And Dionysodorus said, Well, take care, Socrates, that you don’t find yourself denying these words.
I have given thought to the matter, I said, and I shall never come to deny them.
Well then, he said, you say you want him to become wise?
Very much so.
And at the present moment, he said, is Clinias wise or not?
He says he is not yet, at least—he is a modest person, I said.
[d] But you people wish him to become wise, he said, and not to be ignorant?
We agreed.
Therefore, you wish him to become what he is not, and no longer to be what he is now?
When I heard this I was thrown into confusion, and he broke in upon me while I was in this state and said, Then since you wish him no longer to be what he is now, you apparently wish for nothing else but his death. Such friends and lovers must be worth a lot who desire above all things that their beloved should utterly perish!
[e] When Ctesippus heard this he became angry on his favorite’s account and said, Thurian stranger, if it were not a rather rude remark, I would say “perish yourself” for taking it into your head to tell such a lie about me and the rest, which I think is a wicked thing to say—that I could wish this person to die!
Why Ctesippus, said Euthydemus, do you think it possible to tell lies?
Good heavens yes, he said, I should be raving if I didn’t.
When one speaks the thing one is talking about, or when one does not speak it?
When one speaks it, he said. [284]
So that if he speaks this thing, he speaks no other one of things that are except the very one he speaks?
Of course, said Ctesippus.
And the thing he speaks is one of those that are, distinct from the rest?
Certainly.
Then the person speaking that thing speaks what is, he said.
Yes.
But surely the person who speaks what is and things that are speaks the truth—so that Dionysodorus, if he speaks things that are, speaks the truth and tells no lies about you.
Yes, said Ctesippus, but a person who speaks these things, Euthydemus, [b] does not speak things that are.
And Euthydemus said, But the things that are not surely do not exist, do they?
No, they do not exist.
Then there is nowhere that the things that are not are?
Nowhere.
Then there is no possibility that any person whatsoever could do anything to the things that are not so as to make them be4 when they are nowhere?
It seems unlikely to me, said Ctesippus.
Well then, when the orators speak to the people, do they do nothing?
No, they do something, he said.
Then if they do something, they also make something? [c]
Yes.
Speaking, then, is doing and making?
He agreed.
Then nobody speaks things that are not, since he would then be making something, and you have admitted that no one is capable of making something that is not. So according to your own statement, nobody tells lies; but if Dionysodorus really does speak, he speaks the truth and things that are.
Yes indeed, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus, but he speaks things that are only in a certain way and not as really is the case.
What do you mean, Ctesippus? said Dionysodorus. Are there some [d] persons who speak of things as they are?
There certainly are, he said—gentlemen and those who speak the truth.
Now then, he said, are not good things well and bad things ill?
He agreed.
And you admit that gentlemen speak of things as they are?
Yes, I do.
Then good men speak ill of bad things, Ctesippus, if they do in fact speak of them as they are.
They certainly do, he said—at any rate they speak ill of bad men. If you [e] take my advice you will take care not to be one of them in case the good speak ill of you. For rest assured that the good speak ill of the bad.
And do they speak greatly of the great and hotly of the hot? asked Euthydemus.
Very much so, said Ctesippus, and what is more, they speak coldly of persons who argue in a frigid fashion.
You, Ctesippus, said Dionysodorus, are being abusive, very abusive indeed.
I am certainly doing no such thing, Dionysodorus, he said, since I like you, I am merely giving you a piece of friendly advice and endeavouring [285] to persuade you never to say, so rudely and to my face, that I want my most cherished friends to die.
Since they seemed to be getting pretty rough with each other, I started to joke with Ctesippus and said, Ctesippus, I think we ought to accept what the strangers tell us, if they are willing to be generous, and not to quarrel over a word. If they really know how to destroy men so as to make good and sensible people out of bad and stupid ones, and the two [b] of them have either found out for themselves or learned from someone else a kind of ruin or destruction by which they do away with a bad man and render him good, if, as I say, they know how to do this—well, they clearly do, since they specifically claimed that the art they had recently discovered was that of making good men out of bad ones—then let us concede them the point and permit them to destroy the boy for us and make him wise—and do the same to the rest of us as well. And if you [c] young men are afraid, let them “try it on the Carian,”5 as they say, and I will be the victim. Being elderly, I am ready to run the risk, and I surrender myself to Dionysodorus here just as I might to Medea of Colchis.6 Let him destroy me, or if he likes, boil me, or do whatever else he wants, but he must make me good.
And Ctesippus said, I too, Socrates, am ready to hand myself over to the visitors; and I give them permission to skin me even more thoroughly than they are doing now so long as my hide will in the end become not [d] a wineskin (which is what happened to Marsyas),7 but a piece of virtue. And yet Dionysodorus here thinks I am cross with him. It’s not that I’m cross—I’m simply contradicting the things he said which I find objectionable. So, my fine Dionysodorus, don’t call contradiction abuse—abuse is something quite different.
And Dionysodorus answered, Are you making your speech on the assumption that there exists such a thing as contradiction, Ctesippus?
I certainly am, he said, decidedly so. And do you think there is none, Dionysodorus? [e]
Well you, at any rate, could not prove that you have ever heard one person contradicting another.
Do you really mean that? he answered. Well then, just listen to Ctesippus contradicting Dionysodorus, if you want to hear my proof.8
And do you undertake to back that up?
I certainly do, he said.
Well then, he went on, are there words to describe each thing that exists?
Certainly.
And do they describe it as it is or as it is not?
As it is.
Now if you remember, Ctesippus, he said, we showed a moment ago [286] that no one speaks of things as they are not, since it appeared that no one speaks what does not exist.
Well, what about it? said Ctesippus. Are you and I contradicting each other any the less?
Now would we be contradicting, he said, if we were both to speak the9 description of the same thing? I suppose we would be saying the same things in that case.
He agreed.
But when neither of us speaks the description of the thing, would we [b] be contradicting then? Or wouldn’t it be the case that neither of us had the thing in mind at all?
He agreed to this too.
But when I speak the description of the thing whereas you speak another description of another thing, do we contradict then? Or is it the case that I speak it but that you speak nothing at all? And how would a person who does not speak contradict one who does?
Ctesippus fell silent at this, but I was astonished at the argument and said, How do you mean, Dionysodorus? The fact is that I have heard this [c] particular argument from many persons and at many times, and it never ceases to amaze me. The fo
llowers of Protagoras made considerable use of it, and so did some still earlier. It always seems to me to have a wonderful way of upsetting not just other arguments, but itself as well. But I think I shall learn the truth about it better from you than from anyone else. The argument amounts to claiming that there is no such thing as false speaking, doesn’t it? And the person speaking must either speak the truth or else not speak?
He agreed.
[d] Now would you say it was impossible to speak what is false, but possible to think it?
No, thinking it is not possible either, he said.
Then there is absolutely no such thing as false opinion, I said.
There is not, he said.
Then is there no ignorance, nor are there any ignorant men? Or isn’t this just what ignorance would be, if there should be any—to speak falsely about things?
It certainly would, he said.
And yet there is no such thing, I said.
He said there was not.
Are you making this statement just for the sake of argument, Dionysodorus—to say something startling—or do you honestly believe that there is no such thing as an ignorant man?
[e] Your business is to refute me, he said.
Well, but is there such a thing as refutation if one accepts your thesis that nobody speaks falsely?
No, there is not, said Euthydemus.
Then it can’t be that Dionysodorus ordered me to refute him just now, can it? I said.
How would anyone order a thing which doesn’t exist? Are you in the habit of giving such orders?
The reason I’ve raised the point, Euthydemus, is that I’m rather thickwitted and don’t understand these fine clever things. And perhaps I’m about to ask a rather stupid question, but bear with me. Look at it this way: if [287] it is impossible to speak falsely, or to think falsely, or to be ignorant, then there is no possibility of making a mistake when a man does anything? I mean that it is impossible for a man to be mistaken in his actions—or isn’t this what you are saying?
Certainly it is, he said.
This is just where my stupid question comes in, I said. If no one of us makes mistakes either in action or in speech or in thought—if this really is the case—what in heaven’s name do you two come here to teach? Or [b] didn’t you say just now that if anyone wanted to learn virtue, you would impart it best?
Really, Socrates, said Dionysodorus, interrupting, are you such an old Cronus10 as to bring up now what we said in the beginning? I suppose if I said something last year, you will bring that up now and still be helpless in dealing with the present argument.
Well you see, I said, these arguments are very difficult (as is natural, since they come from wise men) and this last one you mention turns out to be particularly difficult to deal with. Whatever in the world do you mean by the expression “be helpless in dealing with,” Dionysodorus? [c] Doesn’t it clearly mean that I am unable to refute the argument? Just tell me, what else is the sense of this phrase “I am helpless in dealing with the argument”?
But at least it is not very difficult to deal with your phrase,11 he said, so go ahead and answer.
Before you answer me, Dionysodorus? I said.
You refuse to answer then? he said.
Well, is it fair?
Perfectly fair, he said.
On what principle? I said. Or isn’t it clearly on this one, that you have come here on the present occasion as a man who is completely skilled in arguments, and you know when an answer should be given and when it [d] should not? So now you decline to give any answer whatsoever because you realize you ought not to?
You are babbling instead of being concerned about answering, he said. But, my good fellow, follow my instructions and answer, since you admit that I am wise.
I must obey then, I said, and it seems I am forced to do so, since you are in command, so ask away.
Now are the things that have sense those that have soul, or do things without soul have sense too?
It is the ones with soul that have sense.
And do you know any phrase that has soul? he asked.
Heavens no, not I.
Then why did you ask me just now what was the sense of my phrase? [e]
I suppose, I said, for no other reason than that I made a mistake on account of being so stupid. Or perhaps I did not make a mistake but was right when I spoke as if phrases had sense? Are you saying that I made a mistake or not? Because if I did not make one you will not refute me no matter how wise you are, and you will be “helpless in dealing with the argument.” And if I did make one, you said the wrong thing when you claimed it was impossible to make mistakes—and I’m not talking [288] about things you said last year. So, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, I said, it looks as if this argument has made no progress and still has the old trouble of falling down itself in the process of knocking down others. And your art has not discovered how to prevent this from happening in spite of your wonderful display of precision in words.
And Ctesippus said, Your manner of speech is certainly remarkable, O [b] men of Thurii or Chios, or from wherever and however you like to be styled, because it matters nothing to you if you talk complete nonsense.
I was worried in case there might be hard words, and started to pacify Ctesippus once again, saying, Ctesippus, let me say to you the same things I was just saying to Clinias, that you fail to recognize how remarkable the strangers’ wisdom is. It’s just that the two of them are unwilling to give us a serious demonstration, but are putting on conjuring tricks in imitation [c] of that Egyptian sophist, Proteus.12 So let us imitate Menelaus and refuse to release the pair until they have shown us their serious side. I really think some splendid thing in them will appear whenever they begin to be in earnest, so let us beg and exhort and pray them to make it known. As for me, I think I ought once again to take the lead and give an indication [d] of what sort of persons I pray they will show themselves to be. Beginning where I left off earlier, I shall do my best to go through what comes next so as to spur them to action and in hopes that out of pity and commiseration for my earnest exertions they may be earnest themselves.
So, Clinias, I said, remind me where we left off. As far as I can remember it was just about at the point where we finally agreed that it was necessary to love wisdom, wasn’t it?
Yes, he said.
Now the love of wisdom, or philosophy, is the acquisition of knowledge, isn’t that so? I said.
Yes, he said.
[e] Well, what sort of knowledge would we acquire if we went about it in the right way? Isn’t the answer simply this, that it would be one which will benefit us?
Certainly, he said.
And would it benefit us in any way if we knew how to go about and discover where in the earth the greatest quantities of gold are buried?
Perhaps, he said.
But earlier,13 I said, we gave a thorough demonstration of the point that even if all the gold in the world should be ours with no trouble and without digging for it, we should be no better off—no, not even if we knew how [289] to make stones into gold would the knowledge be worth anything. For unless we also knew how to use the gold, there appeared to be no value in it. Or don’t you remember? I said.
Yes, I remember very well, he said.
Nor does there seem to be any value in any other sort of knowledge which knows how to make things, whether money making or medicine or any other such thing, unless it knows how to use what it makes—isn’t this the case?
He agreed.
[b] And again, if there exists the knowledge of how to make men immortal, but without the knowledge of how to use this immortality, there seems to be no value in it, if we are to conclude anything from what has already been settled.
We agreed on all this.
Then what we need, my fair friend, I said, is a kind of knowledge which combines making and knowing how to use the thing which it makes.
So it appears, he said.
Then it seems not at all needful for us to become
lyre makers and skilled [c] in some such knowledge as that. For there the art which makes is one thing and that which uses is another; they are quite distinct although they deal with the same thing. There is a great difference between lyre making and lyre playing, isn’t there?
He agreed.
And it is equally obvious that we stand in no need of the art of flute making, since this is another of the same kind.
He said yes.
Seriously then, said I, if we were to learn the art of writing speeches, is this the art which we would have to get if we are going to be happy?
I don’t think so, said Clinias in answer.
On what ground do you say this? I asked. [d]
Well, he said, I notice that certain speech writers have no idea of how to use the particular speeches they themselves have written, in the same way that the lyre makers have no idea of how to use their lyres. And in the former case too, there are other people who are capable of using what the speech writers have composed but are themselves unable to write. So it is clear that in regard to speeches too, there is one art of making and another of using.
You seem to me, I said, to have sufficient ground for stating that the art of speech writing is not the one a man would be happy if he acquired. And yet it was in this connection that I expected the very knowledge we have been seeking all this time would put in an appearance. Because, as [e] far as I am concerned, whenever I have any contact with these same men who write speeches, they strike me as being persons of surpassing wisdom, Clinias; and this art of theirs seems to me something marvelous and lofty. Though after all there is nothing remarkable in this, since it is part of the enchanters’ art and but slightly inferior to it. For the enchanters’ art consists [290] in charming vipers and spiders and scorpions and other wild things, and in curing diseases, while the other art consists in charming and persuading the members of juries and assemblies and other sorts of crowds. Or do you have some other notion of it? I said.
No, he said, it seems to me to be just as you say.
Complete Works Page 112
