Observe, then, Protarchus, what the doctrine is which you are now to accept from Philebus, and what our doctrine is, against which you are to argue, if you do not agree with it.
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By all means.
Very well: Philebus says that to all living beings enjoyment and pleasure and gaiety and whatever accords with that sort of thing are a good; whereas our contention is that not these, but wisdom and thought and memory and their kindred, right opinion and true reasonings,
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Yes, Socrates, exactly.
And do you, Protarchus, accept this doctrine which is now committed to you?
I must accept it; for our handsome Philebus has withdrawn.
And must the truth about these doctrines be attained by every possible means?
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Yes, it must.
Then let us further agree to this:
To what?
That each of us will next try to prove clearly that it is a condition and disposition of the soul which can make life happy for all human beings. Is not that what we are going to do?
It is.
Then you will show that it is the condition of pleasure, and I that it is that of wisdom?
True.
What if some other life be found superior to these two?
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Yes.
But if it is more akin to wisdom, then wisdom is victorious and pleasure is vanquished? Do you agree to that? Or what do you say?
Yes, I at least am satisfied with that.
But how about you, Philebus? What do you say?
I think and always shall think that pleasure is the victor. But you, Protarchus, will make your own decision.
Since you entrusted the argument to me, Philebus, you can no longer dictate whether to make the agreement with Socrates or not.
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True; and for that reason I wash my hands of it and now call upon the goddess
And we also will bear witness to these words of yours. But all the same, Socrates, Philebus may agree or do as he likes, let us try to finish our argument in due order.
We must try, and let us begin with the very goddess who Philebus says is spoken of as Aphrodite but is most truly named Pleasure.
Quite right.
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My awe, Protarchus, in respect to the names of the gods is always beyond the greatest human fear. And now I call Aphrodite by that name which is agreeable to her; but pleasure I know has various aspects, and since, as I said, we are to begin with her, we must consider and examine what her nature is. For, when you just simply hear her name, she is only one thing, but surely she takes on all sorts of shapes which are even, in a way, unlike each other. For instance, we say that the man
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No, Socrates, for though they spring from opposite sources, they are not in themselves opposed to one another;
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Yes, my friend, and color is like color in so far as every one of them is a color they will all be the same, yet we all recognize that black is not only different from white, but is its exact opposite. And so, too, figure is like figure; they are all one in kind but the parts of the kind are in some instances absolutely opposed to each other,
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Perhaps; but why will that injure my contention?
Because I shall say that, although they are unlike, you apply to them a different designation. For you say that all pleasant things are good. Now no argument contends
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What do you mean, Socrates? Do you suppose anyone who asserts that the good is pleasure will concede, or will endure to hear you say, that some pleasures are good
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But you will concede that they are unlike and in some instances opposed to each other.
Not in so far as they are pleasures.
Here we are again at the same old argument, Protarchus, and we shall presently assert that one pleasure is not different from another, but all pleasures are alike, and the examples just cited do not affect us at all, but we shall behave and talk just like the most worthless
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In what way do you mean?
Why, if I have the face to imitate you and to defend myself by saying that the utterly unlike is most completely like that which is most utterly unlike it, I can say the same things you said, and we shall prove ourselves to be excessively inexperienced, and our argument will be shipwrecked and lost. Let us, then, back her out, and perhaps if we start fair again we may come to an agreement.
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How? Tell me.
Assume, Protarchus, that I am questioned in turn by you.
What question do I ask?
Whether wisdom and knowledge and intellect and all the things which I said at first were good, when you asked me what is good, will not have the same fate as this argument of yours.
How is that?
It will appear that the forms of knowledge collectively are many and some of them are unlike each other; but if some of them
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No, that must never be, except the part about our being saved. However, I like the equal treatment of your doctrine and mine. Let us grant that pleasures are many and unlike and that the forms of knowledge are many and different.
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With no concealment, then, Protarchus, of the difference between my good and yours, but with fair and open acknowledgement of it, let us be bold and see if perchance on examination they will tell us whether we should say that pleasure is the good, or wisdom, or some other third principle. For surely the object of our present controversy is not to gain the victory for my assertions or yours, but both of us must fight for the most perfect truth.
Yes, we must.
Then let us establish this principle still more firmly
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What principle?
The principle which gives trouble to all men, to some of them sometimes against their will.
Speak more plainly.
I mean the principle which came in our way just now; its nature is quite marvellous. For the assertions that one is many and many are one are marvellous, and it is easy to dispute with anyone who makes either of them.
You mean when a person says that I, Protarchus,
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Those wonders concerning the one and the many which you have mentioned, Protarchus, are common property, and almost everybody is agreed that they ought to be disregarded because they are childish and easy and great hindrances to speculation; and this sort of thing also should be disregarded,
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But what other wonders do you mean, Socrates, in relation to this same principle, which are not yet common property and generally acknowledged?
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I mean, my boy, when a person postulates unity which is not the unity of one of the things which come into being and perish, as in the examples we had just now. For in cases of a unity of that sort, as I just said, it is agreed that refutation is needless. But when the assertion is made that man is one, or ox is one, or beauty is one, or the good is one, the intense interest in these and similar unities becomes disagreement and controversy.
How is that?
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The first question is whether we should believe that such unities really exist; the second, how these unities, each of which is one, always the same, and admitting neither generation nor destruction, can nevertheless be permanently this one unity; and the third, how in the infinite number of things which come into being this unity, whether we are to assume that it is dispersed and has become many, or that it is entirely separated from itself—which would seem to be the most impossible notion of all being the same and one, is to be at the same time in one and in many. These are the questions, Protarchus, about this kind of one and many,
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Then is it now, Socrates, our first duty to thresh this matter out?
Yes, that is what I should say.
You may assume, then, that we are all willing to agree with you about that; and perhaps it is best not to ask Philebus any questions; let sleeping dogs lie.
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Very well; then where shall we begin this great and vastly complicated battle about the matters at issue? Shall we start at this point?
At what point?
We say that one and many are identified by reason, and always, both now and in the past, circulate everywhere in every thought that is uttered. This is no new thing and will never cease; it is, in my opinion, a quality within us which will never die or grow old, and which belongs to reason itself as such. And any young man, when he first has an inkling of this, is delighted,
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Socrates, do you not see how many we are and that we are all young men? Are you not afraid that we shall join with Philebus and attack you, if you revile us? However—for we understand your meaning—if there is any way or means of removing this confusion gently from our discussion
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No, it is not, boys, as Philebus calls you; and there certainly is no better road, nor can there ever be, than that which I have always loved, though it has often deserted me, leaving me lonely and forlorn.
What is the road? Only tell us.
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One which is easy to point out, but very difficult to follow for through it all the inventions of art have been brought to light. See this is the road I mean.
Go on what is it?
A gift of gods to men, as I believe, was tossed down from some divine source through the agency of a Prometheus together with a gleaming fire; and the ancients, who were better than we and lived nearer the gods, handed down the tradition that all the things which are ever said to exist are sprung from one and many and have inherent in them the finite and the infinite. This being the way in which these things are arranged,
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I think I understand you in part, Socrates, but I need a clearer statement of some things.
Surely my meaning, Protarchus, is made clear in the letters of the alphabet, which you were taught as a child;
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How?
Sound, which passes out through the mouth of each and all of us, is one, and yet again it is infinite in number.
Yes, to be sure.
And one of us is no wiser than the other merely for knowing that it is infinite or that it is one; but that which makes each of us a grammarian is the knowledge of the number and nature of sounds.
Very true.
And it is this same knowledge which makes the musician.
How is that?
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Sound is one in the art of music also, so far as that art is concerned.
Of course.
And we may say that there are two sounds, low and high, and a third, which is the intermediate, may we not?
Yes.
But knowledge of these facts would not suffice to make you a musician, although ignorance of them would make you, if I may say so, quite worthless in respect to music.
Certainly.
But, my friend, when you have grasped the number and quality of the intervals of the voice in respect to high and low pitch, and the limits of the intervals,
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I think, Philebus, that what Socrates has said is excellent.
So do I; it is excellent in itself, but why has he said it now to us,
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Protarchus, that is a very proper question which Philebus has asked us.
Certainly it is, so please answer it.
I will, when I have said a little more on just this subject. For if a person begins with some unity or other, he must, as I was saying, not turn immediately to infinity, but to some definite number; now just so, conversely, when he has to take the infinite first,
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How?
When some one, whether god or godlike man,—there is an Egyptian story that his name was Theuth—observed that sound was infinite, he was the first to notice that the vowel sounds in that infinity were not one, but many, and again that there were other elements which were not vowels but did have a sonant quality,
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I understand that more clearly than the earlier statement, Protarchus, so far as the reciprocal relations of the one and the many are concerned, but I still feel the same lack as a little while ago.
Do you mean, Philebus, that you do not see what this has to do with the question?
Yes; that is what Protarchus and I have been trying to discover for a long time.
Really, have you been trying, as you say,
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How is that?
Was not our discussion from the beginning about wisdom and pleasure and which of them is preferable?
Yes, of course.
And surely we say that each of them is one.
Certainly.
This, then, is precisely the question which the previous discussion puts to us: How is each of them one and many, and how is it that they are not immediately infinite, but each possesses a definite number, before the individual phenomena become infinite?
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Philebus, somehow or other Socrates has led us round and plunged us into a serious question. Consider which of us shall answer it. Perhaps it is ridiculous that I, after taking your place in entire charge of the argument, should ask you to come back and answer this question because I cannot do so, but I think it would be still more ridiculous if neither of us could answer.
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You are quite right, son of Callias; for, as our previous discussion showed, unless we can do this in the case of every unity, every like, every same, and their opposites, none of us can ever be of any use in anything.
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That, Socrates, seems pretty likely to be true. However, it is splendid for the wise man to know everything, but the next best thing, it seems, is not to be ignorant of himself. I will tell you why I say that at this moment. You, Socrates, have granted to all of us this conversation and your cooperation for the purpose of determining what is the best of human possessions. For when Philebus said it was pleasure and gaiety and enjoyment and all that sort of thing, you objected and said it was not those things, but another sort,
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What way do you mean?
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I mean puzzling us and asking questions to which we cannot at the moment give a satisfactory answer. Let us not imagine that the end of our present discussion is a mere puzzling of us all, but if we cannot answer, you must do so; for you gave us a promise. Consider, therefore, whether you yourself must distinguish the kinds of pleasure and knowledge or will let that go, in case you are able and willing to make clear in some other way the matters now at issue among us.
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I need no longer anticipate anything terrible, since you put it in that way; for the words “in case you are willing” relieve me of all fear. And besides, I think some god has given me a vague recollection.
How is that, and what is the recollection about?
I remember now having heard long ago in a dream, or perhaps when I was awake, some talk about pleasure and wisdom to the effect that neither of the two is the good, but some third thing, different from them and better than both.
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It is.
And we shall have, in my opinion, no longer any need of distinguishing the kinds of pleasure. But the progress of the discussion will make that still clearer.
Excellent! Just go on as you have begun.
First, then, let us agree on some further small points.
What are they?
Is the nature of the good necessarily perfect
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The most perfect of all things, surely, Socrates.
Well, and is the good sufficient?
Of course; so that it surpasses all other things in sufficiency.
And nothing, I should say, is more certain about it than that every intelligent being pursues it, desires it, wishes to catch and get possession of it, and has no interest in anything in which the good is not included.
There is no denying that.
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Let us, then, look at the life of pleasure and the life of wisdom separately and consider and judge them.
How do you mean?
Let there be no wisdom in the life of pleasure and no pleasure in the life of wisdom. For if either of them is the good, it cannot have need of anything else, and if, either be found to need anything,
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No, of course not.
Shall we then undertake to test them through you?
By all means.
Then answer.
Ask.
Would you, Protarchus, be willing to live your whole life in the enjoyment of the greatest pleasures?
Of course I should.
Would you think you needed anything further, if you were in complete possession of that enjoyment?
Certainly not.
But consider whether you would not have some need of wisdom and intelligence and
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Why should I? If I have enjoyment, I have everything.
Then living thus you would enjoy the greatest pleasures all your life?
Yes; why not?
But if you did not possess mind or memory or knowledge or true opinion, in the first place, you would not know whether you were enjoying your pleasures or not. That must be true, since you are utterly devoid of intellect, must it not?
Yes, it must.
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And likewise, if you had no memory you could not even remember that you ever did enjoy pleasure, and no recollection whatever of present pleasure could remain with you; if you had no true opinion you could not think you were enjoying pleasure at the time when you were enjoying it, and if you were without power of calculation you would not be able to calculate that you would enjoy it in the future; your life would not be that of a man, but of a mollusc or some other shell-fish like the oyster.
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We certainly cannot.
And can we choose such a life?
This argument, Socrates, has made me utterly speechless for the present.
Well, let us not give in yet. Let us take up the life of mind and scrutinize that in turn.
What sort of life do you mean?
I ask whether anyone would be willing to live possessing wisdom and mind and knowledge and perfect memory of all things,
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Neither of the two lives can ever appear desirable to me, Socrates, or, I think, to anyone else.
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How about the combined life, Protarchus, made up by a union of the two?
You mean a union of pleasure with mind or wisdom?
Yes, I mean a union of such elements.
Every one will prefer this life to either of the two others—yes, every single person without exception.
Then do we understand the consequences of what we are now saying?
Certainly. Three lives have been proposed,
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Then is it not already clear that neither of these two contained the good for if it did contain the good, it would be sufficient and perfect, and such as to be chosen by all living creatures which would be able to live thus all their lives; and if any of us chose anything else, he would be choosing contrary to the nature of the truly desirable, not of his own free will, but from ignorance or some unfortunate necessity.
That seems at any rate to be true.
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And so I think we have sufficiently proved that PhilebusÕs divinity is not to be considered identical with the good.
But neither is your “mind” the good, Socrates; it will be open to the same objections.
My mind, perhaps, Philebus; but not so, I believe, the true mind, which is also divine; that is different. I do not as yet claim for mind the victory over the combined life, but we must look and see what is to be done about the second place;
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Certainly, Socrates, it seems to me that pleasure has fought for the victory and has fallen in this bout, knocked down by your words.
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Well, then, is it not better to leave her now and not to pain her by testing her to the utmost and proving her in the wrong?
Nonsense, Socrates!
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Nonsense because I spoke of paining pleasure, and that is impossible?
Not only that, but because you do not understand that not one of us will let you go yet until you have finished the argument about these matters.
Whew, Protarchus! Then we have a long discussion before us, and not an easy one, either, this time. For in going ahead to fight mindÕs battle for the second place, I think I need a new contrivance—other weapons, as it were, than those of our previous discussion, though perhaps some of the old ones will serve. Must I then go on?
Of course you must.
Then let us try to be careful
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What kind of a beginning do you mean?
Let us divide all things that now exist in the universe into two, or rather, if you please, three classes.
Please tell us on what principle you would divide them.
Let us take some of the subjects of our present discussion.
What subjects?
We said that God revealed in the universe two elements, the infinite and the finite, did we not?
Certainly.
Let us, then, assume these as two of our classes, and a third, made by combining these two.
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What do you mean, my friend?
I think we need a fourth class besides.
Tell us what it is.
Note the cause of the combination of those two and assume that as the fourth in addition to the previous three.
And then will you not need a fifth, which has the power of separation?
Perhaps; but not at present, I think. However, if we do need a fifth,
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Of course.
First, then, let us take three of the four and, as we see that two of these are split up and scattered each one into many, let us try, by collecting each of them again into one, to learn how each of them was both one and many.
If you could tell me more clearly about them, I might be able to follow you.
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I mean, then, that the two which I select are the same which I mentioned before, the infinite and the finite. I will try to show that the infinite is, in a certain sense, many; the finite can wait.
Yes.
Consider then. What I ask you to consider is difficult and debatable; but consider it all the same. In the first place, take hotter and colder and see whether you can conceive any limit of them, or whether the more and less which dwell in their very nature do not, so long as they continue to dwell therein,
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Very true.
But always, we affirm, in the hotter and colder there is the more and less.
Certainly.
Always, then, the argument shows that these two have no end; and being endless, they are of course infinite.
Most emphatically, Socrates.
I am glad you responded, my dear Protarchus,
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That appears to be the case, Socrates; but, as you said, these subjects are not easy to follow. Perhaps, however,
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That is a good suggestion, and I must try to carry it out. However, to avoid waste of time in discussing all the individual examples, see if we can accept this as a designation of the infinite.
Accept what?
All things which appear to us to become more or less, or to admit of emphatic and gentle
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I remember.
And the things which do not admit of more and less and the like, but do admit of all that is opposed to them—first equality and the equal, then the double, and anything which is a definite number or measure in relation to such a number or measure—
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Excellent, Socrates.
Well, what shall we say is the nature of the third class, made by combining these two?
You will tell me, I fancy, by answering your own question.
Nay, a god will do so, if any god will give ear to my prayers.
Pray, then, and watch.
I am watching; and I think, Protarchus, one of the gods has this moment been gracious unto me.
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What do you mean, and what evidence have you?
I will tell you, of course. Just follow what I say.
Say on.
We spoke just now of hotter and colder, did we not?
Yes.
Add to them drier and wetter, more and less, quicker and slower, greater and smaller, and all that we assigned before to the class which unites more and less.
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You mean the class of the infinite?
Yes. Mix with that the second class, the offspring of the limit.
What class do you mean?
The class of the finite, which we ought just now to have reduced to unity, as we did that of the infinite. We have not done that, but perhaps we shall even now accomplish the same end, if these two are both unified and then the third class is revealed.
What third class, and what do you mean?
The class of the equal and double and everything which puts an end
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I understand. I think you mean that by mixture of these elements certain results are produced in each instance.
Yes, you are right.
Go on.
In cases of illness, does not the proper combination of these elements produce health?
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Certainly.
And in the acute and the grave, the quick and the slow, which are unlimited, the addition of these same elements creates a limit and establishes the whole art of music in all its perfection, does it not?
Excellent.
And again in the case of cold and hot weather, the introduction of these elements removes the excess and indefiniteness and creates moderation and harmony.
Assuredly.
And thence arise the seasons and all the beauties of our world,
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Of course.
There are countless other things which I pass over, such as health, beauty, and strength of the body and the many glorious beauties of the soul. For this goddess,
What you say, Socrates, pleases me greatly.
I have spoken of these three classes, you observe.
Yes, I believe I understand; I think you mean that the infinite is one class and the finite is another class among existing things; but what you wish to designate as the third class, I do not comprehend very well.
No, because the multitude which springs up in the third class overpowers you and yet the infinite also comprised many classes,
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True.
And the finite, again, did not contain many classes, nor were we disturbed about its natural unity.
Of course not.
No, not at all. And as to the third class, understand that I mean every offspring of these two which comes into being as a result of the measures created by the cooperation of the finite.
I understand.
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But we said there was, in addition to three classes, a fourth to be investigated. Let us do that together. See whether you think that everything which comes into being must necessarily come into being through a cause.
Yes, I do; for how could it come into being apart from a cause?
Does not the nature of that which makes or creates differ only in name from the cause, and may not the creative agent and the cause be properly considered one?
Yes.
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And, again, we shall find that, on the same principle, that which is made or created differs in name only from that which comes into being, shall we not?
We shall.
And the creative agent always naturally leads, and that which is created follows after it as it comes into being?
Certainly.
Then the cause and that which is the servant of the cause for the purpose of generation are not the same.
Of course not.
Did not the things which come into being and the things out of which they come into being furnish us all the three classes?
Certainly.
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And that which produces all these, the cause, we call the fourth, as it has been satisfactorily shown to be distinct from the others?
Yes, it is distinct.
It is, then, proper, now that we have distinguished the four, to make sure that we remember them separately by enumerating them in order.
Yes, certainly.
The first, then, I call infinite, the second limit or finite, and the third something generated by a mixture of these two. And should I be making any mistake if I called
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Certainly not.
Now what is the next step in our argument, and what was our purpose in coming to the point we have reached? Was it not this? We were trying to find out whether the second place belonged to pleasure or to wisdom, were we not?
Yes, we were.
And may we not, perhaps, now that we have finished with these points, be better able to come to a decision about the first and second places, which was the original subject of our discussion?
Perhaps.
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Well then; we decided that the mixed life of pleasure and wisdom was the victor, did we not?
Yes.
And do we not see what kind of life this is, and to what class it belongs?
Of course we do.
We shall say that it belongs to the third class; for that class is not formed by mixture of any two things, but of all the things which belong to the infinite, bound by the finite; and therefore this victorious life would rightly be considered a part of this class.
Quite rightly.
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Well then, what of your life, Philebus, of unmixed pleasure? In which of the aforesaid classes may it properly be said to belong? But before you tell me, please answer this question.
Ask your question.
Have pleasure and pain a limit, or are they among the things which admit of more and less?
Yes, they are among those which admit of the more, Socrates; for pleasure would not be absolute good if it were not infinite in number and degree.
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Nor would pain, Philebus, be absolute evil; so it is not the infinite which supplies any element of good in pleasure; we must look for something else. Well, I grant you that pleasure and pain are in the class of the infinite but to which of the aforesaid classes, Protarchus and Philebus, can we now without irreverence assign wisdom, knowledge, and mind? I think we must find the right answer to this question, for our danger is great if we fail.
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Oh Socrates, you exalt your own god.
And you your goddess, my friend. But the question calls for an answer, all the same.
Socrates is right, Philebus; you ought to do as he asks.
Did you not, Protarchus, elect to reply in my place?
Yes; but now I am somewhat at a loss, and I ask you, Socrates, to be our spokesman yourself, that we may not select the wrong representative and so say something improper.
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I must do as you ask, Protarchus; and it is not difficult. But did I really, as Philebus said, embarrass you by playfully exalting my god, when I asked to what class mind and knowledge should be assigned?
You certainly did, Socrates.
Yet the answer is easy; for all philosophers agree—whereby they really exalt themselves—that mind is king of heaven and earth. Perhaps they are right. But let us, if you please, investigate the question of its class more at length.
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Speak just as you like, Socrates. Do not consider length, so far as we are concerned you cannot bore us.
Good. Then let us begin by asking a question.
What is the question?
Shall we say, Protarchus, that all things and this which is called the universe are governed by an irrational and fortuitous power and mere chance, or, on the contrary, as our forefathers said, are ordered and directed by mind and a marvellous wisdom?
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The two points of view have nothing in common, my wonderful Socrates. For what you are now saying seems to me actually impious. But the assertion that mind orders all things is worthy of the aspect of the world, of sun, moon, stars, and the whole revolving universe; I can never say or think anything else about it.
Do you, then, think we should assent to this and agree in the doctrine of our predecessors,
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Yes, of course I do.
Then observe the argument that now comes against us.
Go on.
We see the elements which belong to the natures of all living beings, fire, water, air, and earth—or, as the storm-tossed mariners say, land in sight—
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Certainly and we are truly storm-tossed in the puzzling cross-currents of this discussion.
Well, here is a point for you to consider in relation to each of these elements as it exists in us.
What is the point?
Each element in us is small and poor and in no way pure at all or endowed with the power which is worthy of its nature. Take one example and apply it to all. Fire, for instance, exists in us and also in the universe.
Of course.
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And that which is in us is small, weak, and poor, but that which is in the universe is marvellous in quantity, beauty, and every power which belongs to fire.
What you say is very true.
Well, is the fire of the universe nourished, originated, and ruled by the fire within us, or, on the contrary, does my fire, and yours, and that of all living beings derive nourishment and all that from the universal fire?
That question does not even deserve an answer.
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True; and you will, I fancy, say the same of the earth which is in us living creatures and that which is in the universe, and concerning all the other elements about which I asked a moment ago your answer will be the same.
Yes. Who could answer otherwise without being called a lunatic?
Nobody, I fancy. Now follow the next step. When we see that all the aforesaid elements are gathered together into a unit, do we not call them a body?
Of course.
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Apply the same line of thought to that which we call the universe. It would likewise be a body, being composed of the same elements.
Quite right.
Does our body derive, obtain, and possess from that body, or that body from ours, nourishment and everything else that we mentioned just now?
That, Socrates, is another question not worth asking.
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Well, is this next one worth asking? What will you say to it?
What is it?
Shall we not say that our body has a soul?
Clearly we shall.
Where did it get it, Protarchus, unless the body of the universe had a soul, since that body has the same elements as ours, only in every way superior?
Clearly it could get it from no other source.
No; for we surely do not believe, Protarchus, that of those four elements, the finite, the infinite, the combination,
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Certainly there would be no sense in that.
Then if that is not the case, it would be better to follow the other line of thought and say, as we have often said, that there is in the universe a plentiful infinite and a sufficient limit, and in addition a by no means feeble cause which orders and arranges years and seasons and months, and may most justly be called wisdom and mind.
Yes, most justly.
Surely reason and mind could never come into being without soul.
No, never.
Then in the nature of Zeus you would say that a kingly soul
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Certainly.
Now do not imagine, Protarchus, that this is mere idle talk of mine; it confirms the utterances of those who declared of old
Yes, certainly.
And to my question it has furnished the reply
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Yes, and a very sufficient one and yet you answered without my knowing it.
Yes, Protarchus, for sometimes a joke is a restful change from serious talk.
You are right.
We have now, then, my friend, pretty clearly shown to what class mind belongs
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Certainly.
And likewise the class of pleasure was made clear some time ago.
Yes, it was.
Let us, then, remember concerning both of them that mind was akin to cause and belonged more or less to that class, and that pleasure was itself infinite and belonged to the class which, in and by itself, has not and never will have either beginning or middle or end.
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We will remember that, of course.
Our next task is to see in what and by means of what feeling each of them comes into being whenever they do come into being. We will take pleasure first and discuss these questions in relation to pleasure, as we examined its class first. But we cannot examine pleasure successfully apart from pain.
If that is our proper path, let us follow it.
Do you agree with us about the origin of pleasure?
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What do you think it is?
I think pain and pleasure naturally originate in the combined class.
Please, my dear Socrates, remind us which of the aforesaid classes you mean by the combined class.
I will do so, as well as I can, my brilliant friend.
Thank you.
By combined class, then, let us understand that which we said was the third of the four.
The one you mentioned after the infinite and the finite, and in which you put health and also, I believe, harmony?
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You are quite right. Now please pay very close attention.
I will. Say on.
I say, then, that when, in us living beings, harmony is broken up, a disruption of nature and a generation of pain also take place at the same moment.
What you say is very likely.
But if harmony is recomposed and returns to its own nature, then I say that pleasure is generated, if I may speak in the fewest and briefest words about matters of the highest import.
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I think you are right, Socrates; but let us try to be more explicit.
It is easiest to understand common and obvious examples, is it not?
What examples?
Is hunger a kind of breaking up and a pain?
Yes.
And eating, which is a filling up again, is a pleasure?
Yes.
Thirst again is a destruction and a pain, but the filling with moisture
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Certainly.
And the unnatural hardening of the moisture in an animal through cold is pain; but the natural course of the elements returning to their place and separating is a pleasure. See, in short, if you think it is a reasonable statement that whenever in the class of living beings,
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Let us accept that; for it seems to me to be true in its general lines.
Then we may assume this as one kind of pain and pleasure arising severally under the conditions I have described?
Let that be assumed.
Now assume within the soul itself the anticipation of these conditions,
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Yes, indeed, this is another kind of pleasure and pain, which belongs to the soul itself, apart from the body, and arises through expectation.
You are right. I think that in these two kinds, both of which are, in my opinion, pure, and not formed by mixture of pain and pleasure, the truth about pleasure will be made manifest,
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You are quite right in saying that we must track our quarry on this trail.
First, then, let us agree on this point: If it is true,
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Yes, necessarily.
Have we, then, a third condition,
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Certainly.
Well then, do your best to bear it in mind; for remembering or forgetting it will make a great difference in our judgement of pleasure. And I should like, if you do not object, to speak briefly about it.
Pray do so.
You know that there is nothing to hinder a man from living the life of wisdom in this manner.
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You mean without feeling pleasure or pain?
Yes, for it was said, you know, in our comparison of the lives that he who chose the life of mind and wisdom was to have no feeling of pleasure, great or small.
Yes, surely, that was said.
Such a man, then, would have such a life; and perhaps it is not unreasonable, if that is the most divine of lives.
Certainly it is not likely that gods feel either joy or its opposite.
No, it is very unlikely; for either is unseemly for them. But let us reserve the discussion of that point
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Quite right.
Now the other class of pleasure, which we said was an affair of the soul alone, originates entirely in memory.
How is that?
We must, apparently, first take up memory, and perception even before memory, if these matters are to be made clear to us properly.
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What do you mean?
Assume that some of the affections of our body are extinguished in the body before they reach the soul, leaving the soul unaffected, and that other affections permeate both body and soul and cause a vibration in both conjointly and in each individually.
Let us assume that.
Shall we be right in saying that the soul forgets those which do not permeate both, and does not forget those which do?
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Yes, certainly.
Do not in the least imagine that when I speak of forgetting I mean that forgetfulness arises in this case; for forgetfulness is the departure of memory, and in the case under consideration memory has not yet come into being; now it is absurd to speak of the loss of that which does not exist and has not yet come into being, is it not?
Certainly.
Then just change the terms.
How?
Instead of saying that the soul forgets, when it is unaffected by the vibrations of the body,
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I understand.
And the union of soul and body in one common affection and one common motion you may properly call perception.
Very true.
Then do we now understand what we mean by perception?
Certainly.
I think, then, that memory may rightly be defined as the preservation of perception.
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Quite rightly.
But do we not say that memory differs from recollection?
Perhaps.
And is this the difference?
What?
When the soul alone by itself, apart from the body, recalls completely any experience it has had in company with the body, we say that it recollects do we not?
Certainly.
And again when the soul has lost the memory of a perception or of something it has learned and then alone by itself regains this,
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You are right.
Now my reason for saying all this is—
What?
That henceforth we may comprehend as completely and clearly as possible the pleasure of the soul, and likewise its desire, apart from the body; for both of these appear to be made plain by what has been said about memory and recollection.
Let us, then, Socrates, discuss the next point.
We must, it seems, consider many things in relation to the origin and general aspect of pleasure;
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Then let us examine that; for we shall not lose anything.
Oh yes, Protarchus, we shall lose a great deal! When we find what we are seeking we shall lose our perplexity about these very questions.
That is a fair counter; but let us try to take up the next point.
Did we not say just now that hunger, thirst,
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They are, decidedly.
What sort of identity have we in view when we call these, which are so different, by one name?
By Zeus, Socrates, that question may not be easy to answer, yet it must be answered.
Let us, then, begin again at that point with the same examples.
At what point?
We say of a thing on any particular occasion, “itÕs thirsty,” do we not?
Of course.
And that means being empty?
Certainly.
And is thirst, then, a desire?
Yes, of drink.
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Of drink, or of being filled with drink?
Of being filled, I suppose.
The man, then, who is empty desires, as it appears, the opposite of what he feels for, being empty, he longs to be filled.
That is very plain.
Well then, is there any source from which a man who is empty at first can gain a comprehension, whether by perception or by memory, of fulness, a thing which he does not feel at the time and has never felt before?
It cannot be done.
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And yet he who desires, desires something, we say.
Of course.
And he does not desire that which he feels; for he is thirsty, and that is emptiness, but he desires fulness.
Yes.
Then somehow some part of him who is thirsty can apprehend fulness.
Yes, obviously.
But it cannot be the body, for that is empty.
True.
The only remaining possibility is that the soul apprehends it,
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No other, I should say.
And do we understand the consequences of this argument?
What are the consequences?
This argument declares that we have no bodily desire.
How so?
Because it shows that the endeavor of every living being is always towards the opposite of the actual conditions of the body.
Yes, certainly.
And the impulse which leads towards the opposite of those conditions shows that there is a memory of the opposite of the conditions.
Certainly.
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And the argument, by showing that memory is that which leads us towards the objects of desire, has proved that all the impulse, the desire, and the ruling principle in every living being are of the soul.
Quite right.
So the argument denies utterly that the body hungers or thirsts or has any such affection.
Very true.
Let us consider a further point in connection with those very affections. For I think the purpose of the argument is to point out to us a state of life existing in them.
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Of what sort of life are you speaking, and in what affections does it exist?
In the affections of fulness and emptiness and all which pertain to the preservation and destruction of living beings, and I am thinking that if we fall into one of these we feel pain, which is followed by joy when we change to the other.
That is true.
And what if a man is between the two?
How between them?
Because of his condition, he is suffering, but he remembers the pleasures the coming of which would bring him an end of his pain; as yet, however, he does not possess them. Well then, shall we say that he is
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Let us say so.
Shall we say that he is wholly pained or wholly pleased?
No, by Zeus, but he is afflicted with a twofold pain; he suffers in body from his sensation, and in soul from expectation and longing.
How could you, Protarchus, speak of twofold pain? Is not an empty man sometimes possessed
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Certainly.
And do you not think that when he has a hope of being filled he takes pleasure in his memory, and yet at the same time, since he is at the moment empty, suffers pain?
It cannot be otherwise.
At such a time, then, a man, or any other animal, has both pain and pleasure at once.
Yes, I suppose so.
And when an empty man is without hope of being filled, what then? Is not that the time when the twofold feeling of pain would arise, which you just now observed
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Very true, Socrates.
Let us make use of our examination of those affections for a particular purpose.
For what purpose?
Shall we say that those pleasures and pains are true or false, or that some are true and others not so?
But, Socrates, how can there be false pleasures or pains?
But, Protarchus, how can there be true and false fears, or true and false expectations, or true and false opinions?
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Opinions I would grant you, but not the rest.
What? I am afraid we are starting a very considerable discussion.
You are right.
And yet we must consider, thou son of that man,
Yes, no doubt.
We must dismiss everything else, tedious or otherwise, that is irrelevant.
Right.
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Now tell me; for I am always utterly amazed by the same questions we were just proposing.
What do you mean?
Are not some pleasures false and others true?
How could that be?
Then, as you maintain, nobody, either sleeping or waking or insane or deranged, ever thinks he feels pleasure when he does not feel it, and never, on the other hand, thinks he suffers pain when he does not suffer it?
We have, Socrates, always believed that all this is as you suggest.
But is the belief correct? Shall we consider whether it is so or not?
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I should say we ought to consider that.
Then let us analyze still more clearly what we were just now saying about pleasure and opinion. There is a faculty of having an opinion, is there not?
Yes.
And of feeling pleasure?
Yes.
And there is an object of opinion?
Of course.
And something by which that which feels pleasure is pleased?
Certainly.
And that which has opinion, whether right or wrong, never loses its function of really having opinion?
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Of course not.
And that which feels pleasure, whether rightly or wrongly, will clearly never lose its function of really feeling pleasure?
Yes, that is true, too.
Then we must consider how it is that opinion is both true and false and pleasure only true, though the holding of opinion and the feeling of pleasure are equally real.
Yes, so we must.
You mean that we must consider this question because falsehood and truth are added as attributes to opinion,
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Yes.
And furthermore, we must reach an agreement on the question whether, even if some things have qualities, pleasure and pain are not merely what they are, without qualities or attributes.
Evidently we must.
But it is easy enough to see that they have qualities. For we said a long time ago that both pains and pleasures
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Yes, certainly.
And if badness becomes an attribute of any of these, Protarchus, shall we say that the opinion or the pleasure thereby becomes bad?
Why certainly, Socrates.
And what if rightness or its opposite becomes an attribute of one of them? Shall we not say that the opinion is right, if it has rightness, and the pleasure likewise?
Obviously.
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And if that which is opined is mistaken, must we not agree that the opinion, since it is at the moment making a mistake, is not right or rightly opining?
Of course.
And what if we see a pain or a pleasure making a mistake in respect of that by which the pain or pleasure is caused? Shall we give it the attribute of right or good or any of the words which denote excellence?
That is impossible if the pleasure is mistaken.
And certainly pleasure often seems to come to us in connection with false, not true, opinion.
Of course it does; and in such a case, Socrates,
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You are an eager advocate of the case of pleasure just now, Protarchus.
Oh no, I merely say what I hear.
Is there no difference, my friend, between the pleasure which is connected with right opinion and knowledge and that which often comes to each of us with falsehood and ignorance?
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There is likely to be a great difference.
Then let us proceed to the contemplation of the difference between them.
Lead on as you think best.
Then this is the way I lead.
What way?
Do we agree that there is such a thing as false opinion and also as true opinion?
There is.
And, as we were saying just now, pleasure and pain often follow them—I mean true and false opinion.
Certainly.
And do not opinion and the power of forming an opinion always come to us
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Certainly.
Do we, then, believe that our relation to these faculties is somewhat as follows?
How?
Would you say that often when a man sees things at a distance and not very clearly, he wishes to distinguish between the things which he sees?
Yes, I should say so.
Next, then, would he not ask himself—
What?
“What is that which is visible standing
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To be sure.
And after that our gazer might reply to himself correctly “It is a man”?
Certainly.
Or, again, perhaps he might be misled into the belief that it was a work of some shepherds, and then he would call the thing which he saw an image.
Yes, indeed.
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And if some one is with him, he might repeat aloud to his companion what he had said to himself, and thus that which we called an opinion now becomes a statement?
Certainly.
But if he is alone when he has this thought, he sometimes carries it about in his mind for a long time.
Undoubtedly.
Well, is your view about what takes place in such cases the same as mine?
What is yours?
I think the soul at such a time is like a book.
How is that?
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Memory unites with the senses, and they and the feelings which are connected with them seem to me almost to write words in our souls; and when the feeling in question writes the truth, true opinions and true statements are produced in us; but when the writer within us writes falsehoods, the resulting opinions and statements are the opposite of true.
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That is my view completely, and I accept it as stated.
Then accept also the presence of another workman in our souls at such a time.
What workman?
A painter, who paints in our souls pictures to illustrate the words which the writer has written.
But how do we say he does this, and when?
When a man receives from sight or some other sense the opinions and utterances of the moment and afterwards beholds in his own mind the images of those opinions and utterances.
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It certainly does.
And the images of the true opinions are true, and those of the false are false?
Assuredly.
Then if we are right about that, let us consider a further question.
What is it?
Whether this is an inevitable experience in relation to the present and the past, but not in relation to the future.
It is in the same relation to all kinds of time.
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Was it not said a while ago that the pleasures and pains which belong to the soul alone might come before the pleasures and pains of the body, so that we have the pleasure and pain of anticipation, which relate to the future?
Very true.
Do the writings and pictures, then, which we imagined a little while ago to exist within us, relate to the past and present,
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To the future especially.
Do you say “to the future especially” because they are all hopes relating to the future and we are always filled with hopes all our lives?
Precisely.
Well, here is a further question for you to answer.
What is it?
A just, pious, and good man is surely a friend of the gods, is he not?
Certainly.
And an unjust and thoroughly bad man
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Of course.
But, as we were just now saying, every man is full of many hopes?
Yes, to be sure.
And there are in all of us written words which we call hopes?
Yes.
And also the images painted there; and often a man sees an abundance of gold coming into his possession, and in its train many pleasures; and he even sees a picture of himself enjoying himself immensely.
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Yes, certainly.
Shall we or shall we not say that of these pictures those are for the most part true which are presented to the good, because they are friends of the gods, whereas those presented to the bad are for the most part false?
Surely we must say that.
Then the bad also, no less than the good, have pleasures painted in their souls, but they are false pleasures.
Yes, surely.
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Then the bad rejoice for the most part in the false, and the good in true pleasures.
That is inevitably true.
According to our present view, then, there are false pleasures in the souls of men, imitations or caricatures of the true pleasures; and pains likewise.
There are.
We saw, you remember, that he who had an opinion at all always really had an opinion, but it was sometimes not based upon realities, whether present, past, or future.
Certainly.
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And this it was, I believe, which created false opinion and the holding of false opinions, was it not?
Yes.
Very well, must we not also grant that pleasure and pain stand in the same relation to realities?
What do you mean?
I mean that he who feels pleasure at all in any way or manner always really feels pleasure, but it is sometimes not based upon realities, whether present or past, and often, perhaps most frequently, upon things which will never even be realities in the future.
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This also, Socrates, must inevitably be the case.
And the same may be said of fear and anger and all that sort of thing—that they are all sometimes false?
Certainly.
Well, can we say that opinions become bad or good except as they become false?
No.
And we understand, I believe, that pleasures also
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No; you have said quite the reverse of the truth, Socrates; for no one would be at all likely to call pains and pleasures bad because they are false, but because they are involved in another great and manifold evil.
Then of the evil pleasures which are such because of evil we will speak a little later, if we still care to do so; but of the false pleasures we must prove in another way that they exist and come into existence in us often and in great numbers;
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Yes, of course; that is, if such pleasures exist.
But they do exist, Protarchus, in my opinion; however, until we have established the truth of this opinion, it cannot be unquestioned.
Good.
Then let us, like athletes, approach and grapple with this new argument.
Let us do so.
We said, you may remember, a little while ago,
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I remember; that was said.
And was not the soul that which desired the opposites of the conditions of the body and the body that which caused pleasure or pain because of feeling?
Yes, that was the case.
Then draw the conclusion as to what takes place in these circumstances.
Go on.
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What takes place is this: in these circumstances pleasures and pains exist at the same time and the sensations of opposite pleasures and pains are present side by side simultaneously, as was made clear just now.
Yes, that is clear.
And have we not also said and agreed and settled something further?
What?
That both pleasure and pain admit of the more and less and are of the class of the infinite.
Yes, we have said that, certainly.
Then what means is there of judging rightly of this?
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How and in what way do you mean?
I mean to ask whether the purpose of our judgement of these matters in such circumstances is to recognize in each instance which of these elements is greater or smaller or more intense, comparing pain with pleasure, pain with pain, and pleasure with pleasure.
Certainly there are such differences, and that is the purpose of our judgement.
Well then, in the case of sight, seeing things from too near at hand or from too great a distance
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Yes, Socrates, even much more than in the case of sight.
Then our present conclusion is the opposite of what we said a little while ago.
To what do you refer?
A while ago these opinions, being false or true, imbued the pains and pleasures with their own condition of truth or falsehood.
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Very true.
But now, because they are seen at various and changing distances and are compared with one another, the pleasures themselves appear greater and more intense by comparison with the pains, and the pains in turn, through comparison with the pleasures, vary inversely as they.
That is inevitable for the reasons you have given.
They both, then, appear greater and less than the reality. Now if you abstract from both of them this apparent, but unreal, excess or inferiority, you cannot say that its appearance is true,
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No, I cannot.
Next, then, we will see whether we may not in another direction come upon pleasures and pains still more false than these appearing and existing in living beings.
What pleasures and what method do you mean?
It has been said many times that pains and woes and aches and everything that is called by names of that sort are caused when nature in any instance is corrupted through combinations and dissolutions,
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Yes, that has been said many times.
And we agreed that when things are restored to their natural condition, that restoration is pleasure.
Right.
But when neither of these changes takes place in the body, what then?
When could that be the case, Socrates?
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That question of yours is not to the point, Protarchus.
Why not?
Because you do not prevent my asking my own question again.
What question?
Why, Protarchus, I may say, granting that such a condition does not arise, what would be the necessary result if it did?
You mean if the body is not changed in either direction?
Yes.
It is clear, Socrates, that in that case there would never be either pleasure or pain.
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Excellent. But you believe, I fancy, that some such change must always be taking place in us, as the philosophers
Yes, that is what they say, and I think their theory is important.
Of course it is, in view of their own importance. But I should like to avoid this argument which is rushing at us. I am going to run away; come along and escape with me.
What is your way of escape?
“We grant you all this” let us say to them.
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Quite the reverse, surely; for we are almost entirely unconscious of everything of that sort.
Then we were not right in saying just now that the fluctuations and changes cause pains and pleasures.
No, certainly not.
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A better and more unassailable statement would be this.
What?
That the great changes cause pains and pleasures in us, but the moderate and small ones cause no pains or pleasures at all.
That is more correct than the other statement, Socrates.
But if that is the case, the life of which we spoke just now would come back again.
What life?
The life which we said was painless and without joys.
Very true.
Let us, therefore, assume three lives,
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No, I agree to this, that there are the three lives.
Then freedom from pain would not be identical with pleasure?
Certainly not.
When you hear anyone say that the pleasantest of all things is to live all oneÕs life without pain, what do you understand him to mean?
I think he means that freedom from pain is pleasure.
Now let us assume that we have three things; no matter what they are,
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Agreed.
Now can that which is neither become either gold or silver?
Certainly not.
Neither can that middle life of which we spoke ever be rightly considered in opinion or called in speech pleasant or painful, at any rate by those who reason correctly.
No, certainly not.
But surely, my friend, we are aware of persons who call it
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Certainly.
Do they, then, think they feel pleasure whenever they are not in pain?
That is what they say.
Then they do think they feel pleasure at such times; for otherwise they would not say so.
Most likely.
Certainly, then, they have a false opinion about pleasure, if there is an essential difference between feeling pleasure and not feeling pain.
And we certainly found that difference.
Then shall we adopt the view that there are,
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Why do we ask ourselves that question now, Socrates? I do not understand.
No, Protarchus, for you certainly do not understand about the enemies of our friend Philebus.
Whom do you mean?
Certain men who are said to be master thinkers about nature, and who deny the existence of pleasures altogether.
Is it possible?
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They say that what Philebus and his school call pleasures are all merely refuges from pain.
Do you recommend that we adopt their view, Socrates?
No, but that we make use of them as seers who divine the truth, not by acquired skill, but by some innate and not ignoble repugnance which makes them hate the power of pleasure and think it so utterly unsound that its very attractiveness is mere trickery, not pleasure.
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You are right.
Let us, then, consider these men as allies and follow them in the track of their dislike. I fancy their method would be to begin somewhere further back
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By all means, and I say to them that we should look at the greatest things.
Then if we wished to discover what the nature of pleasure is, we should look, not at the smallest pleasures,
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Every one would agree to that now.
And the commonest and greatest pleasures are, as we have often said, those connected with the body, are they not?
Certainly.
Are they greater, then, and do they become greater in those who are ill or in those who are in health? Let us take care not to answer hastily and fall into error. Perhaps we might say they are greater
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That is reasonable.
Yes, but are not those pleasures the greatest which gratify the greatest desires?
That is true.
But do not people who are in a fever, or in similar diseases, feel more intensely thirst and cold and other bodily sufferings which they usually have; and do they not feel greater want, followed by greater pleasure when their want is satisfied? Is this true, or not?
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Now that you have said it, it certainly appears to be true.
Then should we appear to be right in saying that if we wished to discover the greatest pleasures we should have to look, not at health, but at disease? Now do not imagine that I mean to ask you whether those who are very ill have more pleasures than those who are well, but assume that I am asking about the greatness of pleasure, and where the greatest intensity of such feeling normally occurs. For we say that it is our task to discover the nature of pleasure and what
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I think I understand you.
Presently, Protarchus, you will show that more clearly, for I want you to answer a question. Do you see greater pleasures—I do not mean greater in number, but greater in intensity and degree—in riotous living or in a life of self-restraint? Be careful about your reply.
I understand you, and I see that there is a great difference. For the self-restrained are always held in check by the advice of the proverbial expression
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Good; and if that is true, it is clear that the greatest pleasures and the greatest pains originate in some depravity of soul and body, not in virtue.
Certainly.
Then we must select some of these pleasures and see what there is about them which made us say that they are the greatest.
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Yes, we must.
Now see what there is about the pleasures which are related to certain diseases.
What diseases?
Repulsive diseases which the philosophers of dislike whom we mentioned utterly abominate.
What are the pleasures?
For instance, the relief of the itch and the like by scratching, no other treatment being required. For in HeavenÕs name what shall we say the feeling is which we have in this case? Is it pleasure or pain?
I think, Socrates, it is a mixed evil.
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I did not introduce this question on PhilebusÕ account; but unless we consider these pleasures and those that follow in their train, Protarchus, we can probably never settle the point at issue.
Then we must attack this family of pleasures.
You mean those which are mixed?
Certainly.
Some mixtures are concerned with the body and are in the body only, and some belong only to the soul and are in the soul;
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How so?
Whenever, in the process of restoration or destruction, anyone has two opposite feelings, as we sometimes are cold, but are growing warm, or are hot, but are growing cold, the desire of having the one and being free from the other, the mixture of bitter and sweet, as they say, joined with the difficulty in getting rid of the bitter,
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What you say is perfectly true.
And such mixtures sometimes consist of equal pains and pleasures and sometimes contain more of one or the other, do they not?
Of course.
In the case of the mixtures in which the pains are more than the pleasures—say the itch, which we mentioned just now, or tickling—when the burning inflammation is within and is not reached by the rubbing and scratching,
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Very true.
And when the pleasure is the predominant element in the mixture, the slight tincture of pain tickles a man and makes him mildly impatient, or again an excessive proportion of pleasure excites him and sometimes even makes him leap for joy; it produces in him all sorts of colors, attitudes, and paintings, and even causes great amazement and foolish shouting, does it not?
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Certainly.
And it makes him say of himself, and others say of him, that he is pleased to death with these delights, and the more unrestrained and foolish he is, the more he always gives himself up to the pursuit of these pleasures; he calls them the greatest of all things and counts that man the happiest who lives most entirely in the enjoyment of them.
Socrates, you have described admirably what happens
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That may be, Protarchus, so far as concerns purely bodily pleasures in which internal and external sensations unite; but concerning the pleasures in which the soul and the body contribute opposite elements, each adding pain or pleasure to the otherÕs pleasure or pain, so that both unite in a single mixture—concerning these I said before that when a man is empty he desires to be filled, and rejoices in his expectation, but is pained by his emptiness, and now I add, what I did not say at that time, that in all these cases, which are innumerable,
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I believe you are quite right.
One further mixture of pain and pleasure is left.
What is it?
That mixture of its own feelings which we said the soul often experiences.
And what do we call this
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Do you not regard anger, fear, yearning, mourning, love, jealousy, envy, and the like as pains of the soul and the soul only?
I do.
And shall we not find them full of ineffable pleasures? Or must I remind you of the anger?
No, you need not remind me; those things occur just as you suggest.
And you remember, too, how people enjoy weeping at tragedies?
Yes, certainly.
And are you aware of the condition of the soul at comedies, how there also we have a mixture of pain and pleasure?
I do not quite understand.
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Indeed it is by no means easy, Protarchus, to understand such a condition under those circumstances.
No at least I do not find it so.
Well, then, let us take this under consideration, all the more because of its obscurity; then we can more readily understand the mixture of pain and pleasure in other cases.
Please go on.
Would you say that envy, which was mentioned just now, was a pain of the soul, or not?
I say it is.
But certainly we see the envious man rejoicing in the misfortunes of his neighbors.
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Yes, very much so.
Surely ignorance is an evil, as is also what we call stupidity.
Surely.
Next, then, consider the nature of the ridiculous.
Please proceed.
The ridiculous is in its main aspect a kind of vice which gives its name to a condition; and it is that part of vice in general which involves the opposite of the condition mentioned in the inscription at
You mean “Know thyself,” Socrates?
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Yes; and the opposite of that, in the language of the inscription, would evidently be not to know oneself at all.
Of course.
Protarchus, try to divide this into three.
How do you mean? I am afraid I can never do it.
Then you say that I must now make the division?
Yes, I say so, and I beg you to do so, besides.
Must not all those who do not know themselves be affected by their condition in one of three ways?
How is that?
First in regard to wealth; such a man thinks he is
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Certainly a good many are affected in that way.
And there are still more who think they are taller and handsomer than they are and that they possess better physical qualities in general than is the case.
Certainly.
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But by far the greatest number, I fancy, err in the third way, about the qualities of, the soul, thinking that they excel in virtue when they do not.
Yes, most decidedly.
And of all the virtues, is not wisdom the one to which people in general lay claim, thereby filling themselves with strife and false conceit of wisdom?
Yes, to be sure.
And we should surely be right in calling all that an evil condition.
Very much so.
Then this must further be divided into two parts, if we are to gain insight into childish envy with its absurd mixture of pleasure and pain. “How shall we divide it,” do you say? All who have this false and foolish conceit
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Yes, necessarily.
Make the division, then, on that principle; those of them who have this false conceit and are weak and unable to revenge themselves when they are laughed at you may truly call ridiculous, but those who are strong and able to revenge themselves you will define most correctly to yourself
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Quite right. But the mixture of pleasure and pain in all this is not yet clear to me.
First, then, take up the nature of envy.
Go on.
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Is envy a kind of unrighteous pain and also a pleasure?
Undoubtedly.
But it is neither wrong nor envious to rejoice in the misfortunes of our enemies, is it?
No, of course not.
But when people sometimes see the misfortunes of their friends and rejoice instead of grieving, is not that wrong?
Of course it is.
And we said that ignorance was an evil to every one, did we not?
True.
Then the false conceits of our friends concerning their wisdom, their beauty,
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Certainly it is ridiculous.
And do we not agree that ignorance is in itself a misfortune?
Yes, a great one.
And do we feel pleasure or pain when we laugh at it?
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Pleasure, evidently.
Did we not say that pleasure in the misfortunes of friends was caused by envy?
There can be no other cause.
Then our argument declares that when we laugh at the ridiculous qualities of our friends, we mix pleasure with pain, since we mix it with envy; for we have agreed all along that envy is a pain of the soul, and that laughter is a pleasure, yet these two are present at the same time on such occasions.
True.
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So now our argument shows that in mournings and tragedies and comedies, not merely on the stage, but in all the tragedy and comedy of life, and in countless other ways, pain is mixed with pleasure.
It is impossible not to agree with that, Socrates, even though one be most eager to maintain the opposite opinion.
Again we mentioned anger, yearning, mourning, love, jealousy, envy, and the like,
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Yes.
And we understand that all the details I have been describing just now are concerned only with sorrow and envy and anger?
Of course we understand that.
Then there are still many others of those conditions left for us to discuss.
Yes, very many.
Now why do you particularly suppose I pointed out to you the mixture of pain and pleasure in comedy? Was it not for the sake of convincing you,
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Good, Socrates; just finish what remains in any way you please.
Then after the mixed pleasures we should naturally and almost of necessity proceed in turn to the unmixed.
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Very good.
So I will turn to them and try to explain them; for I do not in the least agree with those who say that all pleasures are merely surcease from pain, but, as I said, I use them as witnesses to prove that some pleasures are apparent, but not in any way real, and that there are others which appear to be both great and numerous, but are really mixed up with pains and with cessations of the greatest pains and distresses of body and soul.
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But what pleasures, Socrates, may rightly be considered true?
Those arising from what are called beautiful colors, or from forms, most of those that arise from odors and sounds, in short all those the want of which is unfelt and painless, whereas the satisfaction furnished by them is felt by the senses, pleasant, and unmixed with pain.
Once more, Socrates, what do you mean by this?
My meaning is certainly not clear at the first glance,
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I am trying to do so, Socrates; and I hope you also will try to make your meaning still clearer.
I mean that those sounds which are smooth and clear and send forth a single pure note are beautiful, not relatively, but absolutely, and that there are pleasures which pertain to these by nature and result from them.
Yes, that also is true.
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The pleasures of smell are a less divine class; but they have no necessary pains mixed with them, and wherever and in whatever we find this freedom from pain, I regard it always as a mark of similarity to those other pleasures. These, then, are two classes of the pleasures of which I am speaking. Do you understand me?
I understand.
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And further let us add to these the pleasures of knowledge, if they appear to us not to have hunger for knowledge or pangs of such hunger as their source.
I agree to that.
Well, if men are full of knowledge and then lose it through forgetfulness, do you see any pains in the losses?
Not by their inherent nature, but sometimes there is pain in reflecting on the event,
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True, my dear fellow, but just at present we are recounting natural feelings only, not reflection.
Then you are right in saying that we feel no pain in the loss of knowledge.
Then we may say that these pleasures of knowledge are unmixed with pain and are felt not by the many but only by very few.
Yes, certainly.
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And now that we have fairly well separated the pure pleasures and those which may be pretty correctly called impure, let us add the further statement that the intense pleasures are without measure and those of the opposite sort have measure; those which admit of greatness and intensity and are often or seldom great or intense we shall assign to the class of the infinite, which circulates more or less freely through the body and soul alike,
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Quite right, Socrates.
There is still another question about them to be considered.
What is it?
What kind of thing is most closely related to truth? The pure and unadulterated, or the violent, the widespread, the great, and the sufficient?
What is your object, Socrates, in asking that question?
My object, Protarchus, is to leave no gap in my test of pleasure
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Quite right.
Very well, let us adopt that point of view towards all the classes which we call pure. First let us select one of them and examine it.
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Which shall we select?
Let us first, if agreeable to you, consider whiteness.
By all means.
How can we have purity in whiteness, and what purity? Is it the greatest and most widespread, or the most unmixed, that in which there is no trace of any other color?
Clearly it is the most unadulterated.
Right. Shall we not, then, Protarchus, declare that this, and not the most numerous or the greatest,
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Quite right.
Then we shall be perfectly right in saying that a little pure white is whiter and more beautiful and truer than a great deal of mixed white.
Perfectly right.
Well then, we shall have no need of many such examples in our discussion of pleasure; we see well enough from this one that any pleasure,
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Most certainly; and the example is sufficient.
Here is another point. Have we not often heard it said of pleasure that it is always a process or generation and that there is no state or existence of pleasure? There are some clever people who try to prove this theory to us, and we ought to be grateful to them.
Well, what then?
I will explain this whole matter, Protarchus,
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Go on; ask your questions.
There are two parts of existence, the one self-existent, the other always desiring something else.
What do you mean? What are these two?
The one is by nature more imposing, the other inferior.
Speak still more plainly.
We have seen beloved boys who are fair and good, and brave lovers of them.
Yes, no doubt of it.
Try to find another pair like these
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Must I say it a third time? Please tell your meaning more plainly, Socrates.
It is no riddle, Protarchus; the talk is merely jesting with us and means that one part of existences always exists for the sake of something, and the other part is that for the sake of which the former is always coming into being.
I can hardly understand after all your repetition.
Perhaps, my boy, you will understand better
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I hope so.
Let us take another pair.
What are they?
One is the generation of all things (the process of coming into being), the other is existence or being.
I accept your two, generation and being.
Quite right. Now which of these shall we say is for the sake of the other, generation for the sake of being, or being for the sake of generation?
You are now asking whether that which is called being is what it is for the sake of generation?
Yes, plainly.
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For HeavenÕs sake, is this the kind of question you keep asking me, “Tell me, Protarchus, whether you think shipbuilding is for the sake of ships, or ships for the sake of shipbuilding,” and all that sort of thing?
Yes; that is just what I mean, Protarchus.
Then why did you not answer it yourself, Socrates?
There is no reason why I should not; but I want you to take part in the discussion.
Certainly.
I say that drugs and all sorts of instruments
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That is very clear.
Then pleasure, if it is a form of generation, would be generated for the sake of some form of being.
Of course.
Now surely that for the sake of which anything is generated is in the class of the good, and that which is generated for the sake of something else, my friend, must be placed in another class.
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Most undeniably.
Then if pleasure is a form of generation, we shall be right in placing it in a class other than that of the good, shall we not?
Quite right.
Then, as I said when we began to discuss this point, we ought to be grateful to him who pointed out that there is only a generation, but no existence, of pleasure; for he is clearly making a laughing-stock of those who assert that pleasure is a good.
Yes, most emphatically.
And he will also surely make a laughing-stock of all those
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How is that, and to whom do you refer?
To those who, when cured of hunger or thirst or any of the troubles which are cured by generation are pleased because of the generation, as if it were pleasure, and say that they would not wish to live without thirst and hunger and the like, if they could not experience the feelings which follow after them.
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That seems to be their view.
We should all agree that the opposite of generation is destruction, should we not?
Inevitably.
And he who chooses as they do would be choosing destruction and generation, not that third life in which there was neither pleasure nor pain, but only the purest possible thought.
It is a great absurdity, as it appears, Socrates, to tell us that pleasure is a good.
Yes, a great absurdity, and let us go still further.
How?
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Is it not absurd to say that there is nothing good in the body or many other things, but only in the soul, and that in the soul the only good is pleasure, and that courage and self-restraint and understanding and all the other good things of the soul are nothing of the sort; and beyond all this to be obliged to say that he who is not feeling pleasure, and is feeling pain, is bad when he feels pain, though he be the best of men, and that he who feels pleasure is,
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All that, Socrates, is the height of absurdity.
Now let us not undertake to subject pleasure to every possible test and then be found to give mind and knowledge very gentle treatment. Let us rather strike them boldly everywhere to see if their metal rings unsound at any point; so we shall find out what is by nature purest in them, and then we can make use of the truest elements of these and of pleasure to form our judgement of both.
Right.
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Well, then, one part of knowledge is productive, the other has to do with education and support. Is that true?
It is.
Let us first consider whether in the manual arts one part is more allied to knowledge, and the other less, and the one should be regarded as purest, the other as less pure.
Yes, we ought to consider that.
And should the ruling elements of each of them be separated and distinguished from the rest?
What are they, and how can they be separated?
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For example, if arithmetic and the sciences of measurement and weighing were taken away from all arts, what was left of any of them would be, so to speak, pretty worthless.
Yes, pretty worthless.
All that would be left for us would be to conjecture and to drill the perceptions by practice and experience, with the additional use of the powers of guessing,
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That is undeniable.
Take music first; it is full of this; it attains harmony by guesswork based on practice, not by measurement; and flute music throughout tries to find the pitch of each note as it is produced by guess, so that the amount of uncertainty mixed up in it is great, and the amount of certainty small.
Very true.
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And we shall find that medicine and agriculture and piloting and generalship are all in the same case.
Certainly.
But the art of building, I believe, employs the greatest number of measures and instruments which give it great accuracy and make it more scientific than most arts.
In what way?
In shipbuilding and house-building, and many other branches of wood-working. For the artisan uses a rule, I imagine, a lathe, compasses, a chalk-line,
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Certainly, Socrates; you are right.
Let us, then, divide the arts, as they are called, into two kinds, those which resemble music, and have less accuracy in their works, and those which, like building, are more exact.
Agreed.
And of these the most exact are the arts which I just now mentioned first.
I think you mean arithmetic and the other arts you mentioned with it just now.
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Certainly. But, Protarchus, ought not these to be divided into two kinds? What do you say?
What kinds?
Are there not two kinds of arithmetic, that of the people and that of philosophers?
How can one kind of arithmetic be distinguished from the other?
The distinction is no small one, Protarchus. For some arithmeticians reckon unequal units,
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You are certainly quite right in saying that there is a great difference between the devotees of arithmetic, so it is reasonable to assume that it is of two kinds.
And how about the arts of reckoning and measuring as they are used in building and in trade when compared with philosophical geometry
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On the analogy of the previous example, I should say that each of them was two.
Right. But do you understand why I introduced this subject?
Perhaps; but I wish you would give the answer to your question.
This discussion of ours is now, I think, no less than when we began it, seeking a counterpart of pleasure,
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That is very clear; it was evidently introduced with that object.
Well, had not the discussion already found in what preceded that the various arts had various purposes and various degrees of exactness?
Certainly.
And after having given an art a single name in what has preceded, thereby making us think that it was a single art,
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Yes, I think that is just the question it asks.
Then what reply shall we make, Protarchus?
Socrates, we have found a marvelously great difference in the clearness of different kinds of knowledge.
That will make the reply easier, will it not?
Yes, to be sure; and let our reply be this, that the arithmetical and metrical arts far surpass the others and that of these
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We accept that as our judgement, and relying upon you we make this confident reply to those who are clever in straining arguments—
What reply?
That there are two arts of arithmetic and two of measuring, and many other arts which, like these, are twofold in this way, but possess a single name in common.
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Let us give this answer, Socrates, to those who you say are clever; I hope we shall have luck with it.
These, then, we say, are the most exact arts or sciences?
Certainly.
But the art of dialectic would spurn us, Protarchus, if we should judge that any other art is preferable to her.
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But what is the art to which this name belongs?
Clearly anybody can recognize the art I mean; for I am confident that all men who have any intellect whatsoever believe that the knowledge which has to do with being, reality, and eternal immutability is the truest kind of knowledge. What do you think, Protarchus?
I have often heard Gorgias constantly maintain that the art of persuasion surpasses all others for this, he said, makes all things subject to itself,
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It seems to me that you wanted to speak and threw down your arms out of modesty.
Very well; have it as you like.
Is it my fault that you have misunderstood?
Misunderstood what?
My question, dear Protarchus, was not as yet what art or science surpasses all others
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I am considering, and I think it is difficult to concede that any other science or art cleaves more closely to truth than this.
In saying that, did you bear in mind that the arts in general, and the men who devote themselves to them,
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Yes, it is.
Such thinkers, then, toil to discover, not eternal verities, but transient productions of the present, the future, or the past?
Perfectly true.
And can we say that any of these things becomes certain, if tested by the touchstone of strictest truth,
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Of course not.
How can we gain anything fixed whatsoever about things which have no fixedness whatsoever?
In no way, as it seems to me.
Then no mind or science which is occupied with them possesses the most perfect truth.
No, it naturally does not.
Then we must dismiss the thought of you and me and Gorgias and Philebus, and make this solemn declaration
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What is the solemn declaration?
That fixed and pure and true and what we call unalloyed knowledge has to do with the things which are eternally the same without change or mixture, or with that which is most akin to them; and all other things are to be regarded as secondary and inferior.
Very true.
And of the names applied to such matters, it would be fairest to give the finest names to the finest things, would it not?
That is reasonable.
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Are not mind, then, and wisdom the names which we should honor most?
Yes.
Then these names are applied most accurately and correctly to cases of contemplation of true being.
Certainly.
And these are precisely the names which I brought forward in the first place as parties to our suit.
Yes, of course they are, Socrates.
Very well. As to the mixture of wisdom and pleasure,
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Certainly.
And is it, then, our next task to try to make the mixture?
Surely.
Would it not be better first to repeat certain things and recall them to our minds?
What things?
Those which we mentioned before. I think the proverb “we ought to repeat twice and even three times that which is good”
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Surely.
Well then, in GodÕs name; I think this is the gist of our discussion.
What is it?
Philebus says that pleasure is the true goal of every living being and that all ought to aim at it, and that therefore this is also the good for all, and the two designations “good” and “pleasant” are properly and essentially one; Socrates, however, says that they are not one,
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Yes, certainly.
And furthermore, is not and was not this a point of agreement among us?
What?
That the nature of the good differs from all else in this respect.
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In what respect?
That whatever living being possesses the good always, altogether, and in all ways, has no further need of anything, but is perfectly sufficient. We agreed to that?
We did.
And then we tried in thought to separate each from the other and apply them to individual lives, pleasure unmixed with wisdom and likewise wisdom which had not the slightest alloy of pleasure?
Yes.
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And did we think then that either of them would be sufficient for any one?
By no means.
And if we made any mistake at that time, let any one now take up the question again. Assuming that memory, wisdom, knowledge, and true opinion belong to the same class, let him ask whether anyone would wish to have or acquire anything whatsoever without these not to speak of pleasure, be it never so abundant or intense, if he could have no true opinion that he is pleased, no knowledge whatsoever
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That is impossible, Socrates; it is useless to ask the same question over and over again.
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Then the perfect, that which is to be desired by all and is altogether good, is neither of these?
Certainly not.
We must, then, gain a clear conception of the good, or at least an outline of it, that we may, as we said, know to what the second place is to be assigned.
Quite right.
And have we not found a road which leads to the good?
What road?
If you were looking for a particular man and
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Yes, certainly.
And just now we received an indication, as we did in the beginning, that we must seek the good, not in the unmixed, but in the mixed life.
Certainly.
Surely there is greater hope that the object of our search will be clearly present in the well mixed life than in the life which is not well mixed?
Far greater.
Let us make the mixture, Protarchus, with a prayer to the gods,
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By all means.
We are like wine-pourers, and beside us are fountains—that of pleasure may be likened to a fount of honey, and the sober, wineless fount of wisdom to one of pure, health-giving water—of which we must do our best to mix as well as possible.
Certainly we must.
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Before we make the mixture, tell me: should we be most likely to succeed by mixing all pleasure with all wisdom?
Perhaps.
But that is not safe; and I think I can offer a plan by which we can make our mixture with less risk.
What is it?
We found, I believe, that one pleasure was greater than another and one art more exact than another?
Certainly.
And knowledge was of two kinds, one turning its eyes towards transitory things,
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That is quite right.
Then what if we first mix the truest sections of each and see whether, when mixed together, they are capable of giving us the most adorable life, or whether we still need something more and different?
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I think that is what we should do.
Let us assume, then, a man who possesses wisdom about the nature of justice itself, and reason in accordance with his wisdom, and has the same kind of knowledge of all other things.
Agreed.
Now will this man have sufficient knowledge, if he is master of the theory of the divine circle and sphere, but is ignorant of our human sphere and human circles, even when he uses these
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We call that a ridiculous state of intellect in a man, Socrates, which is concerned only with divine knowledge.
What? Do you mean to say that the uncertain and impure art of the false rule and circle is to be put into our mixture?
Yes, that is inevitable, if any man is ever to find his own way home.
And must we add music, which we said a little while ago
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Yes, I think we must, if our life is to be life at all.
Shall I, then, like a doorkeeper who is pushed and hustled by a mob, give up, open the door, and let all the kinds of knowledge stream in, the impure mingling with the pure?
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I do not know, Socrates, what harm it can do a man to take in all the other kinds of knowledge if he has the first.
Shall I, then, let them all flow into what Homer very poetically calls “the mingling of the vales?”
Certainly.
They are let in; and now we must turn again to the spring of pleasure. For our original plan for making the mixture, by taking first the true parts, did not succeed; because of our love of knowledge,
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Very true.
So now it is time for us to consider about pleasures also, whether these, too, shall be all let loose together, or we shall let only the true ones loose at first.
It is much safer to let loose the true first.
We will let them loose, then. But what next? If there are any necessary pleasures, as there were kinds of knowledge, must we not mix them with the true?
Of course; the necessary pleasures must certainly be added.
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And as we said it was harmless and useful to know all the arts throughout our life, if we now say the same of pleasures—that is, if it is advantageous and harmless for us to enjoy all pleasures throughout life—they must all form part of the mixture.
What shall we say about these pleasures, and what shall we do?
There is no use in asking us, Protarchus; we must ask the pleasures and the arts and sciences themselves
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What shall we ask them?
“Dear ones—whether you should be called pleasures or by any other name—would you choose to dwell with all wisdom, or with none at all?” I think only one reply is possible.
What is it?
What we said before: “For any class to be alone, solitary, and unalloyed is neither altogether possible nor is it profitable; but of all classes,
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“Your reply is excellent,” we shall tell them.
Right. And next we must turn to wisdom and mind, and question them. We shall ask them, “Do you want any further pleasures in the mixture?” And they might reply, “What pleasures?”
Quite likely.
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Then we should go on to say: “In addition to those true pleasures, do you want the greatest and most intense pleasures also to dwell with you?” “How can we want them, Socrates,” they might perhaps say, “since they contain countless hindrances for us, inasmuch as they disturb with maddening pleasures the souls of men in which we dwell, thereby preventing us from being born at all, and utterly destroying
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Certainly.
But another addition is surely necessary, without which nothing whatsoever can ever come into being.
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What is it?
That in which there is no admixture of truth can never truly come into being or exist.
No, of course not.
No. But if anything is still wanting in our mixture, you and Philebus must speak of it. For to me it seems that our argument is now completed, as it were an incorporeal order which shall rule nobly a living body.
And you may say, Socrates, that I am of the same opinion.
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And if we were to say that we are now in the vestibule of the good and of the dwelling of the good, should we not be speaking the truth after a fashion?
I certainly think so.
What element, then, of the mixture would appear to us to be the most precious and also the chief cause why such a state is beloved of all? When we have discovered this, we will then consider whether it is more closely attached and more akin to pleasure or to mind in the universe.
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Right; for that is most serviceable to us in forming our judgement.
And it is quite easy to see the cause which makes any mixture whatsoever either of the highest value or of none at all.
What do you mean?
Why, everybody knows that.
Knows what?
That any compound, however made, which lacks measure and proportion, must necessarily destroy its components and first of all itself;
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Perfectly true.
So now the power of the good has taken refuge in the nature of the beautiful; for measure and proportion are everywhere identified with beauty and virtue.
Certainly.
We said that truth also was mingled with them in the compound.
Certainly.
Then if we cannot catch the good with the aid of one idea,
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Quite right.
So now, Protarchus, any one would be able to judge about pleasure and wisdom,
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That is clear; but still it is better to carry on the discussion to the end.
Let us, then, judge each of the three separately in its relation to pleasure and mind; for it is our duty to see to which of the two we shall assign each of them as more akin.
You refer to beauty, truth, and measure?
Yes. Take truth first, Protarchus; take it and look at the three—mind, truth,
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Why take time? For the difference, to my mind, is great. For pleasure is the greatest of impostors, and the story goes that in the pleasures of love, which are said to be the greatest, perjury is even pardoned by the gods, as if the pleasures were like children, utterly devoid of all sense.
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Next, then, consider measure in the same way, and see whether pleasure possesses more of it than wisdom, or wisdom than pleasure.
That also is an easy thing to consider. For I think nothing in the world could be found more immoderate than pleasure and its transports, and nothing more in harmony with measure than mind and knowledge.
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However, go on and tell about the third. Has mind or pleasure the greater share in beauty?
But Socrates, no one, either asleep or awake, ever saw or knew wisdom or mind to be or become unseemly at any time or in any way whatsoever.
Right.
But pleasures, and the greatest pleasures at that, when we see any one enjoying them and observe the ridiculous or utterly disgraceful element which accompanies them,
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Then you will proclaim everywhere, Protarchus, by messengers to the absent and by speech to those present, that pleasure is not the first of possessions, nor even the second, but first the eternal nature has chosen measure, moderation, fitness, and all which is to be considered similar to these.
That appears to result from what has now been said.
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Second, then, comes proportion, beauty, perfection, sufficiency, and all that belongs to that class.
Yes, so it appears.
And if you count mind and wisdom as the third, you will, I prophesy, not wander far from the truth.
That may be.
And will you not put those properties fourth which we said belonged especially to the soul—sciences, arts, and true opinions they are called—
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Perhaps.
And fifth, those pleasures which we separated and classed as painless, which we called pure pleasures of the soul itself, those which accompany knowledge and, sometimes, perceptions?
May be.
“But with the sixth generation,” says Orpheus, “cease the rhythmic song.” It seems that our discussion, too, is likely to cease with the sixth decision.
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Yes, that should be done.
Come then, let us for the third time call the same argument to witness before Zeus the saviour, and proceed.
What argument?
Philebus declared that pleasure was entirely and in all respects the good.
Apparently, Socrates, when you said “the third time” just now, you meant that we must take up our argument again from the beginning.
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Yes; but let us hear what follows. For I, perceiving the truths which I have now been detailing, and annoyed by the theory held not only by Philebus but by many thousands of others, said that mind was a far better and more excellent thing for human life than pleasure.
True.
But suspecting that there were many other things to be considered, I said that if anything should be found better than these two, I should support mind against pleasure in the struggle for the second place, and even the second place would be lost by pleasure.
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Yes, that is what you said.
And next it was most sufficiently proved that each of these two was insufficient.
Very true.
In this argument, then, both mind and pleasure were set aside; neither of them is the absolute good, since they are devoid of self-sufficiency, adequacy, and perfection?
Quite right.
And on the appearance of a third competitor, better than either of these, mind is now found to be ten thousand times more akin than pleasure to the victor.
Certainly.
Then, according to the judgement which has now been given by our discussion, the power of pleasure would be fifth.
So it seems.
-
But not first, even if all the cattle and horses and other beasts in the world, in their pursuit of enjoyment, so assert. Trusting in them, as augurs trust in birds, the many judge that pleasures are the greatest blessings in life, and they imagine that the lusts of beasts are better witnesses than are the aspirations and thoughts inspired by the philosophic muse.
Socrates, we all now declare that what you have said is perfectly true.
Then you will let me go?
There is still a little left, Socrates. I am sure you will not give up before we do, and I will remind you of what remains.
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+in case you are willing
relieve me of all fear. And besides, I think some god has given me a vague recollection.
mind
the good, Socrates; it will be open to the same objections.
emphatically
which you have just used, and the word gently
have the same force as more
and less.
For wherever they are present, they do not allow any definite quantity to exist; they always introduce in every instance a comparison—more emphatic than that which is quieter, or vice versa—and thus they create the relation of more and less, thereby doing away with fixed quantity. For, as I said just now, if they did not abolish quantity, but allowed it and measure to make their appearance in the abode of the more and less,
+
it’s thirsty,
do we not?
Son of that man
may mean son of Philebus,
in so far as Protarchus is a pupil of Philebus, or (so Bury) son of Gorgias,
the orator and teacher (cf.
What is that which is visible standing
+
Do you not think a man might ask himself such a question if he saw such objects presented to his view?
It is a man
?
to the future especially
because they are all hopes relating to the future and we are always filled with hopes all our lives?
We grant you all this
let us say to them.
+
what those say it is who deny that it is really pleasure.
nothing too much,
which guides their actions; but intense pleasure holds sway over the foolish and dissolute even to the point of madness and makes them notorious.
Know thyself,
Socrates?
How shall we divide it,
do you say? All who have this false and foolish conceit
+
Tell me, Protarchus, whether you think shipbuilding is for the sake of ships, or ships for the sake of shipbuilding,
and all that sort of thing?
we ought to repeat twice and even three times that which is good
+
good
and pleasant
are properly and essentially one; Socrates, however, says that they are not one,
+
the mingling of the vales?
Dear ones—whether you should be called pleasures or by any other name—would you choose to dwell with all wisdom, or with none at all?
I think only one reply is possible.
For any class to be alone, solitary, and unalloyed is neither altogether possible nor is it profitable; but of all classes,
+
Your reply is excellent,
we shall tell them.
Do you want any further pleasures in the mixture?
And they might reply, What pleasures?
In addition to those true pleasures, do you want the greatest and most intense pleasures also to dwell with you?
How can we want them, Socrates,
they might perhaps say, since they contain countless hindrances for us, inasmuch as they disturb with maddening pleasures the souls of men in which we dwell, thereby preventing us from being born at all, and utterly destroying
+
But the true and pure pleasures, of which you spoke, you must consider almost our own by nature, and also those which are united with health and self-restraint, and furthermore all those which are handmaids of virtue in general and follow everywhere in its train as if it were a god,—add these to the mixture; but as for the pleasures which follow after folly and all baseness, it would be very senseless for anyone who desires to discover the most beautiful and most restful mixture or compound,
+
Shall we not say that this reply which mind has now made for itself and memory and right opinion is wise and reasonable?
But with the sixth generation,
says Orpheus, cease the rhythmic song.
It seems that our discussion, too, is likely to cease with the sixth decision.
+
the third time
just now, you meant that we must take up our argument again from the beginning.
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---ὅς τʼ ἐφέηκε πολύφρονά περ χαλεπῆναι -ὅς τε πολὺ γλυκίων μέλιτος καταλειβομένοιο, -
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+μὴ οὐχ ὁμοιότατον ἂν εἴη, τοῦτο αὐτὸ ἑαυτῷ, πάντων χρημάτων;
τοῦ ἀγαθοῦ τοῦ τʼ ἐμοῦ καὶ τοῦ σοῦ μὴ ἀποκρυπτόμενοι, κατατιθέντες δὲ εἰς τὸ μέσον, τολμῶμεν, ἄν πῃ ἐλεγχόμενοι μηνύσωσι πότερον ἡδονὴν τἀγαθὸν δεῖ λέγειν ἢ φρόνησιν ἤ τι τρίτον ἄλλο εἶναι. νῦν γὰρ οὐ δήπου πρός γε αὐτὸ τοῦτο φιλονικοῦμεν, ὅπως ἁγὼ τίθεμαι, ταῦτʼ ἔσται τὰ νικῶντα, ἢ ταῦθʼ ἃ σύ, τῷ δʼ ἀληθεστάτῳ δεῖ που συμμαχεῖν ἡμᾶς ἄμφω.
ἂν αὖ καλῶς.
ἐπʼ ἀριθμὸν αὖ τινα πλῆθος ἕκαστον ἔχοντά τι κατανοεῖν, τελευτᾶν τε ἐκ πάντων εἰς ἕν. πάλιν δὲ ἐν τοῖς γράμμασι τὸ νῦν λεγόμενον λάβωμεν.
λέγω ἔγωγε.
γε οὐχ ὁ μέν, ὁ δʼ οὔ.
βίον.
ἐγγιγνόμενα ταῦτα· ἅμα πέρας τε ἀπηργάσατο καὶ μουσικὴν σύμπασαν τελεώτατα συνεστήσατο;
ὁ δυοῖν τινοῖν ἐστι μικτὸς ἐκεῖνος ἀλλὰ συμπάντων τῶν ἀπείρων ὑπὸ τοῦ πέρατος δεδεμένων, ὥστε ὀρθῶς ὁ νικηφόρος οὗτος βίος μέρος ἐκείνου γίγνοιτʼ ἄν.
διὰ τὸν αὐτὸν γὰρ τρόπον ἂν εἴη που σῶμα, σύνθετον ὂν ἐκ τῶν αὐτῶν.
τῶν τεττάρων, . ἔχεις γὰρ δήπου νῦν ἡμῶν ἤδη τὴν ἀπόκρισιν.ὧν ἦν ἡμῖν ἓν τοῦτο
καὶ λύσις, ἡ δὲ τοῦ
+
+
ὡς εἴπερ
τῷ τὸν τοῦ φρονεῖν ἑλομένῳ βίον οἶσθʼ ὡς τοῦτον τὸν τρόπον οὐδὲν ἀποκωλύει ζῆν.
καὶ μνήμας που λέγομεν.
τὴν
καὶ ταῦτά γε, ὦ Πρώταρχε· εὑρόντες ὃ νῦν ζητοῦμεν, ἀπολοῦμεν τὴν περὶ αὐτὰ ταῦτα ἀπορίαν.
τοῖς χρόνοις ἀλγεῖν;
ἐστιν οὔτʼ ἐν μανίαις οὔτʼ ἐν παραφροσύναις οὐδεὶς ἔσθʼ ὅστις ποτὲ δοκεῖ μὲν χαίρειν, χαίρει δὲ οὐδαμῶς, οὐδʼ αὖ δοκεῖ μὲν λυπεῖσθαι, λυπεῖται δʼ οὔ.
τοῦτο τὸ πάθημα, δόξα τε ἀληθὴς καὶ λόγοι ἀπʼ αὐτοῦ συμβαίνουσιν ἀληθεῖς ἐν ἡμῖν γιγνόμενοι· ψευδῆ δʼ ὅταν ὁ τοιοῦτος παρʼ ἡμῖν γραμματεὺς γράψῃ, τἀναντία τοῖς ἀληθέσιν ἀπέβη.
μηδὲν ἄγαν
παρακελευόμενος, ᾧ πείθονται· τὸ δὲ τῶν ἀφρόνων τε καὶ ὑβριστῶν μέχρι μανίας ἡ σφοδρὰ ἡδονὴ κατέχουσα περιβοήτους ἀπεργάζεται.
καὶ ὁμοῦ λύπας ἡδοναῖς παρατιθέναι.
αὖ κενῶται, πληρώσεως ἐπιθυμεῖ, καὶ ἐλπίζων μὲν χαίρει, κενούμενος δὲ ἀλγεῖ, ταῦτα δὲ τότε
τὸ τὸ
+
+
γνῶθι σαυτὸν
λέγεις, ὦ Σώκρατες;
καθαρὰς λυπῶν παραδίδωσιν.
καλὰ καὶ ἡδονάς ἀλλʼ ἆρα μανθάνομεν, ἢ πῶς;
προςθῶμεν αὐτὰς εἶναι γένους, τὰς δὲ μὴ τῶν ἐμμέτρων.
ἂν ἐπανερωτᾷς με τοιόνδε τι; λέγʼ, ὦ Πρώταρχε, μοί, πότερα πλοίων ναυπηγίαν ἕνεκα φῂς γίγνεσθαι μᾶλλον ἢ πλοῖα ἕνεκα ναυπηγίας, καὶ πάνθʼ ὁπόσα τοιαῦτʼ ἐστίν;
δυνατὸν ὡς οἷόν τε καθαρώτατα.
τὰ ὅπλα
μοι δοκεῖς βουληθεὶς εἰπεῖν αἰσχυνθεὶς ἀπολιπεῖν.
δεύτερος ἐκείνων ὅτι μάλιστά ἐστι συγγενές· τὰ δʼ ἄλλα πάντα δεύτερά τε καὶ ὕστερα λεκτέον.
ὦ φίλαι, εἴτε ἡδονὰς ὑμᾶς χρὴ προσαγορεύειν εἴτε ἄλλῳ ὁτῳοῦν ὀνόματι, μῶν οὐκ ἂν δέξαισθε οἰκεῖν μετὰ φρονήσεως πάσης ἢ χωρὶς τοῦ φρονεῖν;
οἶμαι μὲν πρὸς ταῦτα τόδʼ αὐτὰς ἀναγκαιότατον εἶναι λέγειν.
τὸ μόνον καὶ ἔρημον εἰλικρινὲς εἶναί τι γένος οὔτε πάνυ τι δυνατὸν οὔτʼ
αὖ τὴν αὐτὴν ἡμῶν τελέως εἰς δύναμιν ἑκάστην.
καὶ καλῶς γε εἰρήκατε τὰ νῦν,
φήσομεν.
ἆρʼ ἡδονῶν τι προσδεῖσθε ἐν τῇ συγκράσει;
φαῖμεν ἂν αὖ τὸν νοῦν τε καὶ τὴν φρόνησιν ἀνερωτῶντες. ποίων,
φαῖεν ἂν ἴσως, ἡδονῶν;
πρὸς ταῖς ἀληθέσιν ἐκείναις ἡδοναῖς,
φήσομεν, ἆρʼ ἔτι προσδεῖσθʼ ὑμῖν τὰς μεγίστας ἡδονὰς συνοίκους εἶναι καὶ τὰς σφοδροτάτας;
καὶ πῶς, ὦ Σώκρατες,
ἴσως φαῖεν ἄν, αἵ γʼ ἐμποδίσματά τε μυρία ἡμῖν ἔχουσι, τὰς ψυχὰς ἐν αἷς οἰκοῦμεν ταράττουσαι διὰ μανίας
ἡδονάς, καὶ γίγνεσθαί
ἀλλʼ ἅς τε ἡδονὰς ἀληθεῖς καὶ καθαρὰς
ἆρʼ οὐκ ἐμφρόνως ταῦτα καὶ ἐχόντως ἑαυτὸν τὸν νοῦν φήσομεν ὑπέρ τε αὑτοῦ καὶ μνήμης καὶ δόξης ὀρθῆς ἀποκρίνασθαι τὰ νῦν ῥηθέντα;ἃς εἶπες, σχεδὸν οἰκείας ἡμῖν νόμιζε, καὶ πρὸς ταύταις τὰς μεθʼ ὑγιείας καὶ τοῦ σωφρονεῖν, καὶ δὴ καὶ συμπάσης ἀρετῆς ὁπόσαι καθάπερ θεοῦ ὀπαδοὶ γιγνόμεναι αὐτῇ συνακολουθοῦσι πάντῃ, ταύτας μείγνυ· τὰς δʼ ἀεὶ μετʼ ἀφροσύνης καὶ τῆς ἄλλης κακίας ἑπομένας πολλή που ἀλογία τῷ νῷ μειγνύναι τὸν βουλόμενον ὅτι καλλίστην ἰδόντα καὶ ἀστασιαστοτάτην μεῖξιν
+
καὶ τῆς οἰκήσεως ἐφεστάναι τῆς τοῦ τοιούτου λέγοντες ἴσως ὀρθῶς ἄν τινα τρόπον φαῖμεν;
ἢ τῆς ἡδονῆς συγγενῆ;
ἕκτῃ δʼ ἐν γενεᾷ,
φησὶν Ὀρφεύς, καταπαύσατε κόσμον ἀοιδῆς·
ἀτὰρ κινδυνεύει καὶ ὁ ἡμέτερος λόγος ἐν ἕκτῃ καταπεπαυμένος εἶναι κρίσει. τὸ δὴ μετὰ
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+Hullo, Phalerian! I say, Apollodorus, wait a moment.
So I stopped and waited. Then, Apollodorus,
he said, do you know, I have just been looking for you, as I want to hear all about the banquet that brought together Agathon
he went on; were you at that party yourself, or not?
To which my answer was: You have had anything but
So I did suppose,
he said. How so, Glaucon
said I. You must know it is many a year that Agathon has been away from home and country, and not yet three years that I have been consorting with Socrates and making it my daily care to know whatever he says or does.
Before that time,
+
Instead of jeering at me,
he said, tell me when it was that this party took place.
When you and I were only children,
I told him; on the occasion of Agathon’s victory with his first tragedy: the day after that of the dedicatory feast which he and his players held for its celebration.
Ah, quite a long while ago, it would seem,
said he; but who gave you the account of it? Socrates himself?
Goodness, no!
I answered. It was the person who told Phoenix—
Come then,
he said, let me have it now; and in fact the road up to town is well suited for telling and hearing as we go along.
+
crazy,
I expect you quite deserve your name of crazy fanatic (for your general absorption in philosophy), because your vehement censure of yourself and others suggests it to me
.
To dinner at Agathon’s,
he answered. I evaded him and his celebrations yesterday, fearing the crowd; but I agreed to be present today. So I got myself up in this handsome style in order to be a match for my handsome host. Now tell me,
said he, do you feel in the mood
+
+ For anything,
he said he replied, that you may bid me do.
+ Come along then,
he said; let us corrupt the proverb with a new version:
+
+ Though indeed Homer corruption
consists in putting the dative a spearman spiritless,
I am afraid mine, most likely, is a case that fits not your version, Socrates, but Homer’s—a dolt coming unbidden to the banquet of a scholar. Be sure, then, to have your excuse quite ready when you bring me; for I shall not own to coming unasked,
+
he remarked, If two go along together,
there’s one before another
if two go along together, there’s one to espy before another how a profit may be had.
Ha, Aristodemus,
he cried, right welcome to a place at table with us! If you came on some other errand, put it off to another time: only yesterday I went round to invite you, but failed to see you. But how is it you do not bring us Socrates?
+ Very good of you to come,
he said, but where is the man?
He was coming in just now behind me: I am wondering myself where he can be.
Go at once,
said Agathon to the servant, and see if you can fetch in Socrates. You, Aristodemus, take a place by Eryximachus.
+ How strange!
said Agathon, you must go on bidding him, and by no means let him go.
No,
said he, let him alone; it is a habit he has. Occasionally he turns aside, anywhere at random, and there he stands. He will be here presently, I expect. So do not disturb him; let him be.
+ Very well then,
said Agathon, as you judge best. Come, boys,
he called to the servants, serve the feast for the rest of us. You are to set on just whatever you please, now that you have no one to direct you (a method I have never tried before).
+ aside
to his guests.Here, Socrates, come sit by me, so that by contact with you
+ How fine it would be, Agathon,
he said, if wisdom were a sort of thing that could flow out of the one of us who is fuller into him who is emptier, by our mere contact with each other, as water will flow through wool from the fuller cup into the emptier. If such is indeed the case with wisdom, I set a great value on my sitting next to you:
+ You rude mocker, Socrates!
said Agathon. A little later on you and I shall go to law on this matter of our wisdom, and Dionysus shall be our judge. For the present, let the dinner be your first concern.
Well, gentlemen, what mode of drinking will suit us best? For my part, to tell the truth, I am in very poor form as a result of yesterday’s bout, and I claim a little relief; it is so, I believe, with most of you, for you were at yesterday’s party: so consider what method
+ Now that, Pausanias, is a good suggestion of yours, that we make a point of consulting our comfort in our cups: for I myself am one of those who got such a soaking yesterday.
You are quite right, sirs,
he said; and there is yet one other question on which I request your opinion, as to what sort of condition Agathon finds himself in for drinking.
No, no,
said Agathon, I am not in good condition for it either.
+ It would be a piece of luck for us, I take it,
the other went on, that is, for me, Aristodemus, Phaedrus, and our friends here, if you who are the stoutest drinkers are now feeling exhausted. We, of course, are known weaklings. Socrates I do not count in the matter: he is fit either way, and will be content with whichever choice we make. Now as it appears that nobody here present is eager for copious draughts, perhaps it will be the less irksome to you if I speak of intoxication, and tell you truly what it is. The practice of medicine, I find, has made this clear to me—
+ Why, you know I always obey you, above all in medical matters; and so now will the rest of us, if they are well advised.
Then all of them, on hearing this, Since it has been resolved, then,
said Eryximachus, that we are to drink only so much as each desires, with no constraint on any, I next propose that the flute-girl who came in just now be dismissed: let her pipe to herself or, if she likes, to the women-folk within, but let us seek our entertainment today in conversation. I am ready, if you so desire, to suggest what sort of discussion it should be.
The beginning of what I have to say is in the words of Euripides’ Melanippe, for
+ not mine the tale
not mine the tale; my mother taught it me.
No one, Eryximachus,
said Socrates, will vote against you: I do not see how I could myself decline,
+
sacred band
(
fury inspired
popular
lovers ought to be forced to obey,
+
nobly
means having to do with a good man in a noble manner. By wicked
we mean that popular lover, who craves the body rather than the soul: flutters off and is gone,
I look to you Eryximachus, either to stop my hiccough, or to speak in my stead until I can stop it.
Why, I will do both,
replied Eryximachus for I will take your turn for speaking, and when you have stopped it, you shall take mine. But during my speech, if on your holding your breath a good while the hiccough chooses to stop, well and good; otherwise, you must gargle with some water.
Start away with your speech,
said Aristophanes, and I will do as you advise.
The One at variance with itself is drawn together, like harmony of bow or lyre.
melodies
or render correctly, by what is known as training,
tunes and measures already constructed, we find here a certain difficulty and require a good craftsman. Round comes the same conclusion: well-ordered men, and the less regular only so as to bring them to better order, should be indulged in this Love, and this is the sort we should preserve; this is the noble, the Heavenly Love,
Yes, it has stopped, though not until it was treated with a course of sneezing, such as leaves me wondering that the orderly principle of the body should call for the noises and titillations involved in sneezing; you see, it stopped the very moment I applied the sneeze to it.
+ My good Aristophanes,
replied Eryximachus, take heed what you are about. Here are you buffooning before ever you begin, and compelling me
+ Quite right, Eryximachus,
he said; I unsay all that I have said. Do not keep a watch on me for as to what is going to be said, my fear is not so much of saying something absurd—since that would be all to the good and native to my Muse—as something utterly ridiculous.
+ You think you can just let fly, Aristophanes, and get off unscathed! Have a good care to speak only what you can defend;
+
+
+
+ man-woman
hermaphrodite
; cf. Lucret. v. 837ff.
Methinks I can contrive that men, without ceasing to exist, shall give over their iniquity through a lessening of their strength.
said he; I will slice every person in two, and then they must go their ways on one leg, hopping.
So saying, he sliced each human being in two, just as they slice sorb-apples to make a dry preserve, or eggs with hairs;
What is it, good mortals, that you would have of one another?
—and suppose that in their perplexity he asked them again: Do you desire to be joined in the closest possible union, so that you shall not be divided
No one on hearing this, we are sure, would demur to it or would be found wishing for anything else: each would unreservedly deem that he had been offered just what he was yearning for all the time, namely, to be so joined and fused with his beloved that the two might be made one.
Well, I will obey you,
said Eryximachus, for in fact I enjoyed your speech. Had I not reason to know the prowess of Socrates and Agathon in love-matters, I should have great fears of their being at a loss for eloquence after we have heard it in such copious variety: but you see, my confidence is unshaken.
Your own performance,
+
+ You want to throw a spell over me, Socrates,
said Agathon, so that I may be flustered with the consciousness of the high expectations the audience has formed of my discourse.
+ Nay, Agathon, how forgetful I should be,
replied Socrates, if after noticing your high and manly spirit as you stepped upon the platform with your troupe—how you sent a straight glance at that vast assembly to show that you meant to do yourself credit with your production, and how you were not dismayed in the slightest—if I should now suppose you could be flustered on account of a few fellows like us.
+ Why, Socrates,
said Agathon, I hope you do not always fancy me so puffed up with the playhouse as to forget that an intelligent speaker is more alarmed at a few men of wit than at a host of fools.
+ No, Agathon, it would be wrong of me indeed,
said Socrates, to associate you with any such clownish notion: I am quite sure that on finding yourself with a few persons whom you considered clever you would make more account of them than of the multitude. Yet we, perhaps, are the latter; for we were there, and among the crowd: but suppose you found yourself with other folk who were clever, you would probably feel ashamed that they should witness any shameful act you might feel yourself to be doing. Will you agree to that?
+ Quite true,
he said.
+ Whereas before the multitude you would not be ashamed if you felt you were doing anything shameful?
+ My dear Agathon, if you go on answering Socrates he will be utterly indifferent to the fate of our present business, so long as he has some one to argue with, especially some one handsome. For my part, I enjoy listening to Socrates’ arguments; but I am responsible for our eulogy of Love, and must levy a speech from every one of you in turn. Let each of you two, then, give the god his meed before you have your argument.
+ You are quite right, Phaedrus,
said Agathon, and there is nothing to hinder my speaking; for I shall find many other occasions for arguing with Socrates.
Like and like together strike.
Heaven ever bringeth like and like together.
our city’s sovereign, the law.
not even the God of War withstands
Necessity, whom not the God of War withstands.
though alien to the Muse before,
in pilotage of gods and men.
Then ceased the wind, and came a windless calm.
Agathon is here displaying his own poetic skill, not quoting.
Son of Acumenus, do you really call it an unfearful fear that has all this while affrighted me, and myself no prophet in saying just now that Agathon would make a marvellous speech, and I be hard put to it?
+ In one part of your statement, that he would speak finely,
replied Eryximachus, I think you were a true prophet; but as to your being hard put to it, I do not agree.
+ But surely, my good sir,
said Socrates, I am bound to be hard put, I or anyone else in the world who should have to speak after such a fine assortment of eloquence. The greater part of it was not so very astounding; but when we drew towards the close, the beauty of the words and phrases could not but take one’s breath away. For myself, indeed, I was so conscious that I should fail to say anything
Hence it is, sirs, I suppose, that you muster every kind of phrase for your tribute to Love, declaring such and such to be his character and influence, in order to present him
+
+ The tongue,
you see, undertook, the mind
did not; The tongue hath sworn; the mind is yet unsworn.
Then allow me further, Phaedrus, to put some little questions to Agathon, so as to secure his agreement before I begin my speech.
+ You have my leave,
said Phaedrus; so ask him.
After that, my friend told me, Socrates started off in this sort of way:
+ I must say, my dear Agathon, you gave your speech an excellent introduction, by stating that your duty was first to display the character of Love, and then to treat of his acts. Those opening words I thoroughly admire. So come now, complete your beautiful and magnificent description of Love,
+ father,
whether one’s father is a father of somebody or not. Surely you would say, if you cared to give the proper answer, that the father is father of son or of daughter, would you not?Yes, of course,
said Agathon.
+ And you would say the same of the mother?
He agreed to this too.
+ Then will you give me just a few more answers,
said Socrates, so that you may the better grasp my meaning? Suppose I were to ask you,
+ Well now, a brother, viewed in the abstract, is he brother of somebody or not?
He is,
said Agathon.
+ That is, of brother or of sister?
He agreed.
+ Now try and tell me about Love: is he a love of nothing or of something?
+
+ Of something, to be sure.
Now then,
said Socrates, keep carefully in mind what is the object of Love, and only tell me whether he desires the particular thing that is his object.
+ Yes, to be sure,
he replied.
+ Has he or has he not the object of his desire and love when he desires and loves it?
+ He does not have it, most likely,
he said.
+ Not as a likelihood,
said Socrates, but as a necessity,
+ I am sure of it also,
said he.
+ Very good. Now could a tall man wish to be tall, or a strong man to be strong?
+ By what has been admitted, this is impossible.
+ Since, I suppose, the man in each case would not be lacking the quality mentioned.
+ True.
+ For if, being strong, he should wish to be strong,
said Socrates, or being swift, to be swift, or being healthy, to be healthy,—since we are apt to suppose in these
To this Agathon assented.
+ I being healthy, want to be healthy; being rich, I want to be rich; I desire the very things that I have
—we shall tell him, My good sir, riches you possess, and health and strength, which you would like to possess in the future also: for the time now present you have them whether you would or no. When you say,
Would he not admit our point?I desire these present things,
we suggest you are merely saying I wish these things now present to be present also in the future.
And so,
continued Socrates, a man may be said to love a thing not yet provided or possessed, when he would have the presence of certain things secured to him for ever in the future.
+ Certainly,
he said.
+ Then such a person, and in general all who feel desire, feel it for what is not provided or present; for something they have not or are not or lack and that sort of thing is the object of desire and love?
+ Assuredly,
he said.
+ Now then,
said Socrates, let us agree to what we have so far concluded. First, is not Love directed to certain things of which, in the second place, he has a want?
Yes,
he said.
+ Then, granting this, recollect what things you named in our discussion as the objects of Love: if you like, I will remind you. What you said, I believe, was to the effect that the gods contrived the world from a love of beautiful things, for of ugly there was no love. Did you not say something of the sort?
+ Yes, I did,
said Agathon.
+ And quite properly, my friend,
said Socrates; then, such being the case, must not Love be only love of beauty, and not of ugliness?
He assented. Well then, we have agreed that he loves what he lacks and has not?
+ Yes,
he replied.
+ And what Love lacks and has not is beauty?
+ That needs must be,
he said.
+ Well now, will you say that what lacks beauty, and in no wise possesses it, is beautiful?
Surely not.
+ So can you still allow Love to be beautiful, if this is the case?
+ I greatly fear, Socrates, I knew nothing of what I was talking about.
Ah, your words were beautiful enough, Agathon; but pray give me one or two more: you hold, do you not, that good things are beautiful?
+ I do.
+ Then if Love lacks beautiful things, and good things are beautiful, he must lack good things too.
+ I see no means, Socrates, of contradicting you,
he replied; let it be as you say.
+ No, it is Truth, my lovable Agathon,
+
+
+ How do you mean, Diotima?
said I; is Love then ugly and bad?
+ Peace, for shame!
she replied: or do you imagine that whatever is not beautiful must needs be ugly?
To be sure I do.
+ And what is not skilled, ignorant? Have you not observed that there is something halfway between skill and ignorance?
+ What is that?
+ You know, of course, that to have correct opinion, if you can give no reason for it, is neither full knowledge—how can an unreasoned thing be knowledge?—nor yet ignorance; for what hits on the truth cannot be ignorance. So correct opinion, I take it, is just in that position, between understanding and ignorance.
+ Quite true,
I said.
+ Then do not compel what is not beautiful to be ugly,
she said, or what is not good to be bad. Likewise of Love, when you find yourself admitting that he is not good nor beautiful, do not therefore suppose he must be ugly and bad, but something betwixt the two.
+ And what of the notion,
I asked, to which every one agrees, that he is a great god?
+ Every one? People who do not know,
she rejoined, or those who know also?
+ I mean everybody in the world.
+ But how, Socrates, can those agree that he is a great god who say he is no god at all?
+ What persons are they?
I asked.
+ You are one,
she replied, and I am another.
+ How do you make that out?
I said.
+ Easily,
said she; tell me, do you not say that all gods are happy and beautiful? Or will you dare to deny that any god is beautiful and happy?
+ Bless me!
I exclaimed, not I.
+ And do you not call those happy who possess good and beautiful things?
Certainly I do.
+ But you have admitted that Love, from lack of good and beautiful things, desires these very things that he lacks.
+ Yes, I have.
+ How then can he be a god, if he is devoid of things beautiful and good?
By no means, it appears.
+ So you see,
she said, you are a person who does not consider Love to be a god.
+ What then,
I asked, can Love be? A mortal?
+ Anything but that.
Well what?
+ As I previously suggested, between a mortal and an immortal.
+ And what is that, Diotima?
+ A great spirit, Socrates: for the whole of the spiritual
+ Possessing what power?
I asked.
+ Interpreting and transporting human things to the gods and divine things to men; entreaties and sacrifices from below, and ordinances and requitals from above: being midway between, it makes each to supplement the other, so that the whole is combined in one.
Through it are conveyed all divination and priestcraft concerning sacrifice and ritual
+
+ From what father and mother sprung?
I asked.
+ That is rather a long story,
she replied; but still, I will tell it you. When Aphrodite was born, the gods made a great feast, and among the company was Resource the son of Cunning. And when they had banqueted there came Poverty abegging, as well she might in an hour of good cheer, and hung about the door. Now Resource, grown tipsy with nectar—for wine as yet there was none—went into the garden of Zeus, and there, overcome with heaviness, slept. Then Poverty, being of herself so resourceless, devised the scheme of having a child by Resource,
+ The position is this: no gods ensue wisdom or desire to be made wise;
+
+ Who then, Diotima,
I asked, are the followers of wisdom, if they are neither the wise nor the ignorant?
Why, a child could tell by this time,
she answered, that they are the intermediate sort, and amongst these also is Love. For wisdom has to do with the fairest things, and Love is a love directed to what is fair; so that Love must needs be a friend of wisdom, and, as such, must be between wise and ignorant. This again is a result for which he has to thank his origin: for while he comes of a wise and resourceful father, his mother is unwise and resourceless. Such, my good Socrates, is the nature of this spirit. That you should have formed your other notion of Love
+ Very well then, madam, you are right; but if Love is such as you describe him, of what use is he to mankind?
+ That is the next question, Socrates,
she replied, on which I will try to enlighten you. While Love is of such nature and origin as I have related, he is also set on beautiful things, as you say. Now, suppose some one were to ask us: In what respect is he Love of beautiful things, Socrates and Diotima? But let me put the question more clearly thus: What is the love of the lover of beautiful things?
+ That they may be his,
I replied.
+ But your answer craves a further query,
she said, such as this: What will he have who gets beautiful things?
+ Well,
she proceeded, imagine that the object is changed, and the inquiry is made about the good instead of the beautiful. Come, Socrates (I shall say), what is the love of the lover of good things?
+ That they may be his,
I replied.
+ And what will he have who gets good things?
I can make more shift to answer this,
I said; he will be happy.
Yes,
she said, the happy are happy by acquisition of good things, and we have no more need to ask for what end a man wishes to be happy, when such is his wish: the answer seems to be ultimate.
+ Quite true,
I said.
+ Now do you suppose this wish or this love to be common to all mankind, and that every one always wishes to have good things? Or what do you say?
+ Even so,
I said; it is common to all.
Well then, Socrates,
she said, we do not mean that all men love, when we say that all men love the same things always; we mean that some people love and others do not?
+ I am wondering myself,
I replied.
+ But you should not wonder,
she said; for we have singled out a certain form of love, and applying thereto the name of the whole, we call it love; and there are other names that we commonly abuse.
+ As, for example—?
I asked.
+ Take the following: you know that
+ That is true.
+ But still, as you are aware,
said she, they are not called poets: they have other names, while a single section disparted from the whole of poetry—merely the business of music and meters—is entitled with the name of the whole. This and no more is called poetry; those only who possess this branch of the art are poets.
+ Quite true,
I said.
+ Well, it is just the same with love. Generically, indeed,
+ I fancy you are right,
I said.
+ And certainly there runs a story,
she continued, that all who go seeking their other half
prophetic
allusion to Aristophanes’ speech,
The fact is, I suppose, that each person does not cherish his belongings except where a man calls the good his own property and the bad another’s;
+
+
+Faith, no,
I said.
+Then we may state unreservedly that men love the good?
+Yes,
I said.
+Well now, must we not extend it to this, that they love the good to be theirs?
+We must.
+And do they love it to be not merely theirs but theirs always?
+Include that also.
+Briefly then,
said she, love loves the good to be one’s own for ever.
+That is the very truth,
I said.
+ Now if love is always for this,
she proceeded, what is the method of those who pursue it, and what is the behavior whose eagerness and straining are to be termed love? What actually is this effort? Can you tell me?
+Ah, Diotima,
I said; in that case I should hardly be admiring you and your wisdom, and sitting at your feet to be enlightened on just these questions.
+Well, I will tell you,
said she; it is begetting on a beautiful thing by means of both the body and the soul.
+ It wants some divination to make out what you mean,
I said; I do not understand.
Let me put it more clearly,
she said. All men are pregnant, Socrates, both in body and in soul: on reaching a certain age our nature yearns to beget. This it cannot do upon an ugly person, but only on the beautiful: the conjunction of man and woman is a begetting for both.
+ begetting
and other such terms indifferently to either sex.What then is it?
+ It is of engendering and begetting upon the beautiful.
+ Be it so,
I said.
To be sure it is,
she went on; and how of engendering? Because this is something ever-existent and immortal in our mortal life.
+
+
+What do you suppose, Socrates, to be the cause of this love and desire? For you must have observed the strange state into which all the animals are thrown, whether going on earth or winging the air, when they desire to beget: they are all sick
said she, one might suppose they do these things on the promptings of reason; but what is the cause
+How do you design ever to become a master of love-matters, if you can form no notion of this?
+Why, it is just for this, I tell you, Diotima—as I stated a moment ago—that I have come to see you, because I noted my need of an instructor. Come, tell me the cause of these effects as well as of the others that have relation to love.
+Well then,
she said, if you believe that love is by nature bent on what we have repeatedly admitted, you may cease to wonder. For here, too, on the same principle as before,
And here is a yet stranger fact:
+
+ conning
implies that our knowledge is departing; since forgetfulness is an egress of knowledge, while conning substitutes a fresh one in place of that which departs, and so preserves our knowledge enough to make it seem the same. Every mortal thing is preserved in this way; not by keeping it exactly the same for ever, Really, can this in truth be so, most wise Diotima?
+ Be certain of it, Socrates; only glance at the ambition of the men around you, and you will have to wonder at the unreasonableness of what I have told you, unless you are careful to consider how singularly they are affected with the love of winning a name,
she asked, and laying up fame immortal for all time to come.
that Alcestis would have died for Admetus, or Achilles have sought death on the corpse of Patroclus, or your own Codrus
a deathless memory for valor,
which now we keep? Of course not. I hold it is for immortal distinction and
Now those who are teeming in body betake them rather to women, and are amorous on this wise: by getting children they acquire an immortality, a memorial, and a state of bliss, which in their imagining they
she declared, for all succeeding time procure.
+ who in their souls still more than in their bodies conceive those things which are proper for soul to conceive and bring forth; and what are those things? Prudence, and virtue in general; and of these the begetters are all the poets and those craftsmen who are styled
she said, inventors.
Now by far the highest and fairest part of prudence is that which concerns the regulation of cities and habitations; it is called sobriety at the fine children whom Lycurgus
Into these love-matters even you, Socrates, might haply be initiated;
+
she said, and will not stint my best endeavors; only you on your part must try your best to follow. He who would proceed rightly in this business must not merely begin from his youth to encounter beautiful bodies. In the first place, indeed, if his conductor guides him aright, he must be in love with one particular body, and engender beautiful converse therein;
give me the very best of your attention.
When a man has been thus far tutored in the lore of love, passing from view to view of beautiful things, in the right and regular ascent, suddenly he will have revealed to him, as he draws to the close of his dealings in love, a wondrous vision, beautiful in its nature; and this, Socrates, is the final object of all those previous toils. First of all, it is ever-existent
+
+
said the Mantinean woman, a man finds it truly worth while to live, as he contemplates essential beauty. This, when once beheld, will outshine your gold and your vesture, your beautiful boys and striplings, whose aspect now so astounds you and makes you and many another, at the sight and constant society of your darlings, ready to do without either food or drink if that were any way possible, and only gaze upon them and have their company.
Do you call it a pitiful life for a man to lead—looking that way, observing that vision by the proper means, and having it ever with him? Do but consider,
she said, that there only will it befall him, as he sees the beautiful through that which makes it visible, to breed not illusions but true examples of virtue, since his contact is not with illusion but with truth. So when he has begotten a true virtue and has reared it up he is destined to win the friendship of Heaven; he, above all men, is immortal.
Go and see to it,
and if it be one of our intimates, invite him in: otherwise, say we are not drinking, but just about to retire.
+ Good evening, sirs,
he said; will you admit to your drinking a fellow very far gone in liquor, or shall we simply set a wreath on Agathon—which indeed is what we came for—and so away? I tell you, sir, I was hindered from getting to you yesterday; but now I am here with these ribands on my head, so that I can pull them off mine and twine them about the head of the cleverest, the handsomest, if I may speak the—see, like this!
If I may speak the truth.
Ah, you would laugh at me because I am drunk?
+
+
+ Take off Alcibiades’ shoes, so that he can recline here with us two.
+ By all means,
said Alcibiades; but who is our third at table?
With that he turned about and saw Socrates, and the same moment leapt up and cried, Save us, what a surprise! Socrates here! So it was to lie in wait for me again that you were sitting there—
+ Agathon, do your best to protect me, for I have found my love for this fellow no trifling affair. From the time when I fell in love with him I have not had a moment’s liberty
+ No,
said Alcibiades; no reconcilement for you and me. I will have my revenge on you for this another time: for the present, Agathon, give me some of your ribands,
So saying he took some of the ribands and, after decking the head of Socrates, resumed his seat.
+ Now then, gentlemen, you look sober: I cannot allow this; you must drink, and fulfil our agreement. So I appoint as president of this bout, till you have had a reasonable drink—myself. Agathon, let the boy bring me as large a goblet as you have.
Ah well, do not trouble,
he said; boy, bring me that cooler there,
—
+Against Socrates, sirs, my crafty plan is as nought. However large the bumper you order him, he will quaff it all off and never get tipsy with it.
+ What procedure is this, Alcibiades?
asked Eryximachus. Are we to have nothing to say
+ Ha, Eryximachus,
+ of noblest, soberest sire most noble son
; all hail!And the same to you,
said Eryximachus: but what are we to do?
+ Whatever you command, for we are bound to obey you:
+ Then listen,
said Eryximachus. We resolved, before your arrival, that each in order from left to right should make the finest speech he could upon Love,
+ Very good, Eryximachus,
said Alcibiades; but to pit a drunken man against sober tongues is hardly fair.
+ Come, enough of this,
said Socrates.
+ On the honor of a gentleman,
said Alcibiades, it is no use your protesting, for I could not praise anyone else in your presence.
+ Well, do that if you like,
said Eryximachus; praise Socrates.
+ You mean it?
said Alcibiades; you think I had better, Eryximachus? Am I to set upon the fellow and have my revenge before you all?
Here,
said Socrates; what are you about,—to make fun of me with your praises, or what?
+ I shall speak the truth; now, will you permit me?
+ Ah well, so long as it is the truth, I permit you and command you to speak.
+ You shall hear it this moment,
said Alcibiades; but there is something you must do.
If I say anything that is false,
+
+
+
+
+
+
children
with it or no, is truthful
;
Socrates, are you asleep?
+ Why, no,
he replied.
+ Let me tell you what I have decided.
+ What is the matter?
he asked.
+ I consider,
I replied, that you are the only worthy lover I have had, and it looks to me as if you were shy of mentioning it to me. My position is this: I count it sheer folly not to gratify you in this as in any other need you may have
+ My dear Alcibiades, I daresay you are not really a dolt, if what you say of me is the actual truth,
And if on espying this you are trying for a mutual exchange of beauty for beauty, it is no slight advantage you are counting on—you are trying to get genuine in return for reputed beauties,
+
+
+ gold for bronze.
You have heard what I had to say; not a word differed from the feeling in my mind: it is for you now to consider what you judge to be best for you and me.
+ Ah, there you speak to some purpose,
he said: for in the days that are to come
+
Socrates has been standing there in a study ever since dawn!
The end of it was that in the evening some of the Ionians after they had supped—
strutting like a proud marsh-goose, with ever a side-long glance,
I believe you are sober, Alcibiades; else you would never have enfolded yourself so charmingly all about, trying to screen from sight your object in all this talk, nor would have put it in as a mere incident at the end. The true object of all you have said
Do you know, Socrates, I fancy you have hit on the truth. Besides, I take his sitting down between us two as an obvious attempt to draw us apart. See, he shall not gain his point: I will come and sit by your side.
+ By all means,
said Socrates; here is a place for you beyond me.
+ Good God!
said Alcibiades, here’s the fellow at me again. He has set his heart on having the better of me every way. But at least, you surprising person, do allow Agathon to sit between us.
+ That cannot be,
said Socrates: you have praised me, and so it behoves me to praise my neighbor on the right.
Thus if Agathon sits beyond you, he must surely be praising me again, before receiving his due praises from me. So let him be, my good soul, and
+
+ Ha, ha! Alcibiades,
said Agathon; there can be no question of my staying here: I shall jump up and at once, if that will make Socrates praise me.
+ There you are,
said Alcibiades; just as usual: when Socrates is present, nobody else has a chance with the handsome ones. You see how resourceful he was in devising a plausible reason why our young friend should sit beside him.
+
This pointer pattern extracts section
-Ἀγάθωνʼ ἐπὶ δαῖτας ἴασιν αὐτόματοι ἀγαθοί. Ὅμηρος μὲν γὰρ κινδυνεύει οὐ μόνον διαφθεῖραι ἀλλὰ καὶ ὑβρίσαι εἰς ταύτην τὴν παροιμίαν· ποιήσας γὰρ τὸν Ἀγαμέμνονα διαφερόντως ἀγαθὸν ἄνδρα -
μαλθακὸν αἰχμητήν-
--- -αὐτὰρ ἔπειτα Γαῖʼ εὐρύστερνος, πάντων ἕδος ἀσφαλὲς αἰεί, -ἠδʼ Ἔρος --
--πρώτιστον μὲν ἔρωτα θεῶν μητίσατο πάντων. -
μένος ἐμπνεῦσαι-
--- -τῆς μένθʼ ἁπαλοὶ πόδες· οὐ γὰρ ἐπʼ οὔδεος πίλναται, ἀλλʼ ἄρα ἥ γε κατʼ ἀνδρῶν κράατα βαίνει. -
“οἱ πόλεως βασιλῆς νόμοι”-
“οὐδʼ Ἄρης ἀνθίσταται.”-
“κἂν ἄμουσος ᾖ τὸ πρίν,”-
Ζεὺς κυβερνᾶν θεῶν τε καὶ ἀνθρώπων-
--εἰρήνην μὲν ἐν ἀνθρώποις, πελάγει δὲ γαλήνην -νηνεμίαν, ἀνέμων κοίτην ὕπνον τʼ ἐνὶ κήδει. -
ἡ γλῶσσα-
ἡ δὲ φρὴνοὔ· χαιρέτω δή. οὐ γὰρ ἔτι ἐγκωμιάζω τοῦτον τὸν τρόπον—οὐ γὰρ ἂν δυναίμην—οὐ μέντοι ἀλλὰ τά γε ἀληθῆ, -
μέγιστός τε καὶ δολερὸς ἔρωςπαντί· ἀλλʼ οἱ μὲν ἄλλῃ τρεπόμενοι πολλαχῇ ἐπʼ αὐτόν, ἢ κατὰ χρηματισμὸν ἢ κατὰ φιλογυμναστίαν ἢ κατὰ φιλοσοφίαν, οὔτε ἐρᾶν καλοῦνται οὔτε ἐρασταί, οἱ δὲ κατὰ ἕν τι εἶδος ἰόντες τε καὶ ἐσπουδακότες τὸ τοῦ ὅλου ὄνομα ἴσχουσιν, ἔρωτά τε καὶ ἐρᾶν καὶ ἐρασταί.
καὶ κλέος ἐς τὸν ἀεὶ χρόνον ἀθάνατον καταθέσθαι, καὶ ὑπὲρ τούτου κινδύνους τε κινδυνεύειν ἕτοιμοί εἰσι πάντας ἔτι μᾶλλον ἢ ὑπὲρ τῶν -
--ἰητρὸς γὰρ ἀνὴρ πολλῶν ἀντάξιος ἄλλων· -
“χρύσεα χαλκείων”-
--οἷον δʼ αὖ τόδʼ ἔρεξε καὶ ἔτλη καρτερὸς ἀνὴρ -
βρενθυόμενος καὶ τὠφθαλμὼ παραβάλλων-
This pointer pattern extracts section
+ὦ Φαληρεύς,
ἔφη, οὗτος Ἀπολλόδωρος, οὐ περιμένεις;
κἀγὼ ἐπιστὰς περιέμεινα. καὶ ὅς, Ἀπολλόδωρε,
ἔφη, καὶ μὴν καὶ ἔναγχός σε ἐζήτουν βουλόμενος διαπυθέσθαι τὴν Ἀγάθωνος συνουσίαν
ἦ δʼ ὅς, εἰπέ, σὺ αὐτὸς παρεγένου τῇ συνουσίᾳ ταύτῃ ἢ οὔ;
κἀγὼ εἶπον ὅτι παντάπασιν ἔοικέ σοι οὐδὲν διηγεῖσθαι
ἐγώ γε δή,
ἔφη. πόθεν, ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ὦ Γλαύκων; οὐκ οἶσθʼ ὅτι πολλῶν ἐτῶν Ἀγάθων ἐνθάδε οὐκ ἐπιδεδήμηκεν, ἀφʼ οὗ δʼ ἐγὼ Σωκράτει συνδιατρίβω καὶ ἐπιμελὲς πεποίημαι ἑκάστης ἡμέρας εἰδέναι ὅτι ἂν λέγῃ ἢ πράττῃ, οὐδέπω τρία ἔτη ἐστίν;
πρὸ τοῦ δὲ περιτρέχων ὅπῃ τύχοιμι καὶ οἰόμενος τὶ ποιεῖν ἀθλιώτερος ἦ ὁτουοῦν, οὐχ ἧττον ἢ σὺ νυνί, οἰόμενος δεῖν πάντα μᾶλλον πράττειν ἢ φιλοσοφεῖν.
καὶ ὅς, μὴ σκῶπτʼ,
ἔφη, ἀλλʼ εἰπέ μοι πότε ἐγένετο ἡ συνουσία αὕτη.
κἀγὼ εἶπον ὅτι παίδων ὄντων ἡμῶν ἔτι, ὅτε τῇ πρώτῃ τραγῳδίᾳ ἐνίκησεν Ἀγάθων, τῇ ὑστεραίᾳ ἢ ᾗ τὰ ἐπινίκια ἔθυεν αὐτός τε καὶ οἱ χορευταί.
πάνυ,
ἔφη, ἄρα πάλαι, ὡς ἔοικεν. ἀλλὰ τίς σοι διηγεῖτο; ἢ αὐτὸς Σωκράτης;
οὐ μὰ τὸν Δία,
ἦν δʼ ἐγώ, ἀλλʼ ὅσπερ Φοίνικι. Ἀριστόδημος ἦν τις, Κυδαθηναιεύς, σμικρός, ἀνυπόδητος ἀεί· παρεγεγόνει δʼ ἐν τῇ συνουσίᾳ, Σωκράτους ἐραστὴς ὢν ἐν τοῖς μάλιστα τῶν τότε, ὡς ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ. οὐ μέντοι ἀλλὰ καὶ Σωκράτη γε ἔνια ἤδη ἀνηρόμην ὧν ἐκείνου ἤκουσα, καί μοι ὡμολόγει καθάπερ ἐκεῖνος διηγεῖτο.
τί οὖν,
ἔφη, οὐ διηγήσω μοι; πάντως δὲ ἡ ὁδὸς ἡ εἰς ἄστυ ἐπιτηδεία πορευομένοις καὶ λέγειν καὶ ἀκούειν.
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Ἀγάθωνʼ ἐπὶ δαῖτας ἴασιν αὐτόματοι ἀγαθοί
. Ὅμηρος μὲν γὰρ κινδυνεύει οὐ μόνον διαφθεῖραι ἀλλὰ καὶ ὑβρίσαι εἰς ταύτην τὴν παροιμίαν· ποιήσας γὰρ τὸν Ἀγαμέμνονα διαφερόντως ἀγαθὸν ἄνδρα μαλθακὸν αἰχμητήν
σύν τε δύʼ,
ἔφη, ἐρχομένω πρὸ ὁδοῦ
βουλευσόμεθα ὅτι ἐροῦμεν. ἀλλʼ ἴωμεν.
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Σωκράτης οὗτος ἀναχωρήσας ἐν τῷ τῶν γειτόνων προθύρῳ ἕστηκεν, κἀμοῦ καλοῦντος οὐκ ἐθέλει εἰσιέναι.
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μένος ἐμπνεῦσαι
οἴχεται ἀποπτάμενος,
πολλοὺς λόγους καὶ ὑποσχέσεις καταισχύνας· ὁ δὲ τοῦ ἤθους χρηστοῦ ὄντος ἐραστὴς διὰ βίου μένει, ἅτε μονίμῳ συντακείς.
ὦ Ἐρυξίμαχε, δίκαιος εἶ ἢ παῦσαί με τῆς λυγγὸς ἢ λέγειν ὑπὲρ ἐμοῦ, ἕως ἂν ἐγὼ παύσωμαι.
καὶ τὸν Ἐρυξίμαχον εἰπεῖν ἀλλὰ ποιήσω ἀμφότερα ταῦτα· ἐγὼ μὲν γὰρ ἐρῶ ἐν τῷ σῷ μέρει, σὺ δʼ ἐπειδὰν παύσῃ, ἐν τῷ ἐμῷ. ἐν ᾧ δʼ ἂν ἐγὼ λέγω, ἐὰν μέν σοι ἐθέλῃ ἀπνευστὶ ἔχοντι πολὺν χρόνον παύεσθαι ἡ λύγξ· εἰ δὲ μή, ὕδατι
οὐκ ἂν φθάνοις λέγων,
φάναι τὸν Ἀριστοφάνη· ἐγὼ δὲ ταῦτα ποιήσω.
διαφερόμενον αὐτὸ αὑτῷ συμφέρεσθαι,
ὥσπερ ἁρμονίαν τόξου τε καὶ λύρας.
ἔστι δὲ πολλὴ ἀλογία ἁρμονίαν φάναι διαφέρεσθαι ἢ ἐκ διαφερομένων ἔτι εἶναι. ἀλλὰ ἴσως τόδε ἐβούλετο λέγειν, ὅτι ἐκ διαφερομένων
δοκῶ μοι,
ἔφη, ἔχειν μηχανήν, ὡς ἂν εἶέν τε ἅνθρωποι καὶ παύσαιντο τῆς ἀκολασίας ἀσθενέστεροι
ταῦτα εἰπὼν ἔτεμνε τοὺς ἀνθρώπους δίχα, ὥσπερ οἱ τὰ ὄα τέμνοντες
τί ἔσθʼ ὃ βούλεσθε, ὦ ἄνθρωποι, ὑμῖν παρʼ ἀλλήλων γενέσθαι;
καὶ εἰ ἀποροῦντας αὐτοὺς πάλιν ἔροιτο· ἆρά γε τοῦδε ἐπιθυμεῖτε, ἐν τῷ αὐτῷ γενέσθαι ὅτι μάλιστα ἀλλήλοις, ὥστε καὶ νύκτα καὶ ἡμέραν μὴ ἀπολείπεσθαι ἀλλήλων; εἰ γὰρ τούτου ἐπιθυμεῖτε, θέλω ὑμᾶς συντῆξαι καὶ
ταῦτʼ ἀκούσας ἴσμεν ὅτι οὐδʼ ἂν εἷς ἐξαρνηθείη οὐδʼ ἄλλο τι ἂν φανείη βουλόμενος, ἀλλʼ ἀτεχνῶς οἴοιτʼ ἂν ἀκηκοέναι τοῦτο ὃ πάλαι ἄρα ἐπεθύμει, συνελθὼν καὶ συντακεὶς τῷ ἐρωμένῳ ἐκ δυοῖν εἷς γενέσθαι.
οἱ πόλεως βασιλῆς νόμοι
οὐδʼ Ἄρης ἀνθίσταται.
κἂν ἄμουσος ᾖ τὸ πρίν,
Ζεὺς κυβερνᾶν θεῶν τε καὶ ἀνθρώπων
ἡ γλῶσσα
ἡ δὲ φρὴν
οὔ· χαιρέτω δή. οὐ γὰρ ἔτι ἐγκωμιάζω τοῦτον τὸν τρόπον—οὐ γὰρ ἂν δυναίμην—οὐ μέντοι ἀλλὰ τά γε ἀληθῆ, τί δέ; ἀδελφός, αὐτὸ τοῦθʼ ὅπερ ἔστιν, ἔστι τινὸς ἀδελφὸς ἢ οὔ;
φάναι εἶναι.
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μέγιστός τε καὶ δολερὸς ἔρως
παντί· ἀλλʼ οἱ μὲν ἄλλῃ τρεπόμενοι πολλαχῇ ἐπʼ αὐτόν, ἢ κατὰ χρηματισμὸν ἢ κατὰ φιλογυμναστίαν ἢ κατὰ φιλοσοφίαν, οὔτε ἐρᾶν καλοῦνται οὔτε ἐρασταί, οἱ δὲ κατὰ ἕν τι εἶδος ἰόντες τε καὶ ἐσπουδακότες τὸ τοῦ ὅλου ὄνομα ἴσχουσιν, ἔρωτά τε καὶ ἐρᾶν καὶ ἐρασταί.
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καὶ κλέος ἐς τὸν ἀεὶ χρόνον ἀθάνατον καταθέσθαι
, καὶ ὑπὲρ τούτου κινδύνους τε κινδυνεύειν ἕτοιμοί εἰσι πάντας ἔτι μᾶλλον ἢ ὑπὲρ τῶν
χρύσεα χαλκείων
βρενθυόμενος καὶ τὠφθαλμὼ παραβάλλων