Complete Works

by Plato, Cooper, John M. , Hutchinson, D. S.

  Yes.

  Then let’s not leave the discussion of this point halfway, but examine it fully.

  Go ahead.

  Don’t we say that a painter paints reins and a mouth-bit?

  Yes.

  And that a cobbler and a metal-worker makes them?

  Of course.

  Then, does a painter know how the reins and mouth-bit have to be? Or is it the case that even a cobbler and metal-worker who make them don’t know this, but only someone who knows how to use them, namely, a horseman?

  That’s absolutely true.

  And won’t we say that the same holds for everything?

  What?

  That for each thing there are these three crafts, one that uses it, one that [d] makes it, and one that imitates it?

  Yes.

  Then aren’t the virtue or excellence, the beauty and correctness of each manufactured item, living creature, and action related to nothing but the use for which each is made or naturally adapted?

  They are.

  It’s wholly necessary, therefore, that a user of each thing has most experience of it and that he tell a maker which of his products performs well or badly in actual use. A flute-player, for example, tells a flute-maker about the flutes that respond well in actual playing and prescribes what [e] kind of flutes he is to make, while the maker follows his instructions.

  Of course.

  Then doesn’t the one who knows give instructions about good and bad flutes, and doesn’t the other rely on him in making them?

  Yes.

  Therefore, a maker—through associating with and having to listen to the one who knows—has right opinion about whether something he makes [602] is fine or bad, but the one who knows is the user.

  That’s right.

  Does an imitator have knowledge of whether the things he makes are fine or right through having made use of them, or does he have right opinion about them through having to consort with the one who knows and being told how he is to paint them?

  Neither.

  Therefore an imitator has neither knowledge nor right opinion about whether the things he makes are fine or bad.

  Apparently not.

  Then a poetic imitator is an accomplished fellow when it comes to wisdom about the subjects of his poetry!

  Hardly.

  Nonetheless, he’ll go on imitating, even though he doesn’t know the good or bad qualities of anything, but what he’ll imitate, it seems, is what [b] appears fine or beautiful to the majority of people who know nothing.

  Of course.

  It seems, then, that we’re fairly well agreed that an imitator has no worthwhile knowledge of the things he imitates, that imitation is a kind of game and not something to be taken seriously, and that all the tragic poets, whether they write in iambics or hexameters, are as imitative as they could possibly be.

  That’s right.

  [c] Then is this kind of imitation concerned with something that is third from the truth, or what?

  Yes, it is.

  And on which of a person’s parts does it exert its power?

  What do you mean?

  This: Something looked at from close at hand doesn’t seem to be the same size as it does when it is looked at from a distance.

  No, it doesn’t.

  And something looks crooked when seen in water and straight when seen out of it, while something else looks both concave and convex because our eyes are deceived by its colors, and every other similar sort of confusion is clearly present in our soul. And it is because they exploit this weakness in our nature that trompe l’oeil painting, conjuring, and other forms of [d] trickery have powers that are little short of magical.

  That’s true.

  And don’t measuring, counting, and weighing give us most welcome assistance in these cases, so that we aren’t ruled by something’s looking bigger, smaller, more numerous, or heavier, but by calculation, measurement, or weighing?

  Of course.

  And calculating, measuring, and weighing are the work of the rational part of the soul. [e]

  They are.

  But when this part has measured and has indicated that some things are larger or smaller or the same size as others, the opposite appears to it at the same time.

  Yes.

  And didn’t we say that it is impossible for the same thing to believe opposites about the same thing at the same time?5

  We did, and we were right to say it.

  Then the part of the soul that forms a belief contrary to the measurements couldn’t be the same as the part that believes in accord with them. [603]

  No, it couldn’t.

  Now, the part that puts its trust in measurement and calculation is the best part of the soul.

  Of course.

  Therefore, the part that opposes it is one of the inferior parts in us.

  Necessarily.

  This, then, is what I wanted to get agreement about when I said that painting and imitation as a whole produce work that is far from the truth, namely, that imitation really consorts with a part of us that is far from reason, and the result of their being friends and companions is neither sound nor true. [b]

  That’s absolutely right.

  Then imitation is an inferior thing that consorts with another inferior thing to produce an inferior offspring.

  So it seems.

  Does this apply only to the imitations we see, or does it also apply to the ones we hear—the ones we call poetry?

  It probably applies to poetry as well.

  However, we mustn’t rely solely on a mere probability based on the analogy with painting; instead, we must go directly to the part of our thought with which poetic imitations consort and see whether it is inferior [c] or something to be taken seriously.

  Yes, we must.

  Then let’s set about it as follows. We say that imitative poetry imitates human beings acting voluntarily or under compulsion, who believe that, as a result of these actions, they are doing either well or badly and who experience either pleasure or pain in all this. Does it imitate anything apart from this?

  Nothing.

  Then is a person of one mind in all these circumstances? Or, just as he was at war with himself in matters of sight and held opposite beliefs about [d] the same thing at the same time, does he also fight with himself and engage in civil war with himself in matters of action? But there is really no need for us to reach agreement on this question now, for I remember that we already came to an adequate conclusion about all these things in our earlier arguments, when we said that our soul is full of a myriad of such oppositions at the same time.6

  And rightly so.

  It was right, but I think we omitted some things then that we must [e] now discuss.

  What are they?

  We also mentioned somewhere before7 that, if a decent man happens to lose his son or some other prized possession, he’ll bear it more easily than the other sorts of people.

  Certainly.

  But now let’s consider this. Will he not grieve at all, or, if that’s impossible, will he be somehow measured in his response to pain?

  The latter is closer to the truth.

  Now, tell me this about him: Will he fight his pain and put up more [604] resistance to it when his equals can see him or when he’s alone by himself in solitude?

  He’ll fight it far more when he’s being seen.

  But when he’s alone I suppose he’ll venture to say and do lots of things that he’d be ashamed to be heard saying or seen doing.

  That’s right.

  And isn’t it reason and law that tells him to resist his pain, while his [b] experience of it tells him to give in?

  True.

  And when there are two opposite inclinations in a person in relation to the same thing at the same time, we say that he must also have two parts.

  Of course.

  Isn’t one part ready to obey the law wherever it leads him?

  How so?

  The law says, doesn’t it
, that it is best to keep as quiet as possible in misfortunes and not get excited about them? First, it isn’t clear whether such things will turn out to be good or bad in the end; second, it doesn’t make the future any better to take them hard; third, human affairs aren’t worth taking very seriously; and, finally, grief prevents the very thing [c] we most need in such circumstances from coming into play as quickly as possible.

  What are you referring to?

  Deliberation. We must accept what has happened as we would the fall of the dice, and then arrange our affairs in whatever way reason determines to be best. We mustn’t hug the hurt part and spend our time weeping and wailing like children when they trip. Instead, we should always accustom our souls to turn as quickly as possible to healing the disease and putting the disaster right, replacing lamentation with cure. [d]

  That would be the best way to deal with misfortune, at any rate.

  Accordingly, we say that it is the best part of us that is willing to follow this rational calculation.

  Clearly.

  Then won’t we also say that the part that leads us to dwell on our misfortunes and to lamentation, and that can never get enough of these things, is irrational, idle, and a friend of cowardice?

  We certainly will.

  Now, this excitable character admits of many multicolored imitations. But a rational and quiet character, which always remains pretty well the [e] same, is neither easy to imitate nor easy to understand when imitated, especially not by a crowd consisting of all sorts of people gathered together at a theater festival, for the experience being imitated is alien to them.

  Absolutely. [605]

  Clearly, then, an imitative poet isn’t by nature related to the part of the soul that rules in such a character, and, if he’s to attain a good reputation with the majority of people, his cleverness isn’t directed to pleasing it. Instead, he’s related to the excitable and multicolored character, since it is easy to imitate.

  Clearly.

  Therefore, we’d be right to take him and put him beside a painter as his counterpart. Like a painter, he produces work that is inferior with respect to truth and that appeals to a part of the soul that is similarly inferior rather than to the best part. So we were right not to admit him [b] into a city that is to be well-governed, for he arouses, nourishes, and strengthens this part of the soul and so destroys the rational one, in just the way that someone destroys the better sort of citizens when he strengthens the vicious ones and surrenders the city to them. Similarly, we’ll say that an imitative poet puts a bad constitution in the soul of each individual by making images that are far removed from the truth and by gratifying [c] the irrational part, which cannot distinguish the large and the small but believes that the same things are large at one time and small at another.

  That’s right.

  However, we haven’t yet brought the most serious charge against imitation, namely, that with a few rare exceptions it is able to corrupt even decent people, for that’s surely an altogether terrible thing.

  It certainly is, if indeed it can do that.

  Listen, then, and consider whether it can or not. When even the best of us hear Homer or some other tragedian imitating one of the heroes sorrowing and making a long lamenting speech or singing and beating his breast, [d] you know that we enjoy it, give ourselves up to following it, sympathize with the hero, take his sufferings seriously, and praise as a good poet the one who affects us most in this way.

  Of course we do.

  But when one of us suffers a private loss, you realize that the opposite happens. We pride ourselves if we are able to keep quiet and master our grief, for we think that this is the manly thing to do and that the behavior [e] we praised before is womanish.

  I do realize that.

  Then are we right to praise it? Is it right to look at someone behaving in a way that we would consider unworthy and shameful and to enjoy and praise it rather than being disgusted by it?

  No, by god, that doesn’t seem reasonable.

  [606] No, at least not if you look at it in the following way.

  How?

  If you reflect, first, that the part of the soul that is forcibly controlled in our private misfortunes and that hungers for the satisfaction of weeping and wailing, because it desires these things by nature, is the very part that receives satisfaction and enjoyment from poets, and, second, that the part of ourselves that is best by nature, since it hasn’t been adequately educated either by reason or habit, relaxes its guard over the lamenting part when it is watching the sufferings of somebody else. The reason it does so is [b] this: It thinks that there is no shame involved for it in praising and pitying another man who, in spite of his claim to goodness, grieves excessively. Indeed, it thinks that there is a definite gain involved in doing so, namely, pleasure. And it wouldn’t want to be deprived of that by despising the whole poem. I suppose that only a few are able to figure out that enjoyment of other people’s sufferings is necessarily transferred to our own and that the pitying part, if it is nourished and strengthened on the sufferings of others, won’t be easily held in check when we ourselves suffer.

  [c] That’s very true.

  And doesn’t the same argument apply to what provokes laughter? If there are any jokes that you yourself would be ashamed to tell but that you very much enjoy hearing and don’t detest as something evil in comic plays or in private, aren’t you doing the same thing as in the case of what provokes pity? The part of you that wanted to tell the jokes and that was held back by your reason, for fear of being thought a buffoon, you then release, not realizing that, by making it strong in this way, you will be led into becoming a figure of fun where your own affairs are concerned.

  Yes, indeed.

  And in the case of sex, anger, and all the desires, pleasures, and pains [d] that we say accompany all our actions, poetic imitation has the very same effect on us. It nurtures and waters them and establishes them as rulers in us when they ought to wither and be ruled, for that way we’ll become better and happier rather than worse and more wretched.

  I can’t disagree with you.

  And so, Glaucon, when you happen to meet those who praise Homer [e] and say that he’s the poet who educated Greece, that it’s worth taking up his works in order to learn how to manage and educate people, and that one should arrange one’s whole life in accordance with his teachings, you should welcome these people and treat them as friends, since they’re as good as they’re capable of being, and you should agree that Homer is the [607] most poetic of the tragedians and the first among them. But you should also know that hymns to the gods and eulogies to good people are the only poetry we can admit into our city. If you admit the pleasure-giving Muse, whether in lyric or epic poetry, pleasure and pain will be kings in your city instead of law or the thing that everyone has always believed to be best, namely, reason.

  That’s absolutely true.

  Then let this be our defense—now that we’ve returned to the topic of poetry—that, in view of its nature, we had reason to banish it from the [b] city earlier, for our argument compelled us to do so. But in case we are charged with a certain harshness and lack of sophistication, let’s also tell poetry that there is an ancient quarrel between it and philosophy, which is evidenced by such expressions as “the dog yelping and shrieking at its master,” “great in the empty eloquence of fools,” “the mob of wise men that has mastered Zeus,”8 and “the subtle thinkers, beggars all.” Nonetheless, if [c] the poetry that aims at pleasure and imitation has any argument to bring forward that proves it ought to have a place in a well-governed city, we at least would be glad to admit it, for we are well aware of the charm it exercises. But, be that as it may, to betray what one believes to be the truth is impious. What about you, Glaucon, don’t you feel the charm of the pleasure-giving Muse, especially when you study her through the eyes of Homer? [d]

  Very much so.

  Therefore, isn’t it just that such poetry should return from exile when it has successf
ully defended itself, whether in lyric or any other meter?

  Certainly.

  Then we’ll allow its defenders, who aren’t poets themselves but lovers of poetry, to speak in prose on its behalf and to show that it not only gives pleasure but is beneficial both to constitutions and to human life. Indeed, we’ll listen to them graciously, for we’d certainly profit if poetry were [e] shown to be not only pleasant but also beneficial.

  How could we fail to profit?

  However, if such a defense isn’t made, we’ll behave like people who have fallen in love with someone but who force themselves to stay away from him, because they realize that their passion isn’t beneficial. In the same way, because the love of this sort of poetry has been implanted in us by the upbringing we have received under our fine constitutions, we are well disposed to any proof that it is the best and truest thing. But if [608] it isn’t able to produce such a defense, then, whenever we listen to it, we’ll repeat the argument we have just now put forward like an incantation so as to preserve ourselves from slipping back into that childish passion for poetry which the majority of people have. And we’ll go on chanting that such poetry is not to be taken seriously or treated as a serious undertaking with some kind of hold on the truth, but that anyone who is anxious about the constitution within him must be careful when he hears it and must [b] continue to believe what we have said about it.

  I completely agree.

  Yes, for the struggle to be good rather than bad is important, Glaucon, much more important than people think. Therefore, we mustn’t be tempted by honor, money, rule, or even poetry into neglecting justice and the rest of virtue.

  After what we’ve said, I agree with you, and so, I think, would anyone else.

  [c] And yet we haven’t discussed the greatest rewards and prizes that have been proposed for virtue.

  They must be inconceivably great, if they’re greater than those you’ve already mentioned.

  Could anything really great come to pass in a short time? And isn’t the time from childhood to old age short when compared to the whole of time?

  It’s a mere nothing.