The works of Plato · Plato
ARGUMENT.
The philosopher then, said I, far surpasses the money-getting man, at least in experience of both the pleasures. Far indeed. But what as regards the ambitious man—has he any more experience in the pleasure arising from honour, than the philosopher in that which arises from the exercise of intellect? Honour, indeed, said he, attends them all, if each obtains his object: for the rich man is honoured by many, and so is the brave, and the wise; so all of them have experience, as to the kind of pleasure attending honour, but in the contemplation of being itself, as to the pleasure which it gives, it is impossible for any other than the philosopher to have tasted it. On the ground of experience then, said I, he of all men is the best judge. By far. And surely, including prudence also, he alone has experience. Of course. But the organ, by which these pleasures must be judged, is not the organ of the money-getter, nor of the ambitious man, but of the philosopher. Which is that? We said somewhere, that they must be judged of by reason,—did we not? Yes. But reasoning is chiefly the organ of the philosopher? Of course it is.
If then the things to be determined could be best determined by riches and gain, what the money-getting man commended, or despised, would necessarily be most agreeable to truth? Quite so. And if by honour, victory, and courage,—must it not be as the ambitious and contentious man determined? It is evident. But since it is by experience, prudence, and reason, it follows of course, said he, that what is praised by the philosopher and the lover of reason must be the most true.—Of the three pleasures, then, that which belongs to that part of the soul by which we learn most is the most pleasant, and that man in whom this part of us holds the chief sway lives the pleasantest life. How can it be doubted? said he:—for the wise man, who has the supreme right to commend, commends his own life. But which life, said I, does our judge pronounce the second, and which the second pleasure? Plainly, that of the warlike and ambitious man; for this is nearer to his own than that of the money-getter. And that of the covetous, as it appears, is last of all? Of course, said he.
CHAP. IX.—These things then will succeed one another in order; and the just man will twice prevail over the unjust:—the third victory now, as at the Olympic games, is sacred to Olympian Zeus, the Saviour; for you must consider, that, with the exception of that of the wise man, the pleasure of the others is by no means genuine nor pure, but somehow shadowed over, as I think I have myself heard from one of the wise men:—and this truly would be the greatest and most complete downfal. Extremely so;—but how mean you? I will thus trace it out, said I, whilst in searching you answer my questions. Ask then, said he. Tell me then, said I, do we not say that pain is contrary to pleasure? Quite so. And do we not say likewise, that to feel neither pleasure nor pain is something? We say it is. And that the state between both of these is a certain tranquillity of the soul with reference to them;—do you not so understand it? Just so, he replied. Do you not remember, said I, the speeches of the diseased, which they utter when they are sick? What are they? That nothing is sweeter than health, but that it escaped their notice before they became sick, that it was the sweetest.
I remember it, said he. And are you not wont to hear those who are under acute pain say, that there is nothing sweeter than a cessation from pain? I do hear them. And you may perceive the same thing in men, I think, when they are in other but similar circumstances, where, if in pain, they extol a freedom from pain and the tranquillity of such a state, as being most sweet, though they do not extol that of feeling joy. Because perhaps the latter, said he, becomes at that time sweet and desirable,—namely, tranquillity. And when any one ceases, said I, from feeling joy, the tranquillity of pleasure will be painful. Perhaps so, said he. This tranquillity, then, which we just now said was between the two, will at times become both pain and pleasure. It seems so. What,—is it possible, that what is neither of the two should become both? I do not think so. And moreover, when what is pleasant or painful is in the soul, both sensations are a certain excitement; are they not? Yes. But did not that which is neither painful nor pleasant appear just now to be tranquillity, and between these two? It did appear so.
How is it right, then, to deem it sweet not to be in pain, or painful not to enjoy pleasure? It is by no means right. In these cases, then, tranquillity is not really so, said I; but it appears pleasant by comparison with the painful, and painful compared with the pleasant; and there is nothing genuine in these appearances as regards the truth of pleasure, but a certain magical delusion. Aye,—just as our argument proves, he replied. Consider the pleasures then, said I, which do not arise from the cessation of pain, so as not frequently during our discussion to hold the frequent notion that these two naturally thus subsist; viz., that pleasure is the cessation of pain, and pain the cessation of pleasure. How, said he, and to what pleasures do you allude? There are many others, said I, particularly if you wish to consider the pleasures that arise from smell; for these, without any preceding pain, are on a sudden immensely great, and, when they cease, they leave no pain behind them. Most true, said he. Let us not then be persuaded that pure pleasure is the removal of pain, or pain the removal of pleasure. No, we will not. But yet, said I, those which extend through the body to the soul, and which are called pleasures, the greatest part of them almost, and the most considerable, are of this species,—certain cessations from pain? They are so. And are not the preconceptions of pleasure and pain, which arise in the mind from their expectation, of the same kind? Of the same.
CHAP. X.—Do you know then, said I, of what class they are, and what they chiefly resemble? What? said he. Do you conceive, said I, there is any such thing in nature as this, the above, the below, and the middle? I do. Do you think then that any one, when brought from the below to the middle, imagines anything else than that he is brought to the above; and when he stands in the middle, and looks down whence he was brought, will he imagine that he is anywhere else than above, whilst yet he has not seen the true above? By Zeus, said he, I do not think that such an one will imagine otherwise. But if he should again, said I, be carried to the below, he would conjecture he was carried to the below, and conjecture rightly? He would of course. Would he not be thus affected from his want of experience in what is really above, and in the middle, and below? Plainly so.
Would you wonder then, that while men are inexperienced in the truth, they have unsound opinions about many other things,—and that as to pleasure and pain, and what is between these, they are likewise affected in the same manner; so that, even when they are brought to what is painful, they conceive truly, and are really pained; but when from pain they are brought to the middle, they strongly imagine that they have arrived at the highest pitch of pleasure, in the same manner as those, who along with the black colour look at the gray, through inexperience of the white, and so are deceived? and just so those who consider pain along with the freedom from pain, are deceived through inexperience of pleasure. By Zeus, said he, I should not wonder, but much rather if it were not so. Consider the matter thus, said I; are not hunger and thirst, and such-like things, certain emptinesses in the bodily habit? Of course. And are not ignorance and folly an emptiness in the habit of the soul? Quite so. And is not the one filled when it receives food, and the other when it acquires intelligence? Surely. But which is the more real repletion, that of the less, or the more truly real being?
It is plain, that of the more real. Which species, then, do you think, participate most of a purer essence; those which partake of bread and drink, and meat, and all such sort of nourishment; or that species which partakes of true opinion and science, and intelligence, and, in short, of all virtue?—And judge of it thus:—That which is connected with what is always similar, and immortal, and true, and is so of itself, and arises in what is of the same character, think you that it has more of the reality of being, than what is connected to what is never similar and mortal, and is such itself, and is generated in a thing of the same character? Aye, said he, this differs greatly from that which is always similar. Does then the essence of that which is always similar participate more of essence than of science? By no means. But what as regards truth? Nor of this neither. If it participate less of truth, does it not likewise do so of essence? Of necessity. In short, then, do not those species which relate to the care of the body partake less of truth and essence, than those relating to the care of the soul? By far.
And the body likewise less than the soul; do you not think so? I do. Is not that which is filled with more real beings, and is itself a more real being, in reality more truly filled than that which is filled with less real beings, and is itself a less real being? Of course it is. If then it be pleasant to be filled with what is suitable to nature, that which is in reality filled, and with more real being, must be made both more really and more truly to enjoy true pleasure; but that which participates of less real being, must be less truly and solidly filled, and participates of a more uncertain and less genuine pleasure. Most necessarily, said he.
Such then as are unacquainted with wisdom and virtue, and are always conversant in feastings and things of that kind, are carried, as it appears, to the below, and back again to the middle;—and there they wander during life:—but as they never pass beyond this, they do not look towards the true above, and are not carried to it; nor are they ever really filled with real being; nor have they ever tasted solid and pure pleasure; but, after the manner of brutes looking always downwards, bowed towards earth and their tables, they live feeding and coupling; and from a lust for such things, they kick and push at one another as with iron horns and hoofs, and perish through their own insatiety, just like those who are filling with unreal being that which is no real being, nor friendly to themselves. You are describing, Socrates, with quite oracular perfection, rejoined Glaucon, what is the life of the multitude. Must they not then, of necessity be conversant with pleasures mixed with pains, images of the true pleasure, shadowed in outline, and coloured by their position beside each other; so that both their pleasures and pains will appear vehement, and engender their mad passions in the foolish? Hence also they must fight about these things, as Stesichorus says those at Troy fought about the image of Helen, through ignorance of the true one. Of necessity, said he, something of this kind must take place.
CHAP. XI.—But what? must not the same things necessarily happen to the irascible part of the soul, whenever any one gratifies it, either through envy from ambition, or violence from contentiousness, or anger from moroseness, pursuing a glut of honour, of conquest, and of anger, both without reason, and without intelligence? Such things as these, said he, must necessarily happen with relation to this part of the soul. What then, said I;—can we confidently say concerning all the pleasures, both as respects the avaricious and the ambitious part, that such of them as obey science and reason, and, in conjunction therewith, pursue and obtain the pleasures of which the prudent part of the soul is the leader, that these will obtain the truest pleasures, as far as it is possible for them to attain true pleasure, and in as much as they follow truth, pleasures properly their own; if indeed what is best for each be most properly his own? Aye, it surely is most properly his own, said he.
When then the whole soul is obedient to the philosophic part, and there is no sedition in it, then every part in other respects performs its proper business, and is just, and also reaps its own pleasures, and such as are the best, and as far as is possible the most genuine. Certainly, indeed. But when any of the others governs, it happens that it neither attains its own pleasures, and it compels the other parts to pursue a pleasure foreign to them, and not at all genuine. It does so, said he. Will not then those parts, which are most remote from philosophy and reason most especially effect such things? Very much so. And is not that which is most remote from law and order, most remote likewise from reason? It plainly is. And have not the amorous and the tyrannical desires appeared to be most remote from law and order? Extremely so. And the royal and the moderate ones, the least remote? Yes. The tyrant then, I think, will be the most remote from true pleasure, and such as is most properly his own, and the other will be the least. Of necessity. And the tyrant, said I, will lead a life the most unpleasant, and the king the most pleasant. Of great necessity.
Do you know then, said I, how much more unpleasant a life the tyrant leads than the king? If you tell me, said he. As there are three pleasures, as it seems, one legitimate, and two illegitimate; the tyrant in carrying the legitimate to extremity, and flying from law and reason, dwells with slavish pleasures as his life-guardians, and how far he is inferior cannot easily be told, unless it be done in this manner. How? said he. The tyrant is somehow in the third degree remote from the oligarchic character; for the democratic was halfway between them. Yes. Will he not then dwell in the third picture of pleasure, distant from him as regards truth, if our former reasonings be true? Just so. But the oligarchic is the third again from the royal, if we suppose the aristocratic and the royal the same? He is the third. The tyrant then, said I, is remote from true pleasure, the third from the third? So it seems. A plain surface then, said I, may be the image of tyrannical pleasure, as to the computation of length. Certainly. But as to power, and the third augment, it is manifest by how great a distance it is remote. It is manifest, said he, to the computer at least.
CHAP. XII.—Well then, said I, since we have reached this part of our argument, let us recapitulate what we first said, on account of which we came hither: now it was said, if I mistake not, that it is advantageous to one who is thoroughly unjust, but who has the character of being just, to commit injustice. Was it not so said? It was indeed. Now then, said I, let us settle this point, since we have now settled the other, with reference to acting justly and unjustly, what power each of these possesses in itself. How? said he. Let us ideally fashion an image of the soul, that the man who said those things may know what he said. What kind of image? said he. One of those creatures, said I, which are fabled to have been of old, as that of Chimæra, of Scylla, of Cerberus; and many others are spoken of, where many particular natures existed together in one. They are spoken of indeed, said he. Let us form now the figure of a creature, various, and many-headed,[250] having all around heads of tame creatures, and of wild, and having power in itself of changing all these heads, and of breeding them out of itself.
This is the work, said he, of a skilful modeller: however, as the formation is easier in reasoning, than in wax and such-like, let it be formed. Let there be now one other figure of a lion[251] and one of a man; but let the first be by far the greatest, and the second be the second in bulk. These are easy, said he, and they are formed. Unite now these three in one, so that they may somehow coexist. They are united, said he. Form now around them the external appearance of one of them, that of the man; so that to one who is not able to see what is within, but who perceives only the external covering, the man may appear one creature. It is formed all round, said he. Let us now tell him who asserts that it is profitable to this man to do injustice, but to do justice unprofitable, that he asserts nothing else, than that it is profitable for him to feast the multiform creature, and to make it strong; and likewise the lion, and what respects the lion, whilst the man he kills with famine, and renders weak, so as to be dragged whichever way either of those drag him; and that he will also find it advantageous never to accustom the one to live in harmony with the other, nor to make them friends, but suffer them to bite one another, and to fight and devour each other. He, said he, who commends the doing injustice, undoubtedly asserts these things.
And does not he again, who says it is advantageous to act justly, say that he ought to do and to say such things by which the inner man shall come to have the most entire command of the man, and, as a tiller of the ground, shall take care of the many-headed creature, cherishing the mild ones, and nourishing them, and hindering the wild ones from growing up, taking the nature of the lion as his ally, and, having a common care for all, make them friendly to one another, and to himself, and so nourish them? He who commends justice undoubtedly says such things as these. In all respects, then, he who commends justice would seem to speak the truth, but he who commends injustice, to speak what is false; for, as respects pleasure, applause, and profit, he who commends justice speaks the truth, and he who discommends it speaks nothing genuine; nor does he discommend with understanding what he discommends. Not at all, said he, as appears to me at least. Let us then in a mild manner persuade him (for it is not willingly he errs), asking him, O blessed man! do not we say that the maxims of things beautiful and base become so upon such accounts as these?
Those are good which make the brutal part of our nature most subject to the man, or rather perhaps to that which is divine; while those are evil which enslave the mild part of our nature to the brutal:—will he agree with us,—or how? He will, if he be advised by me, said he. Is there then any one, said I, whom it avails, from this reasoning, to take gold unjustly, supposing something of this kind to happen, if, while taking the money, he at the same time subjects the best part of himself to the worst? Or, if, taking gold, he should enslave a son or daughter, and that even to savage and wicked men, shall we not say this would not avail him, not though he should receive for it a prodigious sum? But if he enslaves the most divine part of himself to the most impious and most polluted part, without any pity, is he not wretched? and does he not take a gift of gold to his far more dreadful ruin, than Eriphyle did when she received the necklace for her husband’s life? By far, said Glaucon; for I will answer you for him. ----- Footnote 250: By this many-headed beast, _desire_ is signified. Footnote 251: The lion signifies _anger_, and the figure of a man _reason_; for the whole soul is divided into reason, anger, and desire.
In order then that such an one may be governed in the same manner as the best man is, do we not say that he must be the servant of one who is the best, and who has within him the divine governing principle? not at all conceiving that he should be governed to the hurt of the subject (as Thrasymachus imagined), but, as it is best for every one to be governed, by one divine and wise, most especially possessing it as his own within him, if not subjecting himself to it externally; that as far as possible we may all resemble one another and be friends, governed by one and the same? Rightly, indeed, said he. And law at least, said I, plainly shows it intends such a thing, being an ally to all in the city; as does likewise the government of children, in not allowing them to be free till we establish in them a proper government, as in a city; and having cultivated that in them which is best, by that which is best in ourselves, we establish a similar guardian and governor for youth, and then at length we set it free. It shows it indeed, said he.
In what way then shall we say, Glaucon, and according to what reasoning, that it is profitable to do injustice, to be intemperate, or to do anything base, by which a man shall indeed become more wicked, but yet shall acquire more wealth, or any kind of power? In no way, said he. But how shall we say it is profitable for the unjust to be concealed, and not to suffer punishment? or does he not indeed, who is concealed, still become more wicked? but he who is not concealed, and is punished, has the brutal part quieted, and made mild, and the mild part set at liberty. And the whole soul being settled in the best temper, in possessing temperance and justice, with wisdom, acquires a more valuable habit than the body does, in acquiring vigour and beauty, with a sound constitution; in as far as the soul is more valuable than the body. Entirely so, said he. Will not everybody then, who possesses intellect, regulate his life, first by extending hither the whole of his powers, honouring those branches of science which will render his soul of this kind, and despising all other things? It is plain, said he.
And next, said I, with regard to a good habit of body and its nourishment, he will spend his life in attention to these, not that he may indulge the brutal and irrational pleasure; nor yet with a view to health, nor principally with reference to becoming strong, healthy, and beautiful, unless by these means he is to become temperate likewise: but he always appears to adjust the harmony of the body for the sake of the symphony which is in the soul. By all means, said he, if indeed he is to be truly musical. Will he not then, in acquiring wealth, maintain accord and symphony? nor moved by the congratulations of the multitude will he increase the bulk of his treasures to an infinite amount, occasioning thereby infinite evils? I think not, said he. But looking, said I, to the government of it himself, and taking care that nothing there be moved out of its place, through the greatness or smallness of his property, thus governing as far as he is able, he will add to his property, and spend out of it. Entirely so, said he.
Ideas discussed in this chapter
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