SOCRATES - GLAUCON
OF THE many excellences which
I perceive in the order of our
State,
there is none which upon reflection
pleases me better than the rule
about poetry.
To what do you refer?
To the rejection of imitative
poetry, which certainly ought
not to be received; as I see
far more clearly now that the
parts
of the soul have been distinguished.
What do you mean?
Speaking in confidence, for
I should not like to have my
words
repeated to the tragedians and
the rest of the imitative tribe--
but I do not mind saying to you,
that all poetical imitations
are
ruinous to the understanding
of the hearers, and that the
knowledge
of their true nature is the only
antidote to them.
Explain the purport of your
remark.
Well, I will tell you, although
I have always from my earliest
youth
had an awe and love of Homer,
which even now makes the words
falter
on my lips, for he is the great
captain and teacher of the whole
of that charming tragic company;
but a man is not to be reverenced
more than the truth, and therefore
I will speak out.
Very good, he said.
Listen to me then, or rather,
answer me.
Put your question.
Can you tell me what imitation
is? for I really do not know.
A likely thing, then, that I
should know.
Why not? for the duller eye
may often see a thing sooner
than
the keener.
Very true, he said; but in your
presence, even if I had any faint
notion,
I could not muster courage to
utter it. Will you enquire yourself?
Well then, shall we begin the
enquiry in our usual manner:
Whenever a number of individuals
have a common name, we assume
them
to have also a corresponding
idea or form. Do you understand
me?
I do.
Let us take any common instance;
there are beds and tables in
the world--
plenty of them, are there not?
Yes.
But there are only two ideas
or forms of them--one the idea
of a bed,
the other of a table.
True.
And the maker of either of them
makes a bed or he makes a table
for our use,
in accordance with the idea--that
is our way of speaking in this
and similar instances--but no
artificer makes the ideas themselves:
how could he?
Impossible.
And there is another artist,--I
should like to know what you
would
say of him.
Who is he?
One who is the maker of all
the works of all other workmen.
What an extraordinary man!
Wait a little, and there will
be more reason for your saying
so.
For this is he who is able to
make not only vessels of every
kind,
but plants and animals, himself
and all other things--the earth
and heaven, and the things which
are in heaven or under the earth;
he makes the gods also.
He must be a wizard and no mistake.
Oh! you are incredulous, are
you? Do you mean that there is
no
such maker or creator, or that
in one sense there might be a
maker
of all these things but in another
not? Do you see that there
is a way in which you could make
them all yourself?
What way?
An easy way enough; or rather,
there are many ways in which
the feat
might be quickly and easily accomplished,
none quicker than that of
turning a mirror round and round--you
would soon enough make the sun
and the heavens, and the earth
and yourself, and other animals
and plants,
and all the, other things of
which we were just now speaking,
in the mirror.
Yes, he said; but they would
be appearances only.
Very good, I said, you are coming
to the point now. And the painter
too is, as I conceive, just such
another--a creator of appearances,
is he not?
Of course.
But then I suppose you will
say that what he creates is untrue.
And yet there is a sense in which
the painter also creates a bed?
Yes, he said, but not a real
bed.
And what of the maker of the
bed? Were you not saying that
he too makes,
not the idea which, according
to our view, is the essence of
the bed,
but only a particular bed?
Yes, I did.
Then if he does not make that
which exists he cannot make true
existence,
but only some semblance of existence;
and if any one were to say
that the work of the maker of
the bed, or of any other workman,
has real existence, he could
hardly be supposed to be speaking
the truth.
At any rate, he replied, philosophers
would say that he was not
speaking the truth.
No wonder, then, that his work
too is an indistinct expression
of truth.
No wonder.
Suppose now that by the light
of the examples just offered
we
enquire who this imitator is?
If you please.
Well then, here are three beds:
one existing in nature, which
is made
by God, as I think that we may
say--for no one else can be the
maker?
No.
There is another which is the
work of the carpenter?
Yes.
And the work of the painter
is a third?
Yes.
Beds, then, are of three kinds,
and there are three artists
who superintend them: God, the
maker of the bed, and the painter?
Yes, there are three of them.
God, whether from choice or
from necessity, made one bed
in nature
and one only; two or more such
ideal beds neither ever have
been
nor ever will be made by God.
Why is that?
Because even if He had made
but two, a third would still
appear
behind them which both of them
would have for their idea,
and that would be the ideal bed
and the two others.
Very true, he said.
God knew this, and He desired
to be the real maker of a real
bed,
not a particular maker of a particular
bed, and therefore He created
a bed which is essentially and
by nature one only.
So we believe.
Shall we, then, speak of Him
as the natural author or maker
of the bed?
Yes, he replied; inasmuch as
by the natural process of creation
He
is the author of this and of
all other things.
And what shall we say of the
carpenter--is not he also the
maker
of the bed?
Yes.
But would you call the painter
a creator and maker?
Certainly not.
Yet if he is not the maker,
what is he in relation to the
bed?
I think, he said, that we may
fairly designate him as the imitator
of that which the others make.
Good, I said; then you call
him who is third in the descent
from
nature an imitator?
Certainly, he said.
And the tragic poet is an imitator,
and therefore, like all
other imitators, he is thrice
removed from the king and from
the truth?
That appears to be so.
Then about the imitator we are
agreed. And what about the painter?--
I would like to know whether
he may be thought to imitate
that which
originally exists in nature,
or only the creations of artists?
The latter.
As they are or as they appear?
You have still to determine this.
What do you mean?
I mean, that you may look at
a bed from different points of
view,
obliquely or directly or from
any other point of view, and
the bed
will appear different, but there
is no difference in reality.
And the same of all things.
Yes, he said, the difference
is only apparent.
Now let me ask you another question:
Which is the art of painting
designed to be--an imitation
of things as they are, or as
they appear--
of appearance or of reality?
Of appearance.
Then the imitator, I said, is
a long way off the truth, and
can
do all things because he lightly
touches on a small part of them,
and that part an image. For example:
A painter will paint a cobbler,
carpenter, or any other artist,
though he knows nothing of their
arts;
and, if he is a good artist,
he may deceive children or simple
persons,
when he shows them his picture
of a carpenter from a distance,
and they will fancy that they
are looking at a real carpenter.
Certainly.
And whenever any one informs
us that he has found a man knows
all the arts, and all things
else that anybody knows, and
every
single thing with a higher degree
of accuracy than any other man--
whoever tells us this, I think
that we can only imagine to be
a
simple creature who is likely
to have been deceived by some
wizard
or actor whom he met, and whom
he thought all-knowing, because
he
himself was unable to analyse
the nature of knowledge and ignorance
and imitation.
Most true.
And so, when we hear persons
saying that the tragedians, and
Homer,
who is at their head, know all
the arts and all things human,
virtue as well as vice, and divine
things too, for that the good
poet cannot compose well unless
he knows his subject, and that
he
who has not this knowledge can
never be a poet, we ought to
consider whether here also there
may not be a similar illusion.
Perhaps they may have come across
imitators and been deceived by
them;
they may not have remembered
when they saw their works that
these were
but imitations thrice removed
from the truth, and could easily
be made
without any knowledge of the
truth, because they are appearances
only and not realities? Or, after
all, they may be in the right,
and poets do really know the
things about which they seem
to the many
to speak so well?
The question, he said, should
by all means be considered.
Now do you suppose that if a
person were able to make the
original
as well as the image, he would
seriously devote himself to the
image-making branch? Would he
allow imitation to be the ruling
principle of his life, as if
he had nothing higher in him?
I should say not.
The real artist, who knew what
he was imitating, would be interested
in realities and not in imitations;
and would desire to leave
as memorials of himself works
many and fair; and, instead of
being
the author of encomiums, he would
prefer to be the theme of them.
Yes, he said, that would be
to him a source of much greater
honour
and profit.
Then, I said, we must put a
question to Homer; not about
medicine,
or any of the arts to which his
poems only incidentally refer:
we are not going to ask him,
or any other poet, whether he
has cured
patients like Asclepius, or left
behind him a school of medicine
such as the Asclepiads were,
or whether he only talks about
medicine
and other arts at second hand;
but we have a right to know respecting
military tactics, politics, education,
which are the chiefest and
noblest subjects of his poems,
and we may fairly ask him about
them.
`Friend Homer,' then we say to
him, `if you are only in the
second
remove from truth in what you
say of virtue, and not in the
third--
not an image maker or imitator--and
if you are able to discern
what pursuits make men better
or worse in private or public
life,
tell us what State was ever better
governed by your help?
The good order of Lacedaemon
is due to Lycurgus, and many
other
cities great and small have been
similarly benefited by others;
but who says that you have been
a good legislator to them and
have done them any good? Italy
and Sicily boast of Charondas,
and there is Solon who is renowned
among us; but what city
has anything to say about you?'
Is there any city which he
might name?
I think not, said Glaucon; not
even the Homerids themselves
pretend
that he was a legislator.
Well, but is there any war on
record which was carried on successfully
by him, or aided by his counsels,
when he was alive?
There is not.
Or is there any invention of
his, applicable to the arts or
to
human life, such as Thales the
Milesian or Anacharsis the Scythian,
and other ingenious men have
conceived, which is attributed
to him?
There is absolutely nothing
of the kind.
But, if Homer never did any
public service, was he privately
a guide or teacher of any? Had
he in his lifetime friends
who loved to associate with him,
and who handed down to posterity
an Homeric way of life, such
as was established by Pythagoras
who was so greatly beloved for
his wisdom, and whose followers
are to this day quite celebrated
for the order which was named
after him?
Nothing of the kind is recorded
of him. For surely, Socrates,
Creophylus,
the companion of Homer, that
child of flesh, whose name always
makes us laugh,
might be more justly ridiculed
for his stupidity, if, as is
said, Homer
was greatly neglected by him
and others in his own day when
he was alive?
Yes, I replied, that is the
tradition. But can you imagine,
Glaucon,
that if Homer had really been
able to educate and improve mankind--
if he had possessed knowledge
and not been a mere imitator--can
you imagine,
I say, that he would not have
had many followers, and been
honoured
and loved by them? Protagoras
of Abdera, and Prodicus of Ceos,
and a host of others, have only
to whisper to their contemporaries:
`You will never be able to manage
either your own house or your
own
State until you appoint us to
be your ministers of education'--
and this ingenious device of
theirs has such an effect in
making
them love them that their companions
all but carry them about on
their shoulders. And is it conceivable
that the contemporaries
of Homer, or again of Hesiod,
would have allowed either of
them
to go about as rhapsodists, if
they had really been able to
make
mankind virtuous? Would they
not have been as unwilling to
part
with them as with gold, and have
compelled them to stay at home
with them? Or, if the master
would not stay, then the disciples
would have followed him about
everywhere, until they had got
education enough?
Yes, Socrates, that, I think,
is quite true.
Then must we not infer that
all these poetical individuals,
beginning with Homer, are only
imitators; they copy images
of virtue and the like, but the
truth they never reach? The poet
is like a painter who, as we
have already observed, will make
a likeness of a cobbler though
he understands nothing of cobbling;
and his picture is good enough
for those who know no more than
he does,
and judge only by colours and
figures.
Quite so.
In like manner the poet with
his words and phrases may be
said
to lay on the colours of the
several arts, himself understanding
their nature only enough to imitate
them; and other people,
who are as ignorant as he is,
and judge only from his words,
imagine that if he speaks of
cobbling, or of military tactics,
or of anything else, in metre
and harmony and rhythm, he speaks
very well--
such is the sweet influence which
melody and rhythm by nature have.
And I think that you must have
observed again and again what
a poor
appearance the tales of poets
make when stripped of the colours
which
music puts upon them, and recited
in simple prose.
Yes, he said.
They are like faces which were
never really beautiful, but only
blooming;
and now the bloom of youth has
passed away from them?
Exactly.
Here is another point: The imitator
or maker of the image
knows nothing of true existence;
he knows appearances only.
Am I not right?
Yes.
Then let us have a clear understanding,
and not be satisfied
with half an explanation.
Proceed.
Of the painter we say that he
will paint reins, and he will
paint
a bit?
Yes.
And the worker in leather and
brass will make them?
Certainly.
But does the painter know the
right form of the bit and reins?
Nay, hardly even the workers
in brass and leather who make
them;
only the horseman who knows how
to use them--he knows their
right form.
Most true.
And may we not say the same
of all things?
What?
That there are three arts which
are concerned with all things:
one which uses, another which
makes, a third which imitates
them?
Yes.
And the excellence or beauty
or truth of every structure,
animate or inanimate, and of
every action of man, is relative
to the use for which nature or
the artist has intended them.
True.
Then the user of them must have
the greatest experience of them,
and he must indicate to the maker
the good or bad qualities which
develop themselves in use; for
example, the flute-player will
tell
the flute-maker which of his
flutes is satisfactory to the
performer;
he will tell him how he ought
to make them, and the other will
attend
to his instructions?
Of course.
The one knows and therefore
speaks with authority about the
goodness
and badness of flutes, while
the other, confiding in him,
will do what he is told by him?
True.
The instrument is the same,
but about the excellence or badness
of it the maker will only attain
to a correct belief; and this
he
will gain from him who knows,
by talking to him and being compelled
to hear what he has to say, whereas
the user will have knowledge?
True.
But will the imitator have either?
Will he know from use whether
or no his drawing is correct
or beautiful? Or will he have
right
opinion from being compelled
to associate with another who
knows
and gives him instructions about
what he should draw?
Neither.
Then he will no more have true
opinion than he will have knowledge
about the goodness or badness
of his imitations?
I suppose not.
The imitative artist will be
in a brilliant state of intelligence
about his own creations?
Nay, very much the reverse.
And still he will go on imitating
without knowing what makes
a thing good or bad, and may
be expected therefore to imitate
only that which appears to be
good to the ignorant multitude?
Just so.
Thus far then we are pretty
well agreed that the imitator
has no
knowledge worth mentioning of
what he imitates. Imitation is
only
a kind of play or sport, and
the tragic poets, whether they
write
in iambic or in Heroic verse,
are imitators in the highest
degree?
Very true.
And now tell me, I conjure you,
has not imitation been shown
by us
to be concerned with that which
is thrice removed from the truth?
Certainly.
And what is the faculty in man
to which imitation is addressed?
What do you mean?
I will explain: The body which
is large when seen near,
appears small when seen at a
distance?
True.
And the same object appears
straight when looked at out of
the water,
and crooked when in the water;
and the concave becomes convex,
owing to the illusion about colours
to which the sight is liable.
Thus every sort of confusion
is revealed within us; and this
is
that weakness of the human mind
on which the art of conjuring
and of
deceiving by light and shadow
and other ingenious devices imposes,
having an effect upon us like
magic.
True.
And the arts of measuring and
numbering and weighing come to
the rescue of the human understanding-there
is the beauty of them--
and the apparent greater or less,
or more or heavier, no longer
have the mastery over us, but
give way before calculation and
measure
and weight?
Most true.
And this, surely, must be the
work of the calculating and rational
principle in the soul
To be sure.
And when this principle measures
and certifies that some things
are equal, or that some are greater
or less than others, there occurs
an apparent contradiction?
True.
But were we not saying that
such a contradiction is the same
faculty
cannot have contrary opinions
at the same time about the same
thing?
Very true.
Then that part of the soul which
has an opinion contrary to measure
is not the same with that which
has an opinion in accordance
with measure?
True.
And the better part of the soul
is likely to be that which trusts
to measure and calculation?
Certainly.
And that which is opposed to
them is one of the inferior principles
of the soul?
No doubt.
This was the conclusion at which
I was seeking to arrive when
I
said that painting or drawing,
and imitation in general, when
doing
their own proper work, are far
removed from truth, and the companions
and friends and associates of
a principle within us which is
equally
removed from reason, and that
they have no true or healthy
aim.
Exactly.
The imitative art is an inferior
who marries an inferior, and
has
inferior offspring.
Very true.
And is this confined to the
sight only, or does it extend
to the hearing also, relating
in fact to what we term poetry?
Probably the same would be true
of poetry.
Do not rely, I said, on a probability
derived from the analogy
of painting; but let us examine
further and see whether the faculty
with which poetical imitation
is concerned is good or bad.
By all means.
We may state the question thus:--Imitation
imitates the actions of men,
whether voluntary or involuntary,
on which, as they imagine, a
good
or bad result has ensued, and
they rejoice or sorrow accordingly.
Is there anything more?
No, there is nothing else.
But in all this variety of circumstances
is the man at unity
with himself--or rather, as in
the instance of sight there was
confusion and opposition in his
opinions about the same things,
so here also is there not strife
and inconsistency in his life?
Though I need hardly raise the
question again, for I remember
that all
this has been already admitted;
and the soul has been acknowledged
by us to be full of these and
ten thousand similar oppositions
occurring at the same moment?
And we were right, he said.
Yes, I said, thus far we were
right; but there was an omission
which must now be supplied.
What was the omission?
Were we not saying that a good
man, who has the misfortune to
lose
his son or anything else which
is most dear to him, will bear
the loss with more equanimity
than another?
Yes.
But will he have no sorrow,
or shall we say that although
he cannot
help sorrowing, he will moderate
his sorrow?
The latter, he said, is the
truer statement.
Tell me: will he be more likely
to struggle and hold out against
his sorrow when he is seen by
his equals, or when he is alone?
It will make a great difference
whether he is seen or not.
When he is by himself he will
not mind saying or doing many
things
which he would be ashamed of
any one hearing or seeing him
do?
True.
There is a principle of law
and reason in him which bids
him resist,
as well as a feeling of his misfortune
which is forcing him to indulge
his sorrow?
True.
But when a man is drawn in two
opposite directions, to and
from the same object, this, as
we affirm, necessarily implies
two distinct principles in him?
Certainly.
One of them is ready to follow
the guidance of the law?
How do you mean?
The law would say that to be
patient under suffering is best,
and that we should not give way
to impatience, as there is no
knowing whether such things are
good or evil; and nothing is
gained
by impatience; also, because
no human thing is of serious
importance,
and grief stands in the way of
that which at the moment is most
required.
What is most required? he asked.
That we should take counsel
about what has happened, and
when
the dice have been thrown order
our affairs in the way which
reason
deems best; not, like children
who have had a fall, keeping
hold
of the part struck and wasting
time in setting up a howl, but
always
accustoming the soul forthwith
to apply a remedy, raising up
that
which is sickly and fallen, banishing
the cry of sorrow by the healing
art.
Yes, he said, that is the true
way of meeting the attacks of
fortune.
Yes, I said; and the higher
principle is ready to follow
this
suggestion of reason?
Clearly.
And the other principle, which
inclines us to recollection of
our
troubles and to lamentation,
and can never have enough of
them,
we may call irrational, useless,
and cowardly?
Indeed, we may.
And does not the latter--I mean
the rebellious principle--
furnish a great variety of materials
for imitation? Whereas the wise
and calm temperament, being always
nearly equable, is not easy
to imitate or to appreciate when
imitated, especially at a public
festival when a promiscuous crowd
is assembled in a theatre.
For the feeling represented is
one to which they are strangers.
Certainly.
Then the imitative poet who
aims at being popular is not
by nature made,
nor is his art intended, to please
or to affect the principle
in the soul; but he will prefer
the passionate and fitful temper,
which is easily imitated?
Clearly.
And now we may fairly take him
and place him by the side of
the painter,
for he is like him in two ways:
first, inasmuch as his creations
have an inferior degree of truth--in
this, I say, he is like him;
and he is also like him in being
concerned with an inferior
part of the soul; and therefore
we shall be right in refusing
to admit him into a well-ordered
State, because he awakens and
nourishes and strengthens the
feelings and impairs the reason.
As in a city when the evil are
permitted to have authority
and the good are put out of the
way, so in the soul of man,
as we maintain, the imitative
poet implants an evil constitution,
for he indulges the irrational
nature which has no discernment
of greater and less, but thinks
the same thing at one time great
and at another small-he is a
manufacturer of images and is
very far
removed from the truth.
Exactly.
But we have not yet brought
forward the heaviest count in
our accusation:--
the power which poetry has of
harming even the good (and there
are very few who are not harmed),
is surely an awful thing?
Yes, certainly, if the effect
is what you say.
Hear and judge: The best of
us, as I conceive, when we listen
to a passage of Homer, or one
of the tragedians, in which he
represents some pitiful hero
who is drawling out his sorrows
in a
long oration, or weeping, and
smiting his breast--the best
of us,
you know, delight in giving way
to sympathy, and are in raptures
at the excellence of the poet
who stirs our feelings most.
Yes, of course I know.
But when any sorrow of our own
happens to us, then you may observe
that we pride ourselves on the
opposite quality--we would fain
be quiet
and patient; this is the manly
part, and the other which delighted
us in the recitation is now deemed
to be the part of a woman.
Very true, he said.
Now can we be right in praising
and admiring another who is doing
that which any one of us would
abominate and be ashamed of in
his
own person?
No, he said, that is certainly
not reasonable.
Nay, I said, quite reasonable
from one point of view.
What point of view?
If you consider, I said, that
when in misfortune we feel a
natural
hunger and desire to relieve
our sorrow by weeping and lamentation,
and that this feeling which is
kept under control in our own
calamities is satisfied and delighted
by the poets;-the better
nature in each of us, not having
been sufficiently trained
by reason or habit, allows the
sympathetic element to break
loose because the sorrow is another's;
and the spectator fancies
that there can be no disgrace
to himself in praising and pitying
any one who comes telling him
what a good man he is, and making
a fuss about his troubles; he
thinks that the pleasure is a
gain,
and why should he be supercilious
and lose this and the poem too?
Few persons ever reflect, as
I should imagine, that from the
evil
of other men something of evil
is communicated to themselves.
And so the feeling of sorrow
which has gathered strength at
the sight
of the misfortunes of others
is with difficulty repressed
in
our own.
How very true!
And does not the same hold also
of the ridiculous? There are
jests
which you would be ashamed to
make yourself, and yet on the
comic stage,
or indeed in private, when you
hear them, you are greatly amused
by them, and are not at all disgusted
at their unseemliness;--
the case of pity is repeated;--there
is a principle in human nature
which is disposed to raise a
laugh, and this which you once
restrained
by reason, because you were afraid
of being thought a buffoon,
is now let out again; and having
stimulated the risible faculty
at the theatre, you are betrayed
unconsciously to yourself into
playing the comic poet at home.
Quite true, he said.
And the same may be said of
lust and anger and all the other
affections,
of desire and pain and pleasure,
which are held to be inseparable
from every action--in all of
them poetry feeds and waters
the passions
instead of drying them up; she
lets them rule, although they
ought
to be controlled, if mankind
are ever to increase in happiness
and virtue.
I cannot deny it.
Therefore, Glaucon, I said,
whenever you meet with any of
the eulogists
of Homer declaring that he has
been the educator of Hellas,
and that he
is profitable for education and
for the ordering of human things,
and that you should take him
up again and again and get to
know him
and regulate your whole life
according to him, we may love
and honour
those who say these things--they
are excellent people, as far
as
their lights extend; and we are
ready to acknowledge that Homer
is
the greatest of poets and first
of tragedy writers; but we must
remain
firm in our conviction that hymns
to the gods and praises of famous
men are the only poetry which
ought to be admitted into our
State.
For if you go beyond this and
allow the honeyed muse to enter,
either in epic or lyric verse,
not law and the reason of mankind,
which by common consent have
ever been deemed best, but pleasure
and pain will be the rulers in
our State.
That is most true, he said.
And now since we have reverted
to the subject of poetry, let
this
our defence serve to show the
reasonableness of our former
judgment
in sending away out of our State
an art having the tendencies
which we have described; for
reason constrained us. But that
she
may impute to us any harshness
or want of politeness, let us
tell
her that there is an ancient
quarrel between philosophy and
poetry;
of which there are many proofs,
such as the saying of `the yelping
hound howling at her lord,' or
of one `mighty in the vain talk
of fools,' and `the mob of sages
circumventing Zeus,' and the
`subtle
thinkers who are beggars after
all'; and there are innumerable
other signs of ancient enmity
between them. Notwithstanding
this,
let us assure our sweet friend
and the sister arts of imitation
that if she will only prove her
title to exist in a well-ordered
State we shall be delighted to
receive her--we are very conscious
of her charms; but we may not
on that account betray the truth.
I dare say, Glaucon, that you
are as much charmed by her as
I am,
especially when she appears in
Homer?
Yes, indeed, I am greatly charmed.
Shall I propose, then, that
she be allowed to return from
exile,
but upon this condition only--that
she make a defence of herself
in lyrical or some other metre?
Certainly.
And we may further grant to
those of her defenders who are
lovers of poetry
and yet not poets the permission
to speak in prose on her behalf:
let them show not only that she
is pleasant but also useful to
States and to human life, and
we will listen in a kindly spirit;
for if this can be proved we
shall surely be the gainers--I
mean,
if there is a use in poetry as
well as a delight?
Certainly, he said, we shall
the gainers.
If her defence fails, then,
my dear friend, like other persons
who are enamoured of something,
but put a restraint upon themselves
when they think their desires
are opposed to their interests,
so too must we after the manner
of lovers give her up,
though not without a struggle.
We too are inspired by that love
of poetry which the education
of noble States has implanted
in us,
and therefore we would have her
appear at her best and truest;
but so long as she is unable
to make good her defence,
this argument of ours shall be
a charm to us, which we will
repeat
to ourselves while we listen
to her strains; that we may not
fall
away into the childish love of
her which captivates the many.
At all events we are well aware
that poetry being such as we
have
described is not to be regarded
seriously as attaining to the
truth;
and he who listens to her, fearing
for the safety of the city which
is
within him, should be on his
guard against her seductions
and make
our words his law.
Yes, he said, I quite agree
with you.
Yes, I said, my dear Glaucon,
for great is the issue at stake,
greater than appears, whether
a man is to be good or bad.
And what will any one be profited
if under the influence of honour
or money or power, aye, or under
the excitement of poetry, he
neglect
justice and virtue?
Yes, he said; I have been convinced
by the argument, as I believe
that any one else would have
been.
And yet no mention has been
made of the greatest prizes and
rewards
which await virtue.
What, are there any greater
still? If there are, they must
be of an inconceivable greatness.
Why, I said, what was ever great
in a short time? The whole
period of threescore years and
ten is surely but a little thing
in comparison with eternity?
Say rather `nothing,' he replied.
And should an immortal being
seriously think of this little
space
rather than of the whole?
Of the whole, certainly. But
why do you ask?
Are you not aware, I said, that
the soul of man is immortal
and imperishable?
He looked at me in astonishment,
and said: No, by heaven:
And are you really prepared to
maintain this?
Yes, I said, I ought to be,
and you too--there is no difficulty
in proving it.
I see a great difficulty; but
I should like to hear you state
this
argument of which you make so
light.
Listen then.
I am attending.
There is a thing which you call
good and another which you call
evil?
Yes, he replied.
Would you agree with me in thinking
that the corrupting and destroying
element is the evil, and the
saving and improving element
the good?
Yes.
And you admit that every thing
has a good and also an evil;
as ophthalmia is the evil of
the eyes and disease of the whole
body;
as mildew is of corn, and rot
of timber, or rust of copper
and iron:
in everything, or in almost everything,
there is an inherent evil
and disease?
Yes, he said.
And anything which is infected
by any of these evils is made
evil,
and at last wholly dissolves
and dies?
True.
The vice and evil which is inherent
in each is the destruction of
each;
and if this does not destroy
them there is nothing else that
will;
for good certainly will not destroy
them, nor again, that which is
neither good nor evil.
Certainly not.
If, then, we find any nature
which having this inherent corruption
cannot be dissolved or destroyed,
we may be certain that of such
a nature there is no destruction?
That may be assumed.
Well, I said, and is there no
evil which corrupts the soul?
Yes, he said, there are all
the evils which we were just
now passing
in review: unrighteousness, intemperance,
cowardice, ignorance.
But does any of these dissolve
or destroy her?--and here do
not let
us fall into the error of supposing
that the unjust and foolish man,
when he is detected, perishes
through his own injustice,
which is an evil of the soul.
Take the analogy of the body:
The evil of the body is a disease
which wastes and reduces and
annihilates the body; and all
the things of which we were just
now speaking come to annihilation
through their own corruption
attaching to them and inhering
in them and so destroying them.
Is not this true?
Yes.
Consider the soul in like manner.
Does the injustice or other evil
which exists in the soul waste
and consume her? Do they by attaching
to the soul and inhering in her
at last bring her to death,
and so separate her from the
body ?
Certainly not.
And yet, I said, it is unreasonable
to suppose that anything can
perish from without through affection
of external evil which could
not be destroyed from within
by a corruption of its own?
It is, he replied.
Consider, I said, Glaucon, that
even the badness of food,
whether staleness, decomposition,
or any other bad quality,
when confined to the actual food,
is not supposed to destroy the
body;
although, if the badness of food
communicates corruption to the
body,
then we should say that the body
has been destroyed by a corruption
of itself, which is disease,
brought on by this; but that
the body,
being one thing, can be destroyed
by the badness of food,
which is another, and which does
not engender any natural infection--
this we shall absolutely deny?
Very true.
And, on the same principle,
unless some bodily evil can produce
an evil
of the soul, we must not suppose
that the soul, which is one thing,
can be dissolved by any merely
external evil which belongs to
another?
Yes, he said, there is reason
in that.
Either then, let us refute this
conclusion, or, while it
remains unrefuted, let us never
say that fever, or any other
disease,
or the knife put to the throat,
or even the cutting up of
the whole body into the minutest
pieces, can destroy the soul,
until she herself is proved to
become more unholy or unrighteous
in consequence of these things
being done to the body; but that
the soul, or anything else if
not destroyed by an internal
evil,
can be destroyed by an external
one, is not to. be affirmed by
any man.
And surely, he replied, no one
will ever prove that the souls
of men become more unjust in
consequence of death.
But if some one who would rather
not admit the immortality of
the soul
boldly denies this, and says
that the dying do really become
more
evil and unrighteous, then, if
the speaker is right, I suppose
that injustice, like disease,
must be assumed to be fatal to
the unjust,
and that those who take this
disorder die by the natural inherent
power of destruction which evil
has, and which kills them sooner
or later, but in quite another
way from that in which, at present,
the wicked receive death at the
hands of others as the penalty
of their deeds?
Nay, he said, in that case injustice,
if fatal to the unjust,
will not be so very terrible
to him, for he will be delivered
from evil. But I rather suspect
the opposite to be the truth,
and that injustice which, if
it have the power, will murder
others,
keeps the murderer alive--aye,
and well awake too; so far removed
is
her dwelling-place from being
a house of death.
True, I said; if the inherent
natural vice or evil of the soul
is
unable to kill or destroy her,
hardly will that which is appointed
to be the destruction of some
other body, destroy a soul or
anything
else except that of which it
was appointed to be the destruction.
Yes, that can hardly be.
But the soul which cannot be
destroyed by an evil, whether
inherent
or external, must exist for ever,
and if existing for ever,
must be immortal?
Certainly.
That is the conclusion, I said;
and, if a true conclusion,
then the souls must always be
the same, for if none be destroyed
they will not diminish in number.
Neither will they increase,
for the increase of the immortal
natures must come from something
mortal,
and all things would thus end
in immortality.
Very true.
But this we cannot believe--reason
will not allow us--
any more than we can believe
the soul, in her truest nature,
to be full of variety and difference
and dissimilarity.
What do you mean? he said.
The soul, I said, being, as
is now proven, immortal, must
be
the fairest of compositions and
cannot be compounded of many
elements?
Certainly not.
Her immortality is demonstrated
by the previous argument, and
there
are many other proofs; but to
see her as she really is, not
as we
now behold her, marred by communion
with the body and other miseries,
you must contemplate her with
the eye of reason, in her original
purity;
and then her beauty will be revealed,
and justice and injustice and
all
the things which we have described
will be manifested more clearly.
Thus far, we have spoken the
truth concerning her as she appears
at present, but we must remember
also that we have seen her only
in a condition which may be compared
to that of the sea-god Glaucus,
whose original image can hardly
be discerned because his natural
members are broken off and crushed
and damaged by the waves in all
sorts of ways, and incrustations
have grown over them of seaweed
and shells and stones, so that
he is more like some monster
than he is to his own natural
form. And the soul which we behold
is in a similar condition, disfigured
by ten thousand ills.
But not there, Glaucon, not there
must we look.
Where then?
At her love of wisdom. Let us
see whom she affects, and what
society and converse she seeks
in virtue of her near kindred
with the immortal and eternal
and divine; also how different
she would become if wholly following
this superior principle,
and borne by a divine impulse
out of the ocean in which she
now is,
and disengaged from the stones
and shells and things of earth
and rock which in wild variety
spring up around her because
she
feeds upon earth, and is overgrown
by the good things of this life
as they are termed: then you
would see her as she is, and
know
whether she has one shape only
or many, or what her nature is.
Of her affections and of the
forms which she takes in this
present
life I think that we have now
said enough.
True, he replied.
And thus, I said, we have fulfilled
the conditions of the argument;
we have not introduced the rewards
and glories of justice, which,
as you
were saying, are to be found
in Homer and Hesiod; but justice
in her
own nature has been shown to
be best for the soul in her own
nature.
Let a man do what is just, whether
he have the ring of Gyges or
not,
and even if in addition to the
ring of Gyges he put on the helmet
of Hades.
Very true.
And now, Glaucon, there will
be no harm in further enumerating
how many
and how great are the rewards
which justice and the other virtues
procure to the soul from gods
and men, both in life and after
death.
Certainly not, he said.
Will you repay me, then, what
you borrowed in the argument?
What did I borrow?
The assumption that the just
man should appear unjust and
the
unjust just: for you were of
opinion that even if the true
state
of the case could not possibly
escape the eyes of gods and men,
still this admission ought to
be made for the sake of the argument,
in order that pure justice might
be weighed against pure injustice.
Do you remember?
I should be much to blame if
I had forgotten.
Then, as the cause is decided,
I demand on behalf of justice
that
the estimation in which she is
held by gods and men and which
we
acknowledge to be her due should
now be restored to her by us;
since she has been shown to confer
reality, and not to deceive those
who truly possess her, let what
has been taken from her be given
back,
that so she may win that palm
of appearance which is hers also,
and which she gives to her own.
The demand, he said, is just.
In the first place, I said--and
this is the first thing which
you
will have to give back--the nature
both of the just and unjust
is truly known to the gods.
Granted.
And if they are both known to
them, one must be the friend
and
the other the enemy of the gods,
as we admitted from the beginning?
True.
And the friend of the gods may
be supposed to receive from them
all
things at their best, excepting
only such evil as is the necessary
consequence of former sins?
Certainly.
Then this must be our notion
of the just man, that even when
he is
in poverty or sickness, or any
other seeming misfortune, all
things
will in the end work together
for good to him in life and death:
for the gods have a care of any
one whose desire is to become
just
and to be like God, as far as
man can attain the divine likeness,
by the pursuit of virtue?
Yes, he said; if he is like
God he will surely not be neglected
by him.
And of the unjust may not the
opposite be supposed?
Certainly.
Such, then, are the palms of
victory which the gods give the
just?
That is my conviction.
And what do they receive of
men? Look at things as they really
are,
and you will see that the clever
unjust are in the case of runners,
who run well from the starting-place
to the goal but not back again
from the goal: they go off at
a great pace, but in the end
only
look foolish, slinking away with
their ears draggling on their
shoulders,
and without a crown; but the
true runner comes to the finish
and
receives the prize and is crowned.
And this is the way with the
just;
he who endures to the end of
every action and occasion of
his entire
life has a good report and carries
off the prize which men have
to bestow.
True.
And now you must allow me to
repeat of the just the blessings
which
you were attributing to the fortunate
unjust. I shall say of them,
what you were saying of the others,
that as they grow older,
they become rulers in their own
city if they care to be; they
marry
whom they like and give in marriage
to whom they will; all that you
said of the others I now say
of these. And, on the other hand,
of the unjust I say that the
greater number, even though they
escape
in their youth, are found out
at last and look foolish at the
end
of their course, and when they
come to be old and miserable
are
flouted alike by stranger and
citizen; they are beaten and
then
come those things unfit for ears
polite, as you truly term them;
they will be racked and have
their eyes burned out, as you
were saying.
And you may suppose that I have
repeated the remainder of your
tale
of horrors. But will you let
me assume, without reciting them,
that these things are true?
Certainly, he said, what you
say is true.
These, then, are the prizes
and rewards and gifts which are
bestowed
upon the just by gods and men
in this present life, in addition
to the other good things which
justice of herself provides.
Yes, he said; and they are fair
and lasting.
And yet, I said, all these are
as nothing, either in number
or
greatness in comparison with
those other recompenses which
await
both just and unjust after death.
And you ought to hear them,
and then both just and unjust
will have received from us a
full
payment of the debt which the
argument owes to them.
Speak, he said; there are few
things which I would more gladly
hear.
SOCRATES
Well, I said, I will tell you
a tale; not one of the tales
which Odysseus tells to the hero
Alcinous, yet this too is a tale
of a hero, Er the son of Armenius,
a Pamphylian by birth.
He was slain in battle, and ten
days afterwards, when the bodies
of the dead were taken up already
in a state of corruption, his
body
was found unaffected by decay,
and carried away home to be buried.
And on the twelfth day, as he
was lying on the funeral pile,
he returned to life and told
them what he had seen in the
other world.
He said that when his soul left
the body he went on a journey
with a great company, and that
they came to a mysterious place
at
which there were two openings
in the earth; they were near
together,
and over against them were two
other openings in the heaven
above.
In the intermediate space there
were judges seated, who commanded
the just, after they had given
judgment on them and had bound
their sentences in front of them,
to ascend by the heavenly way
on the right hand; and in like
manner the unjust were bidden
by them to descend by the lower
way on the left hand; these also
bore the symbols of their deeds,
but fastened on their backs.
He drew near, and they told him
that he was to be the messenger
who would carry the report of
the other world to men, and they
bade
him hear and see all that was
to be heard and seen in that
place.
Then he beheld and saw on one
side the souls departing at either
opening of heaven and earth when
sentence had been given on them;
and at the two other openings
other souls, some ascending
out of the earth dusty and worn
with travel, some descending
out of heaven clean and bright.
And arriving ever and anon they
seemed to have come from a long
journey, and they went forth
with
gladness into the meadow, where
they encamped as at a festival;
and those who knew one another
embraced and conversed, the souls
which came from earth curiously
enquiring about the things above,
and the souls which came from
heaven about the things beneath.
And they told one another of
what had happened by the way,
those from below weeping and
sorrowing at the remembrance
of the things
which they had endured and seen
in their journey beneath the
earth
(now the journey lasted a thousand
years), while those from above
were describing heavenly delights
and visions of inconceivable
beauty.
The Story, Glaucon, would take
too long to tell; but the sum
was this:--
He said that for every wrong
which they had done to any one
they
suffered tenfold; or once in
a hundred years--such being reckoned
to be the length of man's life,
and the penalty being thus paid
ten
times in a thousand years. If,
for example, there were any who
had been
the cause of many deaths, or
had betrayed or enslaved cities
or armies,
or been guilty of any other evil
behaviour, for each and all of
their
offences they received punishment
ten times over, and the rewards
of beneficence and justice and
holiness were in the same proportion.
I need hardly repeat what he
said concerning young children
dying
almost as soon as they were born.
Of piety and impiety to gods
and parents, and of murderers,
there were retributions other
and
greater far which he described.
He mentioned that he was present
when one of the spirits asked
another, `Where is Ardiaeus the
Great?'
(Now this Ardiaeus lived a thousand
years before the time of Er:
he had been the tyrant of some
city of Pamphylia, and had murdered
his aged father and his elder
brother, and was said to have
committed
many other abominable crimes.)
The answer of the other spirit
was:
`He comes not hither and will
never come. And this,' said he,
`was one of the dreadful sights
which we ourselves witnessed.
We were at the mouth of the cavern,
and, having completed all
our experiences, were about to
reascend, when of a sudden Ardiaeus
appeared and several others,
most of whom were tyrants; and
there
were also besides the tyrants
private individuals who had been
great criminals: they were just,
as they fancied, about to return
into the upper world, but the
mouth, instead of admitting them,
gave a roar, whenever any of
these incurable sinners or some
one
who had not been sufficiently
punished tried to ascend; and
then
wild men of fiery aspect, who
were standing by and heard the
sound,
seized and carried them off;
and Ardiaeus and others they
bound head
and foot and hand, and threw
them down and flayed them with
scourges,
and dragged them along the road
at the side, carding them on
thorns
like wool, and declaring to the
passers-by what were their crimes,
and that they were being taken
away to be cast into hell.'
And of all the many terrors which
they had endured, he said that
there
was none like the terror which
each of them felt at that moment,
lest they should hear the voice;
and when there was silence,
one by one they ascended with
exceeding joy. These, said Er,
were the penalties and retributions,
and there were blessings as
great.
Now when the spirits which were
in the meadow had tarried seven
days,
on the eighth they were obliged
to proceed on their journey,
and,
on the fourth day after, he said
that they came to a place where
they could see from above a line
of light, straight as a column,
extending right through the whole
heaven and through the earth,
in colour resembling the rainbow,
only brighter and purer;
another day's journey brought
them to the place, and there,
in the midst of the light, they
saw the ends of the chains of
heaven
let down from above: for this
light is the belt of heaven,
and holds together the circle
of the universe, like the under-girders
of a trireme. From these ends
is extended the spindle of Necessity,
on which all the revolutions
turn. The shaft and hook of this
spindle are made of steel, and
the whorl is made partly of steel
and also partly of other materials.
Now the whorl is in form
like the whorl used on earth;
and the description of it implied
that there is one large hollow
whorl which is quite scooped
out,
and into this is fitted another
lesser one, and another, and
another,
and four others, making eight
in all, like vessels which fit
into one another; the whorls
show their edges on the upper
side,
and on their lower side all together
form one continuous whorl.
This is pierced by the spindle,
which is driven home through
the centre
of the eighth. The first and
outermost whorl has the rim broadest,
and the seven inner whorls are
narrower, in the following proportions--
the sixth is next to the first
in size, the fourth next to the
sixth;
then comes the eighth; the seventh
is fifth, the fifth is sixth,
the third is seventh, last and
eighth comes the second.
The largest (of fixed stars)
is spangled, and the seventh
(or sun)
is brightest; the eighth (or
moon) coloured by the reflected
light of the seventh; the second
and fifth (Saturn and Mercury)
are in colour like one another,
and yellower than the preceding;
the third (Venus) has the whitest
light; the fourth (Mars) is reddish;
the sixth (Jupiter) is in whiteness
second. Now the whole spindle
has the same motion; but, as
the whole revolves in one direction,
the seven inner circles move
slowly in the other, and of these
the swiftest is the eighth; next
in swiftness are the seventh,
sixth, and fifth, which move
together; third in swiftness
appeared
to move according to the law
of this reversed motion the fourth;
the third appeared fourth and
the second fifth. The spindle
turns
on the knees of Necessity; and
on the upper surface of each
circle
is a siren, who goes round with
them, hymning a single tone or
note.
The eight together form one harmony;
and round about, at equal intervals,
there is another band, three
in number, each sitting upon
her throne:
these are the Fates, daughters
of Necessity, who are clothed
in white
robes and have chaplets upon
their heads, Lachesis and Clotho
and Atropos, who accompany with
their voices the harmony of the
sirens--
Lachesis singing of the past,
Clotho of the present, Atropos
of the future;
Clotho from time to time assisting
with a touch of her right hand
the revolution of the outer circle
of the whorl or spindle, and
Atropos
with her left hand touching and
guiding the inner ones, and Lachesis
laying hold of either in turn,
first with one hand and then
with the
other.
When Er and the spirits arrived,
their duty was to go at once
to Lachesis;
but first of all there came a
prophet who arranged them in
order;
then he took from the knees of
Lachesis lots and samples
of lives, and having mounted
a high pulpit, spoke as follows:
`Hear the word of Lachesis, the
daughter of Necessity.
Mortal souls, behold a new cycle
of life and mortality.
Your genius will not be allotted
to you, but you choose your genius;
and let him who draws the first
lot have the first choice,
and the life which he chooses
shall be his destiny. Virtue
is free,
and as a man honours or dishonours
her he will have more or less
of her; the responsibility is
with the chooser--God is justified.'
When the Interpreter had thus
spoken he scattered lots indifferently
among them all, and each of them
took up the lot which fell near
him,
all but Er himself (he was not
allowed), and each as he took
his lot
perceived the number which he
had obtained. Then the Interpreter
placed on the ground before them
the samples of lives; and there
were
many more lives than the souls
present, and they were of all
sorts.
There were lives of every animal
and of man in every condition.
And there were tyrannies among
them, some lasting out the tyrant's
life,
others which broke off in the
middle and came to an end in
poverty
and exile and beggary; and there
were lives of famous men,
some who were famous for their
form and beauty as well as for
their strength and success in
games, or, again, for their birth
and the qualities of their ancestors;
and some who were the reverse
of famous for the opposite qualities.
And of women likewise;
there was not, however, any definite
character them, because the soul,
when choosing a new life, must
of necessity become different.
But there was every other quality,
and the all mingled with one
another,
and also with elements of wealth
and poverty, and disease and
health;
and there were mean states also.
And here, my dear Glaucon,
is the supreme peril of our human
state; and therefore the utmost
care should be taken. Let each
one of us leave every other kind
of knowledge and seek and follow
one thing only, if peradventure
he may be able to learn and may
find some one who will make him
able to learn and discern between
good and evil, and so to choose
always and everywhere the better
life as he has opportunity.
He should consider the bearing
of all these things which have
been
mentioned severally and collectively
upon virtue; he should know
what the effect of beauty is
when combined with poverty or
wealth
in a particular soul, and what
are the good and evil consequences
of noble and humble birth, of
private and public station, of
strength
and weakness, of cleverness and
dullness, and of all the soul,
and the operation of them when
conjoined; he will then look
at the nature
of the soul, and from the consideration
of all these qualities he
will be able to determine which
is the better and which is the
worse;
and so he will choose, giving
the name of evil to the life
which will
make his soul more unjust, and
good to the life which will make
his soul more just; all else
he will disregard. For we have
seen
and know that this is the best
choice both in life and after
death.
A man must take with him into
the world below an adamantine
faith
in truth and right, that there
too he may be undazzled by the
desire
of wealth or the other allurements
of evil, lest, coming upon tyrannies
and similar villainies, he do
irremediable wrongs to others
and suffer
yet worse himself; but let him
know how to choose the mean and
avoid
the extremes on either side,
as far as possible, not only
in this
life but in all that which is
to come. For this is the way
of
happiness.
And according to the report
of the messenger from the other
world this
was what the prophet said at
the time: `Even for the last
comer,
if he chooses wisely and will
live diligently, there is appointed
a happy and not undesirable existence.
Let not him who chooses first
be careless, and let not the
last despair.' And when he had
spoken,
he who had the first choice came
forward and in a moment chose
the
greatest tyranny; his mind having
been darkened by folly and sensuality,
he had not thought out the whole
matter before he chose, and did
not at first sight perceive that
he was fated, among other evils,
to devour his own children. But
when he had time to reflect,
and saw what was in the lot,
he began to beat his breast and
lament
over his choice, forgetting the
proclamation of the prophet;
for, instead of throwing the
blame of his misfortune on himself,
he accused chance and the gods,
and everything rather than himself.
Now he was one of those who came
from heaven, and in a former
life
had dwelt in a well-ordered State,
but his virtue was a matter
of habit only, and he had no
philosophy. And it was true of
others
who were similarly overtaken,
that the greater number of them
came
from heaven and therefore they
had never been schooled by trial,
whereas the pilgrims who came
from earth, having themselves
suffered and seen others suffer,
were not in a hurry to choose.
And owing to this inexperience
of theirs, and also because the
lot
was a chance, many of the souls
exchanged a good destiny for
an evil
or an evil for a good. For if
a man had always on his arrival
in this world dedicated himself
from the first to sound philosophy,
and had been moderately fortunate
in the number of the lot,
he might, as the messenger reported,
be happy here, and also his
journey to another life and return
to this, instead of being rough
and underground, would be smooth
and heavenly. Most curious,
he said, was the spectacle--sad
and laughable and strange;
for the choice of the souls was
in most cases based on their
experience
of a previous life. There he
saw the soul which had once been
Orpheus
choosing the life of a swan out
of enmity to the race of women,
hating to be born of a woman
because they had been his murderers;
he beheld also the soul of Thamyras
choosing the life of a nightingale;
birds, on the other hand, like
the swan and other musicians,
wanting to be men. The soul which
obtained the twentieth lot chose
the life of a lion, and this
was the soul of Ajax the son
of Telamon,
who would not be a man, remembering
the injustice which was
done him the judgment about the
arms. The next was Agamemnon,
who took the life of an eagle,
because, like Ajax, he hated
human nature by reason of his
sufferings. About the middle
came
the lot of Atalanta; she, seeing
the great fame of an athlete,
was unable to resist the temptation:
and after her there followed
the soul of Epeus the son of
Panopeus passing into the nature
of a
woman cunning in the arts; and
far away among the last who chose,
the soul of the jester Thersites
was putting on the form of a
monkey.
There came also the soul of Odysseus
having yet to make a choice,
and his lot happened to be the
last of them all. Now the recollection
of former tolls had disenchanted
him of ambition, and he went
about for a considerable time
in search of the life of a private
man who had no cares; he had
some difficulty in finding this,
which was lying about and had
been neglected by everybody else;
and when he saw it, he said that
he would have done the had
his lot been first instead of
last, and that he was delighted
to have it. And not only did
men pass into animals, but I
must also mention that there
were animals tame and wild who
changed into one another and
into corresponding human natures--
the good into the gentle and
the evil into the savage, in
all sorts
of combinations.
All the souls had now chosen
their lives, and they went in
the order
of their choice to Lachesis,
who sent with them the genius
whom
they had severally chosen, to
be the guardian of their lives
and the fulfiller of the choice:
this genius led the souls first
to Clotho, and drew them within
the revolution of the spindle
impelled by her hand, thus ratifying
the destiny of each;
and then, when they were fastened
to this, carried them to Atropos,
who spun the threads and made
them irreversible, whence without
turning round they passed beneath
the throne of Necessity;
and when they had all passed,
they marched on in a scorching
heat
to the plain of Forgetfulness,
which was a barren waste destitute
of trees and verdure; and then
towards evening they encamped
by the river of Unmindfulness,
whose water no vessel can hold;
of this they were all obliged
to drink a certain quantity,
and those who were not saved
by wisdom drank more than was
necessary;
and each one as he drank forgot
all things. Now after they had
gone
to rest, about the middle of
the night there was a thunderstorm
and earthquake, and then in an
instant they were driven upwards
in all manner of ways to their
birth, like stars shooting.
He himself was hindered from
drinking the water. But in what
manner or by what means he returned
to the body he could not say;
only, in the morning, awaking
suddenly, he found himself lying
on
the pyre.
And thus, Glaucon, the tale
has been saved and has not perished,
and will save us if we are obedient
to the word spoken; and we
shall pass safely over the river
of Forgetfulness and our soul
will not be defiled. Wherefore
my counsel is that we hold fast
ever
to the heavenly way and follow
after justice and virtue always,
considering that the soul is
immortal and able to endure every
sort
of good and every sort of evil.
Thus shall we live dear to one
another
and to the gods, both while remaining
here and when, like conquerors
in the games who go round to
gather gifts, we receive our
reward.
And it shall be well with us
both in this life and in the
pilgrimage
of a thousand years which we
have been describing.
End of the Project Gutenberg
Edition of The Republic, by
Plato***
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