Plato · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
"Indeed," I said, "there's a good deal else about this city of ours that makes me think we were right to found it exactly as we did — but nothing more than what I'm about to say about poetry." "What about it?" he said. "That we should admit none of it that is imitative — none at all. That now seems to me even clearer than before, now that we've distinguished the parts of the soul separately."
"What do you mean?" "Just between us — you won't repeat this to the tragic poets and all the other imitators — all poetry of that kind seems to be a kind of mutilation of the mind of anyone who hears it, unless he has the antidote of knowing what it actually is." "What exactly do you mean by that?" he asked. "I must say it," I replied, "though a certain affection—"
"—and a reverence I've felt for Homer since I was a boy holds me back from saying it. He seems to have been the first teacher and leader of all these fine tragic poets. But no man is to be honored above the truth, and so, as I say, it must be said." "It must indeed," he said. "Listen, then — or rather, answer me. Can you tell me, generally, what imitation is?
For I myself don't quite grasp what it's meant to be." "Then I suppose I'll grasp it!" he said. "That wouldn't be strange," I said, "since often people who see less sharply have caught sight of things before those with keener eyes." "That's true," he said, "but with you here I couldn't even bring myself to try to say what occurs to me — you look for it yourself." "Shall we begin, then,
examining it by our usual method? We're in the habit of positing some one form for each set of many particulars to which we apply the same name. Or don't you follow?" "I follow." "Let's take, then, any of the many particulars you like. For instance, if you wish, there are many beds and many tables." "Of course." "But there are only two forms for these pieces of furniture —
one of a bed, one of a table." "Yes." "And we're also in the habit of saying that the craftsman who makes each of these — one making beds, the other tables, the ones we use — looks to the form as he makes them, and likewise for everything else? Because surely no craftsman makes the form itself." "How could he?" "He couldn't. But now look
at this — what would you call this other craftsman?" "Which one?" "The one who makes everything — everything that each of the individual craftsmen makes." "That's some clever and remarkable man you're describing." "Not yet — but you'll soon say so all the more. For this same craftsman is able not only to make every kind of furniture, but also everything that grows from the earth,
and he produces all the animals, including himself, and besides these, earth and sky and the gods and everything in heaven and everything in Hades under the earth." "That's a truly remarkable sophist you're describing!" "You don't believe me? Tell me — does it seem to you altogether impossible that such a craftsman could exist, or that in some sense he could be the maker of all these things, and in another sense
not? Or don't you see that you yourself could produce all these things, in a certain way?" "And what way is that?" he asked. "Not difficult," I said, "in fact accomplished quickly and in many ways — most quickly, I suppose, if you're willing to take a mirror and carry it around everywhere. You'll quickly make the sun and everything in the sky, quickly the earth,
quickly yourself and the other animals and furniture and plants and everything else just mentioned." "Yes," he said, "in appearance — but not really existing in truth." "Good," I said, "you've come right to the point of the argument. For I think the painter too is one of these craftsmen." "Isn't he?" "He is. But you'll say, I think, that what he makes isn't real,
even though in a way the painter too makes a bed, doesn't he?" "Yes," he said, "he too makes what appears to be one." "And what about the bed-maker? Didn't you just say that he doesn't make the form — what we call the thing itself, that which is bed — but merely a certain bed?" "So I did say." "So if he doesn't make what really is,
he wouldn't be making that which is, but something that resembles that which is without actually being it. And if anyone claimed that the product of the bed-maker, or of any other craftsman, is fully real, he'd probably be speaking falsely — wouldn't he?" "At least," he said, "that's how it would seem to those engaged in discussions of this kind." "Then let's not be surprised if this too turns out to be somewhat dim compared to truth."
"No, let's not." "Shall we, then," I said, "use these very examples to look for what this imitator is?" "If you like," he said. "Well then, these beds turn out to be of three kinds: one that exists in nature, which we would say, I think, is made by god. Or by whom else?" "No one, I think." "And one that the carpenter makes." "Yes," he said. "And one that the
painter makes. Isn't that so?" "Granted." "Painter, bed-maker, god — these three preside over three kinds of beds." "Yes, three." "Now god — whether he didn't wish it, or some necessity was on him not to make more than one bed in nature — in any case made only that one bed which is really bed; but two or more of that kind were never brought into being by
god, and never will be." "How is that?" he asked. "Because," I said, "if he made even just two, one would again come to light of which those two would in turn possess the form, and that would be what is really bed, not the two." "Rightly said," he replied. "Knowing this, I think, god — wishing to be in truth the maker of a bed that truly is, and not
just a maker of some particular bed, nor merely a bed-maker among others — made it single by nature." "So it seems." "Shall we, then, call him the natural author of this, or something of that sort?" "That would be fitting," he said, "since it's by nature that he's made this and everything else as well." "And what about the carpenter? Isn't he the maker of a bed?" "Yes." "And is the painter too a maker and craftsman of such a thing?" "Not at all." "Then what would you say he is, in relation to the bed?"
"This," he said, "seems to me the most fitting way to describe him: an imitator of that which the others make." "Very well," I said. "So the one whose product stands at third remove from nature — him you call an imitator?" "Exactly so," he said. "Then this is also what the tragic poet will be, if indeed he is an imitator — someone third from the king and from truth by nature, as are all the other imitators."
"It seems so." "We're agreed, then, about the imitator. Now tell me this about the painter: does he seem to you to attempt to imitate, in each case, the thing itself as it exists in nature, or the works of the craftsmen?" "The works of the craftsmen," he said. "As they are, or as they appear? That distinction still needs to be drawn." "What do you mean?" he said. "This: a bed, whether you view it from the side or
from straight in front or from any other angle, does it differ at all from itself, or does it not differ at all, though it appears different? And the same for everything else?" "That's how it is," he said — "it appears different, though it doesn't differ at all." "Then consider this very point: toward which of these two is painting directed in each case? Toward imitating that which is, as it really is, or toward the appearance, as it appears — is it an imitation of an illusion, or of the truth?" "Of an illusion," he said.
"Then imitation is a long way from the truth, and it seems, this is why it can produce everything — because it touches only a small part of each thing, and that part is a mere image. For instance, we say the painter will paint us a shoemaker, a carpenter, and the other craftsmen, though he understands nothing about any of these crafts; and yet, if he's a good painter, by painting a carpenter and
displaying him from a distance, he could deceive children and foolish people into thinking he's really a carpenter." "Why not?" "But I think, my friend, this is what we must bear in mind about all such matters: whenever someone reports to us about a person who has mastered every craft, and everything else that each individual expert knows, in more precise detail than anyone — we should assume of such a person
that he's a rather simple man, and that, it seems, having met some wizard and imitator, he was deceived into thinking the man all-wise, because he himself was incapable of distinguishing knowledge from ignorance and from imitation." "Very true," he said. "Well then," I said, "after this we must examine tragedy and its leader, Homer, since we hear some people say that these poets know all the
crafts, and all human affairs relating to virtue and vice, and even divine matters; for, they say, the good poet, if he's to compose well about the things he composes about, must compose with knowledge, or else he wouldn't be able to compose at all. So we must examine whether those who say this have simply encountered these imitators and been deceived, and, looking at their works, fail to notice that they are three steps removed
from what really is, and easy to produce without knowledge of the truth — since they produce illusions, not realities — or whether there's something to what they say, and good poets genuinely know, in truth, the subjects on which the crowd takes them to speak well." "That certainly must be examined," he said. "Do you think, then, that if someone were able to make both things — the thing to be imitated and the image of it — he would be eager to devote himself
to producing images, and set that up as the best thing in his life?" "I wouldn't think so." "But if he really had knowledge of the truth about the very things he imitates, I think he would be far more devoted to real deeds than to imitations, and would try to leave behind many fine achievements as monuments to himself, and would be more eager to be the one praised
than the one who praises." "I think so," he said, "since the honor and the benefit are not equal." "Then let's not demand an account from Homer, or from any other poet, about other matters — asking whether any of them was actually skilled in medicine rather than merely an imitator of medical talk — which of the poets, old or new, is said to have healed people the way Asclepius did, or
which pupils in medicine he left behind, as Asclepius left his descendants; and let's not question them about the other crafts either — let's leave those aside. But concerning the greatest and finest matters that Homer undertakes to speak about — wars, and generalship, and the governance of cities, and the education of human beings — surely it's fair to question him and ask: dear Homer, if you aren't third from the truth
in matters of virtue — a maker of images, which is what we defined an imitator to be — but are even second, and were capable of knowing what practices make men better or worse in private and in public life, tell us which city was governed better because of you, as Sparta was because of Lycurgus, and as many others, both great cities and small ones, were because of many other men? What city credits you with being a good lawgiver
—and benefited them? Italy and Sicily credit Charondas, we credit Solon—but whom will they name for you? Will anyone be able to say? I don't think so, said Glaucon—not even the Homeridae themselves claim one. But is any war of Homer's time remembered as having been well fought under his command or on his advice? None. Well, but the many practical inventions and useful devices that get attributed to a wise man's work in the arts or other undertakings—like those told of Thales of Miletus or Anacharsis the Scythian?
Nothing of that kind at all. Well then, if not in public life, is Homer said, at least privately, to have been a guide in education for people during his lifetime, people who loved his company and passed on to those after them a 'Homeric way of life,' the way Pythagoras himself was—
—loved exceptionally for this, and his followers even now still call their way of life 'Pythagorean' and seem in some way distinguished from everyone else? No, nothing like that is said of Homer either, he said. In fact, Socrates, Creophylus, Homer's companion—if we go by his name—would look even more ridiculous as an educator than the name suggests, if what's said about Homer is true.
For it's said that there was a great deal of neglect toward him on the part of that very companion, while Homer was alive. Yes, so it's said, I said. But do you think, Glaucon, that had Homer truly possessed the power to educate people and make them better—since he had genuine knowledge of these matters, not mere imitation—he wouldn't have gathered many companions and been honored and loved by them? Instead, Protagoras
of Abdera, and Prodicus of Ceos, and countless others are able to convince their contemporaries, in private conversation, that they'll never be capable of managing their own household or city unless those men personally oversee their education—and for this wisdom they're loved so intensely that their companions all but carry them around on their shoulders. But Homer—
—if he had really been capable of helping people toward virtue, would his contemporaries have let him or Hesiod wander about reciting verses? Wouldn't they have clung to them more tightly than to gold, and forced them to live at home with them, or, failing persuasion, followed them around wherever they went until they'd gotten a proper share of education from them? You seem to me to be telling the complete truth, Socrates, he said.
Then shall we conclude that, starting with Homer, all the poets are imitators of images of virtue and of the other things they compose about, and never grasp the truth itself—but that, as we said just now, the painter will make what looks like a shoemaker to those who understand nothing of shoemaking themselves and judge only by colors and shapes, and will convince others equally ignorant? Certainly. In just this way, I think,
we'll say the poet too applies certain colors of each craft with his words and phrases—without understanding anything himself, but only imitating—so that to others like himself, who judge by words alone, he seems to speak very well indeed, whether the subject is shoemaking, expressed in meter and rhythm and harmony, or generalship, or anything else whatever. Such is the natural power these things themselves possess
to cast a kind of spell. Since when you strip away the poets' words of their musical coloring and say them plainly by themselves, I think you know what they look like. You've seen this, surely. I have, he said. Doesn't it resemble, I said, the faces of people in their youthful bloom, though not truly beautiful, once the flower of youth has left them? Exactly so, he said. Now consider this next point.
The maker of the image, the imitator we're speaking of, understands nothing, we say, of what truly is, only of what appears—isn't that so? Yes. Then let's not leave the matter half stated, but examine it fully. Go on, he said. A painter, we say, will paint reins and a bit? Yes. And a shoemaker and a bronzesmith will make them? Certainly. So does the painter understand what the reins
and the bit ought to be like? Or does not even the maker understand this—the bronzesmith and the leatherworker—but only the one who knows how to use them, the horseman alone? Very true. And isn't this true of everything in the same way? How so? That for each thing there are these three arts—one that uses it, one that makes it, one that imitates it? Yes. And isn't the excellence, beauty, and rightness of each implement, living thing, and
action determined by nothing other than the use for which each was made or naturally suited? Just so. Then it follows necessarily that the one who uses each thing has the most experience of it, and reports to its maker what is good or bad about it in actual use. A flute player, for instance, reports to the flute-maker about the flutes that serve him well
in playing, and instructs him what kind to make, and the maker will comply. Of course. So the one who has knowledge reports on flutes good and bad, and the other, trusting him, makes accordingly? Yes. Then regarding the same implement, the maker will have correct belief about its quality and flaws, from associating with the one who knows and being obliged to listen to him, while the user has knowledge itself.
Certainly. But the imitator—will he, from using the thing, have knowledge of whether what he depicts is beautiful and right, or not, or will he have correct opinion, from being forced to associate with the one who knows and being told what he ought to depict? Neither. So the imitator will have neither knowledge nor correct opinion about whatever he imitates, as regards its beauty or its badness. It seems not.
So the imitative artist in poetry would be a charming fellow indeed when it comes to wisdom about the things he composes on. Not at all. And yet he'll go on imitating all the same, without knowing in what way each thing is bad or good—but, it seems, he'll imitate whatever appears beautiful to the many, who know nothing themselves. What else could he do? These points, then, as it appears,
we have agreed on well enough: that the imitative artist knows nothing worth mentioning about the things he imitates, that imitation is a kind of game and not something to be taken seriously, and that all who take up tragic poetry, whether in iambics or in epic verse, are imitators in the fullest possible sense. Certainly. Now, by Zeus, I said, this imitation—isn't it concerned with something that stands third
from the truth? Isn't that so? Yes. And with what part of a human being does it have this power that it has? What sort of thing do you mean? This: the same magnitude, seen from near and from far through sight, doesn't appear equal to us. No, it doesn't. And the same things appear bent or straight when viewed in water
and out of water, and also concave or convex, owing to the same visual confusion regarding colors—clearly there is every kind of disturbance present in our soul. It's to this weakness of our nature that scene-painting attaches itself and works its sorcery, leaving nothing undone, and so does conjuring and many other such devices. True. Then isn't it
the case that measuring and counting and weighing have shown themselves to be the most welcome aids here, so that what rules within us is not the apparent greater or smaller, more or heavier, but rather the calculated, measured, or weighed? Of course. And this, surely, would be the work of the reasoning part of the soul. Yes, of that part. And yet often, when this part has measured
and indicated that certain things are larger or smaller than others, or equal, the opposite appears at the same time about the same things. Yes. And didn't we say it's impossible for the same thing to hold contrary beliefs at the same time about the same things? And we were right to say so. So the part of the soul that forms judgment contrary to the measurements cannot be the same as the part that judges according to the measurements. No, it cannot. But surely the part that trusts
measurement and calculation would be the best part of the soul. Of course. So the part that opposes it would be one of the inferior elements in us. Necessarily. This is the point I wanted us to agree on when I said that painting, and imitation generally, produces its work far removed from the truth, and also keeps company with that part in us which is far removed from
wisdom, being its companion and friend for no sound or true purpose. Exactly so, he said. So imitation, being a lowly thing, consorting with what is lowly, breeds lowly offspring. So it seems. But is this true only of the imitation that works through sight, I said, or also through hearing—the kind we call poetry? It's likely true of this one too, he said. Then let's not trust likelihood alone,
based on the case of painting, but let's go directly to that very part of the mind with which poetic imitation keeps company, and see whether it is lowly or worthy. We must, he said. Let's set it out this way: imitation, we say, represents human beings engaged in actions, whether forced or voluntary, and as a result of acting believing themselves to have fared well or badly, and in all this feeling either grief
or joy. Was there anything else besides these? No. Now, in all these circumstances, is a person of one mind throughout? Or, just as with sight he was at war with himself, simultaneously holding opposed judgments about the very same things, does he likewise, in actions, stand divided and fight against himself? But I recall that we don't need to settle this point again now—
for in our earlier discussions we agreed sufficiently on all this, that our soul is full of countless such contradictions occurring at the same time. Rightly so, he said. Rightly indeed, I said—but what we left out then, I think it's now necessary to go through. What was that? he said. A decent man, I said, who has suffered some such misfortune—the loss of a son, say, or anything else he values most—
we said even then that he will bear it more easily than others. Certainly. But now let's examine this: will he feel no distress at all, or is that impossible, and will he rather show some moderation toward his grief? That's closer to the truth, he said. Now tell me this about him: do you think he'll be more inclined to struggle against his grief and resist it when he's seen by his equals,
or when he's alone by himself, in solitude? He'll behave very differently, I imagine, when he's being watched, he said. Left alone, I think, he'll dare to say many things he'd be ashamed to have overheard, and do many things he wouldn't want anyone to see him doing. That's how it is, he said. Now isn't it reason and law that urge him to resist, while it's the suffering itself
that drags him toward his grief? True. And when two opposite impulses arise in a person simultaneously concerning one and the same object, we say there must necessarily be two elements in him. Of course. And isn't one of them ready to obey the law, wherever the law leads? How so? The law says that it is best to remain as calm as possible in misfortunes, and not to give way to distress,
—since neither good nor bad in such matters is clear, and nothing is gained for the person who takes it hard by treating it as a great burden, and none of human affairs is worth taking so seriously, while grief gets in the way of the very thing we need to arrive at as quickly as possible in such circumstances. —What do you mean? he said. —Deliberating, I said, about what has happened,
and, as with a throw of the dice, arranging one's affairs to fit however the roll has fallen, in whatever way reason determines is best—rather than, like children who bang into something and then cling to the hurt spot, spending time wailing over it, but instead always training the soul to move as quickly as possible toward healing and setting right what has fallen and taken sick, making the lament disappear through the healer's art. —That would certainly be the most correct
way, he said, to respond to strokes of fortune. —So then, we say, the best part of us is willing to follow this reasoning. —Clearly. —And the part that drags us toward remembering the suffering and toward lamentation, and can't get enough of it—shall we not say that this is unreasoning, idle, and a friend of cowardice? —We shall say that. —And doesn't the one
have much and varied imitation—the fretful part—while the wise and calm character, being always nearly the same as itself, is neither easy to imitate nor, when imitated, easy for people to grasp—especially not for a crowd assembled in a festival gathering, made up of all sorts of people, since the feeling being imitated is foreign to them? —Absolutely. —So the imitative poet clearly is not naturally suited
to that part of the soul, and his skill isn't fixed on pleasing it, if he means to win a good reputation among the many—rather he is suited to the fretful and varied character, because it's easy to imitate. —Clearly. —So we'd be justified now in laying hold of him, and setting him down as the counterpart of the painter—for he resembles him in that his products are poor things measured against truth, and also in that he
consorts with another such part of the soul rather than with the best part—and in this respect too he is like him. And so we would now be right not to admit him into a city that is going to be well governed, because he stirs up this part of the soul and nurtures it, and by making it strong destroys the reasoning part—just as in a city, when someone puts wicked men in power and hands the city over to them, ruining the more decent people. The same
we shall say of the imitative poet: that he implants a bad constitution in each person's soul privately, by gratifying its unthinking part, which can't distinguish the greater from the lesser but regards the same things now as great, now as small, fashioning images of images, standing very far removed indeed from the truth. —Quite so. —And yet we still haven't brought the gravest charge against it. For the fact
that it is capable of corrupting even decent people—except for a very few—is a truly terrible thing. —Of course it is, if that's really what it does. —Listen and consider. When the best of us hear Homer, or one of the other tragic poets, imitating one of the heroes in grief, drawing out a long speech in his lamentations, or even singing and beating his breast, you know that
we take pleasure in it, and giving ourselves over, we follow along, suffering with him, and in all earnestness we praise as a good poet the one who affects us most powerfully in this way. —I know—of course. —But when a private grief comes to one of us, you notice, don't you, that we pride ourselves on the opposite—on being able to keep quiet and endure—on the grounds that this is what a man does, while that other thing, which we were praising then,
is what a woman does. —I notice that, he said. —Now is this praise a fine thing—when watching a man behave in a way one would be ashamed to behave oneself, one feels not disgust but delight and admiration? —No, by Zeus, he said, that doesn't seem reasonable. —Yes, I said, if you look at it this way. —How? —If you consider that the part
which is forcibly held in check in our own misfortunes, and which hungers to weep and wail its fill and get its satisfaction, since it is by nature the sort of thing that desires these things—this is exactly the part that gets fed and gratified by the poets; while the part of us that is naturally best, since it has not been adequately trained by reason or habit, relaxes its guard over this tearful part, on the ground that it is watching another's sufferings,
and that there's nothing shameful to itself if some other man, claiming to be good, grieves out of season—it thinks it gains by praising and pitying him, rather than losing the pleasure by despising the whole performance. For I think few people are able to reckon that what we absorb from others' sufferings inevitably spills over into our own; once the pitying part has been nourished and made strong on those occasions, it is
not easy to hold in check in one's own sufferings. —Very true, he said. —Doesn't the same argument apply also to the laughable? Namely, that if there are jokes you'd be ashamed to make yourself, but which, when you hear them in a comic imitation—or even in private—delight you enormously instead of your hating them as base, you're doing the very same thing as with the pitiable things: the part which, in reasoned reflection, you were holding back in yourself when it wanted to raise a laugh,
for fear of a reputation for buffoonery, you now let loose again; and by making it bold there, you often find yourself, without realizing it, carried away in your own affairs into becoming something of a comedian yourself. —Very much so, he said. —And the same applies to sex, and to spirited anger, and to all the desires and pains and pleasures in the soul which we say accompany our every action—that poetic imitation produces the same effect in us in these cases too;
for it nurtures these things by watering them, when they ought to be left to dry up, and sets them up as our rulers, when they ought to be ruled, so that we may become better and happier instead of worse and more wretched. —I can't say otherwise, he said. —So then, Glaucon, I said, whenever you come across admirers of Homer who say that this poet has educated Greece, and that for the management and education of human affairs he is
worth taking up so as to learn from, and to arrange one's whole life according to this poet's teaching—you must love and welcome them as being the best people they're capable of being, and agree that Homer is the most poetic of poets and the first of the tragedians; but you must know that only as much poetry as consists of hymns to the gods and hymns of praise to good men should be admitted into a city. If you admit the sweetened Muse
in songs or in epic verse, pleasure and pain will be kings in your city instead of law and that reasoning which is always, by common agreement, held to be best. —Very true, he said. —Let this, then, stand as our defense, now that we have recalled it, concerning poetry: that we were right at that time to send her away from the city, being of such a nature—reason compelled us to it. But let us also say to her, in case she charges us with
a certain harshness and rusticity, that there is an old quarrel between philosophy and poetry. For there is that yelping bitch snarling at her master, and 'great in the empty babble of fools,' and 'the mob of the overly clever holding sway,' and those 'who worry over fine points because they are poor'—and countless other signs of this ancient opposition between them. Nevertheless let it be said that we, for our part,
if she has any argument to offer for herself—the poetry that aims at pleasure, and imitation—showing that she ought to have a place in a well-governed city, would gladly welcome her back, since we are well aware ourselves that we are charmed by her. But it is not right to betray what seems to be the truth. Isn't that so, my friend? Aren't you yourself charmed by her, especially when you view her through Homer?
—Very much so. —Then it is just for her to return in this way—after she has made her defense in lyric or some other meter. —Certainly. —And we would surely grant to her champions too, those who are not poets themselves but lovers of poetry, to speak on her behalf without meter, showing that she is not only pleasant but also useful both for constitutions and for the life of human beings; and we shall listen
favorably. For we stand to gain, surely, if she should prove to be not only pleasant but beneficial. —How could we fail to gain? he said. —But if not, my dear friend, then just as those who have once fallen in love, if they come to believe the love is not beneficial, hold themselves back from it, even though it costs them effort—so too we, because of the love for this kind of poetry that has grown in us from
our upbringing in these fine constitutions, will be well disposed to have her shown to be the best and truest thing possible; but as long as she is unable to make her defense, we will listen to her while chanting to ourselves this argument we have made, as a kind of incantation, guarding against falling back into that childish love of her which is also the love of the many. We will chant, then, that we must not take
such poetry seriously, as though it laid hold of truth and were something to be taken in earnest; rather, whoever listens to her must be on his guard, fearing for the constitution within himself, and must hold to the views we have stated about poetry. —I agree entirely, he said. —Great, I said, is the contest, dear Glaucon, great—far greater than it seems—this question of becoming good or bad; so that neither honor, nor money,
nor any office, nor even poetry, is worth neglecting justice and the rest of virtue for. —I agree with you, he said, from what we have gone through; and I think anyone else would too. —And yet, I said, we have not yet gone through the greatest rewards and prizes set before virtue. —You must mean something of immense magnitude, he said, if there is anything greater than what has been said. —What indeed, I said,
could become great in so short a time? For this whole span from childhood to old age would be but a small thing compared to all of time. —Nothing at all, he said. —Well then? Do you think an immortal thing ought to be in earnest about so short a span, rather than about the whole of time? —I think so, he said. But what do you mean by this? —Have you not perceived, I said,
that our soul is immortal and never perishes? And he looked at me in wonder and said: No, by Zeus, I have not. Can you say this? —I ought to be able to, I said, if I'm not mistaken—and I think you can too, for it isn't difficult. —It is for me, he said; but I would gladly hear from you this thing that isn't difficult. —You may hear it, I said. —Only speak, he said.
—You call something good, I said, and something bad? —I do. —Do you think about them, then, the same way I do? —How so? —That whatever destroys and corrupts is entirely the bad, and whatever preserves and benefits is the good. —I do, he said. —Well then? Do you say that each thing has its own particular bad and good—for example, ophthalmia for the eyes, and disease for the whole body, blight for grain, rot for
timber, rust for bronze and iron, and, as I say, nearly everything has its own connatural evil and disease? —I do, he said. —So whenever any of these afflicts something, doesn't it make the thing bad, to which it has attached itself, and in the end dissolve and destroy it entirely? —Of course. —So the connatural evil of each thing, and its own particular badness, destroys each thing—or if this does not destroy it, nothing
could destroy it any further. For the good will never destroy anything, ever, and neither will what is neither good nor bad. "How could it?" he said. "So if we find, among existing things, something that has a bad condition that makes it defective, but this bad condition is nevertheless not capable of dissolving it by destroying it, won't we already know that for a thing so constituted
there was no destruction?" "That seems likely," he said. "Well then," I said, "isn't there something that makes the soul itself bad?" "Certainly," he said. "All the things we just went through—injustice, license, cowardice, ignorance." "Does any one of these dissolve it and destroy it? And consider—we mustn't be deceived into thinking that when an unjust and foolish person
is caught doing wrong, he has been destroyed at that moment by his injustice, as if injustice were a disease of the soul. Rather, look at it this way: just as bodily corruption, being a disease, wastes the body away and destroys it and brings it to the point of not being a body at all, so too all the things we just mentioned reach the point of not existing, through their own particular vice, by attaching itself to the soul and dwelling in it and corrupting it—isn't that so?" "Yes." "Come then, and examine the soul
in the same way. Does injustice, when it dwells within it, along with the other vice, destroy it and wither it away by dwelling there and attaching itself, until it leads it to death and separates it from the body?" "No," he said, "not that, certainly." "But surely," I said, "it would be unreasonable for the corruption belonging to one thing to destroy something else, while its own corruption does not destroy itself." "Unreasonable." "Consider, then,"
I said, "Glaucon, that we do not think the body must be destroyed by the badness of food—whatever that badness may be, whether staleness or rottenness or anything else—no, unless the badness of the food itself produces in the body a bodily defect, we will say that the body has perished through that food because of its own vice, which is a disease. But we will never think it right that the body, being one thing, should be destroyed by
the badness of food, which is a different thing, unless that foreign evil produces in it the innate evil." "Quite right again," he said. "By the same reasoning, then," I said, "unless bodily corruption produces in the soul a corruption of the soul, let us never think it right that the soul be destroyed by a foreign evil apart from its own particular vice—one thing by the evil of another."
"Yes, that makes sense," he said. "So either let us refute this and show that we are not speaking well, or, so long as it stands unrefuted, let us never claim that a fever, or some other sickness, or the knife, or even someone chopping the whole body into the tiniest pieces, causes the soul to perish any the more because of these things—not until someone demonstrates that because of these
sufferings of the body, the soul itself becomes more unjust and more impious. But when a foreign evil arises in one thing while its own proper evil does not arise in it, let us not allow anyone to say that the soul, or anything else, perishes." "But surely," he said, "no one will ever show this—that the souls of those who die become more unjust because of death." "But if someone," I said, "dares to meet
the argument head-on and say that a dying person does become more wicked and unjust—precisely so as not to be forced to admit that souls are immortal—we shall demand, if what this person says is true, that injustice be fatal to its possessor, like a disease, and that those who catch it die from it, from the very thing that kills by its own nature, some dying very quickly,
others more slowly—rather than, as is actually the case, dying from having a penalty imposed by others because of it." "By Zeus," he said, "injustice will not, after all, appear so utterly terrible if it is fatal to the one who has it—for that would be a release from evils—but rather I think it will appear quite the opposite: something that kills everyone else, if it can, while making its possessor extremely full of life, and
even, beyond being alive, wide awake. So far, it seems, is it encamped from being fatal." "Well put," I said. "For since its own particular badness and its own evil is not enough to kill and destroy the soul, hardly will an evil appointed for the destruction of something else destroy the soul or anything else, except that for which it is appointed." "Hardly
at all," he said, "as is reasonable." "So then, since it is destroyed by no evil whatsoever, neither its own nor a foreign one, clearly it must always exist; and if it always exists, it is immortal." "Necessarily," he said. "Let this, then," I said, "be settled so. And if it is so, you realize that the souls would always be the same. For they could not become fewer
if none is destroyed, nor again more numerous—for if any of the immortal things were to increase, you know it would have to come from the mortal, and everything would end up immortal." "True," he said. "But," I said, "let us not suppose that—for the argument won't allow it—nor again that the soul, in its truest nature, is such as to be full of great variety and dissimilarity and difference
within itself. "What do you mean?" he said. "It is not easy," I said, "for a thing composed of many parts, and not put together in the finest way, to be eternal, as the soul has now appeared to us to be." "No, that isn't likely." "That the soul is immortal, then, both the argument just given and the others would compel us to accept; but as for what it is like in truth, one must not view it
as damaged by its association with the body and other evils, as we now view it, but rather one must look closely with reasoning at what it is like when it becomes pure, and then one will find it far more beautiful, and one will discern more clearly matters of justice and injustice and everything we have just gone through. As it is, we have spoken truly about it as it now appears; but we have viewed
it in the condition it's in—like those who see the sea-god Glaucus, who could no longer easily make out his original nature, because the old parts of his body have been partly broken off, partly worn smooth, and altogether disfigured by the waves, while other things have grown onto him—shells and seaweed and rocks—so that he resembles any wild creature more than what he was by nature.
That is how we too view the soul, in the condition it's in, afflicted by countless evils. But we must look elsewhere, Glaucon." "Where?" he said. "To its love of wisdom, and consider what it grasps at and what kinds of company it longs for, as being akin to the divine and the immortal and to that which always exists, and what it would become if it followed wholly after such a thing, and were lifted
by that impulse out of the sea in which it now lives, and had knocked off it the rocks and shells—which, since it feasts on earth, have grown around it in great earthy and rocky and wild profusion, from those so-called happy feastings. Then one could see its true nature, whether it is many-formed or single-formed, or however it is and in whatever way. As it is, we
have described fairly adequately, I think, its sufferings and forms in human life." "Quite so," he said. "Have we not, then," I said, "cleared away the other objections in our argument, and not even praised the wages or reputations of justice, as you said Hesiod and Homer do, but found that justice itself is the best thing for the soul itself, and that the soul must do
what is just, whether it possesses the ring of Gyges or not, and, in addition to such a ring, even the cap of Hades?" "Most truly spoken," he said. "Is it not, then," I said, "Glaucon, now free of reproach to also give back to justice and the rest of virtue, in addition to those other things, the wages, however many and of whatever kind, that they provide for the soul from both men and gods, while
the person is still alive and after he dies?" "Quite so," he said. "Will you then give back to me what you borrowed from me in the argument?" "What exactly?" "I granted you that the just man should seem unjust and the unjust man just; for you asked for this, even if it were not possible for these things to escape the notice of both gods and men, still it should be granted for the sake of the argument,
so that justice itself might be judged against injustice itself. Or don't you remember?" "I would be doing wrong," he said, "if I did not." "Well then," I said, "since they have been judged, I now ask back on behalf of justice the reputation it actually has both from gods and from men, and that we agree it is held in such regard, so that it too may carry off the prizes of victory, acquiring, through seeming, the goods it gives to those who possess
it, since it has been shown to give the goods that come from actually being just, and not to deceive those who truly take hold of it." "You ask what is just," he said. "Then," I said, "first of all you will grant this back—that the gods, at least, are not unaware which of the two each of them really is?" "We will grant it," he said. "And if this does not escape their notice, one would be dear to the gods, and the other hateful to the gods, just as we
agreed at the beginning." "That is so." "And shall we not agree that for the one dear to the gods, whatever comes from the gods, all of it comes about in the best possible way, unless there is some necessary evil owed to him from a previous fault?" "Certainly." "So this is how we must think about the just man—if he falls into poverty or into sicknesses or any other of the things thought to be evils—that for him
these things will end in something good, whether he is alive or even dead. For surely he is never neglected by the gods, the man who is willing to strive earnestly to become just and, by practicing virtue, to become as much like god as is possible for a human being." "It is likely," he said, "that such a man would not be neglected by his like." "And must we not think the opposite of these things about the unjust man?" "Very much so." "These, then, would be
the sort of prizes of victory that come from the gods for the just man." "That is my opinion, at any rate," he said. "And what," I said, "from men? Is it not the case, if we must state what actually is, that the clever but unjust act just as runners do who run well from the starting line but not from the finish? At
first they leap off sharply, but in the end they become laughable, running off with their ears drooping on their shoulders and uncrowned; whereas those who are truly good runners reach the end and take the prizes and are crowned. Isn't it the same way, too, with just men in most cases? Toward the end of each action and each dealing and of life itself, they enjoy a good reputation and carry off the prizes from
men?" "Very much so." "Will you then bear with me if I say about them the very things you yourself said about the unjust? For I shall say that just men, once they grow older, rule in their own city, if they wish to hold office, and marry from wherever they wish, and give their daughters in marriage to whomever they choose; and everything you said about those others, I now say of these—
That's what I'm saying now about these men. And again, about the unjust—most of them, even if they get away with it when young, are caught before they reach the end of the race and end up ridiculous, and when they grow old, wretched, they're abused by foreigners and citizens alike, whipped, and subjected to all the things you called crude when you said them—and you were right—and then they'll be racked and branded. Assume you've heard from me everything else that happens to them.
Consider whether you can bear the rest of what I'm about to say. By all means, he said—what you say is fair. Well then, I said, the prizes and wages and gifts that come to the just man from gods and men while he's alive, on top of those good things justice itself provided, would be things of that sort. Yes indeed, he said, fine and secure ones. And yet, I said,
these are nothing in number or size compared to what awaits each of them after death—and we need to hear about that too, so that each of them may receive in full what our argument owes him to hear. Go on, he said, there's nothing I'd rather hear. Well, I said, it's not a tale of Alcinous I'll tell you, but the tale of a brave man, Er,
son of Armenius, by birth a Pamphylian. He once died in battle, and when the bodies were picked up on the tenth day, already decayed, his was found still sound; he was carried home, and on the twelfth day, as he lay on the funeral pyre about to be buried, he came back to life. Having revived, he told what he had seen there. He said that when his soul left his body, it traveled with many others, and they came to a marvelous place where there were, in the earth,
two openings side by side, and in the sky above, opposite them, two others. Between these sat judges who, once they had passed judgment, ordered the just to travel the road to the right and upward through the sky, fastening signs of the judgments on them in front, and ordered the unjust to take the road to the left and downward, and they too wore
signs, on their backs, of everything they had done. When Er himself came forward, they told him he had to become a messenger to human beings about the things there, and they charged him to listen to and observe everything in that place. So he saw there, at each of the two openings of sky and earth, the souls departing once judgment had been passed on them, while at
the other two openings, souls were rising up out of one, caked with dust and grime, while out of the other souls were coming down from the sky, clean. And the souls continually arriving looked as though a long road lay behind them; glad to be there, they turned aside into the meadow and pitched camp the way people do at a great festival, and acquaintances exchanged greetings with one another, and those who came from the earth
asked the others about things up above, and those from the sky asked about things below. They told each other their stories—some weeping and lamenting as they recalled all they had suffered and seen on their journey under the earth (a journey of a thousand years), while the others, in turn, told of the joys they'd known in the sky and sights of inconceivable beauty.
To tell it all, Glaucon, would take a long time; but the main point, he said, was this: for every wrong any of them had ever done, and for everyone they had wronged, they paid the penalty for each in turn, tenfold—once for every hundred years, on the assumption that this is the length of a human life—so that the payment for each wrong would be ten times its worth. And, for instance, if some had been responsible for many deaths,
by betraying cities or armies, or by driving people into slavery, or by complicity in any other wrongdoing, they received tenfold suffering for every one of these; and again, if some had done good deeds and had been just and pious, they were rewarded in the same proportion. Of those who died right after birth or lived only a short time, he said other things not worth recounting. But concerning
impiety and piety toward the gods, toward parents, and murder with one's own hand, he told of still greater penalties and rewards. He said he was present when one soul asked another where the great Ardiaeus was. This Ardiaeus had been tyrant in a certain city of Pamphylia a thousand years before that time, and he had murdered his old father along with an older brother of his, and had done many
other unholy things besides, so the story went. Er said the one who was asked replied, 'He hasn't come, and he never will come here. For we witnessed this too among the terrible sights: when we were near the mouth, about to go up, having endured everything else, we suddenly saw him and others—most of them tyrants, though there were also some private
individuals who had committed great crimes—and just as they thought they were about to go up, the mouth would not admit them, but it bellowed whenever one of those whose wickedness was incurable, or who had not yet paid a sufficient penalty, tried to go up. And there, he said, savage men, fiery to look at, standing by and recognizing the sound, seized some and marched them away; Ardiaeus, though, together with certain others, they trussed hand and foot and
head, threw them down and flayed them, and dragged them along the road outside, tearing them on thorn bushes, and to everyone passing by they explained why this was being done and that they were being carried off to be thrown into Tartarus. And there, he said, of all the many and varied terrors they had faced, this was the worst—the fear that the sound would come for each one as he tried to go up—and each one was overjoyed to go up in silence. Such, then, were the
judgments and punishments, and the rewards were their counterparts. When each group had spent seven days in the meadow, they had to get up and set out on the eighth day, and after four days' travel they arrived at a place from which they could see, stretching from above through the whole of heaven and earth, a straight light, like a pillar, most like a rainbow but brighter and purer. They reached
this after a further day's journey, and there, at the light's midpoint, the ends of its chains could be seen stretched down from the sky—for this light is the bond of heaven, holding its whole circuit together the way the girding-cables hold a trireme together—and from the ends stretched the spindle of Necessity, by which all the revolutions turn. Its shaft and
hook were made of adamant, and its whorl was a mixture of that and other materials. The nature of the whorl was this: in shape it was like the whorls we know, but from what Er said we must imagine it like this—as if within one great hollow whorl, scooped out all the way through, another smaller one of the same kind fit snugly inside, the way
nested bowls fit into one another, and so on with a third and a fourth and four more besides. For there were eight whorls in all, one inside another, showing their rims as circles from above, forming a single continuous back around the shaft, which was driven right through the middle of the eighth. Now the first and outermost whorl had the widest
rim, that of the sixth was second, the fourth's third, the eighth's fourth, the seventh's fifth, the fifth's sixth, the third's seventh, and the second's eighth. And the rim of the largest was spangled, the seventh's was the brightest,
the eighth's got its color by reflecting the seventh's light; the second's and fifth's were similar to each other and more yellow than the others; the third had the whitest color; the fourth was reddish; and the sixth was second in whiteness. The whole spindle turned with a single motion, but within that overall revolution the seven inner circles turned
slowly in the direction opposite to the whole; and of these, the eighth moved fastest, followed—moving together—by the seventh, sixth, and fifth; the third seemed to them to move with a speed third in order, appearing to circle back past the fourth; the fourth came fourth, and the fifth, second. The whole thing turned in the lap of Necessity. On top of each of its circles
stood a Siren, carried round with it, uttering a single sound, one note; and out of all eight a single harmony was formed. And seated round about, at equal distances, were three others, each on a throne, the daughters of Necessity, the Fates—Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos—dressed in white, garlands on their heads, singing to the harmony of the Sirens: Lachesis of things past,
Clotho of things present, and Atropos of things to come. Clotho, with her right hand, touched the outer revolution of the spindle and helped turn it, pausing now and then; Atropos with her left hand did the same for the inner revolutions; and Lachesis touched each in turn with either hand. When the souls arrived there, they had to go at once to Lachesis. A spokesman first
arranged them in order, then took from Lachesis's lap lots and models of lives, and mounting a high platform, said: 'Word of the maiden Lachesis, daughter of Necessity. Souls of a day, here begins another cycle of mortal, death-bearing life. Your guardian spirit will not be assigned to you by lot; you will choose your guardian spirit. Let the one who draws first choose first a life to which he will be bound of
necessity. Virtue has no master; each of you will have more or less of it as he honors or dishonors it. The blame is the chooser's; the god is blameless.' Having said this, he threw the lots among them all, and each picked up the one that fell beside him, except Er, who was not allowed to. To the one who picked it up, it was clear what number he had drawn. After that he set the models of lives
before them on the ground, far more numerous than those present. They were of every kind, for there were lives of all the animals, and certainly of all human beings; among them were tyrannies, some lasting to the end, others cut short midway, ending in poverty and exile and beggary. There were also lives of men well regarded, some
for their looks, their beauty, and the rest of their strength and athletic skill; others for their birth and the virtues of their ancestors; and likewise lives without such regard, and the same for women. But there was no fixed character of soul in them, since a soul necessarily becomes different depending on the life it chooses; but everything else was mixed together, with wealth and poverty, with sickness and
health, and some in between these. Right there, it seems, my dear Glaucon, lies the whole danger for a human being, and because of this we must, above all else, take care that each of us, neglecting all other studies, be a seeker and a student of this one study alone—if he can somehow learn and discover who will make him capable and knowledgeable enough to distinguish the good life from
—able to distinguish good from bad, and always, everywhere, to choose the better from among the possible; reckoning up all that has just been said, and how it combines and separates to bear on a life's excellence—to know what beauty mixed with poverty or with wealth, and joined to what condition of soul, produces evil or good, and what good birth and low birth, private station and rule, strength and
weakness, quickness and slowness of learning, and all such things, whether natural to the soul or acquired, do when blended with one another—so as to be able, reckoning from all of them together, to choose, keeping his eyes on the nature of the soul, between the worse life and the better, calling worse whichever will lead the soul toward becoming more unjust,
and better whichever will lead it toward becoming more just. Everything else he will let go, since we have seen that this is the mightiest choice, both for a man living and for one dead. He must go down to Hades holding to this judgment like adamant, so that there too he may be undismayed by wealth and evils of that sort, and not fall into tyrannies and other such practices and do much
irreparable harm, and himself suffer still worse—but rather know how always to choose the middle life among such things and to flee the extremes on either side, both in this life, so far as possible, and in every life to come; for in this way a human being becomes happiest. And indeed, at that time too the messenger from that other place reported that the prophet had spoken thus—
'For the one who comes last, if he chooses with understanding and lives strenuously, a life lies in store that is welcome, not bad. Let not the one who chooses first be careless, nor the one who chooses last lose heart.' When he had said this, the man to whom the first lot fell, he said, went straight up and chose the greatest tyranny, and through folly and gluttony did not examine everything sufficiently before choosing, but failed to notice that it was fated to include the eating of his own children,
and other evils besides. But when he examined it at leisure, he beat his breast and lamented his choice, not abiding by what the prophet had foretold; for he did not blame himself for these evils, but chance and daemons and everything sooner than himself. This man was among those arriving from heaven, having lived his former life under an ordered government, sharing in virtue by habit
and without philosophy. Indeed, it was said that those who came down from heaven were caught in such traps no less often than the others, being unpracticed in hardship; whereas most of those who came up from the earth, since they had themselves suffered and had seen others suffer, did not rush headlong into their choices. That is why there occurs an exchange of evils and goods for most
souls, and also because of the luck of the lot. For if, every time a soul arrived at life here, it were always to pursue philosophy in a sound way, and if the lot of its choosing did not happen to fall among the last, it seems likely, from what is reported from that other place, that it would not only be happy here, but that its journey from here to there and back again would not be the rough, earthy road, but
smooth and heavenly. This, he said, was the sight most worth seeing—how each of the several souls chose its life; for it was pitiful and laughable and astonishing to behold. For the most part they chose according to the habits of their former life. He said he watched the soul that had belonged to Orpheus take up a swan's existence, because out of hatred for womankind, on account of
his death at their hands, it was unwilling to be conceived and born of a woman. And he saw Thamyras' soul pick out a nightingale's existence; and he saw a swan too changing over to the choice of a human life, and other musical creatures likewise. The soul to whom the twentieth lot fell took up a lion's existence; this was the soul of Ajax son of Telamon, who, shunning becoming a human being, remembered the judgment over the arms. And the one after this
was the soul of Agamemnon; it too, out of hatred for the human race because of its sufferings, exchanged for the life of an eagle. The soul of Atalanta, whose lot fell in the middle, caught sight of the great honors of an athlete and could not pass them by, but took them. After her he saw the soul of Epeius, Panopeus' son, entering the form of a woman skilled in crafts; and far off among the last he saw the soul of Thersites the buffoon putting on the form of a monkey.
And by chance the soul of Odysseus, which had drawn the very last lot of all, came forward to choose; and, remembering its former hardships, with its ambition now abated, it went about for a long time searching for the life of a private man who minds his own business, and with difficulty found one lying somewhere neglected by the others, and on seeing it said that it would have done the same even if it had drawn the first lot, and chose it gladly. And likewise, from among the other animals
souls passed into human beings and into one another, the unjust changing into wild creatures, the just into tame ones, and every kind of mixture occurred. Now when all the souls had chosen their lives, they went up to Lachesis in the order in which they had drawn their lots; and she sent along with each the daemon it had chosen, as guardian of its life and fulfiller of what
had been chosen. This daemon first led the soul to Clotho, under her hand and the turning of the spindle's whorl, to ratify the destiny it had drawn and chosen; and having touched that, he led it next to the spinning of Atropos, making what had been spun irreversible; and from there, without turning back, it passed beneath the throne of Necessity, and having gone through that, when
the others too had passed through, they all journeyed to the plain of Forgetfulness, through terrible, stifling heat; for it was empty of trees and of whatever the earth grows. So then, as evening was already coming on, they camped by the river Ameles—the Careless River—whose water cannot be kept in any container. All of them were required to drink a certain measure of the water, but those
not saved by good sense drank more than the measure; and each one who drank forgot everything. When they had fallen asleep and it was the middle of the night, there came thunder and an earthquake, and from there suddenly they were carried up, this way and that, toward their birth, shooting like stars. He himself was kept from drinking the water; but how and by what way he came into his body, he did not know—
only that, waking suddenly at dawn, he saw himself lying on the funeral pyre. And so, Glaucon, the story was saved and not lost, and it could save us too, if we are persuaded by it; and we shall cross the river of Forgetfulness well, and not defile our souls. But if we are persuaded by me, believing the soul to be immortal and able to endure all evils and all
goods, we shall always hold to the upward road, and shall practice justice together with good sense in every way, so that we may be friends both to ourselves and to the gods, both while we remain here and when we receive its rewards, like victors gathering their prizes—so that both here and on the thousand-year journey we have described, we may fare well.