Where should we turn next, then? I asked. To which one of the arts?
I find myself at a loss, he said.
But I think I have discovered it, said I.
Which one is it? said Clinias.
The art of generalship seems to me, I said, to be the one which, more [b] than any other, a man would be happy if he acquired.
It doesn’t seem so to me, he said.
How is that? said I.
Well, this art is a kind of man hunting.
What then? I said.
No art of actual hunting, he said, extends any further than pursuing and capturing: whenever the hunters catch what they are pursuing they are incapable of using it, but they and the fishermen hand over their prey [c] to the cooks. And again, geometers and astronomers and calculators (who are hunters too, in a way, for none of these make their diagrams; they simply discover those which already exist), since they themselves have no idea of how to use their prey but only how to hunt it, hand over the task of using their discoveries to the dialecticians—at least, those of them do so who are not completely senseless.
Well done, I said, most handsome and clever Clinias! And is this really the case?
[d] Very much so. And the same is true of the generals, he said. Whenever they capture some city, or a camp, they hand it over to the statesmen—for they themselves have no idea of how to use the things they have captured—just in the same way, I imagine, that quail hunters hand theirs over to quail keepers. So, he said, if we are in need of that art which will itself know how to use what it acquires through making or capturing, and if it is an art of this sort which will make us happy, then, he said, we must look for some other art besides that of generalship.
[e] CRITO: What do you mean, Socrates? Did that boy utter all this?
SOCRATES: You’re not convinced of it, Crito?
CRITO: Good heavens no! Because, in my opinion, if he spoke like that, he needs no education, either from Euthydemus or anyone else.
SOCRATES: Dear me, then perhaps after all it was Ctesippus who said this, and I am getting absent-minded.
[291] CRITO: Not my idea of Ctesippus!
SOCRATES: But I’m sure of one thing at least, that it was neither Euthydemus nor Dionysodorus who said it. Do you suppose, my good Crito, that some superior being was there and uttered these things—because I am positive I heard them.
CRITO: Yes, by heaven, Socrates, I certainly think it was some superior being, very much so. But after this did you still go on looking for the art? And did you find the one you were looking for or not?
[b] SOCRATES: Find it, my dear man—I should think not! We were really quite ridiculous—just like children running after crested larks; we kept thinking we were about to catch each one of the knowledges, but they always got away. So why should I recount the whole story? When we got to the kingly art and were giving it a thorough inspection to see whether it might be the one which both provided and created happiness, just there we got into a sort of labyrinth: when we thought we had come to the end, [c] we turned round again and reappeared practically at the beginning of our search in just as much trouble as when we started out.
CRITO: And how did this come about, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I shall tell you. We had the idea that the statesman’s art and the kingly art were the same.
CRITO: And then what?
SOCRATES: It was due to this art that generalship and the others handed over the management of the products of which they themselves were the craftsmen, as if this art alone knew how to use them. It seemed clear to us that this was the art we were looking for, and that it was the cause of right action in the state, and, to use the language of Aeschylus, that this [d] art alone sits at the helm of the state, governing all things, ruling all things, and making all things useful.14
CRITO: And wasn’t your idea a good one, Socrates?15
SOCRATES: You will form an opinion, Crito, if you like to hear what happened to us next. We took up the question once again in somewhat this fashion: Well, does the kingly art, which rules everything, produce some result for us, or not? Certainly it does, we said to each other. Wouldn’t [e] you say so too, Crito?
CRITO: Yes, I would.
SOCRATES: Then what would you say its result was? For instance, if I should ask you what result does medicine produce, when it rules over all the things in its control, would you not say that this result was health?
CRITO: Yes, I would.
SOCRATES: And what about your own art of farming, when it rules over all the things in its control—what result16 does it produce? Wouldn’t you [292] say that it provides us with nourishment from the earth?
CRITO: Yes, I would.
SOCRATES: Now what about the kingly art; when it rules over all the things in its control—what does it produce? Perhaps you won’t find the answer quite so easy in this case.
CRITO: No, I certainly don’t, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Nor did we, Crito. But you are aware of this point at least, that if this is to be the art we are looking for, it must be something useful.
CRITO: Yes indeed.
SOCRATES: And it certainly must provide us with something good?
CRITO: Necessarily, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And Clinias and I of course agreed that nothing is good except [b] some sort of knowledge.
CRITO: Yes, you said that.
SOCRATES: Then the other results which a person might attribute to the statesman’s art—and these, of course, would be numerous, as for instance, making the citizens rich and free and not disturbed by faction—all these appeared to be neither good nor evil;17 but this art had to make them wise and to provide them with a share of knowledge if it was to be the one [c] that benefited them and made them happy.
CRITO: True enough. So you agreed on this for the moment at any rate, according to your account.
SOCRATES: And does the kingly art make men wise and good?
CRITO: Why not, Socrates?
SOCRATES: But does it make all people good, and in every respect? And is it the art which conveys every sort of knowledge, shoe making and carpentry and all the rest?
CRITO: I don’t think so, Socrates.
[d] SOCRATES: Then what knowledge does it convey? And what use are we to make of it? It must not be the producer of any of those results which are neither good nor bad, but it must convey a knowledge which is none other than itself. Now shall we try to say what in the world this is, and what use we are to make of it? Is it agreeable to you if we say it is that by which we shall make others good?
CRITO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And in what respect will they be good and in what respect useful, as far as we are concerned? Or shall we go on to say that they will [e] make others good and that these others will do the same to still others? But in what conceivable way they are good is in no way apparent to us, especially since we have discredited what are said to be the results of the statesman’s art. It is altogether a case of the proverbial “Corinthus, son of Zeus”;18 and, as I was saying, we are in just as great difficulties as ever, or even worse, when it comes to finding out what that knowledge is which will make us happy.
CRITO: Mercy on us, Socrates, you seem to have got yourselves into a frightful tangle.
[293] SOCRATES: As far as I was concerned, Crito, when I had fallen into this difficulty, I began to exclaim at the top of my lungs and to call upon the two strangers as though they were the Heavenly Twins to rescue both myself and the boy from the third wave19 of the argument and to endeavor in every conceivable way to make plain what this knowledge can be which we ought to have if we are going to spend the remainder of our lives in the right way.
CRITO: And what about it? Was Euthydemus willing to reveal anything to you?
[b] SOCRATES: Of course! And he began his account, my friend, in this generous manner: Would you prefer, Socrates, to have me teach you this knowledge you have been in difficulties over all this time, or to demonstrate that you possess it?
O
marvellous man, I said, is this in your power?
Very much so, he said.
Then for heaven’s sake demonstrate that I possess it! I said. That will be much easier than learning for a man of my age.
Then come answer me this, he said: Is there anything you know?
Oh, yes, I said, many things, though trivial ones.
That will serve the purpose, he said. Now do you suppose it possible for any existing thing not to be what it is?
Heavens no, not I. [c]
And do you know something? he said.
Yes, I do.
Then you are knowing, if you really know?
Of course, as far as concerns that particular thing.
That doesn’t matter, because mustn’t you necessarily know everything, if you are knowing?
How in heaven’s name can that be, said I, when there are many other things I don’t know?
Then if there is anything you don’t know, you are not knowing.
In just that matter, my friend, I said.
Are you any the less not knowing for all that? said he. And just now you said you were knowing, with the result that you are the man you are, and then again you are not, at the same time and in respect to the [d] same things.
Very good, Euthydemus—according to the proverb, “whatever you say is well said.”20 But how do I know that knowledge we were looking for? Since it is impossible both to be and not to be the same thing, if I know one thing I know absolutely everything—because I could not be both knowing and not knowing at the same time—and since I know everything, I also have this knowledge. Is this what you mean, and is this your piece of wisdom?
You are refuted out of your own mouth, Socrates, he said. [e]
But Euthydemus, I said, aren’t you in the same condition? Because I would not be at all vexed at anything I might suffer in company with you and this dear man Dionysodorus. Tell me, don’t you two know some existing things, and aren’t there others you don’t know?
Far from it, Socrates, said Dionysodorus.
What’s that? I said. Do you know nothing at all?
On the contrary, he said.
Then you know everything, I said, since you know something? [294]
Yes, everything, he said, and you also know everything if you really know even one thing.
O heavens, said I, how marvellous! And what a great blessing has come to light! But it can’t be true that all the rest of mankind either know everything or nothing?
Well, he said, I don’t suppose they know some things and not others and are thus knowing and not knowing at the same time.
But what follows? I asked.
Everyone, he said, knows everything, if he really knows something.
[b] By the gods, Dionysodorus, I said—for I realize that you are both now in earnest, although I have provoked you to it with some difficulty—do you two really know everything? Carpentry and shoe making, for instance?
Yes indeed, he said.
So you are both able to do leather stitching?
Heavens yes, and we can do cobbling, he said.
And do you also have the sort of information which tells the number of the stars and of the sands?
Of course, he said. Do you think we would fail to agree to that too?
[c] Here Ctesippus interrupted: For goodness’ sake, Dionysodorus, give me some evidence of these things which will convince me that you are both telling the truth.
What shall I show you? he asked.
Do you know how many teeth Euthydemus has, and does he know how many you have?
Aren’t you satisfied, he said, with being told that we know everything?
Not at all, he answered, but tell us just this one thing in addition and prove that you speak the truth. Because if you say how many each of you has, and you turn out to be right when we have made a count, then we shall trust you in everything else.
[d] Well, they weren’t willing to do it, since they thought they were being laughed at, but they claimed to know every single thing they were questioned about by Ctesippus. And there was practically nothing Ctesippus did not ask them about in the end, inquiring shamelessly whether they knew the most disgraceful things. The two of them faced his questions very manfully, claiming to know in each case, just like boars when they are driven up to the attack. The result was that even I myself, Crito, was [e] finally compelled, out of sheer disbelief, to ask whether Dionysodorus even knew how to dance, to which he replied that he certainly did.
I don’t suppose, I said, that at your age you are so far advanced in wisdom as to somersault over swords or be turned about on a wheel?
There is nothing I cannot do, he said.
And do you know everything just at the present moment, I asked, or is your knowledge also a permanent thing?
It is permanent as well, he said.
And when you were children and had just been born, did you know everything?
They both answered yes at the same moment.
[295] Now the thing struck us as unbelievable; and Euthydemus asked, Are you incredulous, Socrates?
Well, I would be, I said, except for the probability that you are both wise men.
But if you are willing to answer my questions, he said, I will prove that you agree to these remarkable things too.
But, said I, there is nothing I would like better than to be refuted on these points. Because if I am unaware of my own wisdom, but you are going to demonstrate that I know everything and know it forever, what greater godsend than this would I be likely to come across my whole life long?
Then answer, he said.
Ask away, I am ready. [b]
Well then, Socrates, he said, when you have knowledge, do you have it of something, or not?
I have it of something.
And do you know by means of that by which you have knowledge, or by means of something else?
By means of that by which I have knowledge. I suppose you mean the soul, or isn’t this what you have in mind?
Aren’t you ashamed, Socrates, he said, to be asking a question of your own when you ought to be answering?
Very well, said I, but how am I to act? I will do just what you tell me. Now whenever I don’t understand your question, do you want me to answer just the same, without inquiring further about it?
You surely grasp something of what I say, don’t you? he said. [c]
Yes, I do, said I.
Then answer in terms of what you understand.
Well then, I said, if you ask a question with one thing in mind and I understand it with another and then answer in terms of the latter, will you be satisfied if I answer nothing to the purpose?
I shall be satisfied, he said, although I don’t suppose you will.
Then I’m certainly not going to answer, said I, until I understand the question.
You are evading a question you understand all along, he said, because you keep talking nonsense and are practically senile.
I realized he was angry with me for making distinctions in his phrases, [d] because he wanted to surround me with words and so hunt me down. Then I remembered that Connus, too, is vexed with me whenever I don’t give in to him, and that as a result, he takes fewer pains with me because he thinks I am stupid. And since I had made up my mind to attend this man’s classes too, I thought I had better give in for fear he might think me too uncouth to be his pupil. So I said, Well, Euthydemus, if you think [e] this is how to do things, we must do them your way, because you are far more of an expert at discoursing than I, who have merely a layman’s knowledge of the art. So go back and ask your questions from the beginning.
And you answer again from the beginning, he said. Do you know what you know by means of something, or not?
I know it by means of the soul, I said.
[296] There he is again, he said, adding on something to the question! I didn’t ask you by what you know, but whether you know by means of something.
Yes, I did give too much of an answer again, I said, because I
am so uneducated. Please forgive me and I shall answer simply that I know what I know by means of something.
And do you always know by this same means, said he, or is it rather the case that you know sometimes by this means and sometimes by another?
Always, whenever I know, I said, it is by this means.
Won’t you stop adding things on again? he said.
But I’m afraid that this word “always” may trip us up.
[b] It won’t do it to us, he said, but to you, if anyone. Come along and answer: do you always know by this means?
Always, I said, since I have to withdraw the “whenever.”
Then you always know, by this means. And since you are always knowing, the next question is, do you know some things by this means by which you know and others by some other means, or everything by this one?
Absolutely everything by this one, said I—those that I know, that is.
There it is again, he said—here comes the same qualification.
Well I take back the “those that I know,” I said.
No, don’t take back a single thing, he said—I’m not asking you any [c] favors. Just answer me this: would you be capable of knowing “absolutely everything,” if you did not know everything?
It would be remarkable if I did, said I.
And he said, Then add on everything you like now, because you admit that you know absolutely everything.
It seems I do, I said, especially since my “those that I know” has no effect, and I know everything.
And you have also admitted that you always know (by means of that by which you know), whenever you know, or however else you like to put it, because you have admitted that you always know and know all things at the same time. It is obvious that you knew even when you were [d] a child and when you were being born and when you were being conceived. And before you yourself came into being and before the foundation of heaven and earth, you knew absolutely everything, if it is true that you always know. And, by heaven, he said, you always will know, and will know everything, if I want it that way.
I hope you will want it that way, most honorable Euthydemus, said I, if you are genuinely telling the truth. But I don’t quite believe in your ability to bring it off unless your brother Dionysodorus here should lend a helping hand—perhaps the two of you might be able to do it. Tell me, [e] I went on: with respect to other things I see no possibility of disputing with men of such prodigious wisdom by saying that I do not know everything, since you have stated that I do; but what about things of this sort, Euthydemus—how shall I say I know that good men are unjust? Come tell me, do I know this, or not?
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