy and less true pleasure. Most necessarily so, he said. So those who have no experience of wisdom and excellence, but are always occupied with feasting and things of that sort, are carried, it seems, downward and back again as far as the middle, and wander about in this way through their whole life, never going beyond this to
what is truly above—they have never looked up to it nor been carried there, nor have they ever been filled with what really has being, nor tasted a secure and pure pleasure, but like cattle, always looking down and bent toward the ground and toward their tables, they graze, fattening themselves and mating; and for the sake of getting more of these things they kick and butt one another with iron horns and hooves, killing each other out of insatiable greed, since
they are filling not with things that are, nor with what really is, nor with what can hold themselves. Entirely, said Glaucon, Socrates, you're speaking as an oracle about the life of the many. Isn't it necessary, then, that they also have pleasures mixed with pains, mere images of the true pleasure, and shadow-painted, colored by their juxtaposition with one another so that each appears intense, and engender in the foolish mad longings for themselves, and
make them worth fighting over—just as the phantom of Helen, Stesichorus says, became, through ignorance of the truth, the object over which the men at Troy fought? A great necessity, he said, that it should be something of that sort. And what about the spirited part—isn't it necessary that other such things happen there too, for whoever pursues that same thing either through envy from love of honor, or through violence from love of victory, or through anger from ill temper, pursuing satiety of honor and
victory and spirit without reasoning and understanding? Such things, he said, must necessarily happen there too. What then, I said—shall we confidently say that concerning the love of gain and the love of victory too, whichever desires follow knowledge and reason, and pursue with these the pleasures which the wise part
guides them to and takes, will get the truest pleasures, so far as it is possible for them to get true ones, since they follow truth, and will get their own proper pleasures, if indeed what is best for each thing is also most proper to it? Yes, he said, it is most proper indeed. So then, with the whole soul following the philosophic part and not being in faction, it is possible for each part to do its own work in other respects and to be just, and
in particular for each part to enjoy its own pleasures, and the best pleasures, and, as far as possible, the truest. Quite so indeed. But whenever one of the other parts gets the upper hand, it happens that it neither finds its own pleasure, and it also forces the others to pursue a pleasure that is alien and not true. So it is, he said. So then, don't the things that stand furthest from philosophy and reason produce most
such effects? Very much so. And doesn't what stands furthest from reason stand furthest also from law and order? Clearly so. And weren't the erotic and tyrannical desires shown to stand furthest away? Very much so. And the kingly and orderly desires the least? Yes. So then the tyrant, I suppose, will stand furthest of all from true and proper pleasure, and the king the least. Necessarily. And so the tyrant
will live most unpleasantly, I said, and the king most pleasantly. Quite necessarily. Do you know, then, I said, by how much more unpleasantly the tyrant lives than the king? I will if you tell me, he said. There being, it seems, three pleasures, one genuine and two bastard, the tyrant, going beyond even the bastard ones to the far side, fleeing law and reason, dwells with certain slavish bodyguard pleasures, and by how much he falls short
—it's not entirely easy to say, except perhaps this way. How? he said. From the oligarchic man the tyrant stood, I think, third in distance—for the democratic man was between them. Yes. So then he would dwell with a pleasure that is a third image removed from truth, counting from that one, if what was said before is true? So it is. And the oligarchic man in turn stands third from the kingly man, if we set the aristocratic and
kingly together as one. He's third, then. So the tyrant, I said, stands at three times three—a threefold multiple—in number, removed from true pleasure. So it appears. Then the phantom, it seems, would be a plane figure according to the number of the tyrant's pleasure taken lengthwise. Quite so. But taken as a power and to the third increase, it's clear how great a distance results, once it is worked out. Clear, he said, to one skilled in reckoning. So then if someone, turning it around,
tells in truth how far removed the king is from the tyrant in pleasure, he will find, once the multiplication is completed, that the king lives 729 times more pleasantly, and the tyrant that much more painfully by this same measure of distance. An extraordinary calculation, he said, you have brought down upon the difference between the two men, the just and the unjust, in respect of pleasure and pain. And yet a true one, I said, and one fitting
to their lives, if indeed days and nights and months and years fit them. Well, they do fit them, he said. So then if the good and just man beats the bad and unjust man by so much in pleasure, won't he beat him by an extraordinary amount in decency of life, and in beauty, and in excellence? An extraordinary amount indeed, by Zeus, he said. Well then, I said, since we have arrived at this point in the argument,
let us take up again the first things that were said, on account of which we came here. It was said, I believe, that it profits the completely unjust man who has a reputation for justice to do wrong—or wasn't it said that way? That's how it was said. Well now, I said, let us discuss it with him, since we have agreed on what power each of doing wrong and doing what is just has. How? he said. By fashioning an image of the soul in words, so that the one who was saying those things may know
what sort of things he was saying. What sort of image? he said. One of those, I said, of the kind that ancient mythical natures are said to have been—that of the Chimaera, and Scylla, and Cerberus, and quite a few others are said to have grown together, many forms into one. Yes, they are said to, he said. Fashion, then, one form of a many-colored, many-headed beast, having heads of tame beasts
in a circle and wild ones too, able to change and to grow all these out of itself. That's the work of a clever molder, he said—but since speech is easier to mold than wax and such materials, let it be molded. Now then, mold one other form, of a lion, and one of a man; and let the first be by far the largest, and the second, the second largest. These, he said, are easier, and they're molded. Now join
these three into one, so that they somehow grow together with one another. Joined, he said. Now mold around them, on the outside, the image of one thing, that of the man, so that to one who cannot see what's inside, but sees only the outer shell, it appears to be one living creature, a man. Molded around, he said. Now let us say to the one who claims that it profits this man to do wrong, but that acting justly is not to his advantage, that
he is saying nothing other than this: that it profits him to make the many-formed beast strong by feasting it well, and the lion too, and what belongs to the lion, but to starve the man and make him weak, so that he is dragged wherever either of those two leads him, and to accustom neither of them to the other nor make them friends, but to let them bite each other and, fighting, devour one another. Yes indeed,
he said, that is what the one praising injustice would say. And in turn, wouldn't the one who says that just actions are profitable claim that one must do and say those things by which the inner man within the man will be most in control, and will care for the many-headed creature like a farmer, nourishing and taming the tame parts, and preventing the wild ones from growing, making the lion's nature his ally,
and caring for all things in common, making them friends with each other and with himself, and raising them in this way? Quite so, in turn, that is exactly what the one who praises justice says. In every way, then, the one who praises just things would speak the truth, while the one who praises unjust things would lie. For with a view to pleasure and reputation and benefit alike, the praiser of justice speaks the truth, while
the blamer has no soundness and doesn't even know what he is blaming when he blames it. It doesn't seem so to me, he said, not in any way. Let us then persuade him gently—for he errs unwillingly—by asking: my good man, wouldn't we say that the customs of what is fine and what is shameful have come about for reasons like these—the fine things being those that subject the beastly parts of our nature to the man, or rather perhaps to the
divine, and the shameful things being those that enslave the tame part to the wild? He will agree—or how else? If he's persuaded by me, he said. Is there anyone, then, I said, for whom it profits, by this argument, to take gold unjustly, if it turns out to be something like this—that in taking the gold he simultaneously enslaves the best part of himself to the most vicious part? Or if, having taken gold, he were to enslave a son or a daughter,
and that to wild and evil men, it would not profit him, not even if he received a very great amount for it—but if he enslaves the most divine part of himself to the most godless and polluted part, and shows it no pity, isn't he then wretched, and does he not accept gold as a bribe toward a far more terrible ruin than Eriphyle did in accepting the necklace in exchange for her husband's life? Far more,
"Of course," said Glaucon. "I'll answer on his behalf. Don't you think that self-indulgence has always been blamed for exactly this reason—that in the self-indulgent person that terrible, huge, many-formed creature is let loose beyond what it should be?" "Clearly," he said. "And stubbornness and bad temper are blamed whenever the lion-like and snake-like part grows and stretches
out of tune?" "Certainly." "And luxury and softness are blamed for the slackening and loosening of that same part, when it produces cowardice in a person?" "Of course." "And flattery and servility are blamed whenever someone puts this same spirited part under the unruly beast, and for the sake of money and its insatiable greed accustoms it from youth to being kicked around, turning it, instead of a lion, into
an ape?" "Very much so," he said. "And why do you suppose menial labor and handicraft carry disgrace? Shall we say it's for any reason other than this—that when someone has by nature a weak form of the best part, so that it cannot rule the creatures within him but instead serves them, and can only learn how to flatter them?" "It seems so," he said. "So that such a person too
may be ruled by something similar to what rules the best sort of person, we say he ought to be a slave to that best person, the one who has the divine element ruling within him—not because we think it's for the slave's harm that he should be ruled, as Thrasymachus supposed about the ruled, but because it's better for everyone to be ruled by what is divine and wise, ideally having it as one's own within oneself, but if not,
having it set over one from outside, so that as far as possible we may all be alike and friends, steered by the same thing." "And rightly so," he said. "And law makes clear," I said, "that it wants exactly this, being an ally to everyone in the city. So does our rule over children—not letting them be free until we establish in them, as in a city, a constitution,
and by cultivating their best part, set up in its stead a guardian and ruler like our own within them—and only then do we release them into freedom." "Yes, that's clear," he said. "In what way, then, Glaucon, and on what reasoning shall we say it profits someone to act unjustly, or to be self-indulgent, or to do something shameful, from which he will become worse, even if he acquires more money or some other power?"
"In no way," he said. "And how does it profit the wrongdoer to escape detection and avoid paying the penalty? Doesn't the one who escapes notice become even worse, while for the one who doesn't escape notice and is punished, the beastly part is lulled and tamed, and the gentle part is set free, and the whole soul, settling into its best nature, takes on a more valuable condition, acquiring temperance and justice along with
wisdom—more valuable than the body's acquiring strength and beauty along with health, by exactly as much as the soul is more valuable than the body?" "Absolutely," he said. "So won't the person of sense direct his whole life toward this goal—honoring first the studies that will produce such a state in his soul, and holding the rest in low regard?" "Clearly," he said. "And next," I said, "as for the condition and nurture
of his body, he will not live directed toward giving in to the beastly and irrational pleasure, turned that way, nor even, for that matter, looking to health, nor holding it as most important that he be strong or healthy or handsome, unless he's also going to gain temperance from these things—but he will always be found tuning the harmony in his body for the sake of the concord in his soul." "Absolutely," he said,
"if he really means to be a person of harmony." "And won't he do the same," I said, "in the arrangement and harmony of his acquisition of wealth? Won't he refuse to be dazzled by the mass of the crowd's admiration into piling up wealth without limit, and so having endless troubles?" "I don't think so," he said. "But rather," I said, "keeping his eye on the constitution within himself, and guarding against upsetting any of its parts
either through too much property or too little, he will steer accordingly, adding to and spending from his wealth as far as he is able." "Quite so," he said. "And as for honors too, looking to the same thing, he will willingly share in and taste those he thinks will make him better, but will avoid, both privately and publicly, those that would undo his established condition."
"Then," he said, "he won't be willing to take part in politics, if he cares about this." "By the dog," I said, "he certainly will, in his own city at least—though perhaps not in his native land, unless some divine chance happens to befall him." "I understand," he said. "You mean the city we've just been founding as we went through our discussion, the one that exists in words—since I don't think it exists anywhere
on earth." "But," I said, "perhaps a model of it is laid up in heaven for the one who wishes to see it, and seeing it, to found himself accordingly. It makes no difference whether it exists anywhere or ever will exist; for he would take part in the affairs of this city alone, and no other." "That seems likely," he said.