The works of Plato · Plato
ARGUMENT.
The _concluding book_ of the Republic comprises two main subjects of inquiry. First, he explains more fully than he had done in the third book, the reason for excluding from his pattern state the accomplishment of poetry, so highly prized by the Athenians, but nevertheless he allows the admission of that chaste and harmless kind of it; such as hymns to the gods and odes in honour of celebrated men;—and, lastly, he treats of the rewards both present and to come, resulting from the practice of justice,—and of the punishments on the other which attend on injustice, which is totally opposed to state-happiness. CHAP. I.—Moreover, remarked I, both in many other respects, I observe that we have been rightly establishing our state, better indeed than all others; and not least so do I say, as regards our sentiments concerning poetry. What are they? said he. That no part of it which is imitative should by any means be admitted;—for that it must not be admitted appears now, methinks, exceedingly clear, since the several forms of the soul have been distinguished apart from one another. How do you mean? That I may tell it to you,—(for you will not denounce me to the composers of tragedy, and the rest of the imitative class),—all such things as these seem to be the ruin of the intellect of the hearers,—that is, of such of them as have not a test to enable them to discern their peculiar nature. What consideration, said he, leads you to say this? It must be stated, said I; although a certain friendship, at least, and reverence for Homer, which I have had from my childhood, almost restrains me from telling it; for he seems truly both to have been the first leader and teacher of all the good composers of tragedy; but still the man must not be honoured in preference to truth. But what I mean must be spoken.
By all means, said he. Hear me then, or rather answer me. Put your question then. Can you tell me perfectly, what is the nature of imitation?—for I do not myself altogether understand its meaning. Is it possible then, said he, that I shall any how understand it? That would be no way strange, said I; since those who are dim-sighted perceive many things sooner than those who see more clearly. The case is so, said he; but while you are present, I would not venture to tell, even though I had some inkling of it, but consider it yourself. Do you wish then, that we hence begin our inquiry in our usual method? for we used to suppose a certain idea relating to many individuals, to which we give the same name;—do you not understand? I do understand. Let us suppose now any one you please among the many, as for example, if you will, there are many beds and tables. Of course. But the ideas, at least respecting these pieces of furniture, are two, one of bed, and one of table. Yes.
And do we not usually say, that the workman of each of these pieces of furniture, looking towards the idea, makes them thus—one of them the beds, and the other the tables which we use;—and all other things in like manner?—for surely not one of the artificers makes the idea itself; for how can he? By no means. See now then, what kind of an artificer do you call this? Which? He who makes all things which each several artificer makes. You are alluding to some skilful and wonderful person. Not yet, at least; but you will much more say so presently; for this same mechanic is not only able to make all sorts of utensils, but makes everything also which springs from the earth, and he makes all sorts of animals, himself as well as others; and besides these things, he makes the earth, the heaven and the gods, and all things in heaven, and in Hades under the earth. You are speaking, said he, of a perfectly wonderful sophist.
Do you disbelieve me? said I; but tell me, do you not think that there is such an artificer; or that in one respect, he is the maker of all these things, and in another not so?—or do you not perceive, that even you yourself might be able to make all these things, in a certain manner at least? And what, said he, is this manner? It is not difficult, said I, but is done in many ways, and quickly too; but in the quickest way of all, if I mistake not, if you please to make a mirror, and carry it round everywhere; for then you will very quickly make the sun, and the heavenly bodies, the earth, yourself, and the other animals and utensils and plants, and all that we have just now mentioned. Yes, said he, the appearances, but not surely the realities. You come in, said I, both well and seasonably, with your remark; for the painter too, methinks, is an artificer of this kind;—is he not? He cannot possibly be otherwise. You will say then, I suppose, that he does not make what he makes real and true, although the painter too, in a certain manner at least, makes a bed, does he not? Aye, said he; but he too makes only the appearance.
CHAP. II.—But what as to the bed-maker?—did you not just now say, that he does not make the idea which we say exists, and is a bed, but only a particular bed? I did say so. If then he does not make that which really exists, he does not make real being, but something resembling being, though not being itself: but if any one should say that the work of the bed-maker, or any other craftsman, were real being, it seems he would not say what is true. He would not, said he, as it should seem to those who are acquainted with such discussions. We must not then be surprised if this likewise should seem somewhat obscure compared with the truth. Certainly not. Are you willing then, said I, that as regards these very things we inquire concerning the real nature of their imitator? If you please, he replied. Are there not then these three sorts of beds:—one existing in nature, and which we may say, I suppose, God made, or who else? No one, I think. And another which the joiner makes? Yes, said he. And a third which the painter makes:—is it not so? Granted. Now the painter, the bed-maker, God, these three are the masters of three species of beds? They are three indeed.
But God, whether it were that he was unwilling, or whether there was some necessity that he should only make one bed in nature, made this one only, which is really a bed; while two or more of such other species have never been produced, nor ever will be produced by God. How so? said he. Because, said I, if he had made but two, one again would have appeared, the idea of which both these two would have possessed, and that idea would be that of a bed, and not those two. Right, said he. God then, methinks, being aware of these things, and willing to be the maker of a bed really, and having real being, though of no one particular bed, and not to be any particular bed-maker, produced but one in nature? It seems so. Are you willing then that we should call him the producer of this, or of something of a similar nature? It is just, said he, since he has in their essential nature created this, as well as all other things. But what as to the joiner?—is not he the maker of a bed? Yes. And is the painter, too, the workman and maker of something similar? By no means. But what will you say he has to do with a bed?
This, as I think, we may most reasonably call him, said he, an imitator of what the others actually make and contrive. Be it so, said I; then him you call the imitator who makes what is generated the third from nature? Quite so, he replied. And this composer of tragedy will in like manner, as being an imitator, rise as a sort of third from the king and the truth; and so likewise all other imitators? Aye, so it seems. We have agreed, then, as to the imitator?—but tell me this concerning the painter, whether you think he undertakes to imitate each particular thing in nature, or the works of artificers? The works of artificers, said he. Whether, such as they really are, or such only as they appear? for this we must define more correctly. How say you? said he. Thus; does a bed differ at all in itself, whether a man view it obliquely or directly opposite, or in any particular position?—or, is it not at all different, but only apparently different, and so on as respects other things? Thus it appears, said he, yet it does not really differ.
Consider this too, with reference to which of the two does painting work, in each particular work; whether with reference to real being, to imitate it as it really is, or with reference to what is apparent, as it appears; and whether is it the imitation of appearance, or of truth? Only of appearance, said he. The imitative art, then, is far from the truth: and on this account it seems, he is able to make these things, because he is able to attain only to some small part of each particular, and that but an image. Thus we say that a painter will paint us a shoemaker, a joiner, and other craftsmen, though having no acquaintance with any of these arts; yet he will be able to deceive children and ignorant people, if he be a good painter, when he paints a joiner, and shows him at a distance, so far as to make them imagine he is a real joiner. Of course. But this, I think, my friend, we must take into consideration in connexion with all these things; that when any one tells us of any one, that he has met with a man skilled in all kinds of workmanship, and everything else which each particular artist understands, and that he knows everything whatever more accurately than any one else, we ought to reply to such an one, that he is a simpleton, and that it seems, he has been deceived by falling in with some conjurer, or imitator, so as to seem to himself, to know everything owing to his very incapacity of distinguishing between science and ignorance and imitation. Most true, said he.
CHAP. III.—Ought we not then next, said I, to consider tragedy and its leader, Homer?—Since from some we hear that these poets understand all arts, and all human affairs, respecting virtue and vice, and likewise all divine things; for a good poet must necessarily compose with knowledge, if he means what he composes to compose well,—else he is not able to compose. It is our business then to consider whether those who have fallen in with these imitators have been deceived, and on viewing their works have not perceived that they are the third distant from real being, and their works such as can easily be made by one not knowing the truth (for they make phantasms, and not real beings); or whether do they say something to the purpose, and do the good poets really know the things about which the multitude think they speak well. This, said he, is by all means to be inquired into. Think you then, that if any one could make both of these, that which is imitated, and likewise the original idea, he would allow himself seriously to apply to the workmanship of the images, and propose that to himself as the best thing in life? I do not. But if he were really intelligent in these things which he imitates, he would, I think, far more seriously study the things themselves than the imitations, and would try to leave behind him many and beautiful actions, as monuments of himself, and rather study to be himself the person commended than the mere eulogist. I think so, said he; for neither is the honour nor the profit equal.
As to other things, then, let us not call them to account,—asking Homer or any other of the poets, whether they were skilled in medicine, and not mere imitators of medical discourses;—for which of the ancient or more recent poets is said to have restored any to health, as Æsculapius did? or what disciples of medical science has any of them left behind, such as he left his descendants?—Neither let us ask them about the other arts, but leave them out of the question; and with reference to those greatest and most beautiful things on which Homer tries to discourse,—about wars and armies, and civic constitutions, and human education, it is just, perhaps, to question and inquire of him: Friend Homer, if you be not the third from the truth with regard to virtue, as being the artificer of an image (for thus we have defined an imitator), but rather the second, and can discern what pursuits render men better or worse, in private as well as public, tell us which of the states has been better constituted by you, as Lacedæmon was by Lycurgus, and great and small cities by many others;—but as respects yourself, what state is it that acknowledges you to have been a good lawgiver, and to have done them good service?
Italy and Sicily acknowledge Charondas, and we Solon; but who acknowledges you? Will he be able to mention any one? I think not, said Glaucon. That is not pretended even by the Homeridæ themselves. But what war in Homer’s days is recorded to have been conducted by him as general, or adviser? Not one. What then are his discoveries?—since among the works of a wise man there are many discoveries and inventions mentioned, that concern the arts, and other affairs; as of Thales the Milesian, and of Anacharsis the Scythian. There is not any one such to be found. But if not in a public manner, has Homer the repute of having lived as a private instructor to any who delighted in his conversation, and to have delivered down to posterity a certain Homeric manner of life,—just as Pythagoras was remarkably beloved on this account, and, as even to this day, such as denominate themselves Pythagoræans appear to be somehow eminent beyond others in their manner of life? Neither, said he, is there anything of this kind related about Homer:—for Creophilus,[252] Socrates, the friend of Homer, may probably appear even still more ridiculous in his education, than in his name, if what is said of Homer be true:—for it is said that he was greatly neglected by him when he lived.
Shall we not then establish this point,—that all the poets, beginning from Homer, are imitators of the images of virtue, and of other things about which they compose, but yet do not attain to the real truth; but, as we just now said, a painter, who himself knows nothing about the making of shoes, will draw a shoemaker, apparently real only to such as are not intelligent, but look at him only as to colour and figures? Certainly. In the same manner, I think, we shall say that the poet colours over with his names and words certain colours of the several arts, without understanding anything himself, but merely imitating, so that to others such as himself who view things in his compositions, he has the appearance of possessing knowledge: and if he says anything about shoemaking in measure, rhythm, and harmony, he seems to speak perfectly well, whether it be respecting the art of a general or any other subject; so great is the enchantment which these things naturally have, because you know, I think, in what manner poetry appears when stript of the colour of music, and expressed apart,—for you have somewhere beheld it. I have, said he.
Do they not, said I, resemble the faces of people who are in the prime of their life, but yet not beautiful, such as they appear when their bloom forsakes them? Quite so, said he. Come then, consider this:—the maker of the image, whom we call the imitator, knows nothing of real being, but only of that which is apparent:—is it not so? Yes. Let us not then leave it expressed by halves, but let us examine it fully. Say on, replied he. A painter, we say, will paint reins and a bridle. Yes. And the leather-cutter, and the smith, will make them. Certainly. Does the painter then understand what kind of reins and bridle there ought to be;—or not even he who makes them, the smith, nor the leather-cutter, but he who knows how to use them, the horseman alone? Most true. Shall we not say that this is the case in everything else? How? That with reference to each particular thing there are these three arts:—that which is to use it, that which is to make it, and that which is to imitate it? Yes. Are then the virtue, and the beauty, and the rectitude of every utensil, and animal, and action, for nothing else but for the use for which each particular was made, or generated?
Just so. Very necessarily, then, must he who uses each particular, be the most skilful, and most able to tell the maker what he makes good or bad, with regard to the use in which he employs it: thus, for example, a flute-player will tell the flute-maker concerning flutes, what things are expedient for playing on the flute, and will give orders how he ought to make them, but the latter will attend to his directions. Of course. Will not the one then, being intelligent, pronounce concerning good and bad flutes, and the other, believing him, make them accordingly? Yes. With reference then to one and the same instrument, the maker will form a correct opinion concerning its beauty or deformity, while he is conversant with one who is intelligent, and is obliged to hear from the intelligent; but he who uses it must have science. Certainly. But will the imitator have science from using the things he paints, whether handsome and correct, or otherwise? or will he form a correct opinion from being necessarily conversant with the intelligent, and from being ordered how he ought to paint? Neither of the two. The imitator then will neither know nor form a correct opinion about what he imitates with reference to beauty or deformity? It seems not.
The imitator then will be very skilful in his imitation, with regard to wisdom, concerning what he paints? Not wholly so. Nevertheless he will at least imitate, without knowing about each particular in what respect it is bad or good; and he will probably imitate such as appears to be beautiful to the multitude, and those who know nothing? Of course. We have now, indeed, sufficiently, as it appears, at least, settled these things;—that the imitator knows nothing worth mentioning in those things which he imitates, but imitation is a sort of amusement, and no serious business:—and likewise, that those who apply to tragic poetry in iambics and epics, are all imitators in the highest degree? Certainly. CHAP. V.—By Zeus, though, said I, this business of imitation is placed somehow in the third degree from the truth:—is it not? Yes. To what part then of man does it belong, having the power that it has? What part do you speak of? Of such as this:—the same magnitude perceived by sight, does not appear in the same manner, both near and at a distance. It does not. And the same things appear crooked and straight, when we look at them in water, and out of the water, and concave and convex, through error of the sight, as to colours. All this disturbance is manifest in the soul; and it is this infirmity of our nature which painting attacks, leaving nothing of magical seduction unattempted, as well as the wonder-working art, and many other such-like devices. True. And have not the arts of measure, number, and weight been deemed in these matters most ingenious helps, that so the apparent greater or less, the apparent more or heavier, may not govern us, but that which numbers, measures, and weighs? It must be so. But this again is, at least, the work of the rational part in the soul. It is so, indeed.
But while reason often measures and pronounces some things to be greater or less than other things, or equal, the contrary appears at the same time as regards these things? Yes. But did not we say that it was impossible for the same person to have contrary opinions about the same things at the same time? Thus far indeed we said rightly. That part of the soul, then, which judges contrary to the measure, would seem not to be the same with that which judges according to the measure. It would not. But surely that, at least, which trusts to measure and computation would seem to be the best part of the soul? Of course. That then which opposes itself to this will be one of our depraved parts. Necessarily so. It was this then I wished should be agreed upon, when I said that painting, and imitation, in general, being far from the truth, delights in its own work, conversing with that part in us which is far from wisdom, and is its companion and friend, to no sound nor genuine purpose. Entirely so, said he. Imitation, then, being depraved in itself, and joining with that which is depraved, generates depraved things. It seems so.
Whether, said I, is the case thus, with reference to the imitation which is by the sight only, or is it likewise so with reference to that by hearing, which we call poetry? Probably as to this also, said he. We shall not therefore, said I, trust to the appearance in painting, but we shall proceed to the consideration of the intellectual part with which the imitation through poetry is conversant, and see whether it is depraved or worthy. It must be done. Let us proceed then thus: Poetic imitation, we say, imitates men acting either voluntarily or involuntarily; and imagining that in their acting they have done either well or ill, and in all these cases receiving either pain or pleasure: is the case any otherwise than this? Not at all. In all these, now, does the man agree with himself? or, as he disagreed with reference to sight, and had contrary opinions in himself of the same things at one and the same time, does he, in the same manner, disagree likewise in his actions, and fight with himself? But I recollect that there is no occasion for us to settle this at least; for, in our previous discussion, we sufficiently determined all this,—that our soul is full of a thousand such internal contrarieties. Right, said he.
Right indeed, said I, but it appears to me necessary to discuss now, what was then omitted. What is that? said he. We said somewhere formerly, said I, that a good man, when he meets with such a misfortune as the loss of a son, or of anything else which he values the most, will bear it of all men the easiest. Certainly. But let us now consider this further,—whether will he not grieve at all, or is this indeed impossible, but will he moderate his grief? The truth, said he, is rather this last. But tell me this now concerning him, whether do you think that he will struggle more with grief and oppose it, when he is observed by his equals, or when he is in solitude, alone by himself? Much more, said he, when he is observed. But when alone, he will venture, I think, to utter many things, which, if any one heard him, he would be ashamed of, and he will do many things which he would not wish any one saw him doing. Aye, such is the case, said he.
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