Plato As Author: The Rhetoric of Philosophy (Cincinnati Classical Studies New Series)

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PLATO AS AUTHOR

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CINCINNATI

CLASSICAL STUDIES

NEW SERIES VOLUME VIII

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PLATO AS AUTHOR

The Rhetoric of Philosophy

EDITED BY

ANN N. MICHELINI

BRILL LEIDEN • BOSTON 2003

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Published with financial support of the Classics Fund of the University of Cincinnati established by Louise Taft Semple in memory of her father, Charles Phelps Taft. This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Plato as author : the rhetoric of philosophy / edited by Ann N. Michelini. p. cm. -- (Cincinnati classical studies ; new ser., v. 8)

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 9004128786

1. Plato--Literary art. 2. Rhetoric, Ancient. I. Michelini, Ann N. II. Series. B395. P519 2003 184--dc21

2002038269

Die Deutsche Bibliothek – CIP-Einheitsaufnahme Michelini, Ann N. : Plato as author : the rhetoric of philosophy / edited by Ann N. Michelini – Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2003 (Cincinnati classical studies ; Vol. 8)

ISBN 90–04–12878–6

ISSN 0169-7692 ISBN 90 04 12878 6

© Copyright 2003 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands Cover design by Thorsten’s Celine Ostendorf All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910 Danvers MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

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CONTENTS

Preface ........................................................................................ Introduction ................................................................................ Ann N. Michelini How to Read a Platonic Prologue: Lysis 203a–207d ............ Francisco J. Gonzalez

Plato’s Socratic Mask ................................................................ Ann N. Michelini

C: Gary Alan Scott .................................................... Plato’s Politic Writing and the Cultivation of Souls .............. Jacob Howland

Glaucon’s Couch, or Mimesis and the Art of the Republic .... Jay Farness

Socrates’ Argumentative Burden in the Republic .................... Hayden W. Ausland

C: Catherine Zuckert .................................................. To Hear the Right Thing and to Miss the Point:

Plato’s Implicit Poetics .......................................................... Michael Erler

Rhetoric as Part of an Initiation into the Mysteries:

A New Interpretation of the Platonic Phaedrus .................... Christina Schefer

C: Thomas Tuozzo .................................................... Six Philosophers on Philosophical Esotericism ........................ Thomas Alexander Szlezák

Subtext and Subterfuge in Cratylus .......................................... Andrea Wilson Nightingale

C: G. R. F. Ferrari .................................................. The Man with No Name: Socrates and the Visitor

from Elea ................................................................................ Ruby Blondell

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15

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Metaphysics and Individual Souls in the Phaedo .................... Allan Silverman

C: Daniel Devereux .................................................... On the Philosophical Autonomy of a Platonic Dialogue:

The Case of Recollection ...................................................... Charles H. Kahn The Rhetoric of Philosophy: Socrates’ Swan-Song ................ David Gallop Bibliography of Works Cited .................................................... Topic Index ................................................................................ Modern References ....................................................................

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PREFACE

The essays in this volume are revised versions of lectures presented at a Symposium of the same title, held at the University of Cincinnati in November, 1999. Co-organizers were the editor and Professor Lawrence Jost, of the Cincinnati Department of Philosophy. The conference was made possible by generous support from the Louise Taft Semple Fund of the Department of Classics and a Taft Fund grant to the Department of Philosophy. The two closing essays, by Charles Kahn and David Gallop were presented as Taft Lectures, under the sponsorship of the Philosophy Department. The editor owes special thanks to Larry Jost, for his generous help and wise advice in planning and arranging the symposium. Thanks are due also to Mihaela Harmos, for invaluable assistance with the sympo­ sium, and to John Wallrodt, for rescue from many computer difficulties. Publication of the volume was also supported by the Semple Fund.

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PLATO AS AUTHOR: THE RHETORIC OF PHILOSOPHY

INTRODUCTION Ann N. Michelini

Why should it be necessary to use the title, “Plato as Author”? Surely the texts that fill five fat volumes in the Oxford Classical Texts series make Plato’s activity as author self-evident. Further, Plato has been praised from ancient times as a supremely dexterous and versatile prose stylist and a master of psychological portrayal.1 Why or how could something so universally agreed on and patently obvious require exploration? Plato’s works are deeply implicated and interwoven with Western intellectual history, and this cultural authority has in part so obscured their status as texts that it has become difficult to examine the dia­ logues in ways that seem self-evident for the works of other authors. The body of the dialogues occupies a position in literary history analogous to that of Homeric epic, a great mass of text that has survived intact while the works of predecessors, contemporary rivals, and even most of the successors have been lost and can be grasped only partially, through a laborious process of scholarly reconstruc­ tion. One of the results of Plato’s victory over his contemporaries is our difficulty in imagining the background against which the dia­ logues stand: the shadowy context is no match for the vividness of Platonic texts, although adumbrating such a context may be essen­ tial to acquiring some sort of perspective in reading the dialogues.2 The traditions through which Platonic work impacts current audi­ ences directly are both diverse and interrelated: the tradition of higher education and the intellectual life that it supports, for instance, con­ tains the smaller tradition of philosophy, with Plato serving in some­ what different ways as founder to each. Students often make their first encounters with humanities, in the university or earlier, by 1 See, e.g., Dionysius of Halicarnassus, De Demosth. Dict. 23.4 on extravagant praise of Plato’s diction as appropriate to Zeus himself. See also Thesleff, who delin­ eated ten stylistic genres in Plato’s works (1967, 63–80). 2 See A. E. Taylor 1924, 57.

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following cardinal myths of Plato that glorify a life devoted to thought, the Cave in Republic, or the death of Socrates in Apology, Phaedo, and Crito. The instructors who present these texts are seldom professional philosophers; and an acquaintance with Platonic texts may well have shaped a student’s view of the value of learning and the prestige of intellectual occupations, long before that person acquired any pro­ fessional identification as a “philosopher.” The influence of Plato’s voluminous works has imbued our culture deeply, as successive waves of reception have advanced and receded, leaving behind familiar residues whose origin is seldom consciously acknowledged.3 Platonic influences feed back into philosophy indi­ rectly, both from the familiar background of Western culture and from the unrecognized history of the discipline itself, through the Platonic concepts absorbed into the tradition before philosophy and theology became separate.4 As a result of the confluence of past de­ velopments and recurrent, contemporary encounters with these texts, modern readers approach Plato with a heavy load of cultural bag­ gage deriving from confused and intermingled sources. This over­ familiarity may in part account for two apparently conflicting tendencies that can contribute to an ahistorical treatment of Platonic texts. An emphasis on current concerns can facilitate the assumption that Plato’s rhetorical defense of what he called philosophia is equiv­ alent to a defense of the modern discipline to which the scholar’s life has been devoted. Persons taking this stance will often have difficulty seeing that Plato’s position and the motivation of his rhetoric, at a time before a disciplinary history of philosophy existed, cannot have been the same as their own.5 Yet, if Plato seems too familiar,

3 E.g., Marback 1999 has traced the way in which Platonisms of various eras have repeatedly reshaped the concept of “Sophistic.” 4 See Stead 1994, 104–05. 5 Elements of this unreflective identification appear in Griswold (1988b; 157, 164–67), who argues that Richard Rorty and Jacques Derrida attempt, like the Sophists, to shake commitment to philosophical inquiry. In this reading the “Sophists” are being refigured through a Platonic lens, cf. Marback 1999. See also Notomi (1999), who describes the battle between “sophistry” and philosophy as “universal” (74), arguing that, by expunging the sophist within, practicing philosophers can open the possibility of “doing philosophy in dialogue with” Plato (xii, see 301). Cf. Nails 1995, 7, 46, on Plato as a model for the contemporary “practice of philosophy.” See also Gordon 1999, 58: “The ‘one’ correct interpretation of the dialogues is any one that results in the reader’s seeing the life of dialectic as desirable . . .” This seems to imply that readers who resist Platonic rhetoric are necessarily “incorrect.”

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it has long been acknowledged that his texts deviate from conven­ tional modern philosophical writing, in their dramatic form, their refusal to state principles clearly, their frequent use of mythic nar­ rative, and their prevailing ironic tone.6 Even if these strange fea­ tures are labeled as important, they are at the same time stamped with an aesthetic value that may seem irrelevant to specifically philo­ sophical concerns; and once the oddities have been marginalized, the Platonic text, reconstrued in a more abstract form, may be encountered and evaluated largely on contemporary terms.7 Recent developments in Platonic scholarship have emphasized the grounding of Plato’s texts in the culture from which they emerged. This research tends to focus on questions that are more common in scholarly investigation of other classical authors but that have been somewhat neglected among English-speaking classicists and philoso­ phers. These questions would include the influence of predecessors, associates, and rivals on Plato’s work; the nature and reception of the genre, the Socratic dialogue, in which he wrote; and the his­ torical relation of Platonic texts to the ideology and traditions of Greek culture. Problems in dealing with the dialogues are exacerbated by the elusive and complex nature of these texts. Among Plato’s works we find a dramatized text, Republic, that features a sophisticated analy­ sis of the various types of mimesis, or a text featuring embedded exemplars of exquisite prose style, Phaedrus, that includes a severe critique of literary authorship. The self-depreciating personality of Plato’s main narrative persona, Socrates, abets these self-reflexive or metatextual effects by its contribution to Plato’s famous irony, a tech­ nique that produces apparently serious statements of the absurd or contradictory (as in Protagoras or Hippias Minor) and joking or trivi­ alized presentations of what appears supremely important and seri­ ous (as in Euthydemus or Charmides).8 Texts such as these seem to

6

On this “Platonic problem,” see Schaerer 1938, 9–14; Tigerstedt 1977, 13–16. See accounts of this practice in Gordon 1999, 3–6, on “argument-focused meth­ ods”; Hyland 1995, 2–3; Gonzalez 1998a, 9, on Vlastos’ approach to the elenchus: “dialectic is judged to be ‘constructive’ only to the extent that it is capable of estab­ lishing propositions”; Cohn 2001, 491, on the blind spots of “readers who habitu­ ally disregard discursive form in favor of discursive content,” readers who are often philosophers, “bent on perceiving and evaluating conceptual systems.” 8 On Platonic evasion, see discussion of the Tübingen School below, as well as Dejardins 1988, 112–113. 7

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demand the fullest resources of a sophisticated analysis of discourse. But their difficulty may also explain the common preference for methods that treat these labyrinthine problems as negligible. If the dialogues could be treated as presenting an accurate his­ torical record of Plato’s philosophical development, then their liter­ ariness and their irony might be less important, since each dialogue could be treated as a document of Plato’s thought at a given period, while apparent contradictions could be explained by the author’s uncertainty or confusion at a given point in time.9 But the use of the dialogues as documents of development rests on assumptions about chronology that involve circular reasoning from the form and style of the work, e.g., whether it is short or long, whether it is aporetic or presents ideas in a more positive way. These aspects, however, are likely to reflect conscious authorial choice; and they have not been shown to parallel dependable stylometric criteria.10 A narrowly developmental approach can only distract attention from the many intertextual connections, both linguistic and intellectual, that link the dialogues into a loosely built but mutually supportive network.11 The tendency to treat dialogues in isolation, has also been attempted on literary grounds, the assumption being that each is an aesthetic whole, independent of others.12 Such analyses can be rich and illu­ minating, as Francisco Gonzalez’s essay in this volume amply demon­ strates. But neither literary nor philosophical ends are best served by ignoring a truth that Socrates admits in Gorgias: not only does he

9 See Hyland 1995, 3. For a clear presentation and defense of this technique, see Kraut 1992b; and especially 29: the assumption that, when Plato’s principal interlocutor voices certain conclusions, these must be the conclusions of the author at a given stage in his thought is “a successful working hypothesis suggested by an intelligent reading of the text and confirmed by its [the reading’s] fruitfulness.” 10 See Brandwood 1990; Kahn 1996, 43–47; the fullest treatment is by Nails 1995, whose detailed and sophisticated investigation leads to rejection of all the chronological categories developed by different scholars; see also Thesleff 1982, 1989, whose work Nails builds upon. 11 See Kahn 1996, 40–45. Cf. much earlier, Goldschmidt (1988, xxi–xxii [1947]), who pointed out that any structural analysis of Platonic dialogue form would be rendered impossible by a rigidly developmental approach. 12 Tejera 1999, ix: considering the dialogues singly will facilitate “a determined non-violation of their literary and dramatic form.” Cf. Arieti’s emphasis on the dia­ logues as “individual and separate works of theater” (1991, ix). The proposition that single works, e.g., of a tragic dramatist, must be treated in isolation from the rest of the artist’s oeuvre would surprise many literary analysts.

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always talk about the same topics, but he even says the same things about those topics.13 In approaching an author as voluminous and as subtle as Plato, analysis of tropes and narrative tactics repeated across the body of the work is a powerful analytic tool. Andrea Nightingale’s treatment of Socratic irony in Cratylus, for instance, depends in different ways on parallels between that work and two other dialogues. Phaedrus provides some explication for Socrates’ manner of handling Cratylus, while Hippias Minor confirms Plato’s interest in the “Prayer Scene” in Book 9 of the Iliad. Nothing more strikingly illustrates the devastating effect of Plato’s dominant position on the development of a historically-based approach to these texts, than the neglect of the works of other writers, Plato’s rivals and associates, who, along with him, created a literary genre, the Socratic dialogue. Giannantoni’s massive edition of the Socratic fragments (1983–85) has renewed scholarly interest in the generic context of Plato’s writing.14 Earlier scholarship had often tended to focus on the use of Plato’s and Xenophon’s texts as sources for the historic Socrates. The latter’s more naive style served to recommend his text to some scholars as more reliable, while to others it argued the reverse.15 Olof Gigon’s convincing demonstration that Xenophon’s work does not function as a reconstruction of historical events but reflects the permutations of a literary genre (1947) has often been ignored in the search for “Socratic philosophy.”16 Charles Kahn has discussed the interesting parallels between the erotic Socrates of Aeschines of Sphettus and Plato’s Socrates; but like Dittmar (1912) and Gigon before him, Kahn has also noted the widely divergent stances of the various writers known as Socratics and the fictional quality of their Socratic portraits. A further example of the impor­ tance of connecting Platonic texts to their contemporary background is the relation of Plato’s work to his rival contemporary, Isocrates, a severe critic of “eristic” argumentation, who promulgated a ver­ sion of philosophia quite different from Plato’s own.17 That Isocrates

13

Gorgias 490e10–11. See Schaerer on repeated themes, 1938; 65, 251. Kahn 1996, Ch. 1, esp. 1–4, 34–35. See also the essays in The Socratic Movement edited by Waerdt, 1994. 15 See Montuori on the history of this controversy (1998, 43–58). 16 See also Montuori 1998, 1992. 17 On the terminology see Nightingale 1995, 8–21; cf. C. Eucken 1983, on Isocratean philosophia. On Isocratean allusions in Euthydemus, see Michelini 2000c. 14

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is, aside from a few Socratics who appear as characters in the dia­ logues, the only contemporary mentioned by name in any Platonic dialogue indicates his importance as a rival, while the tone of praise, regardless of concomitant irony (Phaedrus 278e8–279b3), indicates the significant relation of his work to Plato’s, and doubtless to that of other Socratic authors. The literary study of Platonic texts can benefit greatly by incor­ porating a variety of approaches that have received little attention from the English-speaking classical and philosophical mainstream. A major contribution to the understanding of Platonic texts as situated in a cultural context has been made by scholars of the German “Tübingen School.” In rehabilitating the ancient testimony of Plato’s associates and heirs, including Aristotle and others connected to Plato’s Academy group, these scholars have suggested that a system, rooted in mathematical theory and proportional analogy, lies beneath the surface of the dialogues.18 Although some have rejected what they see as the imposition of a rigid dogmatism on the dialogues,19 it can be argued that the provisional and even mythical form of the “system,” particularly in the upper reaches of its ascent towards the One, leaves a considerable range for aporetic modesty.20 From a lit­ erary point of view the work of Thomas Szlezák has been particu­ larly important, since he has focused on the tropes of secrecy and concealed knowledge that continually recur in these texts.21 His work contributes to the historical understanding of a literary environment in which secrecy and concealment might be as natural to an author as publication is today. In America, scholars inspired by the work of Leo Strauss form almost a separate school of Platonic studies, sometimes operating from departments of political science rather than philosophy depart­ ments. In a sympathetic but non-partisan analysis, Giovanni Ferrari has analyzed the extreme subtlety of Strauss’s own writing, which “demands the type of scrutiny and interpretive effort that most read­ ers willingly grant to literature.”22 This shift in generic expectations

18

See works by Krämer 1959, Gaiser 1968, and Reale 1996. See Tigerstedt 1977, 62–91; D. Frede 1995. 20 See Gaiser 1968, 8–11. 21 1985; see also 1999. 22 1997, 37. For a Straussian approach, see also the, appropriately oblique, dis­ cussion by Tigerstedt 1977, 96–101. 19

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may have caused some exasperation with “Straussian” technique, which, not surprisingly, seems to vary strikingly from scholar to scholar. But, because their hermeneutic has been less abstract and better attuned to the double meanings and deceptive windings of Platonic texts, these scholars have often been better able to connect philosophic argument with literary form.23 With only a few notable exceptions, most classicists and philosophers have paid little serious attention to the post-structuralist work of Jacques Derrida, who exam­ ined Plato’s manipulation of the clash between orality and writing and his ambivalent use of the Socratic persona.24 Strauss and Derrida, each in a particularly idiosyncratic way, may be said to reflect in their own work some of the intriguing and maddening complexity and evasiveness of the Platonic texts themselves. It may be that insis­ tence on conventional scholarly style sometimes blocks the approach to texts that continually raise the question of their own reliability and literariness. In recent years, several collections of essays have appeared that focus on the clash between the argument-based or analytic paradigm of philosophical writing referred to above and a more literary and historical approach to the dialogues.25 These earlier collections aimed to create a space for discussions centering on Plato’s activity as author and on the texts as works situated in Hellenic culture; and some contributors have wished to delimit this space quite severely.26 The title of the present volume, Plato as Author: The Rhetoric of Philosophy represents a further benchmark of development in this rapidly mov­ ing area of research. Rather than defend literary treatments of Plato, our meeting presented a selection of the rich and varied ways in which textual and cultural analyses are already contributing to the study of this foundational author. The breadth of participation offers an indication of the value of bringing together scholars who explore these texts in different ways and from differing perspectives. 23 See works by Strauss 1964, 1983; Rosen 1983; Hyland 1995, Roochnik 1996, Howland 1998a, Zuckert 1996. 24 In America, serious consideration of Derridean method has tended to come from scholars who, like Jay Farness work in English departments. On Derrida, see also Zuckert 1996, who critiques “Postmodern Platos” from a Straussian standpoint, and Neel 1988. But, in French, see Margel 1995 and H. Joly 1994. 25 Griswold 1988a, Press 1993, Gonzalez 1995. 26 See Bowen (in Griswold 1988a) 1988, 64, who argues that philological study of the dialogues is only “propaedeutic” to discussions of philosophical meaning, which must take place “far beyond the text.”

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In this introduction, rather than summarize each essay in turn, I will discuss the various themes and methods that unite their treat­ ment of the “rhetoric of philosophy,” different as their papers are in approach and content. Eleven of the papers also receive responses by commentators Daniel Devereux, G. R. F. Ferrari, Gary Scott, Thomas Tuozzo and Catherine Zuckert; and their contributions will also illustrate interconnections and contrasts. The term “rhetoric,” of course can have multiple significances: two are most relevant to this volume.27 “Rhetoric” may signify simply the techniques of com­ position used by an author, the way in which she frames her dis­ course and orients it toward an audience. Such an analysis of discourse cannot be separated from the historical and cultural background against which a text acquires its meaning or from the generic expec­ tations that condition audience reception. A number of papers in this volume contribute to this sort of understanding. Those of Schefer, Gonzalez, Nightingale, and Erler in particular indicate the value of situating Platonic texts in a cultural background. Christina Schefer examines how the central concepts of erôs, the destiny of the soul, and the proper conduct of rhetoric in Phaedrus form analogies with religious ritual. She demonstrates a consistent pattern of allusion to the instruction and initiation in mystery cult. The erotic longings that the philosopher must transfer to a longing for truth parallel the erotic language in which would-be initiates express their passionate desire for revelation. Phaedrus also parallels the different levels of ini­ tiation, which began with religious narratives (muthologiai ) that alluded to ritual without revealing it and proceeded to the “more valuable things” (timiôtera), eventually ending with an ineffable vision. It seems to me that this ritual progress from outside to inside, from speech to silence, is used by Plato less as a metaphor for the destiny of the philosophic soul than as an allegory, in which religious initiation stands for the true “greatest mystery,” a philosophical experience that transcends ordinary cult. Francisco Gonzalez, like Schefer, refers to cult background, in this case the celebration of the festival of Hermes in Lysis; but his essay also explores the Greek ideologies of sexual love (erôs), traditionally an unequal relation in which the passion of an older male requires

27 On rhetoric as a key to understanding Plato, see Gonzalez’ introduction (1995, 15–16) and essays there discussed.

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him to use all means to persuade a relatively indifferent younger boy, and friendship ( philia), traditionally conceived of as a mutually advantageous relation between equals, potentially involving rivalry. Gonzalez argues that erôs and philia are transformed into a united concept by Socrates’ approach to two young boys. Michael Erler sets Plato’s practice of an “implicit poetics” against the background of earlier and later Greek literary theory, in which authors from Hesiod through Callimachus incorporate into the text directions for its reception. Andrea Nightingale shows that a close examination of context for Socrates’ Homeric quotations in Cratylus is relevant to determining the significance both of Cratylus’ agreement with Socrates and of Socrates’ pretended debt to Euthyphro. In a more specifically Hellenic sense, of course, rhetoric refers to the illocutionary techniques of persuasion, the aim that Plato identified as central to the rival discipline that he may have named, and cer­ tainly satirized, as rhêtorikê. Hayden Ausland traces conventional and unconventional modes of forensic, deliberative, and epideictic (praise) rhetoric through the debates of Republic, showing how Socrates responds to the diverse challenges of Adeimantus and Glaucon to produce a more persuasive logos in favor of justice. Another sort of specifically philosophic persuasion, however, has long been identified as a goal of Socratic and later philosophical texts. These texts aim at a con­ version experience, “protreptic,” through which the hearer can be induced to turn from conventional values to adopt a philosophic life, centered on consciously adopted moral principles, and deeply involved with speculative thought.28 In Thomas Szlezák’s essay, the contrast between modern philosophy and Platonic philosophia turns upon Plato’s requirement for moral as well as intellectual commitment. My own essay examines problems posed by Plato’s formulation of the Socratic protreptic. Euthydemus, Plato’s most explicitly protreptic work, suggests the dangers of “sincere” conversionary talk, dangers that his Socrates avoids by strategies of concealment and false naiveté that carry their own pitfalls. The image of philosophy as a mystery into which only the select may be fully initiated, an image confirmed by the papers of Szlezák and Schefer, indicates a rhetorical prob­ lem that connects with Platonic attacks on poetry and conventional rhetoric. Platonic philosophia, precisely because it is less accessible and

28

See Gaiser 1959 and Szlezák’s paper in this volume.

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harder to master, alienates its dedicated practitioners from a general public that in Plato’s time continued to provide wide appreciation and rich social rewards to more traditional Greek intellectuals. The assumption, discussed above, that the literary aspects of Platonic texts are decorative and separable from philosophical content is coun­ tered by a number of papers demonstrating the intimate relation between trope and argument. Gonzalez has been particularly suc­ cessful in showing how the dramatic setting of a single dialogue, Lysis, parallels and is illustrated by its arguments, even to the extent that Hermes, the god presiding over the holiday in the gymnasium, becomes a model for the shape of the argument. A bridger of differ­ ence and connecter of separate worlds, Hermes the mediator pre­ sides over a dialogue in which love and friendship are reconfigured from their original dyadic and imbalanced forms. Plato’s use of metaphor is explored by Jacob Howland, who shows the unfolding of a horticultural analogy from Republic. Paralleling metaphors of stamping, dying, and taming in that dialogue, agri­ culture offers a somewhat more humanized image of the process through which the souls of citizens, nurtured by their superiors, will undergo an essentially passive process of formation. In Phaedrus, Howland argues, the contradictions in the picture of a philosopherking as a passive “plant” are corrected by a new image in which the plants to be grown are concepts in the mind of an independent subject, who must be nurtured in philosophy. Jay Farness traces the metaphor of Glaucon’s couch, introduced first so that the citizens of Republic will not have to eat on the ground “like pigs,” but eventu­ ally serving in Book 10 as a treacherous emblem of Platonic mimê­ sis. Following Eva Keuls (1978), Farness argues that Plato distorts the Greek concept of mimêsis, by transferring it from its natural locus in human imitative performance to the production of inanimate objects, such as paintings, writings, or even couches. The dialogue’s play with imitation facilitates acceptance of an inverted concept of mimêsis, so that, in the ideal city, mimêsis of moral or ethical behav­ ior can be defined as exact reproduction of a single model. Exploring the rhetoric of Plato’s texts also involves examining the genre of the Socratic philosophical dialogue, a genre whose com­ plexities this most subtle of authors exploited to the full. As Farness shows, Plato’s dialogues dazzlingly play the changes on the paradox of literary works that pretend to be impromptu or remembered con­ versations. My own essay attempts to set Plato’s work in the per­

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spective of the remnants of other Socratic writing, suggesting that Platonic emphasis on Socrates’ self-depreciation is designed to con­ trast with characteristics established for the implied author of these ambitious texts. Andrea Nightingale explores Socratic irony in Cratylus, showing the necessity for the philosopher to have an authentic voice, his own, but also the difficulty of isolating this voice. Cratylus has been led by the radical uncertainty of his Heraclitean universe into a con­ tradictory attempt to stabilize his identity and his discourse by an appeal to word meanings fixed by divine authority. Socrates sup­ ports Cratylus’ view by producing a flood of highly suspicious ety­ mologies. By pretending to rely on the authority of Euthyphro for his linguistic expertise, Socrates, as in his pretended divine “inspira­ tion” or possession in Phaedrus, mimics and parodies the practice of his interlocutors, both of whom substitute someone else’s discourse for their own. Ruby Blondell traces the effect Plato achieves in dia­ logues such as Sophist and Statesman by replacing his primary inter­ locutor, Socrates, with the mysterious “Eleatic Visitor.” Blondell argues that the very lack of personal characteristics given the “Visitor” establish him as a generic philosopher, encouraging readers to envi­ sion the practice of philosophy outside the dominating presence of the Socratic persona. By overturning Socrates’ dominant position in his texts, Plato declares his independence: like the Visitor himself, who attacks his Eleatic master, Parmenides, Plato performs an act of philosophic parricide. Plato’s use of the Socratic persona as a mask for his authorship is accompanied by a stress on secrecy and mystery in many of the dialogues. Schefer’s essay demonstrates the close parallels between religious rituals of secrecy and the disavowal of writing in Phaedrus. Thomas Szlezák, following his earlier work on Platonic tropes of secrecy, describes the modern conception of an esoteric text, opaque on its surface, but permeable to a correct literary hermeneutic, a conception that he finds in the early Platonic studies of Schleiermacher as well as in the work of modern philosophers such as Hegel and Wittgenstein. In Plato, Szlezák finds a different sort of esotericism, the necessity for which can be traced to the ethical requirements of Platonic philosophy. As in other Socratic writing, intellectual encounter with the text is not enough to produce the change of life, the “turn to philosophy” aimed at by protreptic. This moral requirement entails prolonged practice and personal involvement, for which no text can

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substitute. Michael Erler extends the critique of text-based knowl­ edge even to oral instruction, if it is superficial and leads to ideas repeated without understanding. The requirement that an author be able to defend his text, Erler shows, applies to oral argument as well, as becomes apparent when interlocutors in Laches and Charmides prove incapable of working out and defending basically correct concepts that they have heard from others, including Socrates himself. Erler’s analysis shows the Platonic significance of the controversial passage on the weakness of logos (Seventh Letter, 342d8–343a4), a passage that has contributed to doubts about the authenticity of the Letter. Several contributors perform an analysis of the interaction between literary and philosophical impulses in Phaedo, an appropriate choice, since this dialogue is both central to our understanding of Platonic thought and a recognized literary masterpiece. Charles Kahn argues that, while the various dialogues must be analyzed separately as liter­ ary works, their philosophical significance can be uncovered only by an intertextual reading, in which, for instance, the version of the concept of “recollection” so important to both Meno and Phaedo is sup­ plemented by the eschatological contributions of Phaedrus. In Phaedo, he finds that the concept of recollection is pulled in one direction by the need to show that philosophers alone have access to truth and the Forms, and in another by the need to confirm immortality as a basic property of every human soul. Two other contributors also explore the problems of this dialogue, which, as David Gallop remarks, is as dramatically effective as it is philosophically problematic. Arguing against an “intellectualist” read­ ing that would privilege philosophical argument over the reader’s emotional involvement with the dying Socrates, Gallop argues that, while Socrates himself expresses uncertainty about the value of his proofs, the real proof of the value of philosophy and confirmation of the hope of immortality is the dramatization within the dialogue of Socrates’ confident behavior as he faces death. Allan Silverman explores this problem from an analytic perspective, showing the intractable difficulties generated by Plato’s choice to attach the Theory of Forms to arguments for the immortality of the individual soul. Arguing for the concept of “Form-copies,”29 Silverman shows that the properties that these entities would need to possess are closely

29

See discussion and bibliography on “immanent Forms” in Gallop 1975, 195–96.

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analogous to the properties of the Platonic soul, which is also indi­ vidualized, while still possessing an immortal essence. If Silverman is right, the literary task that Plato set himself in Phaedo directly entailed the difficulties that he and Gallop have analyzed. In com­ posing a masterwork that uses the death of Socrates as a setting for exposition both of the Forms, a central concept in Platonic ontol­ ogy, and of the soul’s immortality, vital to Socrates’ defense of the philosophic life, the usually elusive author may have been led to reveal areas of his thought that were insufficiently developed, or— I would add—that never became so. It should be obvious that so diverse a group of participants will also display interesting clashes of viewpoint. Silverman, perhaps reflecting his background in analytic philosophy, is cautiously recep­ tive to developmental views that Blondell, Gonzalez and Kahn reject. On the other hand, Kahn certainly and Gallop probably would see philosophical thought as more distinct from literary expression than would Gonzalez or Schefer. Howland argues that the metaphor of cultivation of the soul, if applied to the individual soul’s relation to itself, the internal dialogue of thought, can counterbalance the ap­ parent repudiation of the value of writing in Phaedrus. Szlezák, Erler, and Schefer, in contrast, see the inadequacy of written texts as em­ blematic of Plato’s philosophic aims, based as they are on a reli­ gious or ethical personal experience that texts cannot provide. I would agree with Szlezák that Platonic texts project an image of important and determinate concepts that remain “hidden” behind the text, although I am not as certain as he may be that these con­ cepts amounted to fully developed doctrines, well-known within the Academy.30 Nightingale, on the other hand, argues for radical inde­ terminacy in Platonic texts, a concept that Gonzalez and Howland may to some extent share. The literary analysis of Platonic texts is developing rapidly on a variety of fronts, as these papers indicate. The resources highly devel­ oped in the historical study of other classical texts can bring increas­ ing benefits to Platonic studies, especially at a time when philosophers have begun to recognize that historical and cultural perspective is required in order to do justice to the complexity, the sophistication, the beauty, and the radicalism of Plato’s vision.

30 See discussion in Gonzalez (1998a, 11–12): if esoteric teachings were orally transmitted, how likely are they to have been fixed in any standard form?

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HOW TO READ A PLATONIC PROLOGUE: LYSIS 203A–207D Francisco J. Gonzalez Here and there on earth we may encounter a kind of continuation of love in which this possessive craving of two people for each other gives way to a new desire and lust for possession—a shared higher thirst for an ideal above them. But who knows such love? Who has experienced it? Its right name is friendship. Nietzsche, Gay Science sec. 14, trans. Kaufmann.

In many of Plato’s dialogues, the beginning of the philosophical dis­ cussion, and therefore of most interpretations, does not coincide with the beginning of the dialogue itself. These dialogues begin with a more or less detailed description of the setting and characters, as well as with a discussion of incidental and nonphilosophical topics not clearly or directly pertinent to the philosophical problems explored in the central part. Are these “prologues,” then, nothing but attempts to provide the main discussion with a realistic setting, or do they make an indispensable contribution to our understanding of the philo­ sophical content of the main discussion?1 This paper will focus on the prologue to the Lysis—defined here as occurring between 203a and 207d—,2 both because it is one of the richest and most detailed, 1 As Tarrant has shown (2000, 39–40), this debate regarding the significance of the prologue existed already in antiquity. Though some ancient interpreters, such as Proclus, loaded particular prologues with symbolic meaning, Tarrant observes: “In spite of a broad approach to the content of the dialogues in antiquity, there was one area which they were often inclined to dismiss as of no real philosophical import, and that was the introductory part of the dialogue.” 2 Socrates’ discussion with Lysis at 207d–211c could plausibly be included as part of the prologue and has certainly received as little attention from interpreters as has 203a–207d. However, contrary to the opinion of many who see it as purely preliminary and incidental, this discussion is best seen as an essential part of the main discussion: it already introduces and explicitly discusses the central ideas. Because it also therefore requires very detailed analysis, I have devoted another paper to it: see Gonzalez 2000. This other paper complements the present one and should ideally be read along with it: both are contributions to the same general interpretation of the Lysis.

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and because attitudes towards it have greatly varied. Early in the century von Arnim (1914, 70) explicitly dismissed it as a “bloß drama­ tische Einkleidung” (59), and this was one of the points of contention in his famous debate with Pohlenz, who objected that Plato is as much an artist as a pedagogue and systematic philosopher (1916, 259). Since then most scholars have silently taken the side of von Arnim by simply ignoring the prologue, a few have granted it var­ ious degrees of importance, and at least one, James Haden (1983), has seen in it the key to the entire dialogue. The general account I will be defending here is that the Platonic prologue provides the foundation for the subsequent investigation by drawing our attention to specific problems without a reference to which this investigation can be neither fully understood nor made fruitful.3 The prologue does this by introducing different themes or motifs that have a bearing on the main subject of the dialogue.4 In the case of the Lysis I take these themes to be competition (the agôn), erôs, and Hermes.5

I. First Motif: Competition Perhaps the first thing that strikes us in reading the prologue is the competitive atmosphere it creates. It does so partly through the set­ ting itself: the dialogue takes place in a newly built palaestra or 3 Westermayer’s excellent account of the Platonic prologue also interprets it as providing a foundation for the subsequent investigation, but claims that it does so by illustrating an error (Irrtum) which makes this investigation necessary (1875, 20). I argue below that the prologue does not present Hippothales’ erôs as an error (contra Westermayer, 21, 114), but rather as a problem, and that erôs is not the prologue’s only important theme. 4 I am focusing here only on the most general themes. For more specific images found throughout the dialogue, see Wender 1978. 5 In 1995a, 71–72, I identified the following themes: 1) competition; 2) submis­ sion; 3) inequality in experience and knowledge. The “competition” theme I also discuss here, though in much more detail. The “submission” theme relates to the notion of to oikeion, which I discuss at length in another paper (Gonzalez 2000) and which could be seen as constituting a fourth motif in addition to the three dis­ cussed here. The theme of “inequality in experience and knowledge,” which in 1995a is connected to Hermes, I now subordinate to the “erôs” theme. Finally, I have come to see the figure of Hermes as a major motif on its own. There is no contradiction between the present paper and 1995a, but I see the present paper as providing a more extensive, in-depth and historically grounded account of the dra­ matic setting.

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wrestling school (204a2). The Charmides and the Euthydemus are also set in a palaestra or gymnasium. However, this kind of setting seems to receive more emphasis in the Lysis. First, the fact that the palaes­ tra here is newly built, rather than being simply one of Socrates’ usual haunts, serves at the very least to make it more noticeable as a setting. Secondly, the very first line tells us that Socrates encoun­ ters the new palaestra on his way from the Academy to the Lyceum, which were Athens’ most famous gymnasia. Thus the Lysis is situ­ ated entirely within the world of athletic exercise and competition. More than any other dialogue, therefore, it draws us noticeably and entirely into this world. Unique to the Lysis is also the detail with which the palaestra is described, with regard to both its physical layout and the activities taking place within it. These activities themselves contribute to the competitive atmosphere. When Socrates enters he finds the boys play­ ing with knucklebones (éstragal¤zontaw, 206e5). These knucklebones could be used in a variety of competitive games6 and a group of boys in a corner are explicitly described as using them in the “game of odd and even” (±rt¤azon éstragãloiw pampÒlloiw, §k form¤skvn tin«n proairoÊmenoi, 206e7–8), which one scholar describes as fol­ lows: “One player held coins, nuts, or other objects in his hand, and the opposing player had to guess whether he held an odd or an even number.”7 In addition to contributing to the atmosphere of competition, this game may also be meant to suggest what our exam­ ination of the third theme will show: that the contrast between odd and even is central to both the formal structure and the content of the Lysis. Two other things contribute to the competitive atmosphere. One is Lysis’ family history, the high points of which are, as the dialogue informs us, athletic victories at the Pythian, Isthmian and Nemean games (205c4–5; see also 208a for Socrates’ use of chariot racing as an example of what Lysis’ parents do not allow him to do). Both Lysis’ grandfather, Lysis I, and his father, Demokrates, were prominent athletes.8 The other contributing factor is that verbal competition

6

See the detailed article under Talus in Harper’s Dictionary of Classical Literature and Antiquities (New York: 1965). 7 Sweet 1987, 108; see also scholion on 206e, Scholia Platonica, 457 (F. D. F. Allen 1938). 8 On the family see Davies 1971, 359–61; Kyle 1987, 199, 206. Apart from the

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which is called eristic. Menexenus is said to be very eristikos (211b8), a trait which he no doubt learned from his admirer Ctesippus (as suggested at 211c), whose competitive, aggressive nature is displayed in both this dialogue (through his attack on Hippothales) and the Euthydemus, where he quickly becomes a match for the eristics Euthydemus and Dionysodorus.9 If we agree that the setting of the dialogue thus emphasizes com­ petition, the most important question still remains: what is the rel­ evance of this setting to the dialogue’s main topic? What does competition have to do with friendship? If there is no connection, then those who ignore the setting as dispensable decoration are right to do so. However, the connection is made clear in the example of friendship with which the dialogue first presents us: that between Lysis and Menexenus. Their friendship, we soon learn, is charac­ terized by intense rivalry. Most importantly, it is this characteristic that Socrates first addresses in his discussion with them. He asks them if they dispute (§r¤zein, 207c3) about who is older, of nobler family, and more beautiful (kall¤vn), to which they reply that they do (207b8–c6). We tend today to see competition and friendship as opposed to one another: competition separates and antagonizes, while friendship should unite and harmonize. A relationship is endangered, we believe, as soon competitiveness is allowed to enter into it. Rather than seek­ ing to outdo our friends, we should instead esteem them more than ourselves. For the Greeks, on the other hand, competition and rivalry,

claim in Diogenes Laertius (2.29) that Lysis became a most virtuous person through Socrates’ exhortations, a claim that is probably based on no more than Plato’s dia­ logue, there are only two pieces of evidence for the historical Lysis (Lysis II): one is a gravestone of Lysis II and a son, Timokleides (see Stroud 1984). The other is the mention of a ÉIsymon¤kh LÊsidow Afijvn°vw on a mid-fourth-century gravestone (Oikonomos 1912, discussed by Stroud, 356–7): she was the daughter of Lysis and her name may refer to the family victories at the Isthmia (see also Kyle, 206, who makes her the granddaughter of Lysis, though this seems highly unlikely, given the date). The depiction of Lysis on his gravestone indicates that he did not die young. In addition, the modesty of the grave might support Diogenes Laertius’ claim. Stroud observes, “The rather mediocre quality of his gravestone may be an indication, then, of considerable restraint on the part of a rich man who may have followed his early passion for philosophy into later life or, more likely, that, by the second quarter of the 4th century B.C., this once wealthy family had fallen on bad times” (359–60). 9 The description of the pedagogue Mikkus as a sophistês (204a6–7) may, but need not, indicate that he taught the boys some form of eristic.

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rather than necessarily disrupting philia, could be the very stuff out of which it is made.10 Competition was seen as a potential means of tightening the bonds between citizens and thus preserving the community.11 On the level of personal relationships, friends were seen as rivals.12 A passage from Aristotle’s Rhetoric is illuminating in this regard: “we do not compete with those whom . . . we take to be far below us or far above us. So too we compete with those who follow the same ends as ourselves: we compete with our rivals in sport or in love, and generally with those who are after the same things” (1388a9–14). According to the Nicomachean Ethics, an impor­ tant characteristic of friends is precisely that they are after the same things (1166a–14). Not only can our friends be our rivals; they seem best qualified to be our rivals.13 Socrates’ first brief discussion with the friends/rivals Lysis and Menexenus, however, raises a problem for this traditional idea: is the role granted to competition in friendship compatible with the equally traditional view that friends have all things in common? What should friends compete with each other for if they have all things in common? Socrates rules out riches: “ ‘Naturally, I won’t ask which of you two is richer. For you two are friends, isn’t that so?’ ‘Definitely,’ they said. ‘And friends have everything in common, as the saying goes; so in this respect the two of you won’t differ, that is, if what you said about being friends is true.’ They agreed” (207c8–12; Lombardo trans.). But about what, if anything, then, can friends differ and dispute without contradicting the demand that friends possess all things in common? Montaigne will later interpret this demand so strictly that he will see it as excluding not only competition, but even mutual giving or lending (1991, 194). Does Socrates share this view? Does the prologue emphasize the theme of competition in friendship in order to expose it as an error that must be rejected in favor of non-competitive friendship? 10 Dover documents how the Greeks both considered philotimia and philonikia virtues and saw them as capable of degenerating into vices (1994, 229–234). On philotimia as a “contest of good men,” see 231. 11 “Athletics were a public, integral, and potentially unifying or disruptive ele­ ment in the civic experience of the Athenians” (Kyle 1987, 177). 12 This view is well documented and described in Dziob 1993. 13 Dziob 1993 attributes to Aristotle himself the characterization of friends as moral rivals. Yet while Aristotle certainly recognizes the presence of moral rivalry in friendship, he does not seem to give it special emphasis in the Nicomachean Ethics. The emphasis there is much more on the equality and homonoia of friends.

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The Socrates of this dialogue certainly displays no great antipa­ thy to the spirit of competition. On the contrary, he himself displays great competitiveness in his relationship with the boys: through tac­ tics that often seem less than fair, he first humiliates Hippothales for Ctesippus, then humiliates Lysis for Hippothales, then humiliates Menexenus for Lysis, and by the end succeeds in equally humiliat­ ing them all. Is this, as some scholars (e.g., Guthrie 1975, 147; Tejera 1990, 186) have objected, simply eristic, which is said elsewhere to have no place among friends (see Meno 75c–d, Protagoras 337b)? Or does Socrates wish to exhibit here a form of competition that is com­ patible with friendship? We should now turn to the last question that Socrates asks Lysis and Menexenus in their initial discussion: he asks which of them is wiser and more just (207d1–2), clearly seeking to know if this too is something they dispute and compete about. The importance of this question for an understanding of the rest of the dialogue is only emphasized by the fact that Menexenus’ sudden departure to attend to sacrifices prevents it from being answered. We are thus left with an open question as we turn to the rest of the dialogue: is the friend­ ship between Lysis and Menexenus characterized by the competi­ tion for wisdom and virtue? But this question can be generalized: is friendship as such characterized by the competition for wisdom and virtue? This question is answered, not so much by what Socrates pro­ ceeds to say, as by what he proceeds to do. What some have seen as mere eristic in Socrates’ treatment of the boys is instead his attempt to engage them in the competition for wisdom and virtue. Thus, when Socrates concludes a discussion with Lysis that immediately follows Menexenus’ departure with the admittedly harsh accusation that Lysis is aphrôn (210d7) and therefore incapable of having true philoi (210d1–4), the intent clearly is to make Lysis competitive in the pur­ suit of wisdom and aware of the impossibility of friendship without this com­ petition. What is more, this is precisely the result: Lysis responds to his own humiliation by asking Socrates, “in the most friendly man­ ner” (mãla filik«w, 211a3), to humiliate his self-confident and dis­ putatious friend Menexenus. Here we should note that this rivalry for wisdom which Socrates encourages between the two boys also appears as a form of having things in common: Lysis wants Menexenus to experience the same thing he experienced. In this way they will come to share both an awareness of their own ignorance and the

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pursuit of the wisdom they lack. We also see here why wisdom and virtue are better suited to friendly competition than is wealth: while competing for wealth is incompatible with sharing it, the competi­ tion for wisdom and virtue can only make both friends wiser and more virtuous.14 If Lysis will himself refute Menexenus later, as Socrates suggests he should (211a6), then Menexenus stands to gain as much from this rivalry as does Lysis. This would certainly be an important advance over their accustomed disputes about who is older or of better family. The next important variation on the theme of competition occurs immediately after Socrates’ refutation of Menexenus. Rather than gloat over his friend’s humiliation, Lysis here does something unex­ pected and out of character: he challenges Socrates himself, object­ ing that the inquiry has not been properly conducted. We are told that this objection escaped him against his will and that he blushed immediately afterwards (213d2–5). Recall that Lysis at the beginning of the dialogue is too shy to join the discussion and finally gets the courage to do so only when he sees his friend Menexenus join it (207a5–b3). That Lysis should now object to Socrates’ conduct of the inquiry is therefore surprising indeed. What has happened in the meantime? Lysis has apparently become more aggressive and com­ petitive. Yet the present passage makes clear that his motivation is not vainglory, since he in that case would have rejoiced over Men­ exenus’ defeat. Instead, Socrates explicitly identifies his motivation with the love of wisdom ( philosophia, 213d7). This love of wisdom will make Lysis compete with and challenge his friend when he considers him to be wrong or overly confident, but will also cause him to take his friend’s side against what he considers an unfair refutation. In this way Socrates, rather than seeking to eliminate rivalry from the friendship between the two boys or even from his own relationship with them, instead transforms this rivalry into the aggressive and unsparing pursuit of wisdom that characterizes philosophy.15 When Socrates at the end of the dialogue counts himself the friend of Lysis and Menexenus, despite (or on account of?) their shared failure to define a friend (223b7), this is surely in part due 14

See Bolotin 1979, 82. To my knowledge, the only study of the Lysis that sees the relevance of the dialogue’s competitive atmosphere to its overall message is Tindale 1984: see espe­ cially 105–6, where Tindale’s interpretation is similar to my own. 15

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to his success in engaging the boys in that competition for wisdom and virtue to which he has devoted his own life.16 The connection between competition and friendship introduced by the prologue and developed by the dramatic action of the rest of the dialogue must of course have a bearing on the argument. A central dilemma of the dialogue, introduced after the refutation of Menexenus, is the following: does friendship occur between like and like or between opposites? Both suggestions are refuted (213d–216b). The characterization of friends as moral rivals suggested by the pro­ logue and drama of the dialogue, however, provides a middle ground between both opposed theses: as the passage from Aristotle quoted above shows, rivals must have the same goals and in this way must be alike or equal. On the other hand, they are opposed in that they pursue these goals in competition with one another. But even this characterization of friendship is insufficient. If the common goal is money, then competition will produce enmity rather than friendship, since money acquired by one person is necessarily money kept from the other. The shared goal of friends must be, as we have seen, wis­ dom and virtue, since this is a goal two people can compete for with­ out impeding, but on the contrary by assisting, each other. The next step of Socrates’ argument, to be discussed more fully below, will therefore be to identify the ultimate object of love with the good.17

II. Second Motif : Erôs Even those who fail to note the theme of competition in the pro­ logue cannot fail to note the second theme I wish to discuss. Not

16 Of Socrates’ claim to be the boys’ friend, Westermayer writes: “Was will er anders damit sagen, als dass der Freund der gemeinsam mit dem andern um Erkenntnis, d.h. Tugend ringende ist?” (1875, 100). For an excellent account of Socratic love as being in its essence elenctic and agonistic, see Versenyi 1962, 607. 17 Other dialogues often use the language of competition (agôn) in connection with the quest for virtue: for example, the Republic (403e8–9) describes the guardians as athletes in the greatest contest (agôn), and compares the virtuous reaping their rewards to Olympic victors (621c7–d3). See also Republic 608b4; Phaedo 114c8–9; Phaedrus 247b5–6; Gorgias 526e3–4; Laws 647c8–d7. Plato in these passages and in the Lysis as a whole is not rejecting the traditional characterization of human life as essen­ tially competitive, nor the central role the Greeks granted competition in commu­ nity and friendship, but is instead redefining the nature of this competition. For more on Plato’s frequent use of athletic analogies and examples, see Kyle 1987, 137.

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only do we have an embodiment of erôs in Hippothales’ infatuation with Lysis, but Socrates spends some time questioning Hippothales about his erôs. This theme is not unrelated to the first, since the Greeks saw erôs as itself a kind of competitive sport.18 Thus Hippothales’ pursuit of Lysis is described as something at which he may or may not be victorious (nikçn, see 205d5–6, 205e3–4). One of the reasons why the prologue is generally neglected, however, is that the theme of erôs does not seem relevant to the topic of the main discussion, which most scholars take to be friendship. Indeed, this is precisely von Arnim’s reason for dismissing the prologue as irrelevant. My aim here is to show that erôs is in fact central to the concerns of the dialogue as a whole and that therefore once again the prologue proves indispensable. The most striking characteristic of the relationship between Hip­ pothales and Lysis, which is described in the traditional terms of erastês and paidika (205a1–2), is the lack of reciprocity. Not only is there the disparity of ages, but Hippothales loves “from afar,” keep­ ing himself hidden during the main discussion for fear of annoying Lysis (207b4–7). His goal, furthermore, is to possess Lysis, not to enter into an equal relationship with him. This goal requires that he make himself likable or prosphilês to Lysis (206c3), but Lysis is clearly not expected to return his erôs. Hippothales is, as Westermayer observes, “die Verkörperung des Liebens ohne Gegenliebe” (1875, 49). However, Hippothales is certainly not in this respect an unusual or atypical erastês. On the contrary, the asymmetry or lack of reci­ procity which is perhaps exaggerated in his case was nevertheless, as Dover has documented in detail, a traditional feature of erôs, as distinct from friendship.19

18

On competition between erastai, see Dover 1989, 54–7, and Aeschines’ Against Timarchus (1.136). The hunting imagery used in the Lysis to describe the erotic pur­ suit of the beloved (206a9–b4) was also common (see Aeschines, 1.195, and Dover 1989, 87–9) and is used by the Socrates of Xenophon’s Memorabilia (2.6.8, 28–9; 3.9.7–15). 19 While the erastês felt erôs, the paidika was not supposed to reciprocate this erôs, but to respond with at most philia (Dover 1989, 52–3); the erastês was older (a man normally eighteen and over), the paidika was younger (a boy not more than, and usually much less than, eighteen, 85–7); the erastês pursued, the paidika was pursued (81–91); the erastês initiated the relationship, the paidika never did (85, 91); the erastês was the active partner, the paidika was the passive partner (16); the erastês domi­ nated, the paidika submitted (44–5, 100–109); the erastês enjoyed sexual contact, the paidika did not (or, at least, was not supposed to; 52, 97, 103; in the 1989 Postscript

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Only when we see Hippothales as representing the traditional con­ ception of erôs, can we see that the critique to which Socrates pro­ ceeds to subject him has this conception as its larger target. Having discovered that Hippothales is in love with Lysis, Socrates wishes to determine if Hippothales knows what an erastês should say about his paidika both to the boy himself and to others (205a1–2). He learns from Ctesippus’ mockery that Hippothales composes and recites poems in praise of Lysis: again fairly traditional behavior for an erastês.20 Yet Socrates calls this behavior “ridiculous” (katag°lastow, 205d5). His first point is that Hippothales’ praise of Lysis is really self-praise (efiw sautÚn §gk≈mion, 205d6). When Hippothales objects, Socrates explains that in praising Lysis Hippothales is only glorify­ ing his own future victory if he were to win such a praiseworthy boy (205e1–4). What Socrates seeks to expose here is that the kind of erôs found in Hippothales treats the beloved as a completely pas­ sive object to be possessed for the lover’s own glory and therefore, rather than being truly concerned with the welfare of the beloved, is fundamentally selfish.21 What is worse, this selfishness, as Socrates proceeds to show, is not even enlightened. By basing all his selfpraise and self-worth on the future possession of Lysis, Hippothales risks appearing worthless and ridiculous if he fails to win Lysis. Worst of all, Hippothales’ encomiastic poems even greatly increase the like­ lihood that he never will possess Lysis: by making the boy conceited and proud, they also make him harder to catch, not to mention a worse person (206a3–b4). In short, what Socrates shows with dis­ arming succinctness and casualness is that Hippothales’ encomiastic discourse, along with the traditional conception of erôs that guides it, benefits neither the beloved nor the lover.22

Dover confesses to having underestimated the evidence against “the assumption of Plato and Xenophon that the erômenos does not derive pleasure from copulation” [204], but nevertheless maintains that exceptions are rare); the erastês sought phy­ sical pleasure from the relationship, the paidika sought some kind of benefit, e.g., education (52–4, 91). See also Halperin 1986. 20 See Dover 1989, 57–9. Dover describes Hippothales’ poems as being appar­ ently “of Pindaric type, commemorating the boy’s ancestors” (57). 21 Westermayer characterizes Hippothales’ love as “eitle Selbstbespiegelung” (1875, 22). Dover finds the typical way of thinking about the erômenos (i.e., as a beautiful object) “often conducive to ruthlessness, insensitivity and manipulation . . .” (1989, 51). 22 “Though the encomia may appear to exalt both the author and his beloved, they actually serve to harm them both” (Nightingale 1993, 115).

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25

What are we to conclude from this devastating critique of Hippothales’ erôs? Is it that erôs is to be rejected in favor of the friendship that will become the dialogue’s central topic?23 The prologue clearly contrasts the relationship between Hippothales and Lysis, discussed outside the palaestra, with the relationship between Lysis and Menexenus, encountered within the palaestra. Hippothales is Lysis’ lover, but certainly not his friend. Menexenus is Lysis’ friend, but certainly not his lover: significant in this regard is that he contests Lysis’ beauty.24 This contrast shows the different roles that compe­ tition plays in the two types of relationship: Hippothales competes for Lysis, but he does not, like Menexenus, compete with Lysis. But does the prologue make this contrast in order to reject the erôs of Hippothales as an error? Or in order to confront us with the problem of the relationship between erôs and friendship? That the latter must be the case is suggested, first, by Socrates’ wish to see if Hippothales knows how an erastês should speak about his paidika, with its appar­ ent assumption that there is a right way. Secondly, rather than reject­ ing erôs altogether in his critique of Hippothales, Socrates, both here and elsewhere, claims for himself the knowledge of erôs Hippothales lacks and even assumes the role of an erastês. Socrates appears at the very start of the dialogue as someone who seeks the company of beautiful boys.25 He will not enter the wrestling school until he is told “who is the beautiful one” there (204b1–2). His conversation with the beautiful Lysis explicitly assumes the form of a seduction, intended to instruct Hippothales on the rules of the art. Socrates’ conversations with boys in other dialogues also take the form of an erastês seducing his paidika. A good example is the

23

This is, as noted above, the view of Westermayer. See Kuiper 1909, 107. Westermayer believes that the relationship between Menexenus and Ctesippus represents a third type of relationship (1875, 115–6). 25 Zeller can give his very unerotic account of “Socratic friendship” (1885, 164–7) only at the cost of perversely rejecting the Lysis as a source (166 n. 2). For a truer account of Socrates as lover, see Friedländer 1958–69, 1:44–50. Planeaux (2001) has attempted to show, on the basis of the details of the opening dramatic setting, that Socrates contrived the whole encounter of the Lysis, deliberately going to the new wrestling school on a day when he would be allowed to mingle with the young boys there. Though Socrates claims to chance upon the new wrestling school in the course of traveling directly from the Academy to the Lyceum, the most direct route between the two gymnasiums would in fact not have passed anywhere near it. Though Socrates claims to have known nothing about the new school, this is highly implausible, especially given the presence of his companion Miccus there. 24

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Charmides, which begins with Socrates’ confession of savage arousal at seeing inside Charmides’ cloak (155d3–e2)26 and ends with Char­ mides’ insistence that Socrates “charm” him every day (176b2–c9): “Do not resist me then,” says Charmides, to which Socrates replies, “I will not resist you” (176d4–5). In the Euthydemus Socrates tells Cli­ nias that there is nothing shameful in obedience and even enslave­ ment to an erastês for the sake of wisdom (282b3–6) at the very moment that he is himself leading the boy towards wisdom: in effect he is saying, “Submit to me.”27 Recall that what Socrates in the Symposium claims to have learned from the priestess Diotima is in essence “correct pederasty” (tÚ Ùry«w paideraste›n, 211b5–6), or what the Phaedrus calls “pederasty with philosophy” (paiderastÆsantow metå filosof¤aw, 249a2). Socrates, in conclusion, can certainly be said to hunt boys as much as Hippothales or any other erastês,28 though this does not mean, as we will see, that Socrates is an erastês in the same way that Hippothales is.29 Socrates’ connection to erôs even goes beyond being an erastês. He also claims to have a special knowledge or skill that someone like Hippothales clearly does not have: he is able “to know the lover and the beloved” (204c2) and is wise concerning erotic matters (tå §rvtikã . . . sofÒw, 206a1). This is a skill Socrates also claims as his own elsewhere, even insisting that it is the only type of knowledge he possesses.30 It is this knowledge that enables him to help Hippothales win Lysis. It is wrong to think that this is Socrates’ aim only in the first part of the dialogue. Socrates uses his last characteriza­ tion of what is philos to conclude that the erastês must be loved by his paidika (222a5–7), to Hippothales’ unbounded delight (222b2) and

26

Cf. The Lovers 133a. Another important example of a Socratic seduction is Alcibiades I where Socrates goes from being the pursuer to being the pursued (compare 103a1–2 and 104d1–5 with 135d7–10 and 135e1–3). 28 It is therefore significant (contra Wender 1978, 42) that both Hippothales (206a9–b1) and Socrates (218c4–d4) are characterized as unsuccessful hunters in the pursuit of what is philos. For a discussion of Plato’s common use of hunting images in the dialogues, see Classen 1960: see 32–3 on the Lysis. 29 The depiction of Socrates as an erastês par excellence is common in the rest of the Socratic literature. In Xenophon’s Symposium, for example, Socrates is even made to say that he cannot remember a time during which he was not in love with some­ one (oÈk §r«n tinow, 8.2). 30 See Symposium 177d7–8, 212b6 and the pseudo-Platonic Theages 128b3–4. Cf. Aeschines’ Alcibiades (Fr. 53 Giannantoni). 27

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27

Lysis’ dismay. Socrates assumes throughout, in short, the role of a pander (mastropÒw).31 Given Socrates’ assumption of the roles of erastês and pander in the Lysis, one must ignore the prologue, and indeed the entire dra­ matic action, as von Arnim did with admirable consistency (1914, 70), in order to join von Arnim in claiming that the dialogue is about philia as opposed to erôs.32 A problem many scholars33 have had with the Lysis is the way in which it shifts back and forth between reciprocal and irreciprocal forms of philia, most clearly, as we will see, in Socrates’ initial refutation of Menexenus. This is, however, no confusion or oversight: the prologue already tells us that the dia­ logue will be very much concerned with examining the relation between the reciprocal philia that characterizes friendship and the irreciprocal philia that characterizes erôs. In seeking a solution to this problem, the first thing we must see is that the dialogue casts Socrates in a mediating role between erôs and friendship: for Hippothales’ benefit, Socrates seduces Lysis, but by the end of the dialogue he describes himself as Lysis’ friend. In thus mediating between the two relationships, Socrates also distin­ guishes himself from both. His description of himself as passionately disposed (pãnu §rvtik«w) towards the possession of philoi (211e2–3)

31 This characterization of Socrates as a pander is not unique to the Lysis, but is surprisingly, even shockingly, prominent in Xenophon’s portrayal: see especially Symposium 4.57–64, 8.42–3; Memorabilia 2.6, 3.11. Contemporary students of Socrates have paid little attention to his profession of expertise in love and his mastropeia. For the most detailed and insightful account of this dimension of Socrates, one must go back to Dugas 1894, 62–74. 32 von Arnim 1914, 40. Cf. Wilamowitz 1920, 68; Hoerber 1959 (according to whom erôs is included only as something inferior to true philia); Buccellato 1968, 7; Lualdi 1974, 59; Hyland 1968, 36; Annas 1977 (since she sees the problems addressed in the dialogue as solved by Aristotle); Santas 1988, 83; Roth 1995 (since he sees the Lysis as offering an account similar to Aristotle’s); Carr 1996. Among scholars who claim that the dialogue is at least as much about erôs as about philia are the following: Kuiper 1909, especially 102; Pohlenz 1913, 1916, 259; Ziebis 1927, 10–11; Verbrugh 1930, 13, 22, 43, 60–61; Gould 1963, 195 n. 17 (though see 144–5); Friedländer 1958–69, 1:50–51, 2:102; Schiavone 1965 (especially 245); Haden 1983; Calogero 1984a & b; Osborne 1994 (the last two see the dialogue as dealing with the same subject as the Symposium). This view is correct, however, only to the extent that erôs is not sharply distinguished from philia (as it is by Pohlenz 1913, 367; Verbrugh [1930, 22, 43, 60–61], Kaiser [1980, 201 n. 38] and Ziebis [1927, 10–11, 29, 40, 54], on the other hand, rightly reject any sharp distinction here). The pro­ logue indeed contrasts erôs and friendship, but only to confront us with the prob­ lem of their relation. 33 Especially Robinson 1986 and Carr 1996.

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distinguishes him both from Hippothales (whose erôs does not seek a friend ) and Lysis and Menexenus (who see themselves as already possessing a friend). To find a solution we need to examine how the tension between reciprocal and irreciprocal philia plays itself out in the main investi­ gation of the dialogue. A major point of Socrates’ refutation of Menexenus at 212a–213c is that you cannot be a philos of those who hate you, even if you love them, nor of those whom you hate, even if they happen to love you. In other words, philia must be recipro­ cal, a point clearly made against Hippothales who, as we have seen, must hide from his beloved for fear of annoying him. However, the discussion with Menexenus ends in an impasse because Socrates is not willing to dismiss irreciprocal forms of love: we call ourselves lovers of wine, horses and, most significantly, wisdom, even though these things do not return our love (212d5–e6).34 As commentators have often noted,35 the aporia in which Socrates and Menexenus find themselves could be easily solved in the way Aristotle solves it: sim­ ply define philia as necessarily reciprocal and treat nonreciprocated love as something totally different, giving it a different name (Aristotle uses the word philêsis, E.N. 1155b27–28). But what is important for an understanding of the Lysis is that Socrates refuses to do this: he is not willing to disassociate the nonreciprocated love for something like wisdom from the reciprocal love between two people. In other words, he is not willing to restrict love to the kind of reciprocal rela­ tionship found in Lysis and Menexenus, but wishes to include within it something like the nonreciprocated desire found in Hippothales: Socrates therefore in the course of the refutation appeals explicitly to the example of an erastês who is not loved, or even hated, by his paidika (212b7–c2). But how can we reconcile in one account of love its reciprocal and irreciprocal forms? This problem, dramatized in the prologue and thematized in the refutation of Menexenus, is the problem which the remainder of the discussion aims to solve. Socrates first attempts the easy, Aristotelian solution: he attempts to account for philia in terms of a purely rec­ iprocal, symmetrical relation, first suggesting the reciprocal relation 34 Contra Westermayer who, after characterizing this whole discussion as sophistry (1875, 47–48), simply asserts that Socrates is committed to the view that love must be reciprocal (50). 35 See especially Dugas 1894, 163, and Annas 1977, 534.

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29

between like and like (Aristotle’s choice) and then the reciprocal rela­ tion between opposites (213d–216b). When both of these accounts fail, however, there is a radical shift away from reciprocity: since it has been shown that love cannot be found between good and good, bad and bad, or bad and good, Socrates has the inspiration that the good is loved by something that is itself neither good nor bad (216d–e). What must be noted is that this love, to the explanation of which the rest of the inquiry is devoted, is clearly not reciprocal: what is neither good nor bad loves the good, not vice versa. It is striking that at the very heart of a dialogue which many consider to be only about friendship we have an extended analysis of an irreciprocal form of love that could not possibly be called friendship: it is indeed here that attempts to translate the word philos consistently as “friend” (such as Lombardo’s) become extraordinarily silly, if not nonsensical.36 The love discussed here seems much more nearly akin to the one-sided, unrequited desire of Hippothales than to the friendship between Lysis and Menexenus: what is neither good nor bad lacks by definition the good it loves or, to use Socrates’ own example (218a2–b3), philosophers, being neither ignorant nor wise, lack the wisdom they love. That the example of loving wisdom should appear here again for the second time in the dialogue is significant for two reasons. First, it shows that Socrates wishes to incorporate into his account of philia something that goes beyond friendship as normally conceived (we are not “friends with wisdom”). Immediately before proposing his new characterization of philia, Socrates even makes a point of identifying the good with beauty (216d2–4), an identification that clearly brings erôs into play (see Schiavone 1965, 231). Secondly, the example of loving wisdom also shows that the one-sided, irrec­ iprocal love Socrates seeks to understand has as its main object not a person, as does Hippothales’ erotic desire, but rather some imper­ sonal object: wisdom or, more generally, the good.37 On the other

36 Given his a priori assumption that the Lysis is strictly about reciprocal friend­ ship, it is no surprise that Carr (1996) finds most of the dialogue, including the lengthy analysis at its heart, irrelevant, misguided and obtuse. It is a dubious strat­ egy to base one’s interpretation of a dialogue on an assumption that renders most of it pointless. 37 Haden (1983, 349) and Bordt (1998, 184–5) suggest that the characterization of the good at 216c6f. as slippery and hard to catch alludes to Hippothales’ inabil­ ity to catch Lysis: the words Socrates uses to describe the beautiful—good can also be used to describe the body of a young boy. Thus Socrates models his account

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hand, it is clearly a person who desires this object. At 220d5–6 Socrates makes explicit what is implied throughout: that “what is neither good nor bad” refers to us. The task of the rest of the inquiry is to explain why what is nei­ ther good nor bad loves what is good, that is, why we love the good. “On account of (diã) the presence of some evil and for the sake of ( ßneka) some good” is the answer Socrates eventually works out (219a6–b2). Both parts of this explanation, however, prove faulty. The suggestion that the intermediate (as I will call for the sake of brevity what is neither good nor bad) loves the good for the sake of some good risks an infinite regress, a regress that can be stopped only by the claim that there is an ultimate good38 that is not loved for the sake of any other good but for the sake of which everything else that is loved is loved: what Socrates calls the prôton philon (219d1; and what those consistent-at-any-cost translators absurdly translate as “the first friend” [Lombardo]). Socrates makes clear that the prô­ ton philon is the only thing truly loved (élhy«w, 219d5; t“ ˆnti, 220b2): all other things called phila, being nothing more than its images (e‡dvla, 219d3–4), are phila in name only (220a7–b1). He therefore concludes that all relationships we call philiai tend towards the prô­ ton philon as their ultimate goal (220b1–3). Here we have the first important indication of the connection between the irreciprocal form of love Socrates is currently analyzing and the reciprocal love that characterizes friendship: the reciprocal love between two people which we call philia must be derived from, or based on the unreciprocated love of the prôton philon or ultimate good. But the introduction of a prôton philon presents us with a problem: if we now ask why what is neither good nor bad loves the ultimate good or prôton philon, we cannot answer: “for the sake of some other good.” This still leaves the other half of the explanation offered ear­ lier: the intermediate loves the ultimate good or prôton philon on account of the presence of evil.39 But this possible answer is rejected when Socrates shows that love of the good does not depend on the of the love of the good on the erôs of Hippothales, but thereby only makes the difference all the clearer. 38 220b7 makes clear that when Socrates in this passage talks about what is loved he is also talking about what is good. 39 Or for the sake of evil, since here the distinction between diã and ßneka, no longer serving any purpose, is dropped by Socrates: contrast 220b8, 220e4, and 221c6–7.

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existence of evil (220e6–221d2). Is there then no answer? And with­ out an answer, does not Socrates’ account of love as existing between the intermediate and the good collapse? Fortunately, Socrates proceeds to make a suggestion that saves his account, though it is left to the reader to see how. Since the prob­ lem is explaining why the intermediate desires the good, Socrates next turns to an analysis of the phenomenon of desire. His analysis is simple: we desire only what we lack; we lack only what we have been deprived of; we can be deprived of only what belongs to us; therefore, we desire what belongs to us, or to oikeion (221d6–e5). An attentive reader need only apply this analysis to the account of love that provoked it in order to arrive at the following conclusion: what is neither good nor bad loves the good because, not being itself good, it lacks the good, while, not being inherently bad (evil is present in it only in the way white dye is present in otherwise blond hair, i.e., superficially: 217c–218a), the good belongs to it. Though Socrates proceeds to raise problems with this definition of what is loved as what is oikeion, the only possibilities considered and refuted are that good is oikeion to good, that bad is oikeion to bad, and that the inter­ mediate is oikeion to the intermediate (222c3–d8). The rejection of these possibilities only serves to reveal where the real solution lies: the good is oikeion to the intermediate and loved by the intermedi­ ate for that reason. In case we fail to see this immediately, Plato helps us by having Socrates, in his concluding review of the theses that have been refuted in the course of the dialogue, forget the the­ sis that love occurs between the intermediate and the good, even though this is the thesis that has received by far the longest and most thorough analysis (222e3–7). The dialogue’s implied account of love as the desire for a good that belongs to us but is lacked by us only confirms that the love under discussion here is erôs. As is well known, the characterization of erôs as the desire for what we lack is the starting point of Diotima’s account in the Symposium. It is therefore no accident that Socrates explicitly identifies the object of his final analysis in the Lysis with erôs, as well as epithumia and philia (221e3–4). It is also no accident that Socrates explicitly applies this analysis to the relationship between erastês and paidika, something that delights Hippothales and renders Lysis and Menexenus strangely silent (222a6–b2). While the prologue simply contrasts erôs with friendship, it is natural to think that by the end of the dialogue friendship has been sacrificed to erôs.

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Yet, far from ignoring the friendship between Lysis and Menexenus, Socrates applies his final account of love to this relationship as well. Indeed, what is striking about this part of the dialogue is the way in which Socrates easily moves from the relationship between Lysis and Menexenus to the relationship between erastês and paidika, as if there were no difference between them. The explanation is that Socrates has by now eliminated what the prologue suggested to be the major difference. Socrates here tells Lysis and Menexenus that if we love what is akin to us (oikeion) and they love each other, there must exist some natural kinship between them (221e5–6). Socrates then proceeds to claim that the love of the erastês must also in this case be based on kinship and therefore must also be reciprocated (221e7–222a7). Thus, Socrates here characterizes erôs as necessarily reciprocal and in the same way and for the same reason that friend­ ship is reciprocal, a characterization that seems to eliminate any essential difference between the two. But we are still confronted with the difficult question: how is the necessary reciprocity of erôs, which Socrates affirms at the conclu­ sion of the dialogue, compatible with his earlier account of erôs as existing between the intermediate and the good, an account which, if the present interpretation is correct, Socrates does not wish to abandon? As we have seen, the erôs to which Socrates devotes so much detailed analysis is not only irreciprocal: it also is not a love between persons, but is instead our desire for some ultimate good. Indeed, what is so peculiar and even jarring about the concluding pages of the dialogue is Socrates’ sudden return to personal rela­ tionships after having focused for so long on an impersonal and irrec­ iprocal form of love. This abrupt shift in the direction of the discussion is clearly meant to provoke the reader into asking: what is the con­ nection between the love people have for some ultimate good and the love they bear each other? We have seen that Socrates’ account of the prôton philon already suggests one answer: all other forms of love ( philiai ), including, presumably, interpersonal love, are derived from the love of the prôton philon. But how derived? To find the answer we must recognize that Socrates’ shift from the analysis of love as occurring between the intermediate and the good to the discussion of love as occurring between two people is not as abrupt as might at first appear: a transition between the two is provided by the identification of what is loved with what is our own (oikeion). As we have seen, this identification both explains why

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the intermediate loves the good and provides the basis for Socrates’ claim that the love between two people must be reciprocal. But how can it do both? Is Socrates equivocating between the neuter oikeion (applied to an object that belongs to us, i.e., the good) and the mas­ culine oikeios (applied to a person with whom we are akin),40 or is there some connection here? If two people desire a common good that belongs (is oikeion) to both of them, does this not make them in an important sense akin (oikeioi ) to one another? And does not this kinship provide the basis for reciprocal love between them? If we read the dialogue with an eye to the tension between erôs and friend­ ship introduced by the prologue, this is the solution it suggests: philia, or the reciprocal love between two people, must be based on erôs understood as a shared striving for the ultimate good.41 If Hippothales sees a victory for himself here, this is only because he fails to hear Socrates’ important qualification: it is necessary, Socrates says, for a paidika such as Lysis to return the love of not just any erastês, but of a true and genuine erastês (t“ gnhs¤ƒ §rastª ka‹ mØ prospoiÆtƒ, 222a6–7). Socrates’ harsh critique in the prologue has shown that Hippothales does not qualify.42 On the other hand, Socrates in this passage is not completely rejecting the erôs Hippothales embodies but, on the contrary, is defending its claims against the unerotic reciprocity of the two boys (thus their silence).43 What Socrates seeks to show Hippothales is that his love of Lysis can become reciprocal only if he makes wisdom and virtue, rather than Lysis, the ultimate goal of his desire and gets Lysis to share this desire by refuting and humiliating him, as opposed to idolizing him. Reciprocity, as shared desire, depends on a shared object of desire. Yet what Hippothales fails to do is precisely what Socrates himself succeeds in doing, as we saw in examining the theme of competition.

40

As Robinson (1986, 76) has claimed. Kuiper argued long ago that the purpose of the dialogue is to show that, counter to common or traditional opinion, genuine philia must be founded on erôs, though he does not do enough to explain or defend this thesis (1909, 101–102; 115–6). See also Verbrugh’s correct observation that “es keine platonische Freundschaft ohne Erôs gibt” (1930, 43). Schmalzriedt’s analysis of the structure of the dialogue points towards the same interpretation (1969, 120). 42 Bordt correctly explains why: see 1998, 224–225. Kuiper, though right about the general thesis of the dialogue, is therefore wrong in claiming that Hippothales is a “verus amator” whose only error is excess in his praise of the beloved (1909, 106). 43 Contra Westermayer 1875, 21. 41

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As a result, Socrates proves to be both the true erastês and at the same time Lysis’ friend.44 The connection between the first and second motifs of the pro­ logue should at this point be clear. As we have seen, one thing the Lysis seeks to do is develop a conception of friendship that recon­ ciles its competitive nature with the idea that friends have all things in common. Ultimately what makes such a reconciliation possible is Socrates’ more fundamental reconciliation, through the notion of erotic reciprocity, between the irreciprocal character of erôs and the reciprocal character of friendship.45 In pursuing a higher good, friends do not adulate each other (as Hippothales adulates Lysis), but instead compete with each other, challenge and provoke each other. Since, however, this pursuit is one they share or have in common, and since their competition helps, rather than impedes, them in this pur­ suit, their competition is also cooperation. We now see how Socrates transforms the traditional role of erastês: as he says in the Gorgias (482a3–4), his paidika is philosophy or, with greater precision at Republic 485c, wisdom is the philosopher’s paidika.46 We thus also see how he transforms the role of pander or match­ maker: he seeks to match up his interlocutor, not primarily with

44 Schiavone, while recognizing Hippothales’ limitations, rightly interprets the dia­ logue as an attempt to salvage what is positive in the sensual and sensible aspect of erôs, and, most generally, in the Greek ideal of kalokagathia that Hippothales rep­ resents (1965, especially 214–222). Schiavone furthermore sees the athletic, erotic setting of the dialogue as confirming this interpretation (212). 45 The notion of erotic reciprocity is discussed at length by Halperin (1986) who relates it to competition in the way I do here, by observing that this notion rec­ onciles “the traditional ‘competitive’ virtues of heroic self-sufficiency with the ‘co­ operative’ virtues of civic obligation” (76). Halperin also rightly stresses the unconventional character of this notion, which is illustrated by Socrates’ reversal of the traditional erastês/paidika relationship, most notoriously in his relationship with Alcibiades, but even at the end of the Charmides: for Halperin’s discussion of these and other examples, see 68–70. However, Halperin focuses his discussion of erotic reciprocity on the Phaedrus, failing to note that this idea is more thoroughly devel­ oped and defended in the Lysis, which begins with a critique of the traditional view that erôs is not reciprocal (illustrated by the character Hippothales) and concludes with the explicit claim that erôs must be reciprocated. The Lysis also develops the view, which Halperin finds in the Phaedrus, that this erotic reciprocity is based on an irreciprocal relation between the two lovers, on the one hand, and some third object, on the other: as Halperin states the point, erotic reciprocity is based on a mutual but independent aspiration towards the Forms on the part of both lovers (75). 46 For many more examples of how Plato “borrows from conventional Athenian usage the hierarchical terminology employed to differentiate the active and passive roles in a pederastic relationship and converts it to the purpose of articulating the

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someone else, but with virtue and wisdom. We must resist, however, making Socratic love too “Platonic.”47 In the Gorgias Socrates identifies Alcibiades as his other paidika. And the dialogues, along with other Socratic literature, repeatedly give evidence of Socrates’ erotic attrac­ tion to the physical beauty of the boys with whom he converses. Socrates does not love wisdom instead of loving boys: in the words of the Phaedrus, he loves boys with philosophy.48 Furthermore, the inequality that still characterizes many Socratic conversations makes them resemble more the Greek paradigm of an erotic relationship than friendship.49 The important point, however, is this: Socrates may be erotically attracted to Lysis, but because his erôs has a higher object which he can share with Lysis, his relationship with the boy is characterized by a reciprocity and friendship not to be found in the traditional erastês/paidika relationship. Socrates may be Lysis’ lover, but not so exclusively that he cannot at the same time be his friend. An important message of the dialogue is that excessive preoccupa­ tion with an individual, of the kind we find in Hippothales, is selfpreoccupation and therefore is incapable of establishing any genuine bond with the individual; the philosopher, however, can establish such a personal bond precisely because he is preoccupied with some­ thing higher than the individual.50 It is along these lines that one must answer the objection given currency by Vlastos (1973), but articulated forcefully almost a cen­ tury earlier by L. Dugas (1894, 180–187): namely, that in Platonic love persons are loved only as means to the good and are therefore dispensable. There is without question a tension in Platonic love between love of the good and love of persons, between erôs and philia; but the Lysis shows that this is a necessary, coherent and fruitful ten­ sion. The tension cannot be resolved in favor of the good: it is true that, as Socrates argues in the present dialogue, if we were to come into full possession of the good, if we were to become perfectly good, erotic, and aggressive, nature of the philosophical enterprise,” see Halperin 1986, 71–72. See also Ziebis’ general observations on Plato’s transformation of paidkos erôs into an ethical concept (1927 41–42). 47 A mistake already made by Dugas 1894: see especially 109. 48 For an excellent account of how teaching was for Socrates inseparable from loving and being loved, see Dugas 1894, 53–59. 49 Even Carr, whose interpretation assumes that erotic love has nothing to do with philia, must admit that the philia Socrates has for the boys “shares the features of erotic love” (1996, 19). 50 See Tessitore 1990, 127.

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we would not need friends; however, this will not happen in our present human condition, which is defined as an intermediate state between good and bad.51 Nor should the tension be resolved in favor of the individual, for the reason already stated: in order truly to care for an individual’s welfare and benefit him, I need to love some­ thing higher than him, namely, the good to which he does or should aspire. This is not incompatible with loving him for who he is:52 since the good belongs or is akin (oikeion) to him, though lacked by him, I am loving him for who he is, when I join him in loving the good. Before turning to the third theme or motif, we should note that the first two motifs have revealed the same pattern: the prologue introduces traditional ideas and renders them problematic without rejecting them; the main discussion of the dialogue then serves to transform these ideas into something radically new and positive. Specifically, the prologue introduces the ideas of the agôn and erôs because the conception of friendship developed by the main discus­ sion will both adopt and correct these ideas. In Twilight of the Idols Nietzsche observes that Socrates “fascinated by appealing to the ago­ nistic impulse of the Greeks—he introduced a variation into the wrestling match between young men and youths. Socrates was also a great erotic” (“The Problem of Socrates,” sec. 8). While Nietzsche makes no reference here to the Lysis, no other dialogue better illus­ trates his point.

III. Third Motif: Hermes The third theme is the god Hermes, who represents, as we will see, an idea absolutely central to the dialogue. Hermes plays an impor­ tant role in the dramatic setting. As we are told both at the begin­ ning (206d1) and end (223b1–2), the Lysis takes place during the

51 Dugas writes: “S’il nous était donné d’atteindre cette fin [‘une fin imperson­ nelle qui est la beauté en soi’], de nous reposer dans la contemplation des essences éternelles, notre bonheur serait parfait, nous nous suffirons à nous-mêmes, nous n’aurions plus besoin d’amis” (1894, 185). But the condition must of course be denied. On p. 418, Dugas writes: “Mais quand chacune d’elles [âmes] entre en possession du Bien, elle s’attache uniquement au Bien, elle n’a plus d’autre amour.” But again, this “quand” is never, at least in this lifetime. 52 As Dugas clearly assumes: “Ainsi donc le Bien seul est aimé pour lui-même et les personnes ne sont aimées qu’en vu du Bien” (1894, 187).

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Hermaia, which were rites of Hermes celebrated in palaestrae and associated with athletic contests.53 When the dialogue begins, the boys have just been performing sacrifices (206e3–4) and, as already noted, Socrates’ initial discussion with Lysis and Menexenus is cut short when Menexenus is called away to attend to the sacrifices (207d4). The boys are described as being dressed up for the occa­ sion (206e5) and Lysis, upon his first appearance, is described as crowned with a wreath (207a1). All of these details give the dialogue a religious and celebratory atmosphere, where what is being wor­ shipped and celebrated is Hermes. A feature of the Hermaia that directly affects the action of the dia­ logue is revealed by Hippothales at 206d1–2: he tells Socrates that if he enters the palaestra with Ctesippus and begins talking, Lysis will be certain to join them, not only because he is extraordinarily fond of listening, but also because, as they are celebrating the rites of Hermes, boys (pa›dew) and young men (nean¤skoi) are all mixed together in the same place.54 We do not know from any other source why boys and young men were mixed together for the celebration of the Hermaia nor in what way and for what reason they were other­ wise segregated.55 Most likely, the segregation was meant to dis­ courage the erotic behavior which was encouraged, on the other hand, by the “mixed company” allowed during the Hermaia. As this description of the Hermaia reveals, the figure of Hermes is closely related to the other motifs we have found in the prologue. As patron god of young men and their exercises, he was closely asso­ ciated with the agôn.56 He was also seen as having a close connec­ tion to Aphrodite, to the extent that the two are later fused in the Hermaphrodite.57 Finally, the Pythagoreans associated Hermes with 53 See Farnell 1909, 31, 75–6; Deubner 1966, 217; Planeaux 2001, 64–66; and the scholion to 206d in Scholia Platonica, 456 (F. D. F. Allen, 1938). 54 Though paides and neaniskoi are clearly being distinguished here (and at 207a1; see also Symp. 211d4), they are not always kept sharply distinct, as Dover points out (1989, 85–6). Even in the present dialogue, Lysis is referred to as a neaniskos at 205b1, but as a pais at 205b8. 55 Unfortunately, the only other contemporary source for this aspect of the Athenian Hermaia, Aeschines’ speech Against Timarchus, contradicts the Lysis by cit­ ing a law (1.12) according to which the intermingling of boys and young men was prohibited during the festival. Kuiper (1909, 7–10) and Bordt (1998, 125–6, n. 287) solve the contradiction by citing E. Drerup’s reasons for condemning the law in Aeschines as spurious (i.e., supplied by a later editor). 56 See Farnell 1909, 28–30, 70–73. 57 See Farnell 1909, 12, and Burkert 1985, 220–221. Hermes’ connection to erôs

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the saying that friends have all things in common (Lualdi 1998, 63–64), another theme of the present dialogue.58 The figure of Hermes is therefore certainly at home in the dialogue’s setting. But what does it add to our understanding of the dia­ logue? James Haden (1983) has provided the most detailed account currently available of the significance of Hermes for the Lysis. Haden focuses on “the phallic aspect of Hermes” which, when combined with the mention of apertures and enclosures (i.e., the gate in the city wall and, opposite it, the open door and enclosed area of the palaestra), makes sexual intercourse, he believes, the central image of the dialogue (348–9). He then claims to find in this image the solution to the problem: is friendship between those who are like or those who are unlike? Both alternatives can be correct, Haden argues, if we look at the relationship between the penetrating and pene­ trated organs in sexual intercourse: both are identical in outline but they are also opposites in that one is full while the other is empty (351–2). If the friendship between the good (as what is full) and what is neither good nor bad (as what is empty) is understood in this way, its two terms prove to be both like and unlike. This interpretation, however, is unacceptable for the following rea­ sons: 1) Haden’s focus on the sexual connotation of Hermes is arbi­ trary, given the many other connotations which Haden himself cites. 2) In suggesting that a couple of open doors symbolize the female organ awaiting penetration Haden has certainly fallen into that “excess subjectivity and whimsicality of interpretation” (329) which he claims to want to avoid. 3) Most importantly, the image of sexual pene­ tration, far from solving anything, is completely unilluminating and even misleading. Do we really learn anything from its suggestion that the intermediate and the good are alike in outline? This claim appears meaningless. Furthermore, the characterization of what is neither good nor bad as simply an empty cavity fails to distinguish it from what is bad. Finally, the image of the male organ entering the female organ leads Haden to the mistaken conclusion that human beings can fully possess the good and thus become self-sufficient

can perhaps be traced to his original association with heaps of stones marking ways, crossroads and boundaries. The original phallic connotations of these heaps or “herms” become explicit when they are eventually equipped with phalloi: see Guthrie 1954, 89, and Burkert 1985, 156. 58 See Haden 1983, 347.

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(354–355), a conclusion that contradicts the clear suggestion of the dialogue that human beings exist in an intermediate state of being neither good nor bad. The main problem with Haden’s image, in short, is that it can image only lack and possession of the good, not the state between these two extremes. In conclusion, though the first and longest part of Haden’s paper (327–343) provides a strong defense of the need to ground the analysis of a dialogue’s conceptual con­ tent in an interpretation of its images and dramatic/literary details, his attempt to carry this out in the case of the Lysis must be judged a failure.59 To see the true significance of Hermes for the Lysis, we must, I suggest, understand Hermes in the way Burkert claims the Greeks understood him. With an eye to Hermes’ traditional association with heaps of stones or “herms” marking boundaries,60 Burkert charac­ terizes him as the “god of boundaries and of the transgression of boundaries” (1985, 158).61 This general characterization best unifies Hermes’ different functions. Burkert himself relates this characteri­ zation to Hermes’ association with the palaestra and homoeroticism: “In this shape [i.e., in the form of a young man] Hermes becomes, along with Erôs and Heracles, the god of athletic youth, of the palais­ trai and gymnasia; here the phallic, homoerotically tinged element is still very much in evidence. Adolescent youths also occupy a mar­ ginal area” (Grenzbereich, 1985, 158–9; 1977, 247). Competition, erôs and youth are all defined by boundaries and the transgression of boundaries. They are thus Hermes’ native element. Burkert’s char­ acterization of Hermes also seems to explain the feature of the Hermaia highlighted in the dialogue: the intermingling of normally sequestered boys and young adults, the transgression of the boundary between boyhood and manhood.62 Burkert’s characterization also explains additional functions of this complex god. As god of the wayfarer Hermes represents marginal existence between one place and another, the transgression of geo­ graphical boundaries. As a conveyer of messages between gods and 59

Cf. Bordt’s damning critique (1998, 125 n. 285). See Farnell 1909, 17–8; Burkert 1985, 156; 1977, 243–4. Especially detailed and helpful is Guthrie’s discussion in 1954, 87–90. 61 “Gott des Grenzbereichs und des tabubrechenden Übergangs” (246). 62 That the Hermaia could be an occasion for the transgression of social bound­ aries and hierarchies is made clear by a report of how they were celebrated in Crete: slaves would feast while their masters would serve them (Athenaeus 639B). 60

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mortals, he both preserves and transgresses the boundary between them.63 He is also a patron of shepherds who lead a “marginal exist­ ence” (Burkert 1985, 158; “Rand-Existenz,” 1977, 246); he is the patron of thieves who break the taboos of a society (this is the char­ acteristic emphasized in the Homeric Hymn to Hermes); as one who crosses even the boundary between the living and the dead, he is a protector of graves; as one who crosses the boundaries between ene­ mies or strangers, he is also the god of heralds (1985, 158; 1977, 247). In general, it seems that Hermes is a god of boundaries that both separate and relate, divide and unite, limit but invite transgression. What, then, is the relevance of Hermes as thus understood to the Lysis? This relevance becomes clear when we see that the establish­ ment of oppositions which are then mediated and thus transgressed is central to the structure and content of the whole dialogue and thus to its account of friendship. Westermayer’s study already identified contradiction/resolution as the dialogue’s formal principle of con­ struction (1875, 125).64 Furthermore, on Westermayer’s analysis the three-part structure of thesis, antithesis, and resolution is itself repeated three times (130). Hoerber (1959, 18) has drawn our attention to the proliferation of triads in the dialogue, not only in the argument, but also in the dramatic details (three places mentioned: Academy, Lyceum, the new palaestra; three age-groups; three interlocutors, both out­ side and inside the palaestra; three groupings of people within the palaestra, etc.),65 while Wolf has recently added that the dialogue’s Dreierschemata are combined with Zweierschemata (1992, 103). The pre­ dominance of dyads and triads in the dialogue reflects, I suggest, the structure of thesis, antithesis and resolution noted by Westermayer.66 This is also the way in which the contrast between odd and even, suggested, as we have seen, by the very games the boys are described as playing in the palaestra, proves central to the dialogue’s structure. 63

See Aeschylus, Choeph 124; Hymn. Hom. Herm. 576: pçsi dÉ ˜ ge ynhto›si ka‹

éyanãtoisin ımile›. 64 For the specific contradictions/resolutions identified by Westermayer (1875), see 60–61, 71–72, 85. 65 Hoerber (1959, 25–26) interprets these triads as alluding to three kinds of philia, parallel to the three kinds distinguished by Aristotle. I am suggesting that they instead allude to both the dialogue’s formal structure of thesis/antithesis/resolution and its characterization of friendship as a three-term relation. 66 Begemann’s exhaustive analysis of the logic of the Lysis also highlights the structure of “a dyad followed by a triad” in the main conversations (1960; see the English summary on 518).

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But this contrast also proves central to the dialogue’s content. The most important example of the mediation of opposites is of course the notion of the “intermediate,” which is introduced to mediate between the two opposed and faulty theses that like is friend to like and opposite is friend to opposite. This notion is thus important for­ mally. As Schmalzriedt (1969) has shown, it overcomes the thesis/antithesis structure of the argument up to this point (see especially 113–115). But it is also important materially: the intermediate is itself a mediation between good and bad and thus makes friendship a form of mediation, so that the dialogue’s structure reflects the very content of friendship, as Westermayer has shown (1875, 125). The notion of the intermediate furthermore, and most importantly, serves to make love no longer simply a relation between two people, but also a relation between these two people, defined as neither good nor bad, and some ultimate good. In other words, it transforms love from a two-term relation to a three-term relation: a love triangle, as it were. Wolf is thus right to see the groupings by twos and threes in the dialogue’s structure as reflecting the characterization of friend­ ship as the relation of two people to some third thing (1992, 118). This characterization of love as a relation between what is neither good nor bad and the ultimate good also makes it a form of medi­ ation between human beings and something more than human: a type of mediation of course represented by Hermes. Furthermore, we have seen that there are other oppositions that this characteri­ zation of love overcomes in some third alternative that constitutes a middle ground: the opposition between being alike and being opposed is overcome in the notion of being akin; the opposition between rec­ iprocal and irreciprocal love, as well as the parallel opposition between friendship and erôs, is overcome in the notion of erotic reciprocity; the opposition between competitiveness and having all things in com­ mon is overcome in the competitive pursuit of a common goal. Here we find all three motifs united in the picture of human beings competing and striving for a good that transcends them and thereby both mediating and preserving oppositions among them­ selves as well as between themselves and the divine. Furthermore, the competitiveness, erotic striving, and intermediary, wayfaring position between good and bad that characterize, more or less, all human beings are what provide the basis for genuine friendship. In this very important sense, the prologue is indeed the foundation for the account of friendship that follows.

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We have not, however, seen the full significance of Hermes for the Lysis until we note the special kinship between this god and Socrates. Two roles of Hermes that have not yet been mentioned should lead us to expect such a kinship: Hermes was very closely associated with the agora and with logos.67 In these roles he would have special significance for the man who spent most of his time in the Agora engaged in the activity of conversing with others. We are not, however, left to guess at this kinship: the very begin­ ning of the Lysis suggests it. Socrates first appears as a wayfarer, walking from the Academy straight towards the Lyceum.68 There is evidence that there were altars to Hermes in both places.69 Socrates is stopped on the way, at the spring of “Panops”: this name, mean­ ing “all seeing,” may be an epithet for Hermes, if taken to refer to his slaying of Argus, the all-seeing guardian (“Panoptês”).70 More important than these dramatic hints, however, is Socrates’ extremely important and striking claim that the knowledge of love that alone makes him useful to others comes to him by way of divine dispensation (toËto d° mo¤ pvw §k yeoË d°dotai, 204c1).71 Socrates is therefore a wayfarer in a special sense: he, like Hermes, mediates between the divine and the mortal; he communicates to mortals for their benefit that knowledge given by the gods. What this means is unclear at the beginning of the dialogue, but is explained by what follows. Socrates has a divinely inspired knowledge of love, because he divines (épomanteuÒmenow, 216d3, manteÊomai, 216d5) that the ulti­ mate object of love is a good that transcends us mortals, who are neither good nor bad. This knowledge makes him useful to others because it enables him to show them that they lack the good and 67 On the agora, see Farnell 1909, 26; Guthrie 1954, 91. On logos, see Farnell 27, 73–4; Burkert 1977, 247; 1985, 158; Lualdi 1998, 62; 186 n. 23; 201 n. 111. This association alone cannot explain Hermes’ significance in this dialogue, how­ ever, for the simple reason that logos and interpretation are equally, if not more, central to other dialogues in which Hermes is not given the prominence he receives here. 68 See Haden 1983, 346. 69 See Kyle 1987, 72, 80. 70 For this suggestion, see Race 1983, 1, and Haden 1983, 346. 71 The passage from Aeschines’ Alcibiades cited above, in which Socrates claims to benefit Alicibiades not through any skill, but through love, is preceded by Socrates’ claim that his power to benefit Alcibiades comes through divine dispensation (nËn d¢ ye¤& mo¤r& ’mhn moi toËto dedÒsyai, Giannantoni 53). Socrates’ knowledge of love is also clearly associated with divine dispensation in the Theages 128b–131a.

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thus to direct their desire towards the good. In this way he also brings people together in the pursuit of a common goal, thus play­ ing his role of “matchmaker.” Just as the dialogue has been seen to suggest that the philosopher Socrates is the true agônistês and erastês, so does it suggest that he is the true Hermes, the true mediator be­ tween humans and the divine as well as between humans themselves. Another significant passage for making the connection between Socrates and Hermes is found at the end of the dialogue. The boys’ paidagôgoi appear as daimones tines (223a2) and are described as hav­ ing gotten drunk in the Hermaia (223b1–2). Socrates too has cele­ brated the Hermaia by getting drunk, but drunk on logoi (222c2). Furthermore, through these logoi he has intoxicated the boys with the aspiration for something higher than themselves. Is not Socrates, then, the true follower of Hermes and the true daimôn in the sense defined in the Symposium 202e3–7 and used there to characterize the philosopher, i.e., in the sense of a power mediating between the human and divine? In this case it is Socrates, and not the boys’ paidagôgoi, who is the true pedagogue. What following the three motifs throughout the dialogue has shown us is not only that competition, erôs and mediation are essential to friendship, but also that Socratic dialogue, as the truest form of com­ petition, erôs, and mediation, is therefore also the truest form of friendship. While the friendship between Socrates and the boys, enacted throughout the dialogue and explicitly affirmed by Socrates at the dialogue’s conclusion, may not solve the problems that some readers bring to the dialogue, it does solve the problems dramatized in the prologue. In Socratic dialogue we see an aggressive pursuit of the good that transforms, ennobles and reconciles the boyish com­ petitiveness of Lysis and Menexenus, on the one hand, with its poten­ tial to degenerate into hostile disputation, and Hippothales’ erotic idealizing, on the other, with its potential of harming both lover and beloved. We also see in Socratic dialogue a mediation of opposi­ tions, especially that between the mortal and the divine, that adopts and transforms the role of Hermes. At the same time the argument of the Lysis tells us that these Socratic forms of competitiveness, erotic desire, and mediation are essential to friendship. Taking the pro­ logue seriously does not mean neglecting the argument in favor of the drama: it means finally interpreting these two aspects of the dia­ logue together.

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 .  IV. General Lessons for Reading the Prologues of other Dialogues

This reading of the prologue of the Lysis can provide some general lessons for reading the prologues of other dialogues. It is important, first of all, to look for general themes introduced by the prologue: not only themes explicitly addressed in the discussion, but also themes suggested by the dramatic and literary details. Secondly, we must determine what problems the prologue introduces in connection with these themes. Thirdly, we need to read the main discussion from the perspective of these problems, in the anticipation that it will, if not solve, then at least illuminate them. Of course, Plato’s dialogues are too diverse to conform to any interpretative template. Not all have prologues as rich and complex as that of the Lysis, and some seem to have no prologue whatsoever: the Meno is the notorious example (though its abrupt beginning is itself a kind of prologue that needs to be explained). Nevertheless, the manner of reading a pro­ logue illustrated here is, I think, one from which other dialogues could profit: one need only think of, for example, the prologue to the Charmides, with its themes of self-mastery and health; the extraordi­ narily long prologue to the Laches, with its central theme of educa­ tion; or the prologue to the Protagoras, with its surprising focus on erôs.72 Here I can only hope to have shown that in the case of the Lysis the profit is great. A dialogue often either explicitly pronounced a failure or brushed aside with the apologetic and condescending des­ ignation of “early” becomes one of the most rewarding and insight­ ful accounts of friendship ever written when its skillfully constructed prologue receives the careful attention it deserves. The many read­ ers who have seen the Lysis as simultaneously an artistic success and a philosophical failure have not allowed the art to inform the phi­ losophy. The prologue creates a concrete context for the philosophical arguments. Deprived of this context, the arguments become empty logical exercises. Therefore, rather than skip the prologue for the arguments, we need to approach the arguments through the fictional world created by the prologue, since only then can we truly experience what the dialogue has to show us. 72 A recent book interprets the prologue of the Charmides along essentially the same general guidelines suggested here: Schmid 1998, 1–19. And Schmid states very well the crucial point: “The prologue is part of the real philosophy, though it involves no arguments” (3). A model account of the important prologue to the Symposium can be found in Krüger 1948, 77–92.

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PLATO’S SOCRATIC MASK Ann N. Michelini

Recently scholars have begun to focus attention on the striking ways in which Plato’s texts oppose themselves to ideology and social struc­ tures traditional to Greek societies. To convert radical deviation into norm is an achievement of some magnitude, an achievement that Plato carried out through the persona of his Socrates, a figure both emblematic of the culture that the Platonic texts would displace and a figure who was also almost paradigmatically representative of deviance. The ambiguous status and perverse charm of Plato’s Socrates is a key to understanding the inherent contradictions and complex­ ity of Plato’s thought. Plato’s Socrates is a persona so vital that this figure has usually been treated as historical rather than literary. The term “presocratic,” for example, assumes the existence of a philosophical stance definable as Socratic; and scholars continue to search the dialogues for traces of genuinely Socratic material.1 This in turn implies that the dia­ logues are in some sense documents of the historical Socrates’ life. But, in the Greek fourth century, or even in later antiquity, there is little evidence of a developing genre of biography based on his­ torical principles.2 On the contrary, when we note that the thirdcentury biographer of Euripides, Satyrus, uses Aristophanes’ comedies as a major source for data about the poet’s life, it is obvious that nothing like the historical standards of Thucydides and Herodotus are being applied to narratives of famous lives.3 The gap between history and biography is partly explained by the contentious openness of Greek societies, in which agonistic contesta­ tion appeared in numerous forms.4 Polis life, especially in fifth-century 1 See Vlastos 1991, Brickhouse and Smith 1994, vii–ix; and the four-volume series in the Routledge Critical Assessments of Leading Philosophers, Prior 1996. See dis­ cussion of this tendency in Nails 1995, 53–54. 2 See Gigon 1947, 64; Lefkowitz 1981. 3 Satyrus wrote his quasi-biography in dialogue form—see Arrighetti 1964 and discussion in Wallace 1994, 131. 4 For the agonistic quality of Greek culture, see the sociological analysis of A. Gouldner 1965.

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Athens, provided an abundance of source material for biographical fiction. The right of the Athenian citizen to “say everything” ( par­ rhêsia)5 was checked by no tradition of privacy rights or libel law; and there were a number of venues in which individuals could be slandered, lampooned, travestied, or, less commonly, heroized and mythologized. The bulk of the scurrilous material came from the comic theater, where even a single embarrassing incident in a citizen’s life could expose him to repeated public ridicule.6 Increasingly in the fourth century, however, an alternate source of slanderous and often fictional material was the law courts. While the law penal­ ized false statements by sworn witnesses, the actual arguments of plaintiff and defendant were not held to any truth standards that modern courts would recognize.7 With this kind of material, once fixed by the publication of comic plays and of the speeches com­ posed for litigants by professional writers like Lysias, and given scanty public records and the absence of any journalistic tradition and few legal sanctions, the stories about the lives of Athenian citizens were quickly deformed into fictions. The tradition in Socrates’ case is particularly complex, and only one part of it is fairly consistent. Description of Socrates’ physical appearance is similar in sources as different as Aristophanes, Plato, and Xenophon. Paul Zanker, in his work on Athenian portraiture of intellectuals, has shown that the image of Socrates in both art and literature was assimilated to a conventional paradigm, that of 5 Orators use the “loss of parrhêsia” to refer to the loss of citizen rights, atimia: Aeschines Against Timarchus 14.3; Demosthenes 45.79; ps. Demosthenes 59.28; cf. 7.1. For the association of parrhêsia with Athens and democracy, see Euripides Hippolytus 422 and Ion 672, 675, as well as Phoenissae 391. See also Momigliano 1971, 518–19, and Monoson 1994, 172–85. The latter’s argument, however, that Plato honors the term and hence an ideal of democracy is not supported by the text. See also Bonner 1933, 67–85; on the personal freedom of Athenian life, see Wallace 1994, 127 and passim. 6 On comic traditions of public ridicule and abuse, see R. M. Rosen on con­ nections to earlier poetry (1988, 1–7); Patzer 1994 illustrates the patterns of slan­ der in the comic treatment of Socrates (See note 10, below). 7 David Cohen has argued that the courts were used less to search out the truth than to weigh the public influence and status of the contestants in each suit, see 1995; 86–90, 115–18, on “Litigation as Feud.” Only extreme forms of defamation were forbidden: Lysias 10 is a dikê kakêgorias (See Todd 1993, 258–62) in which the defendant is charged with making an illegal allegation of parricide against the plaintiff. The accusation was made during a previous suit in which the plaintiff had accused the defendant of desertion in combat, a charge that was also a favorite of comic poets, see Halliwell 1993, 329–31.

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the Satyr, who represented a kind of ideal ugliness, an inversion of the norms of human beauty.8 The conventional picture of Socrates’ oddity added to his satyr-like appearance bizarre and eccentric man­ nerisms, staring and eye rolling, as well as poor dress and grooming. Comic and non-comic sources picture Socrates as wearing a single garment, washing seldom, and going barefoot winter and summer.9 Socrates the Satyr is a comic figure who corresponds to the abun­ dant comic attacks on the historical Socrates.10 The taste of the Greeks for balancing opposites was reflected in strong opposing tra­ ditions of comic or defamatory poetry (Archilochus or Aristophanes) and encomiastic or elevated poetry (Homer or tragedy).11 In Socrates’ case a defamatory comic portrait became more complex when, in the newer genre of the Socratic dialogue, the tide of slander was countered by one of encomium. We may be tempted to wonder what there was about Socrates’ life that generated the voluminous Socratic literature.12 But, given the absence of a tradition of biog­ raphy, that question may rest on a wrong assumption. The researches of Mario Montuori (1992) and Olof Gigon (1947) suggest that the impulse may have come less from Socrates’ life than from his death. A death sentence for deviant thought was almost unheard-of in the open Athenian society;13 and this anomaly supported stories, plausi­ ble enough, that Socrates’ death sentence was provoked by his behav­ ior in court and was only carried out because he refused to go into exile. Acceptance of death in the service of moral principle may have been rare in Athenian courts; but it was a familiar theme of fifth-century tragic drama, exemplified in such famous figures as the Antigone of Sophocles, or the Alcestis and Iphigenia of Euripides.14 8

Zanker 1995, 34–36, 61–62. For lack of sandals and odd eye mannerisms, see Clouds 362–63. See Patzer (1994, 61) on comic references to Socrates’ tribôn, worn without undergarment (chitôn) or cloak; see also note 10, below. 10 See Patzer’s detailed treatment of references to Socrates in comic fragments (1994). He analyses the comic code of defamation that jumps from Socrates’ cloth­ ing as an indication of poverty, to the typically defamatory conclusion that Socrates is a beggar or a thief, who tries to steal the cloaks of others (70). 11 On the complementary social functions of praise and blame in early Greek poetry, see Detienne 1996, 46–52, and Nagy 1999, Ch. 12, 222–42. 12 On the extent of this literature, see Nails 1995, 11–22; Kahn 1996, 1–35. 13 On the rarity of severe penalties against intellectuals, see Dover 1976. Wallace 1994, argues that most prosecutions, including that against Socrates, had clear polit­ ical or public motivations. 14 See Michelini 1987, 91–92 and Schmitt 1921. 9

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Socrates’ death translated a tragic invention into contemporary life; and, having become a mythic figure, Socrates proceeded to gener­ ate a new, heroizing literature. Socrates’ martyr persona became the anchor point for a genera­ tion of thinkers. Collectively, the Socratic writers were attempting to replace traditional moral norms that had been weakened by the attacks of the fifth-century enlightenment; and, individually, they struggled to appropriate the contested term philosophia.15 Since Socrates produced no written work, and given the “biographical” sources dis­ cussed above, the historical Socrates can be known to us, and indeed was known to the Athenians of the fourth century, largely through the images generated by Socratic, or anti-Socratic, literature. The works of Plato’s rivals, except for Xenophon, have been lost; but even indirect and fragmentary evidence indicates that the theories and ideas of the various Socratics circled around similar questions but arrived at very different answers. The disagreements among Plato, Antisthenes, and Aristippus on the value of pleasure would be a good example.16 How could the Athenians separate “Socrates” from his diverse portrayals by comic poets, rhetoricians,17 not to mention the Socratics—Aeschines, Plato, Xenophon, Antisthenes, Phaedo, and the rest? Any conclusions about the real man must be drawn with extreme caution: the Socratic texts present only an image, reflected in a kalei­ doscopic series of rival portrayals. What did Plato then make of this stock figure, the comic/tragic Socrates who was a conventional feature of the Socratic genre?18 The attempt to set Plato’s Socrates apart from others is difficult, given that most of the rival works have been lost. It does seem significant, however, that, while Plato’s Socrates resembles the Socrates of Aeschines of Sphettus in his disclaimers of any expertise except in “erotics,”19 the Socrates of Xenophon is considerably more knowl­

15

On contestation of this term in the 4th century, see Nightingale 1995, 13–21. See Gigon 1947, 39–41; Kahn 1996, 7, 15ff. Nails (1995, 22) compares the attempt to reconstruct “Socratic” ideas from the Socratics with an attempt to con­ struct Wittgenstein’s philosophy (supposing the texts lost) from the contentious views of those who studied with him. 17 One Polycrates showed his ingenuity by composing a prosecution speech to counter Socratic apologiai: Giannantoni 1983–85, 1.D39. 18 See Clay on the blend of comic and tragic, serious and laughable in Plato’s Socrates (1983, 199). 19 See Kahn 1996, 21–22. 16

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edgeable, imparting sage advice to friends, and poring over books with them.20 If the claims of ignorance so prominently featured in Platonic texts were not a mandatory part of the Socratic tradition, then Plato’s emphasis on this characteristic becomes highly significant, especially in light of the contradictions and puzzles that it generates. Not only the looks, mannerisms, and dress of Plato’s Socrates vio­ late the norms of his culture: his social posture and his manners are equally or perhaps even more aberrant. Plato’s Socrates is notable for a “low posture” that matches and reinforces his claims of igno­ rance and complements his familiar unprepossessing exterior. Modesty, especially when exaggerated to the level of self-abasement, Socrates’ eirôneia,21 is anomalous in Greek societies, where self-assertion and self-advertisement were encouraged by competitive social practices. A clear account of Socrates’ polite irony appears in Phaedrus (268e1–3), when Socrates contrasts the “harsh” way to reply to someone who is very mistaken about his knowledge (“You’re crazy!”) with the “gen­ tler” way. In this gentler way the one in error is called Ô ariste; and his mistake is revealed in a kindlier manner: he knows something, but not what is needed. This mode of address is of course typically Socratic: it appears in the dialogues over and over again, as Socrates confronts a wide variety of mistaken persons with exaggerated cour­ tesy or eirôneia.22 The anomalous courtesy of Plato’s Socrates, like his disregard for the niceties of appearance, suggests a cohesive system of values that inverts normal standards: as Alcibiades points out in Symposium (221d7–222a6), Socrates’ value is internal, not external, mental and moral, not economic or political. This inversion, exaggerated in Plato, is likely to have been somewhat conventional in Socratic literature: Socrates’ aberrancy, after all, is what makes him interesting and

20 See Memorabilia 1.6.14: Socrates teaches his friends gratis whenever he has something good to give them, and he selects valuable extracts from books (ka‹ toÁw

yhsauroÁw t«n pãlai sof«n éndr«n, ow §ke›noi kat°lipon §n bibl¤oiw grãcantew, énel¤ttvn koinª sÁn to›w f¤loiw di°rxomai, ka‹ ên ti ır«men égayÚn §klegÒmeya.) See

Morrison 1994, 207. 21 The eirôn pretends weakness or incompetence in order to deceive: for the spe­ cial quality of this in Socrates, see Vlastos 1991, 21ff. and Boder 1973, 12–25; also Michelini 1998a. 22 Halliwell (1995, 105–06) and Dickey (1996, 109–22) have shown that Socrates uses these honorifics precisely at awkward moments in elenchus, when he is show­ ing an opponent his errors. For the way in which eirôneia can become stinging in encounters with rude or aggressive opponents, see Michelini 1998a.

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intriguing.23 While different Socratics defined the new morality in different ways, their stance must uniformly have encouraged a prin­ cipled and comprehensive change in values and behavior. Turning— or exhorting—somebody to virtue or philosophy, protrepein eis aretên/ philosophian, is a cliché of later philosophic traditions and is repeated again and again in Xenophon and the fourth-century rhetorician and moralist, Isocrates.24 There are traces of this traditional pro­ treptic in Plato’s Apology, where Socrates pictures himself as scolding an anonymous Athenian, “Aren’t you ashamed to take care to get as much money, fame, and honor as possible, yet take no care or concern for wisdom, truth, and the improvement of your soul?” (29d9–e3) But, in the dialogues, Socrates never sounds this note of sincere, didactic moralism.25 His professed ignorance, his exagger­ ated modesty, and his irony preclude Plato’s Socrates taking such a stance.26 In spite of the evident protreptic aims of Platonic dialogues,27 pro­ treptic vocabulary and conversionary talk is oddly absent from all Plato’s works except Euthydemus. Only in this dialogue do Socrates and his friend Crito focus on the problem of exhorting young men to follow virtue (275a1–2, 307a2). Socrates recounts his rather quixotic attempt to persuade two visiting sophists to turn the boy Clinias toward philosophy; and he himself offers an “amateur” version of protreptic that follows the traditional pattern of praising philosophy as the key to happiness and success.28 Yet Euthydemus, Plato’s closest approach to conventional protreptic discourse, locates this discourse in a very strange environment, one dominated by the comic view of Socrates, who descends to a virtual parody of his usual modesty, as he pretends awe at the jejeune conceits of a pair of particularly 23 See Eide 1996 on Platonic descriptions of Socrates as atopos, “strange” or “incomprehensible.” Socrates was not the only eccentric to attract interest in the 5th century, see Gigon 1947, 65–68. 24 Isocrates: To Nicocles 8; Nicocles 57; Panegyricus 75; Euagoras 77; On the Peace 145; Antidosis 60, 84. Xenophon: Memorabilia 1.4.1, 1.2.64, 3.5.3, 3.5.7; Education of Cyrus 2.2.14. 25 See Slings 1999, 141–46; and discussion in Michelini 2000c, 531–32. 26 Cf. Schaerer: Socrates is always different with each interlocutor and he is “jamais sincère”: 1938, 54. 27 See Gaiser 1959, 14–17. 28 The adjective protreptikos is naturally more closely associated with philosophical usage and does not seem to appear in other contexts. It is used twice in Euthydemus and nowhere else in Plato (278c5, 282d6). For a more detailed treatment of pro­ treptic in that dialogue see Michelini 2000c, 512–14.

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unprincipled and shallow opponents, the brothers Euthydemus and Dionysodorus. When Socrates deifies these fakers with exaggerated flattery, he cuts a very odd figure indeed.29 What is most disturbing is the similarity between Socrates and his opponents. This is the only dialogue in which Socrates meets opponents who practice the same brand of elenchus that he does, the brief exchange of question and answer that is both unfamiliar and uncongenial to other professionals, Protagoras, Thrasymachus, Polus, or Hippias, that Socrates encounters.30 It is strange to frame an exhortation to practice elenctic phi­ losophy with a parody of the very philosophic method that is being recommended. Socrates performs before a crowd who receive the brothers’ tricks with adulation, at least so he reports (303b1–7); and, except for the rather dubious help of Ctesippus, there is no one present to take Socrates’ side. Both Crito and a shadowy acquaintance of Crito’s, are critical of Socrates’ behavior in associating with such opponents.31 It seems evident that Socrates is trying to present a contrasting pic­ ture of serious philosophy and to defend Clinias and Ctesippus against the corrupting influence of charlatans;32 but, as often in Plato, it is not apparent that he is very successful in what he is attempting. It seems that, in the wrong setting, the difference between Socrates and a “Sophist” may be difficult to discern.33 A similar failure has been noted in Socrates’ attempt to win over the young amoralist Callicles in Gorgias: as the dialogue proceeds, Socrates’ increasing earnestness and urgency is matched by Callicles’ retreat, as the latter exchanges his flippant opening mood for sullen acquiescence or outright silence. If Socrates’ desire to persuade Callicles was sincere, he has certainly failed.34 Socrates’ exaggeratedly comic behavior in Euthydemus demon­ strates a problem: seriousness is not always best served by sincerity,

29 See Friedländer 1958–69, 1:145: The dialogue resembles a “Punch and Judy show” and Socrates “like a cheap comedian, . . . pretends to be a slave to their wis­ dom.” 30 See Protagoras 334c–338b, Hippias Minor 369b7–c8, Gorgias 461d2–462b3, Republic 337e–338a. 31 See Michelini 2000c, 528–30. 32 See Chance 1992, 78–79, 140, 166. 33 For Socrates’ “sophistic” characteristics, see Derrida 1972, 123; for Socrates’ similarity to various Sophistic types in Sophist, see S. Rosen 1983; 64–65, 130–31, 313. 34 See discussion of Socrates’ educational failure by Arieti 1991, 1993. For sug­ gestion that, in Gorgias, Socrates’ motives may have been more punitive than edu­ cational, see Michelini 1998a.

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while irony inevitably risks misunderstanding. Plato’s text manifests the drive toward conversion, traditional to Socratic texts, in a curi­ ously involuted and reluctant way that contrasts with the more naive and direct stance that protreptic would appear to require. Socrates’ reluctance to be straightforward derives from problems in presentation that accompany a particular Platonic version of philosophia that eventually obscured the other ways of “wisdom-loving” promulgated by Plato’s contemporaries.35 Recent researchers have underscored the radicalism of this vision, with its comprehen­ sive and unparalleled vision of politics, metaphysics, and literature.36 It is a world whose very structure polemicizes for Platonic philosophia and those who would practice it; but it is a world that might seem alien, even irrelevant to outsiders. The Platonic concept of the suprasensible world of the Forms is a far stretch of the imagination, and— as Plato himself showed—one that brings with it many philosophical puzzles. What can motivate the acceptance of an ontology so radi­ cal that, almost like Parmenides’, it seems to set the normal world upside down? Why should anyone accept this notion of an unseen world more valuable than what we know, see, and touch each day?37 What could arouse interest in this bloodless, apparently duplicative phantom world? Apprentice philosophers can reach the point of wanting to understand this world only through a dialectical process, by working through the puzzles that Parmenides left behind, by finding themselves again and again at the point of aporia, frustrated at their inability to isolate anything true, trustworthy, and genuine in the world that they know.38 This lengthy experience of frustra­ tion would help to justify the radicalism of Platonic ontology, reli­ gion, and politics. The dialogues can recreate an image of this experience for non-philosophers, and thus can begin to suggest why Platonic concepts could be valuable. Zeno, Plato claimed, attempted to support Parmenides with negative arguments, attacking common 35

Cf. the work of Szlezák on Plato’s continual employment of tropes of secrecy and concealment (e.g., 1985). 36 T. Gould 1990, 22–28 (on religion), Patterson 1985 (on metaphysics), Kahn 1996 (on politics). 37 See Patterson 1985, 71: “His insistence on applying the term ‘F ’ . . . to invis­ ible Forms located nowhere at all is the linguistic arm of Plato’s attack on the received view of reality. . . . His aim is to radically transform our view of the status of worldly things vis à vis these intelligible realities.” 38 Cf. Erler 1987, 75–92, on the necessity for a prolonged exposure to Platonic tactics and practice in elenchus, as well as Szlezák’s paper in this volume.

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sense notions and making nonsense of them (Parm. 128c5–d2). In a sense, this is the method of the Platonic texts; and Socrates, with his claims of ignorance and his endless, aporetic search for precision and truth, is the ideal figure to reveal the common-sense world as a series of intractable problems.39 Before any student could begin to understand the solution sug­ gested by these texts, however, more than fascination and frus­ tration would be needed: the system of proportional value—the hierarchical relation among the Forms, sensible objects, and imitations—is linked to logical and even mathematical concepts that would be both unclear and unconvincing to the uninitiated.40 The sheer difficulty of this way of thinking and arguing creates a natural bar­ rier separating insiders from initiates. The dialogues, writings intended in part for outsiders, reflect the resulting necessity for indirection and approximation. Charles Kahn has rightly pointed out that in the Seventh Letter Plato’s description of his intellectual development centers on politi­ cal activity, on the hope of making concrete changes in society (1996, 48–51). The radicalism of Platonic ontology and politics is supported by a grandiose protreptic rhetoric that elevates the practitioner of Platonic philosophia over all others, in this life and the next. The soul, which in Plato is an intellectual element, is the ruling part in a hier­ archy internal to the human psyche; and it is also the faculty through which human beings can apprehend and approach the cosmic hier­ archy, assimilating themselves to the divine.41 Because the transcen­ dent superstructure can be apprehended only intellectually,42 the authority of those who possess the ability to think abstractly, that is, philosophers, is inscribed in the structure of the universe. The hierarchy in Platonic metaphysics that links and separates ar­ tistic representation, real thing, and ideal abstraction places literary 39 See Eide 1996, 63–64, on the close association between Socratic atopia and the aporia that Socratic discussion produces. 40 On the ability to master analogical and mathematical thought as a necessary prerequisite for the study of Platonic concepts, see Gaiser 1968, 12 and passim; and, on Plato’s relation to the history of mathematical scholarship, 296ff. 41 Cf. indications in Phaedrus and elsewhere that immortal bliss is reserved for those who practice true philosophia; and see Gaiser 1968, 25: the soul “vereinigt . . . den ganzen Seinzusammenhang in sich” and (43) “alle gegensätzlichen Eigenschaften als ‘Bestandteile’ in sich schliessen soll (so dass sie zu allem in Beziehung treten kann).” 42 Cf. emphasis on the metaphorical “vision” of that which is by definition not available to sight, Phaedrus 247c6–d1.

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and visual art at two removes down the analogical ladder from phi­ losophy, which concerns itself with objects that exist on an inde­ scribably higher plane.43 The Platonic attack on poetry, implied everywhere but most explicit in Republic and Ion, was a gesture of enormous significance, since traditional poetic practice was deeply rooted in Greek societies. The remarkable freedom, or the chaotic disorganization, of Greek cultural institutions was a product of social habits especially dominant in Athens, the practice of open, public competition in all areas of life. In order to change the production of poetry, it would be necessary to alter the social system that pro­ duced it, controlling speech and expression to a degree unexampled in Greek experience. It is this intellectual control that necessarily entails Platonic prescriptions for social control. Republic, as a dialogue focused on government, makes quite explicit the link between the open Greek social structures and the prerogatives of the poets. Abolishing the latter will require the establishment of a kind of cen­ tral authority alien to polis society, and especially to Athens.44 In attacking poetry, Platonic texts challenged the very existence of a society in which cultural expression could not be dominated by polit­ ical or social elites.45 The social position of intellectuals, and particularly poets, in clas­ sical Greece differs in significant ways from that of intellectuals in modern societies. The sociologist Pierre Bourdieu argues that mod­ ern intellectuals constitute a “dominated fraction of the dominant class”; that is, they lack the power and wealth of the dominant group, which they serve and some of whose privileges they share.46 Bourdieu 43 See Dalfen 1974, 203: by denying the status of technê to poetry, Plato places it on a rung below the crafts, while adding above both a higher rung, for philos­ ophy. On this central metaphor or analogy, see Patterson, 1985, 26 and passim; Thesleff 1999 documents the pervasive presence in Platonic texts of “pairs of assy­ metric contrasts” (11–25). 44 On relation of political concerns to control of poets, see Dalfen 1974, 15, 20 (the historic relation of poets to the dêmos). Büttner’s more recent treatment of Platonic texts on literature (2000) seems to me to add little to Dalfen’s; B. is con­ cerned to prove that some place will be left in the ideal state for poetic work, but in the process he shows the narrowness of the slot that could remain. 45 The grounds of the attack are religious; see discussion in T. Gould 1990, who, however, attributes the eudaemonist ethic to the historical Socrates (8–18). On the “quasi-axiomatic” function of certain religious assumptions in Platonic ontology and politics, notably that caring and benevolent divinities superintend and plan human existence, see Büttner 2000, 146. 46 For the terminology see Bourdieu 1990a, 140–44, “The Intellectual Field”; also, 1984, 233, 260.

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describes human societies as a complex of “fields,” including those occupied by different groups who acquire status through intellectual skills. Fields are contested areas in which competitive and coopera­ tive “games” take place. The effectiveness of the fields in moulding human beings lies in what Bourdieu calls “illusio,” the mental and emotional involvement that leads participants to invest in particular socially structured activities.47 In Plato’s effort to build and define the new field of intellectual endeavor that was his philosophia, an important element was the protreptic power of the dialogues, their ability to arouse enchantment, fascination, erôs, to create the “illu­ sio” that would inspire dedication to a difficult and time-consuming discipline. Boudieu’s account of modern intellectuals may also have some application to the scribal class of complex ancient near-Eastern soci­ eties such as Egypt or Babylon.48 In Greece, however, intellectuals and particularly the paradigm intellectuals, poets, operated consid­ erably more freely than ancient scribes, or than modern university professors. The top or Panhellenic class of poets had many venues through which to acquire prestige. They traveled widely, sometimes accepting the patronage of dictators, sometimes employed to per­ form at private or publicly financed festivals in various city-states, and sometimes competing at Panhellenic sites such as Delos or Delphi.49 In addition, in the archaic period, locally-based statesmen such as Solon, men associated with political reform, wars, or colony foundations, functioned as political leaders who could construct pop­ ular ideology through their performances.50 The coalescence of pub­ lic festival and poetic performances, e.g., in choral lyric and tragedy, as well as the role of epic poems in shaping religious and “histori­ cal” knowledge,51 indicate that these societies gave a remarkably

47

On modern intellectual classes see Bourdieu 1990a, and 1990b, 66–67. See Kemp 1989, 111 on the elite position of the scribal class. 49 Dalfen (1974, 15–16) remarks on the tendency of poets to travel and shows that they are frequently characterized as foreign in-comers in Platonic texts. On the poet’s status as a “socially mobile” dêmiourgos, privileged to travel from one polis to another, see Nagy 1989, 19; on the changes in the poets’ role with the emer­ gence of a monetary economy, see Nagy 19–21. 50 See Martin 1993, on “The Seven Sages as Performers of Wisdom”; Martin sees these figures as antecedents to Socrates (124). 51 E.g., the astounding statement of Herodotus (2.53) on Greek religion: Homer and Hesiod were the ones who “gave names to the gods, described their functions and skills, and indicated their appearances.” See Dalfen 1974; 7, 28. 48

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central place to intellectuals. The “ancient quarrel between poetry and philosophy,” invented by Plato, is intended to win this place for the new intellectuals, those who would have mastered the techniques of dialectic.52 But philosophers are not poets: they do not have the enchanting appeal of music, dance, spectacle, and meter to win over the public.53 The public, in fact, as we have seen, could hardly be expected to understand or appreciate the esoteric activities of Platonic philosophers. The protreptic urgency of Plato’s texts is driven by this problem. The technique of the dialogues is to keep the fictional discussants arguing on, keep them loving the logos and following its perverse path through their talk, while the texts hint at the solution that hangs, half-hidden, just beyond the reach of the participants.54 The aberrancy of Socrates is countered by and justified by the charm of this odd figure. A formidable satirist in his encounters with the pompous, with innocent and shy adolescents like Lysis, Charmides, or Clinias, Socrates is warm, gentle, and playful. With his more inti­ mate friends, he is teasing and funny. The charm and sophistication of the banter in dialogues like Republic, Protagoras, Symposium, and Phaedrus gives the sensation of inclusion in the best of social worlds, a world whose urbane social interaction may have been somewhat unfamiliar in the agonistic Athenian society. Plato’s portrait of Socrates enchants the reader, while at the same time confirming that, among knowledgable intimates, this apparently unappealing personage is loved and revered as he deserves to be. Many of Socrates’ flights of self-depreciation are strongly countered by accolades from a friend or acquaintance, as in Laches or Symposium, where Socrates is praised by individuals of the highest social and intellectual status. The aesthetic charm of the dialogues and the personal charm of Socrates combine to win over outsiders and instill in them the desire

52 Republic 607b5, palaiå diaforã. On the invention of this “ancient quarrel,” see Nightingale 1995, 60–67. See also Gould 1990, 12, on Plato’s attacks and their cultural significance: “Removal of all that Plato found objectionable would take the heart out of . . . much of the best of the whole western tradition”; see also Ferrari 1989, 141. 53 Dalfen (1974; 19–20, 164–67, 262–65) shows that the ability of poetry to “charm” constitutes an appeal to pleasure that Platonic texts often characterize as inherently dangerous. 54 On the presentation of aporiai in one dialogue that can be solved with mate­ rial presented in another, see Goldschmidt 1988, 62–75.

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to become insiders, to master the philosophical game. But, at the same time, these texts operate to provide those already committed to the game with support, by creating myths about the intellectual that can salve the pain of social rejection with assurances of superiority.55 Socrates himself is the paradigm exemplar of the scorned, underestimated intellectual who turns the tables on his adversaries: even Alcibiades, who possesses all the social advantages that Socrates lacks, acknowledges his superiority. Ugly on the outside, Socrates hides something beautiful and divine within. The contest between Callicles and Socrates in Gorgias, between Socrates and the Athenians in Apology, or even between Socrates and his worldly friend Crito in Crito and Phaedo, are mimetic enactments that confer authority on the intellectual’s way of life. The most striking and famous exam­ ple, however, must be Republic’s famous myth of the Cave. This myth explains away the ineptitude of the intellectual in ordinary life by turning the tables. While it would be natural to suppose that philoso­ phers and other followers of the bios theorêtikos are observers and not participants in activity, the myth assures us that it is really ordinary people who are passive and remote, absorbed in a trivial game of analyzing signs and images. The true reality, the rockier rocks, the clearer water, the brighter sun, belong to the intellectual, who can ascend from the Cave to the Ideal. By an exquisitely cunning device, Socrates’ irony and false mod­ esty, and the misinterpretation to which these traits expose him, cor­ respond precisely to another problem, that of the written text, which, Socrates points out in Phaedrus (275e1–3), wanders around, falls into the wrong hands, and is liable to be misinterpreted. It is hard to avoid seeing the polemic against literature mounted in that dialogue and in Republic as in part a polemic of the dialogues against them­ selves and therefore a kind of eirôneia. The dialogues, as Derrida sug­ gested, are very much like their primary protagonist, Socrates.56 Like him, they are better examples of an inherently bad class: like their protagonist, the dialogues hide good things under a façade of incon­ sequence and badinage; and like him they could be mistaken, for

55 On the dialogues as designed for reading and study within Plato’s circle, see Erler 1987, 286–88. 56 Derrida describes Socrates as, like writing itself, a supplement or substitute, 1972, 133–46, 177.

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very good reasons, for the truly bad and corrupt, for drama in their case, for a deceptive “Sophist” in his. The status of the dialogues and of Socrates can also be illumi­ nated by the analogy of the laws, those most unsatisfactory substi­ tutes for political wisdom. The dialogue Statesman, as it weaves back and forth between ideal and real political models, gives a full explo­ ration of the paradoxical nature of legalism. Laws, specifically char­ acterized as written texts, are rigid and inflexible, an inadequate imitation of the political authority that would belong to the posses­ sor of genuine political knowledge. Yet, in ordinary political life, laws, however inauthentic and undependable, are the sole source of political order.57 If the analogy holds, the dialogues, in spite of their inferiority as written texts, might be very valuable as the best sub­ stitute we have for the authentic experience of Platonic dialectic. Socrates, too, might be a precious substitute for the direct experi­ ence of intellectual authority, which, like the face of the sun or the Form of the Good, must remain veiled.58 Without stating it, the texts induce readers to guess that such authority might be possessed by the author Plato. The implied authorial persona, the “Plato” projected by the works, is marked mainly by an absence; but this absence has not prevented readers from hearing a Platonic voice in the dialogues. When, in longer and more ambitious dialogues, Plato’s Socrates suddenly speaks in a more authoritative voice that contrasts with his claims to “know nothing,” centuries of readers have been greatly tempted to hear the voice of “Plato” coming through, as the Socratic coating thins out.59 To assume, however, that this thinning is unplanned or accidental is to fall into another Platonic snare.60 The dialogues in many different

57

See Michelini 2000b, 188–90, on Statesman 294a–297c. See Derrida 1972, 193: “De même que . . . Socrate supplée le père, de même la dialectique supplée la noesis impossible, l’intuition interdite de la face du père (bien-soleil-capital).” 59 One of the best formulations of this literary problem is that of Schaerer 1938, 9–14. See also Cohn 2001, who remarks that the focal importance of Socrates “pres­ sures the reader, who may find it difficult not to attribute to Socrates the . . . author’s truth” but points out that resisting this pressure can bring critical rewards (496). 60 For an example of this approach, see Kraut’s introduction to the recent Cambridge Companion to Plato: in “later” dialogues, Plato moves beyond Socrates and begins to find his own voice (1992b, 6–9). I would, however, agree with Kahn (1996, xv) that what we trace in the dialogues is not so much the development of Plato’s thought as “ the gradual unfolding of a literary plan.” 58

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ways impose a hermeneutic task on the reader, in part by stimulat­ ing an unending search for Plato’s voice. But, if Plato’s texts pre­ tend to be, like Socrates himself, modest and unassuming, this eirôneia by no means extends to the implied author, “Plato.” 61 In Phaedrus writings are called “playthings” or “games” ( paidiai ), equivalent to drinking parties for the cruder sorts (276d); but the author’s trivial­ ization of his work may serve to enhance his own prestige. The first half of Phaedrus offers extreme examples of bravura passages in a style so daring and lofty as virtually to command admiration. When the same text later depreciates literary works, the reader will be forced to conclude that the “serious” work of such a gifted author as this “Plato,” his timiôtera (278d8), must be on a level almost beyond comprehension. The reader may suspect that the hidden author tran­ scends his text, almost as the suprasensory world of the Forms tran­ scends ordinary reality. The implied contrast between “Plato” and his alter-ego extends in many directions. To the picture of Socrates, with all its eccen­ tricities and oddness, we may oppose another, that of the perfect Athenian gentleman, the kalos k’agathos. The confident aristocrat needs neither bravado nor humility, his grooming is perfect without being fussy, his manners impeccable, his appearance conventionally hand­ some, and his body perfectly toned by athletic work. Paul Zanker has shown that fifth-century statues of famous intellectuals aimed to project this image, rather than a portrait of the individual.62 This is in fact the supremely normative image projected by indirect hints for “Plato,” the implied author. Several dialogues feature members of Plato’s family; and in each case the subject is praised for his dis­ tinguished family connections. Charmides, for instance, features Plato’s maternal uncle, in the prime of his youth, when he was an object of erotic adoration to boys and to men. Socrates effusively praises the boy’s family, saying “I don’t think anyone here would easily be able to point out two households in Athens that might come together

61 See Booth 1983, 71–76: the “implied author” is “inevitably” constructed out of the text by the reader (71); the reader seeks to know where in the world of val­ ues the author wants him to stand (73). In a philosophical text, this desire of the reader will obviously be particularly strong, in spite of—or even because of—what Platonic texts do to frustrate it. See discussion in Cohn 2001, 497. 62 Zanker 1995, 22–31, on decorum in fifth-century statuary, even in a depiction of the sympotic poet Anacreon; on normative style and lack of individual charac­ teristics in fourth-century portraits of Plato and others, 40–50.

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to produce nobler and better offspring that the ones from which you came” (157e1–4). On the paternal side, Socrates cites an ancestor, Kritias, son of Dropidas. Dropidas, as we are also told in Timaeus, was a friend of Solon (20d–e); and Socrates reports that the family was celebrated by him and by other poets for beauty and virtue (Charmides 157e4–158a1). On the maternal side, Socrates recalls that Charmides’ maternal uncle, Pyrilampes, was famous for his impos­ ing good looks (158a2–6). Plato’s stepfather had the same name and is likely to have been either a close relation to this man, or the man himself.63 The emphasis on physical beauty in Plato’s maternal rel­ atives creates an obvious implied contrast with the famously ugly Socrates. In Republic the paternal side of Plato’s family is represented by his two brothers, Glaucon and Adimantus. At one point, admir­ ing their brilliance, Socrates quotes a line of poetry praising them as “sons of Ariston, divine breed of a famous father” (368a1–4). Of course, this praise sheds a reflected glow on “Plato,” the implied author. These references—and others praising the descent of other characters in the dialogues64—establish distinguished lineage as a matter of great importance. By indirection, they locate the author “Plato” in the highest social class—in contrast to the lowly Socrates, who—whether seriously or jokingly, the effect is the same—boasts in one dialogue that his mother worked as a midwife and a mar­ riage broker.65 Other contrasts between “Plato” and his favorite persona are even more obvious.66 Socrates notoriously writes nothing and has no teach­ ings to impart. “Plato” is an amazingly prolific author—presumably he does have something to impart. “Plato” is an author who con­ ceals himself behind his mimetic works and prefers to address him­ self to the knowledgeable, while Socrates, as Vlastos pointed out, goes about in public places, sharing his thoughts with many nonexperts,67 often, as in Euthydemus, in hostile settings and with poor results. A further contrast is imposed by the fact that the dialogues

63

See Davies 1971, 329–30, on the evidence for Pyrilampes’ career and life. Lysis 204e, Euthydemus 275a9–11. 65 Theaetetus 149a–150a. 66 An important article by Graham (1992) has anticipated some of the points I have been making, referring to irreducible differences between the master (Socrates) and his publicist (Plato), and arguing that Plato’s treatment of Socrates is complex and may include veiled criticisms (151–56). 67 Vlastos 1991, 107. 64

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always recreate a setting and time that are not the author’s own. Socrates belongs to this time, as Plato does not. Through the tra­ ditions of the Socratic genre, the uncanny personality of Socrates provided a convenient founding figure for a number of philosophic traditions. Since no texts existed from Socrates’ own hand, his genius could preside over an author’s new ideas, without raising the possi­ bility that the Socratic writer’s achievement could be overshadowed by those of his predecessor.68 In Plato’s case, especially, ascription of the origin of his ideas to a fifth-century figure gave a reassuring his­ torical depth to a daringly innovative world view. As with the fiction of the “ancient quarrel” between the new philosophia and traditional poetry, Socratic authorship functioned to obscure the extent to which Platonic concepts represented a repudiation of the Greek past. The fifth century from the perspective of the fourth was already viewed with nostalgia, as a period of Athenian economic, military, artistic, and cultural power and glory. The orators, with their demo­ cratically oriented stance give us the nostalgia pure, while, the gen­ erally anti-democratic texts of Plato, Isocrates, Xenophon and Aristotle, viewed the glory, and its decline, with a certain ambivalent hostility.69 Through Platonic dialogues we are placed back in a past that is both questionable and glamorous; and as usual Socrates is the mediator. Aberrant in behavior and outrageously irritating to his bet­ ters, Socrates could hardly exist anywhere but in fifth-century Athens, whose turbulent intellectual life he epitomizes. But, of course, Socrates is critical of the democracy; and, because of this, his existence in Athens was eventually to end violently. By setting up this strange figure as representative of philosophia, the dialogues create a contrast with all the famous intellectuals who were Socrates’ contemporaries and whose work “Plato” seems to attack. As in the process that psy­ chologists call “splitting,” in which a parent may be separated into two personas in the eyes of a child, one lovable and one hated, these sophistai are depicted as false, inauthentic, and morally corrupt, while all the virtues of the great age are embodied by Socrates. The tragic story of Socrates’ trial and condemnation is one of the primary martyr myths of the Western tradition. Martyrdom for 68 Cf. Graham (1992, 151): “By bringing Socrates to life, Plato becomes his suc­ cessor, spokesman, and heir.” 69 On (veiled) “civic invective” against Periclean democracy in Isocrates, see Michelini 1998b, 119–20.

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religious principle dominated the early and medieval Christian era; but, in the early modern period, erotic martyrs like Romeo and Juliet came more into fashion. It can be argued that such fictions actually enhance the power of social conformity. The tears shed by the audi­ ence over the unfortunate protagonists correspond to their own mourning for lost opportunities or unrealized fantasies, while the death of the martyr confirms an important cultural lesson: the only escape from social requirements is death.70 Socrates, the predecessor of a line of martyrs, in a sense combines religious and erotic motifs;71 and, like most martyr figures, Socrates violates any number of social taboos. In Apology Socrates excuses his behavior, first on religious grounds, but second and more persuasively for the reason that “the unexamined life is unlivable for a human being” (37e5–38a7). This second reason sounds more true than the first, since it reaches the ground of Socratic activity, the ceaseless erotic striving after truth, the commitment to disturb the surface of ordinary life and look beneath it. Other claims again and again collapse into the same Socratic message: “continue the search for truth; never falter; and never give up.”72 How does “Plato” stand in relation to this Socratic commitment? Again, many places in the dialogues take a position that is pro­ foundly ambivalent and, at bottom, may constitute a betrayal of this Socratic imperative. The controversy that erupted around Karl Popper in the middle of the century focused on passages in the dialogues that sounded very much like Leninist or Fascist rhetoric.73 The texts 70

See Buruma 1984, 86, on doomed lovers in Japanese romance as “safety valves in a closed society.” 71 Cf. the aim of the dialogues and of Socrates himself to stimulate erôs, see Roochnik 1996, 239–42. 72 Phaedo 90c–e, Laches 201a–c, Euthydemus 307b–c, Theaetetus 210b–d. Some recent scholars would argue that this is the sole aim of Platonic protreptic (Ferber 1991, 46; Roochnik 1996; Hyland 1995). But to assume this would be to confuse the “ignorant” Socrates with the radical and opinionated texts in which he is featured. I would add that reduction of these difficult problems to the question of whether Socrates is Plato’s “mouthpiece” (see Nails 2000) or whether the dialogues can tell us “what Plato thought” (Press 2000a, 33–34) oversimplifies a complex problem that literary scholars have been working with for some time, cf. the “intentional fallacy,” the attempt—which may, however, be impossible to avoid completely—to excavate authorial intention from texts. See Wimsatt 1967, 3–18; and for recent investigations of the critical and philosophical implications, see Iseminger 1992. For a more sophisticated treatment of the tension between “literary” and “philosophi­ cal” interpretation of the dialogues see Cohn 2001. 73 See Popper 1966; see also Bambrough 1967 and Brown, “How Totalitarian is

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sketch for us a leader or leading group certain of their possession of the truth, determined to enforce it even within the minds of their subjects, deeply suspicious of the power of literature to subvert, con­ vinced that, should reeducation of the refractory fail, “liquidation” of the offenders, or, in Platonic terms, “purification (katharsis)” of the community would be a justified resort.74 Moderns tend to assume that the repellent flavor of these prescriptions derives from 20th-century experience of their results in real life. But Greek and particu­ larly Athenian society had a deep-rooted aversion to authoritarian politics that is reflected in Aristophanes’ jokes about the Athenian obsession with dictators, as well as in the language of misguided or villainous tragic monarchs, who threaten physical punishment and use metaphors from animal taming.75 It is no accident that the hints of arbitrary power in Platonic texts have a somewhat threatening tone. The texts go out of their way to remind the reader of the author’s notorious relations, Charmides and Critias, who were lead­ ers of a hated right-wing revolution, the “Thirty Tyrants,” follow­ ing the Peloponnesian War. A contemporary account by Lysias makes it likely that the concept of “purifying the city” was a political slogan of Critias’,76 and of course Charmides contains a strong hint that the strikingly anti-egalitarian definition of Justice promulgated in Republic was derived from the writings of Critias. Further, because authori­ tarian views are obviously inappropriate to the modest, nonconformist personality of Socrates, the hermeneutic reader is driven to assume,

Plato’s Republic?” (1998, 25) who agrees with Popper that, for members of the low­ est class, the only conceivable eudaimonia would be “playing their part like good cogs in the great machine.” 74 Evidence is striking even in the dialogues thought to belong to Plato’s old age. For reeducation, see Laws 908e–909d: sincere and open atheists are imprisoned for five years, during which time they associate only with members of the Nocturnal Council §p‹ nouyetÆsei te ka‹ tª t∞w cux∞w svthr¤& ımiloËntew. (909a4–5) If they are then deemed of sound mind, they are released; otherwise, they are executed, as are those who attempt to conceal their beliefs. See Laws 709e–710e on the abil­ ity of a principled turannos to carry out political katharsis and see use of the term in Statesman 293d4–5, discussed in Michelini 2000b, 187–88. 75 For “tyrannophobia” see Aristophanes Wasps 488–503. Both Aegisthus in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (1628–42) and Agamemnon in Sophocles Aias (1253–56) are unpleasant figures who use animal metaphors for threatened punishments, provok­ ing strong resentment from other characters; on Athenian taboos on physical vio­ lence in the punishment of citizens, see D. Allen 2000. 76 See Lysias 12.5 and see discussion in Michelini 2000b, 187–88, for covert ref­ erences to Critias’ program in Statesman.

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as so many have, that the authorial personality of the proud and aristocratic “Plato,” the implied author, is emerging at such moments. Ultimately the dialogues also form a bridge or mediation between the intellectual freedom of the Greek enlightenment and a new age in which the polis could no longer be independent and power once more returned to the hands of traditional elites. The protreptic and conversionary aim of the dialogues is out of tune with “Plato’s” oppo­ sition to the tradition of social change and increasing openness in Athenian society. “Plato” is that oxymoronic thing, a “radical con­ servative” or “reactionary,” a reformer who needs to stop change and development in order to reestablish social conditions that have long been obsolete, or that may belong to an idealized version of the past. All reactionary reformers share a common problem: there is something inherently awkward about demands for change that are based on a polemic against change. Put in another way, the way in which these texts subject basic elements of Greek culture to trans­ valuation clearly derives from the innovative and radical thought of the fifth century, a time that many in Plato’s own generation looked back upon with equal parts of nostalgia and disapproval. In Platonic texts, authoritarian political behavior grounded on intel­ lectual conviction is both praised and condemned, often almost in the same textual breath. The openness and gentleness of Socrates is mirrored in the loose, tentative, structure of the dialogic arguments,77 while the search for accurate knowledge, to which Socrates dedicates himself and which is repeatedly used to justify the repudiation of popular governments, implies very different standards.78 Some of the most striking examples occur in Statesman, where it seems that, in a society well-regulated by laws, Socrates will have to be put to death.79 This grim verdict is confirmed in Laws, where any form of cultural innovation is seen to proceed from innovation in art, which must be cut off at the root (656). Platonic texts attempt repeatedly to imagine a well-ordered society that contrasts strongly with the fer­

77 See Steinthal’s detailed analysis of meiosis and litotes in the formulation of Platonic concepts (e.g., it is “not impossible” that the ideal state can be realized, Republic 502b8), “Platons problematische Lehre” (1996). 78 I do not agree with Roochnik (1996; 122–26, see also 179–99) that the search for technical knowledge is used only to exhort the reader to virtue. 79 See Michelini 2000b, 184, 192–96, on the strange fable or allegory of legalist society, Statesman 298–99. Rowe 2001 attempts, in my view unsuccessfully, to obvi­ ate the problems posed by this passage.

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tile and chaotic cultures of classical Greece. It is hard to see that either Socrates or the dialogues could have any place in Plato’s imag­ ined societies. Fascinatingly, Karl Popper, who saw Plato as the enemy of democracy, chose as his primary cultural hero, none other than Socrates, whose image Popper, like most moderns, took pri­ marily from Platonic texts!80 There is much to be gained in under­ standing the dialogues by refusing either to hypostatize the Platonic Socrates as a quasi-historic figure, in defiance of historical method, or to identify this fictional persona with the implied author, the “Plato” that readers are invited to construct out of the dialogues. The ambivalent relation between the two is one key to understand­ ing the remarkable work of their hidden creator.

80 See Popper 1966, 189–91 on Socrates as presenting the spirit of the “open society,” and 194 on Plato’s “betrayal” of Socrates’ principles. More recently see Nussbaum 1997, 25–26: “Historically, it is very important to distinguish Socrates’ own practice of argument from the philosophical views of Plato, who was certainly an elitist about reason and hostile to democracy. . . . To follow the example of the historical Socrates will help us fulfill our capacity for democratic self-government.” See above, however, on the impracticability of separating off a “historical Socrates” from evidence in Plato or in other Socratic writings.

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COMMENTS ON MICHELINI AND GONZALEZ Gary Alan Scott

These two papers enunciate quite different approaches to Platonic interpretation and seem headed toward different conceptions of Plato’s philosophy. The essays are as different in scope as they are in their respective interpretive strategies. Professor Michelini addresses global issues that have perplexed Plato scholars for centuries, informed by discussions in literary criticism over the past few decades, in an attempt to position Plato as author within the history of a genre (i.e. Sôkratikoi logoi ); Professor Gonzalez is working in a narrowly restrictive context, spanning fewer than five Stephanus pages, in which three issues are introduced that prove crucial for understanding the rest of the dialogue. His intensely focused analysis of the pro­ logue to the Lysis—a dialogue that provoked a commentator as astute as W. K. C. Guthrie to declare, “Even Plato can nod”—demonstrates the rewards that redound from paying close attention to a relatively short passage of text in which the major themes of the conversation to follow are foreshadowed and contextualized.1 I shall discuss each paper in turn. Professor Gonzalez’s paper is a richly textured, tightly constructed exegesis of the prologue to Plato’s Lysis. It performs an important service by demonstrating the benefits to be gained from treating one of Plato’s dialogues as a coherent whole and from paying close atten­ tion to the historical, dramatic, literary, and philosophical details with which Plato supplies his audience. In his hands, the illustrative example of the Lysis supplies formidable support for the view that the literary details, as well as the dramatic movement of a Platonic dialogue, are strongly relevant to the argumentation advanced by the characters within it. The paper shows how the first few pages of the Lysis, as a case in point, holds three essential keys to the dialogue’s meaning; and Gonzalez takes us a long way toward providing a 1 Guthrie thought so little of the Lysis that he concludes: “There are many opin­ ions about this dialogue, and I must confess to my own, which is simply that it is not a success. Even Plato can nod.” Guthrie 1978, 4:143.

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coherent interpretation of this dialogue. Thus he has done us a fur­ ther service in highlighting aspects of the Lysis that have previously been misunderstood or ignored. The essay explores three themes: (1) the agôn, or competition; (2) the manner in which Erôs is a central theme in this conversation, or series of conversations, about philia; and (3) the dialogue’s references to Hermes, the patron of competition and the god both of boundaries (or limits) and their transgression. Since I agree in large measure with Gonzalez’s interpretation of the Lysis and with his way of approaching the dialogues in general, I want to focus my remarks on what I think is one important broader implication of his discussion of the theme of competition, an impli­ cation that might be profitably pursued further. The theme of the contest, which is first suggested in the Lysis by the wrestling-school setting and later made the fulcrum for Socrates’ initial series of ques­ tions to Lysis and Menexenus, is brilliantly treated in the paper. Gonzalez shows how reconciling the bounded competition between friends with the conventional wisdom that friends have all things in common allows the Lysis to contrast both the means and the end of Socrates’ approach with the means and the ends of his competitors. In the Lysis, his competitor is Hippothales; and in general Socrates’ competitors are those whom Plato seems to regard as the irrespon­ sible intellectuals of the day. Gonzalez shows how philosophic friends vie for objects (wisdom and virtue) different from the objects for which people ordinarily compete; and the competition is shown to be carried out in such a way as to lead to cooperation, so that nei­ ther party is forced to see the other as his rival in a zero-sum game of subjugation and domination. Perhaps the different ends of philo­ sophic friendships necessitate their different means, since the rewards of philosophic activity may be enjoyed by both parties, rather than their possession being limited to one alone. For this shared, superior activity to occur, Socrates’ behavior in his role as a paiderastês must be different from that of the would-be lover, Hippothales. Gonzalez shows that what he calls (following Halperin, 1989) “erotic reciprocity” transforms competition into coop­ eration, whenever the participants are willing and able to be trans­ formed. Gonzalez’ argument here goes further than the position taken some four decades ago by Arthur Adkins (1960), who argued that Plato replaces competitive virtues with cooperative virtues. Gonzalez’ modification of Adkins’ thesis suggests that the right kind of com­ petitive endeavor, for the right kinds of objects, actually becomes coop­

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eration. This underscores a crucial difference between what Socrates does in Plato’s dialogues and what his competitors do. It also ges­ tures toward a striking contrast between Plato’s conception of the human interaction informed by philosophy, on the one hand, and the conventional way of conceiving human relations, rooted within an economy of exchange, on the other. Further, it provides an illus­ trative example of the broader contrast between Socrates’ pro bono way of practicing philosophy in the dialogues and a conventional market model. I want briefly to elaborate the idea that Plato locates Socrates’ practice of philosophy within a gift economy rather than in a market economy. Everyone knows that Socrates steadfastly refuses to accept a fee for conversing with others; and we have all had to explain to our students, many of us with some embarrassment, that Socrates in the Apology proclaims himself God’s gift to Athens. Several scholars have developed aspects of this idea, from David Blank (1985) to Henry Teloh (1986: 105–9), to Richard Kraut (1984: Ch. 8) to David O’Connor (1993), Andrea Nightingale (1996, 14), and P. C. Smith (2000), to name a few. But I want to suggest that the broader impli­ cations of this gift economy—in which Plato roots the Socratic prac­ tice of philosophy—have not been sufficiently explored. Plato takes great pains to insure that Socrates is never placed in anyone’s debt in the dialogues; rather, he is the city’s greatest benefactor, as he is made boldly to proclaim at Apology 36c–d, just before suggesting that he be fed in the Prytaneum for the rest of his life. Yet Plato seems to be doing more than simply casting Socrates as the consummate benefactor within, for example, Aristotle’s account of the benefactor—beneficiary relationship in his various writings on ethics. It is not just that Socrates is never the beneficiary of another person in the dialogues; Plato goes further than that. He portrays him in Apology as someone who gave a gift to the people of Athens by recalling them to themselves and stinging them with his perplexing provoca­ tion. Kraut (1984, 225) stresses that Socrates does not portray him­ self as someone who tried to give a gift but failed, and that therefore, it must be in the provocation he engenders that Socrates thinks his gift consists. Plato’s characterization of Socrates as a great benefactor who gives a gift to others, while refusing gifts or payments for his services, announces most prominently that the Socratic practice of philoso­ phy as it is depicted in the dialogues must be conceived within a

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gift economy, for it will scrupulously avoid becoming enmeshed in any form of exchange. That Socrates does not “traffick” in knowl­ edge, as Nightingale (1995: 43, 51, 53–54) puts it, like his intellec­ tual competitors, and that he, as Teloh (1986, 109) points out, does not have to “pander” to his interlocutors (even when he is positioned dramatically as a panderer, as he is in the Lysis), suggests important differences in Plato’s conception of philosophy, of teaching, and of human relations. I do not have time to develop this idea more fully here, but I believe it is a matter, implicit in Gonzalez’ discussion, that is worthy of further attention.

*

*

*

Michelini’s paper tackles the monumental and vexing question of how one might distinguish the historical Plato from the implied author of these Socratic conversations. How might one differentiate between Plato, whose noble lineage is limned in several dialogues and who founded a school of philosophy, from the recondite but implied author of every viewpoint presented in these philosophical dramas? And what are we to make of the numerous, striking con­ trasts between Plato’s Socrates and Plato himself, and between Plato’s Socrates and other portraits of Socrates? In framing these monu­ mental contrasts, Michelini takes us straight to the central questions surrounding Plato’s portrait of Socrates and his choice to write the kinds of dialogues he writes. The essay is a real tour de force, remarkable for its breadth: it sur­ veys a panorama of ancient authors and develops aspects of the Euthydemus, Apology of Socrates, Phaedrus, and Statesman, but it also engages numerous other sources, from Aristophanes and Xenophon to the later Socratics, from the speeches of forensic orators to the writings of the poets, historians, and tragedians. Her engagement with a host of contemporary authors, several of whom are represented in this volume, further compounds her general thesis, which she presents through the frame of Jacques Derrida’s “Plato’s Pharmacy” essay (1981). Space does not permit me to rehearse or to respond here to every claim the paper makes or to explore fully every issue it raises. But I want to pose a couple of questions that I hope will spark dis­ cussion on the broader issues involved in the interpretation of Plato’s dialogues.

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The essay rightly stresses that none of the various characteriza­ tions of Socrates is strictly historical, because the authors of Socratic dialogues are not constrained by the requirements of biography. Despite the tendency of many modern readers to regard this Socrates as historical, rather than as a literary fiction, Michelini shows that the only characteristic of Socrates about which there is agreement among the extant authors of Socratic conversations is Socrates’ (now notorious) physical appearance, his style of dress and some eccentric behaviors for which he was renowned. Michelini argues further that the tendency to stray widely from historical fact was exacerbated by the Athenian practice of parrhêsia, which was not checked or restricted by privacy rights or libel law.2 She follows Gigon and Montuori in suggesting that the overwhelming interest in the various stories about the life and death of Socrates is attributable to the way he died, that is, to the rather extraordinary fact that in a city that so dearly prized freedom of speech, Socrates managed to get himself put to death for his beliefs. The philosopher’s death, according to Michelini, became the focal point for a “new heroizing martyr myth” that com­ bined elements of the religious martyr and the erotic martyr. She notes that the various authors of Socratic conversations examined the same questions and ideas, but came to very different conclusions about them. The essay does a masterful job of showing why, since Plato was neither the first nor the last to author works dramatizing conversations featuring a character called “Socrates,” modern audi­ ences must endeavor to appreciate the degree to which he was in­ volved in cultural and intellectual battles in writing his versions of Sôkratikoi logoi. Unfortunately, many of the other portraits have been lost to us, and so we have no alternative but to speculate about the specifics to which Plato might have been responding at this place or that. The essay argues further that Plato has an ambivalent relation­ ship to his Socrates, and that therefore it would be, at best, unhelp­ ful and, at worst, a mistake to identify this fictional persona with the implied author, Plato, who according to this way of thinking

2 I argue elsewhere that a citizen’s right to free speech is, however, restricted by conventions that differentiate the right and wrong ways of conducting oneself as a truth-teller. The misuse of frank speech was widely regarded as deleterious to social relations, and the intemperate, overly frank employment of free speech was com­ monly condemned in the figure of the athuroglottos person. See Scott 1996.

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remains “hidden” within the dialogues. Connected to this view seems to be the suggestion that since Plato does not speak in his own voice in these dialogues; and, since he even constructs a persona, Plato, who can be distinguished from Plato, the historical person, then the problem of locating the author’s views in the statements of his char­ acters is rendered even more difficult, if not impossible. It complicates the task of interpreting Plato’s Socratic dialogues that neither the characterization nor the argumentation of Socrates is monolithic. Both a skeptical pole and a dogmatic pole run through the philosopher’s character and logos, And these same two poles inhere in the dialogues themselves.3 There is a gulf between the kind of knowledge that, say, Socrates speaks about (such as in the mid­ dle books of the Republic or in his recollection of Diotima’s teaching in the Symposium) and the kind of knowledge he himself possesses or claims to possess. (This seems to be true also of the other dominant and favored philosophical characters in the dialogues, although I cannot defend this claim here.) In other words, there is a gulf between the various doctrines or dogmas advanced in the dialogues by one character or another (the dogmatic pole), on the one hand, and, on the other hand, the ignorance in which these same characters remain, as evidenced by the disclaimers or cautions they express, or by the way in which the dialogues often allow doubt to surface, or the way in which many conversations end without resolving the issues they examine (the skeptical pole). Moreover, any and every concrete, pos­ itive view enunciated in these dialogues is embedded within a dia­ logical, or “polylogical,” and open-ended dramatic form, and this too mitigates its authority and its potential hegemony. Michelini argues that Plato converts aberrancy or “radical devi­ ation” into norm through the persona of his Socrates (who is by far the most developed and most complex character in the dialogues). She is concerned with the various tensions or contradictions created by the juxtaposition of the ironical Socrates, who she believes is never sincere, on the one hand, and the doctrinal content of the dialogues, which philosophers have traditionally ascribed to Plato, on the other. She wants to keep “the ignorant Socrates” distinct from “the radical and opinionated texts in which he is featured” (n. 61). 3 For a more thorough treatment of these issues, see Scott and Welton 2000. How an interpretation might harmonize the skeptical and dogmatic elements in the dialogues is also the theme of the essays in Gonzalez 1995.

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But to do this, the essay must assign all of the skeptical elements in the dialogues to Socrates, while assigning all of the philosophical doctrines propounded in them to Plato. Here, the essay recapitulates several of the doctrines traditionally believed to be Plato’s philo­ sophical doctrines; but should we not be obliged to re-examine the content of the well-worn, textbook Platonism in light of recent schol­ arly attention to the form in which Plato presents his philosophy? Against those who would argue that the skeptical pole corresponds to the ignorant Socrates and the dogmatic pole to the author, Plato, it would seem that both poles belong to Plato, as the author of these works, and that a coherent interpretation of a dialogue would be one that harmonizes them or shows their interrelations, rather than explaining away one side or the other. For these two poles are linked in the notion of Socratic ignorance—which is a kind of positive igno­ rance or negative wisdom that remains ever mindful of its human limits—and this seems to imply that we should regard these two poles as inextricably linked for Plato. The interrelation of knowledge and ignorance in “Socratic ignorance” points to a notion of the inter­ mediate that runs throughout Plato’s Socratic dialogues, for Socrates in particular and philosophy in general are characterized in different contexts as messengers or go-betweens, positioned in-between (metaxu) and acting like a bridge conjoining, among other things, simple igno­ rance and complete wisdom.4 Whether this is presented in the Apology of Socrates as his “human wisdom,” (what we now call “Socratic ignorance”) or in the Symposium as the hybrid condition of Eros, according to the teachings of Diotima that Socrates recollects, or in the Lysis as the intermediate which is most truly friend to the Good, this intermediate is the position stead­ fastly occupied by Socrates, and by the philosopher as such, at least as they are depicted in Plato’s dialogues.5 Grasping Socrates in this way implies that philosophy, for Plato, may never escape the hybrid, intermediate, erotic condition epitomized by the notion of Socratic

4 The same kind of intermediate position is probably occupied also by the Athenian Stranger, the Eleatic Visitor, Timaeus, Parmenides, and Diotima, as various authors in Press 2000b attempt to demonstrate. It would appear that all of the more philo­ sophic characters in the dialogues that have traditionally been taken as mouthpieces for Plato say things that undermine, qualify, or make suspect their claims to author­ itative knowledge, and it would seem that this is no accident, but is, rather, attrib­ utable to authorial design. 5 For a fuller discussion of this in-between condition, see Scott 2000, 74–80.

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ignorance, despite the attempts of some interpreters to discover in his dialogues nothing but a set of doctrines Plato is presumed to be advocating. Indeed, many concrete, positive views, or “doctrines,” are advanced in these “radical and opinionated” conversations by various charac­ ters, but it remains an open question which of these views Plato is himself committed to, which, if any, he wants us to agree with, and what he might want his audiences to do with them once they come to agree with them. It begs the question to assume that Plato wrote his dialogues in the way he did primarily to inform, for perhaps the concern of the dialogues, as Victor Goldschmidt put it, “is more to form than to inform” (1963: 3, 162–3). Whatever philosophia con­ noted for Plato, it surely meant something very different from what philosophy means today, by which time it has come to be charac­ terized by an abstract, technical discourse composed almost ex­ clusively by and for professional philosophers (academicians), with no connection to a way of life, except the way of life of a college professor. Indeed, many of Plato’s dialogues seem preoccupied with the ques­ tion concerning how one ought best to live, and I think Plato depicts Socrates as far more concerned with developing good human beings, by which I mean people with a good ethical character, than with advancing any positive moral doctrine. This objective is further borne out by the fact that dialogues such as Gorgias dramatize a contrast between two or more ways of life. Pierre Hadot (1995) has argued that in antiquity philosophers were distinguished for their way of life rather than by the fact that they were teachers or authors. This cer­ tainly seems consistent with Plato’s depiction of Socrates, who eschews the label of teacher and who authored no books. Socrates can also be seen in various dialogues exhorting his interlocutors to answer his questions as a way of caring for themselves, which shows, I think, that Socratic cross-examination is designed to provoke a distinctive form of exercise in thoughtful conversation. Is the form in which Plato chose to write best understood as a vehicle for communicating his own views, much less as a vehicle for propounding his doctrines didactically or dogmatically?6 Might he 6 More problematic is a less rigorous kind of reading that makes no attempt to consider who is speaking when citing passages from the Platonic dialogues, build­ ing a case against Plato by quoting indiscriminately from any character in any dia­

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rather have written these philosophical dramas to stimulate philoso­ phizing in his audience, perhaps even with a view to exhibiting a range of topics and complex issues with which philosophers will be concerned, or even to communicate a view of human life from var­ ious perspectives, and to show the practices through which he thought philosophy might best be conducted—as dialegesthai (or talking through) or as a placing in question—without being concerned to dictate what those who undertake this philosophical activity are supposed to think or conclude? What if Plato’s Socratic dialogues are also designed to be used as a kind of spiritual exercise? Socrates, after all, seems to believe that he is forming and shaping himself as a person in and through the very same practices that he thinks will produce benefits for his interlocutors.

logue. Examples here are too numerous to catalog; simply pick up any standard textbook on philosophy and instances of this will readily appear. One example should suffice to illustrate the interpretive error. Spelman 1996, in her article “Woman as Body”, criticizes Plato for what she regards as his “misogynistic” dis­ tinction between vulgar and heavenly love, quoting from Pausanias’ speech in the Symposium to support her claims about the connection between Plato’s denigration of the body and his denigration of women. Although I know of no serious com­ mentator on the Symposium who holds that Pausanias speaks for Plato, Spelman never entertains the possibility that the views uttered by this character are not Plato’s own. She repeatedly commits the “Plato says” fallacy, never making any effort to distinguish which character is speaking, in what context the statements she cites occur, or how later encomia (most notably Socrates’) modify or refute claims made by previous speakers.

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PLATO’S POLITIC WRITING AND THE CULTIVATION OF SOULS Jacob Howland

“. . . And the treasures of the wise men of old which they wrote down and left behind in books, I open up and go through together with my friends. And if we see something good, we pick it out, and we consider it a great gain if we should benefit one another.” When I heard these things, it seemed to me that he himself was blessedly happy, and that he was leading his hearers to nobility and goodness. Xenophon, Memorabilia 1.6.14

According to Werner Jaeger, the roots of the modern notion of “cul­ ture” may be traced back to the ancient Greeks, and probably to the sophists ( Jaeger 1965, 313). Be that as it may, the comparison of education and agriculture to which Jaeger calls our attention plays an important role in Plato’s thinking about philosophical education. Related images that appear in a number of Platonic dialogues rep­ resent the education of souls as a process akin to the cultivation of plants. While Plato employs horticultural images throughout the cor­ pus, four dialogues—the Republic, Euthyphro, Theaetetus, and Phaedrus— are representative of the range of uses to which they are put.1 The story I wish to tell here is as follows. The horticultural image as it is presented in the Republic unsuccessfully attempts to assimilate philosophical education to civic education or paideia. Plato under­ scores the failure of this attempt by using the same image as a foil for Socratic education in the Euthyphro and the Theaetetus. In the Phaedrus, however, he employs a richer and more complex version of the horticultural image that does justice to the intrinsic tensions

1

In the Republic, souls are compared to the seeds of plants. The same images appear at Theages 121b–c, and Laws 765e–766a; cf. the references to the autochthony of the Athenians at Menexenus 237b and Critias 109d. Lovers 134e6–7 recalls the hor­ ticultural image of the Phaedrus (see below) in speaking of “sowing and planting in the soul the things to be learned”; cf. Theaetetus 149e.

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of philosophical education while evoking the distinctive character of the Socratic life of learning.2 Most important, the image provides a convincing reflexive explanation of what it is we are doing when we engage in the sustained interpretation of its terms, an explanation that illuminates Socrates’ reference at Phaedrus 276a to the living logos that is written in the soul of the learner. In this manner, as I hope to show in conclusion, the horticultural image of the Phaedrus fur­ nishes the grounds for a Socratic defense of the pedagogical accom­ plishment of the Platonic dialogues.3

I In Book 6 of the Republic, Socrates has occasion to speak of those few human beings who are by nature suited to the practice of phi­ losophy. Only a few of these few, he states, take up philosophy and flourish in her company, while the rest fail to obtain a philosophi­ cal education and consequently become corrupted. By way of expla­ nation, Socrates makes a broad claim about the development of living things: “Concerning every seed or thing that grows, whether from the earth or animals, we know that the more vigorous it is, the more it is deficient in its own properties when it doesn’t get the food, climate, or place suitable to it” (Republic 491d1–4).4 Thus, the philosophic nature “will necessarily grow and come to every kind of virtue” if it “chances on a suitable course of learning.” If, however, it is not “sown, planted, and nourished in what’s suitable,” the oppo­ site will ensue—“unless one of the gods chances to assist it” (492a1–5).

2 Throughout this essay, I mean by “Socrates” the character in the Platonic dia­ logues. In comparing Platonic writing and Socratic speech, I take my bearings by the activity of this literary character as presented in the dialogues. 3 The existence of thematic and literary connections between dialogues is in my view sufficient justification for a comparative inquiry. Conventional wisdom about the chronology of the dialogues might seem to argue against this presupposition. But it has recently been argued that the project of determining the authorial chronology of the Platonic dialogues is philologically and methodologically unsound (Howland 1991; cf. Griswold 1999 and Griswold forthcoming). Unless these arguments can be refuted, the ostensible “results” of chronological investigation must not be allowed to block potentially fruitful inquiries that take their bearings by dramatic, literary, or thematic interconnections among the dialogues. 4 Translations from the Republic are drawn from Bloom 1968; those from the Phaedrus are taken from Rowe 1986. All other translations are my own.

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Socrates goes on to say that not one city today is suitable for philo­ sophic natures, with the result that these natures are “twisted and changed”: “just as a foreign seed sown in alien ground is likely to be overcome and fade away into the native stock, so too this kind does not at present maintain its own power but falls away into an alien disposition” (497b1–7). In these passages, Socrates compares human natures to seeds, and political cultures to the varieties of soil, nourishment, and climate that are provided for their growth. A regime grows the desired kinds of citizens by planting human natures in a political culture that suits its purposes. No existing regime, however, desires philosophers; out­ side of the city in speech, Socrates maintains, they “grow up spon­ taneously and against the will of the regime” (520b2–3). In farming, wild plants often find their way into the fields where domesticated species are cultivated. These weeds may stunt and embitter the crops that the farmer has worked to cultivate. So it is, the regimes seem to believe, with the species of plant called “philosopher.” But what constitutes a weed depends on the intention of the one doing the planting. A primary difference between the city in speech and all actual cities is that the philosophic nature is considered a weed in the latter but not in the former. As Socrates makes clear, the city in speech is the only regime that prepares the soil of political cul­ ture with the aim of growing philosophers (cf. 497b–c). The horticultural image as developed in the Republic thus invites us to imagine that the education of potential philosopher-kings could be effectively and dependably institutionalized as one of the highest operations of the regime. In so doing, the image boldly extends to the sphere of philosophy the pretensions of civic education as envi­ sioned by the political regimes. The audacity of this gesture is not unsuited to a conversation that gives fabulous expression to the deep­ est wishes of good men, including the wish for a harmonious rela­ tionship between philosophy and politics that might serve the ultimate goals of each. As we shall see momentarily, however, the horticul­ tural image fails adequately to represent the process of philosophi­ cal education. If the image as it is developed in the Phaedrus fares better in this regard, it is in part because the latter dialogue is free of the specifically political madness—divine or otherwise—that char­ acterizes the Republic. Consider first the use of the image within the context of the con­ versation as a whole. As he begins to set forth the city in speech,

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Socrates envisions civic education on the model of the productive arts. Future citizens are represented as animals to be tamed and trained, putty to be molded and stamped, instruments to be tuned by the tightening and loosening of strings, and wool to be dyed with the pigment of salutary belief (375b–e, 377a–b, 410d–e, 429c–430b). The horticultural image harmonizes with these previous images in that it assumes the passivity of human natures with respect to the formative intentions of the regime. It is this assumption, or better, this pretension, that governs the discussion of civic education in the Republic. “Just like men mythologizing in a myth” (376d9), Socrates and his companions begin the work of founding a city in speech by supposing that just citizens can be made to order. Implicit in all of the images mentioned above is a distinction between agent and patient, between the practitioners of the politi­ cal art and their human product. The problems raised by this distinction—problems implicit in every political community, insofar as every regime shares the governing pretension of the city in speech— do not assume their sharpest form so long as the ultimate produc­ ers stand outside of the city as its founders, which is the case prior to the introduction of philosopher-kings in the third wave of book 5. Before the third wave, the ruling virtue of the city is not philosophi­ cal intelligence but political courage: just as well-dyed white wool will not give up its color, the Guardians are distinguished by their exceptional ability to hold fast to the political orthodoxy with which they have been saturated in the course of their education (412c–e, 429d–430c). The exquisitely absorptive Guardians are the most excellent product of the political art; they are, so to speak, the pick of the crop. It is only after philosophical erôs sweeps into the regime on the shoulders of the third wave that it becomes possible to find in the city an active intelligence with an understanding akin to that of the founding lawgiver (cf. 497c). The philosopher-kings are clearly more than dyed-in-the-wool defenders of hallowed tradition. They are active, reflective centers of responsibility; in a word, they are selves. In the terms of the horticultural image, they are not plants, but farmers of plants. The regime nevertheless continues to regard the philosopher-kings as carefully cultivated plants. This point emerges most forcefully in the curious argument by which Socrates proposes to persuade the philosophers of the Kallipolis to assume the task of ruling. The strangeness of this argument, which Socrates rehearses for Glaucon

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at 520a–d in book 7, resides in its attempt simultaneously to treat philosophers both as human beings and as something less than human. The regime, Socrates reminds Glaucon, “produces” philosophers (the verb is empoiein) “in order that it may use them for the sake of bind­ ing together the city” (520a2–4). Philosophers in the Kallipolis owe the price of rearing to the regime because they are not autophueis, not self-generated, nor do they spring up automatoi or spontaneously (520b2–3). In the immediate context of these remarks, Socrates point­ edly reserves the intensive autos, “itself,” for the law or nomos that governs the production of citizens (520a2, a4). Socrates tells the philosophers that they have been reared “like leaders and royal rulers in hives” (520b6). The analogy, however, is strained, insofar as the queen bee has neither the need nor the capacity to be convinced to rule. Socrates seems to contradict his speech in the very act of utter­ ing it, for only independent, reflective beings require, and deserve, reasons for choosing to follow a particular path of life. So, too, to be persuaded by Socrates’ argument that one is essentially a product of the regime, a selfless bee in a hive, would be, paradoxically, to exercise the capacities to share in reasonable speech and to make informed choices that are the hallmarks of human selfhood.5 To be fair, Socrates’ argument is not entirely unpersuasive. It is clear that political culture plays a major role in the growth or cor­ ruption of potential philosophers. Human beings are like plants to the extent that they flourish more readily in certain environments than in others. Anyone concerned with the perfection of human souls must therefore consider the problem of how to establish and sustain the cultural conditions that will promote their development—a prob­ lem with which Plato is obviously wrestling in the Republic. On the other hand, even potential philosophers (to say nothing of actual philosophers) bear more responsibility for their development than plants do. Socrates implicitly admits as much when he speaks of how difficult it is to motivate a young man with a philosophic nature who has received bad rearing to change his ways and keep better company. Although it would not be easy for such a person to hear the truth, it is not impossible, he states, for one with a “good nature and kinship to such speeches” to be persuaded to turn to

5 Precisely the same inconsistency is implicit in the speech attributed to Lysias in the Phaedrus (230e–234c): see Griswold 1992, n. 27 (182–183).

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philosophy (494d–e). It is difficult to imagine this transformation in horticultural terms, since it would amount to a kind of self-transplantation. The closest example in nature might be the plant in the rainforest that follows the sun by shooting forth new roots and walk­ ing across the forest floor into the light. Yet it bears repeating that plants, unlike human beings, need no argument to follow the sun. To sum up. The horticultural image as developed in the Republic overstates the power of the political art to fashion philosophical rulers, because it misrepresents the character of successful pedagogy. The problem of producing rulers in the Kallipolis is identical to the prob­ lem of educating philosophers, since it is philosophy that qualifies one for rule. The cultivation of plants stands somewhere in between the natural production of a queen bee in a hive and the technical production of dyed wool: the seed that is planted and tended by a competent farmer is compelled by a combination of art and nature to grow to maturity. This image in some respects improves upon the earlier ones.6 Most important, the horticultural image resists the mistaken notion that philosophers could be produced by modes of extrinsic technical compulsion. Dyeing, stamping, and molding are ultimately inadequate as images of education because, as Socrates says, “no forced study abides in a soul” (536e3–4). In the horticul­ tural image, on the other hand, education is represented as a process of natural growth to which art merely plays handmaid. The farmer’s artful nurture allows nature to take its virtually inevitable course. Yet while this image captures something essential about the intrin­ sic erotic compulsion that draws philosophic natures toward wisdom, it also falls short in a crucial respect. For the process of internal bio­ logical compulsion that makes seeds sprout and grow is both unreflective and automatic. In a word, plants lack interiority and freedom. These qualities ultimately place moral and intellectual development beyond the realm of compulsion, and make education far less predictable than farming.

6 For example: queen bees grow in hives, which are made by nature, but philoso­ phers grow in political cultures—in soil, so to speak, that has been prepared by nomos. The horticultural image captures this feature of philosophical education, for agriculture exists only within the horizons of political life.

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II

The line of criticism that we have just been pursuing is extended in the Euthyphro and the Theaetetus, two dialogues that, in terms of the dramatic chronology of Plato’s writings, provide a “final” portrait of Socrates shortly before his death. In these dialogues, the horticul­ tural image is used to characterize conceptions of education—including sophistry as well as civic paideia—that are antagonistic to Socratic pedagogy. Space permits only the briefest consideration of the rele­ vant passages.7 In the Euthyphro, Socrates frames the contest between himself and his accuser Meletus over the souls of young Athenians in the fol­ lowing terms: It is correct to care first for the young in order that they may be as excellent as possible, just as it is fitting for a good farmer to care first for the young plants, and after this for the others. And moreover, Meletus is perhaps first purging us, the corrupters of the young shoots, as he claims. Then, after this, it is clear that, after taking care of the older ones, he will be responsible for the most and greatest good things for the city, as is likely to happen for one beginning from such a begin­ ning (érx∞w érjam°nƒ). (2d1–3a5)

This passage reflects the implicit incoherence of what I have called the governing pretension of the political regimes. The would-be farmer Meletus views the philosopher as some sort of weed, and the rest of the Athenians as domesticated plants. Much of the humor of the Euthyphro springs from Socrates’ exploitation of the opportunity to draw the ultimate conclusions of this horticultural conception of civic education. Socrates’ suggestion that he may avoid indictment by blaming Euthyphro for his views (5a–b) plays on the assumption that human beings are no less passive and pliant than plants. If to be human is simply to be intellectually and morally plant-like, Socrates, too, can easily resist blame for his own supposedly corrupting nature. In fact, he cannot consistently do otherwise: to bear full responsi­ bility for oneself—to regard oneself as the archê or beginning from which speeches and deeds ought to begin, as Meletus clearly does— is to be something other than a plant.

7

For further discussion see Howland 1998a, 53–129.

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Socrates’ care for souls as practiced in the Platonic dialogues is in fact nothing like the nurture of plants. He indicates in the Euthyphro that the Athenians are angry with him precisely because he refuses to treat the young as passive receptacles of the civic tradition. The Athenians, he explains, regard him as someone who is “capable of teaching his own wisdom (t∞w aÍtoË sof¤aw)” and who is “able also to make others of such a sort” (3c9–d1). But ≤ aÍtoË sof¤a, Socrates’ distinctive wisdom, is ultimately nothing other than self-knowledge (cf. Apology 23a–b). Socrates thus suggests that the Athenians grow angry with him just because he tries to make the young shoots regard themselves as selves—as independent archai of thought and action. The latter point is dramatically reinforced in the Theaetetus, wherein Socratic pedagogy emerges in stark counterpoint to Protagoras’s activ­ ity as something like a farmer of plants. “For I assert,” Socrates explains in speaking for Protagoras, “that they too [i.e., farmers] make good and healthy perceptions and truths be in plants in place of poor perceptions” (167b7–c2). Healthy perceptions, as the con­ text makes clear, are sweet perceptions—a point that coheres with “Protagoras’s” advice to Socrates not to confuse and perplex his interlocutors, so that they might, as he puts it, “flee from themselves and into philosophy” (168a5–6). Yet Socrates does precisely the oppo­ site, as is evident in his uncompromising treatment of Theaetetus: he urges his interlocutors to test themselves—and so, in a way, to be­ come themselves—through the painful labor of philosophical thinking (148c–e). Here and elsewhere in the Platonic dialogues, Socrates teaches that we may learn only by our own strenuous and self-critical efforts. Far from treating others as a farmer might tend his vegetables, Socrates tries to awaken them to their potential humanity.8

III Let us pause to take stock of our reflections thus far. The horticul­ tural image as it is employed in the Republic frames the problem of

8 Not surprisingly, Plato suggests that Protagoras cannot sustain the distinction between farmer and plant: when at 171d1–3 Socrates imagines him popping up from the ground up to his neck, Protagoras bears a distinct resemblance to a head of cabbage. Lee 1973a provides an excellent discussion of this image and its implications.

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philosophical education in terms of a fundamental tension between our plantlike passivity and our definitively human autonomy, between our actual rootedness in cultural soil and our potential independence of thought. On the one hand, philosophical education presupposes freedom. To “turn to philosophy” is to be guided by the decision to cultivate one’s own soul in a way that leads to perfection; it is, so to speak, to decide that one is—and ought to be—a human being rather than a plant. Such a decision cannot be made for anyone else; it is neither the automatic result of nature nor the predictable consequence of art. These features of philosophical education are emphasized in such dialogues as the Euthyphro and Theaetetus. On the other hand, philosophical education undeniably takes place within political horizons; in the terms of the horticultural image, human beings take root and grow toward perfection, or fail to do so, in the soil of a particular culture. This is a fundamental premise of the dis­ cussion that takes place in the Republic. We are now prepared to turn to the Phaedrus. The horticultural image in this dialogue differs from other versions in certain essential respects. Most important, the philosophic nature is no longer rep­ resented as a seed or plant. Rather, the seeds are logoi—“words” or “speeches”—and the soul is simultaneously the farmer that sows these seeds and the ground in which they are planted. This more fully developed image gives expression to the autonomy of human souls while nevertheless acknowledging their rootedness in political cultures. Before we take up the horticultural image, it will be necessary to consider the discussion of writing that it is designed to illuminate. The examination of the “propriety and impropriety of writing” that begins at Phaedrus 274b sounds many of the themes we have already touched upon. Socrates starts by emphasizing that it is best to dis­ cover the truth for oneself (274c). Thamus’s criticisms of Theuth’s invention of writing reiterate and deepen this point: Your invention will produce forgetfulness in the souls of those who have learned it, through lack of practice at using their memory, as through reliance on writing they are reminded from outside by alien marks, not from inside, themselves by themselves (aÈtoÁw ÍfÉ aÍt«n): you have discovered an elixir not of memory but of reminding. To your students you give the appearance of wisdom, not the reality of it; having heard much, in the absence of teaching, they will appear to know much when for the most part they know nothing, and they will be difficult to get along with, because they have acquired the appearance of wisdom instead of wisdom itself. (275a2–b2)

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Thamus is primarily concerned in this passage with the internal, philosophical recollection that a soul may accomplish through its own efforts. In relating this concern, he echoes the account of anam­ nêsis that Socrates sets forth in the palinode.9 When Thamus speaks of hearing “in the absence of teaching,” it would seem that “teach­ ing” must be connected with philosophical recollection. It is also striking that Thamus mentions hearing in this context, as if to acknowl­ edge that speaking and listening, no less than writing and reading, may also take place in the absence of the requisite teaching. Finally, one should note that the result of substituting external reminders for internal recollection is doxosophia, or the unfounded presumption of knowledge that characterizes most of Socrates’ interlocutors in the Platonic dialogues. Learning “oneself by oneself ” or by internal rec­ ollection, we may infer, is connected with the knowledge of igno­ rance, as well as the activity of dialogical questioning and answering to which this knowledge gives rise. It is presumably this Socratic knowledge of ignorance that Thamus has in mind when he contrasts “the appearance of wisdom” with “wisdom itself.”10 After relating this Egyptian tale, Socrates goes on to apply it to the case of a man “who thinks he has left behind him a science (technê ) in writing,” and who believes moreover that “anything clear or certain will result from what is written down.” For writings, he states, are nothing more than reminders to one who “knows the sub­ jects to which the things written relate.” By way of illustrating this point, Socrates goes on to compare written words to paintings. In response to questions, written words preserve a “solemn silence” and point to “just one thing, the same each time.” What is more, the written word speaks indiscriminately “in the presence both of those who know about the subject and of those who have nothing at all to do with it,” and it is incapable of defending itself from unjust accusations in the absence of its father (275c5–e5). In emphasizing the repetitiveness, silence, and indefensibility of written words, Socrates underscores the inaccessibility of their mean­ ing to those who do not already have knowledge of the subjects to which they relate. In this respect, the written word seems to say too little. In another respect, however, it seems to say too much, as it

9 10

See Griswold 1986, 207; cf. 203.

Cf. Burger 1980, 95.

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cannot maintain silence when it ought to. Socrates later acknowl­ edges that the same criticisms can be made of certain forms of speech, such as that of rhapsodes (277e8; cf. Protagoras 329a–b). More surprising is the fact that Socrates himself is occasionally accused of repetitiveness, unmanly vulnerability in speech, and excessive silence. In the Gorgias, Callicles charges Socrates with always saying the same things, to which Socrates replies: “Yes, Callicles, not only the same things, but also about the same subjects” (490e10–11; cf. Alcibiades I 113e–114b). Callicles also maintains that Socrates would be unable to defend himself should anyone accuse him unjustly (486a–c).11 The dialogue Cleitophon, moreover, contains an extended accusation to the effect that Socrates either refuses, or is unable, to answer the ques­ tion “What is virtue?”—an accusation in the face of which he main­ tains an intriguing silence. The preceding considerations make it clear, first, that Socrates’ criticisms may pertain to speech as well as writing,12 and second, that the limitations of speech and writing are to a significant extent determined by the moral and intellectual condition of the reader or hearer. Cleitophon, for example, is presumably the kind of individ­ ual before whom it is best for Socrates to remain silent about the charge of excessive silence. But more needs to be said on this score, for Plato’s so-called “Socratic dialogues” furnish ample evidence that Socrates withholds himself, or “says too little,” in many different contexts and with all sorts of interlocutors. He is, after all, in the habit not of answering fundamental philosophical questions, but of asking them. The repetitiveness and silence with which Socrates finds fault in writing are thus to some extent reflected in his own speech. What is more, one can make a strong case that he deliber­ ately employs these modes of intellectual resistance in order to pro­ voke the active inquiry through which alone genuine learning may take place.13

11 This prediction is ironically prophetic, as Socrates’ defense in the Apology fails not for the reason that Callicles has in mind—namely, because Socrates lacks the rhetorical art—but because no art of speech could in this context illuminate the meaning of the word “philosophy” for those who are not already directly acquainted with the subject. Cf. Howland 1998a, 27–30. 12 Cf. Halperin 1992, 113 n. 20; and Erler’s essay in this volume. 13 Much of what Socrates wants to communicate can be shown but not said; like the song of the cicadas in the Phaedrus, it belong to the unspoken “background” of philosophizing that one must learn to attend to on one’s own (Ferrari 1987, 21–36).

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Considered in this light, Socrates’ criticisms of the written word lose a good part of their bite. A philosophical text (if one could imagine such) that is free of the deficiencies Socrates identifies—a text that could answer every question, and that could fully explain and defend itself—would run the risk of treating its readers as empty vessels waiting to be filled with knowledge, rather than as individu­ als who may win understanding only by actively struggling to work things out for themselves.14 Conversely, assuming that there exists a kind of written text with which it is possible to enter into a dia­ logue, the resistance of such a text to interpretation would actually be an advantage with regard to teaching and learning. Socrates now goes on to recommend a legitimate brother of the logos that he has just criticized, namely, the one “that is written together with knowledge in the soul of the learner” (276a5–6). Phaedrus supposes that Socrates means “the living and ensouled logos of the one who knows, of which written speech would rightly be called a kind of phantom” (276a8–9)—a description to which Socrates heartily assents. What is Socrates trying to get at here? It is worth reiterating that, in the absence of internal recollection, spoken speech must also be merely a phantom image (an eidôlon) of the living and ensouled logos.15 This consideration suggests that the contrast Socrates wishes to draw is not between the written word and the spoken word, but rather between those words—written or spoken—that are wrongly considered to be sufficient in themselves from the point of view of philosophical understanding, and those that are (or can come to be) “in” the soul together with knowledge. The curious fact that Socrates speaks of the legitimate logos as “written” in the soul—a deliberate inversion that is repeated at 278a3—seems to suggest fur­ ther that at least some written words, no less than some spoken ones, are capable of being taken into the soul of the learner together with knowledge. If the preceding reflections are well-taken, Socrates is not in these pages presenting a blanket criticism of writing as such. Instead, he 14 Note that the man who “thinks he has left behind him a science in writing” seems to begin from the un-Socratic presupposition that learning amounts to the passive or plant-like absorption of clear and certain knowledge. 15 Burger suggests that Phaedrus furnishes an example of speech without knowl­ edge “written in his soul.” She sees in “the true opinion which Phaedrus expresses in his definition of the legitimate logos . . . a perfect image of the illegitimate logos which Socrates condemns” (Burger 1980, 99).

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is defending the living logos in the soul, and he is attacking just those kinds of writing and speaking that fail to promote its growth. It is in attempting to amplify these ideas that Socrates introduces the hor­ ticultural image.16 Socrates begins by pointing out that a farmer who possesses intel­ ligence (ı noËn ¶xvn) would not plant seeds that he cared about and wanted to bear fruit in a garden of Adonis so that they might bloom within eight days. Rather, he would “make use of the science of farming and sow them in appropriate soil, being content if what he sowed reached maturity in the eighth month” (276b6–8). Just so, the man “who has pieces of knowledge about what is just, fine and good” will have a no less intelligent attitude toward his “seeds” than the farmer. Hence he will not be serious about writing them in “black water,” or “sowing them through a pen with words that are incapable of speaking in their own support, and incapable of adequately teaching what is true.” He will rather write or sow his “garden of letters” in a playful manner, thereby “laying up a store of reminders both for himself, when he reaches a ‘forgetful old age,’ and for anyone who is following the same track, and he will be pleased as he watches their tender growth” (276c3–d5). Socrates agrees with Phaedrus that this is a noble form of play, but he explains that this is not the best use of the seeds: I think it is far finer if one is in earnest about them; when a man makes use of the science of dialectic, and taking a fitting soul plants and sows in it words accompanied by knowledge, which are able to help themselves and the man who planted them, and are not without fruit but contain a seed, from which others grow in other characters, capable of rendering it for ever immortal, and making the one who has it as happy as it is possible for a man to be. (276e4–277a4)

In considering this image, let us begin with Socrates’ contrast between playful and serious farming. As far as I can tell, the only plants that an ancient Greek farmer would be likely to harvest in the eighth month after sowing are winter wheat and winter barley, which are sown after the rains come in the fall and harvested in early

16 Sayre 1995 reflects helpfully on the meaning of the elements of the image. The present essay diverges from Sayre’s interpretation in certain respects, and reaches a different conclusion about the merits of Platonic writing in comparison with Socratic conversation (See below, Notes 25 and 32).

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summer. These crops—which were also ritualistically planted in gar­ dens of Adonis—were staples of the Greek diet.17 The image thus envisions a farmer who grows plants for the serious purpose of pro­ ducing nourishment for the body. Socrates accordingly suggests that the serious point of sowing seeds through words is to yield food for the soul. The horticultural image in this respect recalls the great myth of the palinode; as in the myth, the proper use of speech is to provide nourishing reminders of the hyperuranian beings. The myth’s teaching that the soul must be nourished periodically is sim­ ilarly reflected in the image’s implication that the health and vital­ ity of the soul, like that of the body, cannot be sustained by a single season’s growth. On close inspection, the seemingly rigid opposition that Socrates posits between playful writing and serious speech begins to soften. Note that the religious rites connected with Adonis, a god of vege­ tation, are relevant to ensuring a bounteous harvest. Hence the osten­ sibly playful planting of gardens of Adonis has a serious purpose; the ritual sowing of wheat and barley in such gardens is intended to fructify the same crops when they are planted in the field.18 If Socrates’ image is well crafted, we may expect a similar relationship to obtain between “playful” and “serious” modes of providing nour­ ishment for the soul. In the present context, Socrates again calls attention to the difference between words that are “in the soul” and those that are not.19 Yet the analogy with gardens of Adonis sug­ gests that even seeds that have been written down do not thereby necessarily lose their power to fructify the soul. Socrates suggests that at least those seeds that have been written by an “intelligent” author who possess the “science of dialectic” could be gleaned by the farmer within—the nous that is in each of our souls—and brought to fruition in one’s internal garden. Since Socrates has already made the case in the palinode that learning takes place through dialogue, this amounts to the suggestion that one can engage in philosophically fruitful dialogue not only with some living human beings, but also

17

See Frazer 1951, 396; Hanson 1995, 76. See previous note. 19 Cf. Hackforth 1952, 164: “a reader tends, Plato thought, to imagine that he can absorb wisdom quickly by an almost effortless perusal of written words; but what is so absorbed is something neither solid nor permanent (hence the compar­ ison to ‘gardens of Adonis’).” 18

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with some texts. Strictly speaking, this would be a dialogue with one­ self that is occasioned by, and guided by, a text.20 The case for a dialogical mode of reading—for what one could call “Socratic reading”—is strengthened by Socrates’ mention of the “tender growth” of seeds that have been planted by playful writing, as well as by his admission that written words may enable others to follow in the track of their author. Perhaps most important, Socrates is in a sur­ prising number of Platonic dialogues engaged, either jointly with his companions or by himself, in the philosophical interrogation of writ­ ings. By this measure, an important part of Socratic philosophizing consists in reading and talking about texts.21 The activity of interpreting the horticultural image provides us with a concrete example of what it might mean to engage in fruit­ ful dialogue with a text. The image indicates that the best and hap­ piest life is the life of philosophical learning and teaching, a life spent planting intellectual seeds in fitting souls (including, first and fore­ most, one’s own soul) and attempting to bring them to fruition in the company of others. In a word, the good for a human being is inner growth and flourishing. The soul that was formerly compared to a seed is now also seedbed and farmer alike; it is a working gar­ den. Speeches are “living” and “in” the soul to the extent that they take root and grow in this interior garden. The soul’s flourishing is thus understood in an expanded sense that encompasses not simply the germination and growth of a single nature, as in the Republic, but rather the periodically renewed cultivation of a variety of poten­ tially nourishing ideas. We must speak of potentially nourishing ideas, because the quality of intellectual seeds cannot be known in advance of their cultivation. The pursuit of wisdom accordingly

20 Concerning the possibility of dialogue with oneself, Socrates understands think­ ing as inner dialegesthai, “a speech which the soul itself goes through before itself . . . itself asking and answering itself, and affirming and denying” (Theaetetus 189e6–190a2; cf. Sophist 263e2–5). 21 Examples of dialogues in which the interpretation of texts plays a crucial role include the Theaetetus (in which the teaching about knowledge that is contained in Protagoras’s book is the subject of discussion from 152a–187a), Hippias Minor (which turns upon competing interpretations of the texts of Homer), Phaedo (in which Socrates explains that his reading of Anaxagoras’s book motivated his turn toward logoi or “second sailing”), and Protagoras (in which a key part of Socrates’ debate with Protagoras consists in the interpretation of the writings of Pittacus and Simonides). Cf. Parmenides, which begins with Socrates’ interpretation of the writings of Parmenides and Zeno.

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proceeds dialectically (cf. 276e5–6); the philosopher is like a farmer who experiments with his crops, seeking better and better seeds because he has not yet found the best.22 The epistêmê of the philosopher—the “knowledge” that is sown together with the seeds (276e7), and that accompanies the logos that is written in the soul (276a5)— is therefore best understood as knowledge about how to participate in and sustain this dialectical process.23 Seen in this light, the soul’s excellence will be reflected both in the seriousness that it brings to the activity of inner cultivation and in the quality of the plants that it grows, whether measured by their goodness as nourishment or by the beauty of their efflorescence. The quality of inner growth, however, depends upon a number of fac­ tors, including the nature of the seeds, the farmer’s earnestness, and the richness and suitability of the soil within the soul. A logos that fails to grow is either not intrinsically viable, has not been planted and cared for properly, or has fallen into barren ground. The ele­ ments of farmer and soil, in turn, bespeak a fundamental division in the soul, reminiscent of that between the charioteer of the palinode—who was also identified with nous—and the horses. The inclu­ sion of the farmer is a recognition of the autonomy of the soul with respect to the cultivation of its own potentialities: nous, the farmer within, is free to plant or to discard speeches, to care for the young shoots of knowledge or to let the grounds of thought be overrun with weeds. Fundamentally, then, one cannot farm another’s soul; philosophical growth is impossible apart from dedication and dis­ cernment on the part of the learner. Yet these qualities are not sufficient for the best and happiest life, in that the capabilities of even the best of farmers are limited by the fertility of their soil and the nature of the available seeds. The soil is that in the soul which stands apart from intellect, but which also serves as a dark or mys­ terious source of energy for the soul as a whole. It must therefore

22 As Rowe comments, “the model of teaching as the ‘passing on’ of convictions on the basis of knowledge is superseded.” The philosopher, he stresses, possesses only “pieces” of knowledge (as he translates t«n te dika¤vn ka‹ kal«n ka‹ égay«n §pistÆmaw at 276c3), not full knowledge or wisdom; “he is not to regard any state­ ment he makes as clear and definitive, but only as a seed which will bear fruit in due time” (Rowe 1986, 211). Gill 1986 extends this observation into a critique of a view he attributes to Szlezák, namely, that the Phaedrus supports a “dogmatic” conception of philosophical teaching. 23 Cf. Gill 1986, 164–165.

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be turned and worked (or, in the language of the palinode, “har­ nessed”) so as to serve the ends of the soul that are discerned by nous. On the most general level, the inclusion of the soil in the image reflects the necessity that emotion cooperate with intellect in turn­ ing the soul toward philosophy. Conversely, philosophical growth is represented here as a kind of understanding that takes hold of the soul as a whole, just as roots penetrate into, and grip, the earth.24 It now seems clear that Socrates’ introduction of the horticultural image has shifted the emphasis of the discussion from the intrinsic quality of the words in which knowledge may be thought to be embedded to the character of the recipient of these words. The very depiction of words as seeds—as promising bits of potentiality that are, as it were, nothing in themselves—underscores the primacy of the contribution of the learner. The point is not to collect seeds or ideas, but rather to make something of them. This process, moreover, is in practice (if not in its ultimate goal of philosophical understanding) fundamentally open-ended. Dialogue may allow two individuals to nourish the same seeds along similar lines and so to end up with a shared understanding; there is no guarantee, how­ ever, that this will be the case.25 The situation is obviously compli­ cated if the dialogue in question is the internal sort that takes place when reading a text. Perhaps the most that can be said in this case

24

Note also that plants return to the soil when they decay, a fact that, as the ancients understood, may be used to increase the fertility of the land (Xenophon, Oeconomicus 16.11–15). So, too, the image suggests, intellectual growth builds upon itself by enriching the loam from which new ideas may grow. 25 Sayre offers a provocative account of the philosophical understanding in which the dialectical process of cultivating “seeds of knowledge” is meant to issue. Taking his bearings by the Seventh Letter, he maintains that this process leads not to the awareness of the truth of propositions, but to a discernment of reality that cannot be conveyed through the medium of language (Sayre 1995, 10–17). Plato’s dia­ logues are thus intended to help readers in training and preparing their souls for the achievement of an “incandescent state of mind” (13) through a blaze of insight (cf. Seventh Letter 341c–d). Sayre allows that, “if there is a sense in which that state [of mind] might be characterized as linguistic, it is that of the logos in the mind of the learner of which Socrates speaks at Phaedrus 276a” (195). This interpretation of the ultimate fruit of the cultivation of the soul is not incompatible with the view that the process Socrates describes at 276e–277a is experimental and open-ended. Thus, Gonzalez 1998a argues that nonpropositional knowledge “is not something that is possessed fully, once and for all, but rather something that we must con­ stantly toil to capture and recapture by defective means of [propositional] knowl­ edge that are never adequate to the task” (251, n. 35; cf. 252, where Gonzalez links this interpretation to the Phaedrus).

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is that a careful reading of the text will offer some guidance as to how one might profitably develop the seeds contained in it.26 We may note in this connection that even poor ideas can be cultivated with profit—as Socrates shows, for example, in helping Theaetetus to nurture, and thereby to see the implications of, the mistaken notion that knowledge is perception.27 When received Socratically, even false opinions are thus potentially seeds of knowledge.28 What is more, logoi that are sown in the soul in this manner, that are patiently thought through and brought to fruition, become one’s own in a profound sense. The horticultural image is a case in point. The image is itself a seed, the meaning of which is contained in what it can show as well as what it may say to us. In planting and tend­ ing this seed—in unfolding its implications for ourselves, as we must if we are to grasp its import—we begin to learn in deed, and by concrete example, what it might mean to receive a logos in such a way that it becomes living and ensouled. The image thus acquaints us directly with the experience of reading Plato Socratically, or of taking written words into one’s soul as into an interior garden.29

26 Cf. Bowen 1988, who distinguishes between “the thought or intention that has produced the text” and “the thought that the text effects in the reader” (60). Bowen argues that, in following the “metaconversational hints” contained in the text, the reader does not discover what Plato thinks: “Plato’s text does not require the reader to sit in Plato’s school and learn his philosophy; it demands instead that the reader become a philosopher in his own right” (62). 27 Socrates tests Theaetetus’s ideas to see whether they are mere “wind-eggs” (151e, 157d, 161a, 210b). The image of avian reproduction is appropriate to the action of the dialogue: Theateteus comes forth with his ideas about knowledge eas­ ily and without much work, just like laying an egg. It is only after these thoughts are articulated in ovo that Socrates midwifes him, or assists with the labor of intel­ lectual pregnancy—a process, Socrates hints, that could equally well be described as the cultivation of intellectual seeds (149e). 28 The knowledge that results from developing the implications of false opinions is not necessarily only knowledge of ignorance. For example, the experience of cul­ tivating the thought that knowledge is perception helps Theaetetus to understand something essential about the soul (185d–e; cf. Howland 1998a, 86–89). 29 Frede 1992 concurs that the sort of knowledge Plato is particularly interested in “is a highly personal kind of achievement.” He argues further that the dialogues teach us, at least indirectly, “how little good a treatise, even if written from a posi­ tion of knowledge, would do” (216).

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IV

The shift in emphasis that we have just observed is directly relevant to our assessment of Platonic writing. I have argued that the horti­ cultural image furnishes grounds for a defense of Platonic writing as serious play, in that it invites us to experience firsthand the cultiva­ tion of written seeds through dialogue with a text. I wish to suggest further that, in turning our attention toward the hearer or reader, the horticultural image helps us to see that certain obstacles to Socratic listening are removed or minimized in Platonic writing. Plato thus suggests that the translation of Socratic speeches into written dialogues may actually enhance their educative power. As a rhetor­ ically judicious improvement upon Socratic speech, Platonic writing shows itself to be politic as well as political. I shall conclude by attempting to offer some justification for these assertions. Perhaps the most common spectacle in the Platonic dialogues is that of the interlocutor who fails to listen Socratically. There are several reasons why this failure may occur. First, the very fact of Socrates’ presence suggests a kind of intellectual availability, the appeal to which directly contradicts his best pedagogical efforts. Like Cleitophon, Socrates’ companions may be tempted to suppose that he has the wisdom they seek, perhaps even that he is hiding some­ thing, and that he need only be convinced to give it up. Both Agathon and Alcibiades flirt with this idea on occasion (Symposium 175c–d, 217a). His companions may also overestimate their dependence upon him; they may idolize him, like Apollodorus and Aristodemus, or they may feel that in losing him they have lost everything, like his friends in the Phaedo.30 These are problems that Plato avoids by writ­ ing. For readers of the dialogues, Socrates is present only as a spur to thought; in the face of his absence—and that of Plato—there can be no question that we are left to our own resources. Plato also makes it clear that the failure of characters in the dia­ logues to listen Socratically often stems from emotions, especially 30 Farness 1991 reflects on the un-Socratic dependence implied in “missing Socrates” after the manner of Simmias or Cebes. He argues that Plato writes in the awareness that “missing Socrates” in a deeper sense is inevitable—that Socrates is a “signifier without logos of its own . . . a signifier belonging to anybody, repre­ senting the understanding of whoever would think to possess it” (46); but see Howland 1998a, which attempts show that the dialogues provide a meaningful answer to the question, “Who is Socrates?”

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those associated with thumos or spiritedness, that are incidentally aroused by Socrates himself (Apology 23c–d, Euthyphro 3c–d, Theaetetus 151c). While Socratic refutation is meant to break up the otherwise hard soil of the psyche in which intellectual seeds are to take root, it frequently has the opposite effect. The self-loathing of Apollodorus, the worshipful obsessiveness of Aristodemus, the righteous indigna­ tion of Polus, Hippias, and Anytus, and the envy of Alcibiades are all impediments to understanding that are triggered or at least height­ ened by the fact of being with Socrates. These emotions, which con­ tribute in no small way to the hatred of philosophy on the part of the political communities, will always be potential obstacles to philo­ sophical understanding. But they are far less likely to be provoked in reading the words of a Socratic philosopher than in encounter­ ing him or her in the flesh. One reason for this is that it is possi­ ble for the reader, and only for the reader, to hear the words of Socrates in complete privacy: he or she may feel shame, but is spared the embarrassment one experiences when others are aware of one’s shame. Readers are therefore free to make their shame an object of potentially fruitful reflection. Plato’s writing can even turn what might otherwise have been experienced as envy or anger into open-minded admiration for the philosopher, the more so when readers can see themselves from an emotionally neutral distance in characters who do allow such feelings to stand in the way of learning. One implication of the present interpretation is that the seeds con­ tained in the Platonic dialogues consist not only of arguments, images, and the like, but also of the relationship of these logoi to a broad range of human characters. In occupying himself (like the tragic poets) with the theme of hamartia, Plato dramatizes the various ways in which various souls may miss the mark in their attempts to learn.31 This means, however, that the dialogues call for the kind of imag­ inative reading that is appropriate to dramatic texts. One cannot fully appreciate how Euthyphro goes wrong, for example, without understanding why he interprets certain elements of religious myth and ritual in the manner that he does. To answer this question, one must reflect on the emotional soil in which these traditional ideas

31 Cf. the suggestion of the anonymous commentator that the dialogues are a lit­ erary microcosm of the universe of human natures (Westerink 1962, 28; Anon. Prol. 15.2–13).

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take root and grow in Euthyphro into an argument for prosecuting his father. The seed Plato gives us in this case is a story about the death of a hired hand, and the bruising Euthyphro’s ego suffers when his father adds insult to injury by ignoring his religious expertise and turning for advice to an exegete in Athens (4c–e). To recapitulate, Platonic writing potentiates Socratic refutation as an instrument of philosophical pedagogy by removing it, so to speak, from the mouth of Socrates. Plato also utilizes the indirection and discretion of drama to make us more self-conscious about the many ways in which we may prevent ourselves from learning. It is only with the aid of this increased self-awareness—a self-awareness that is by no means as readily available to Socrates’ direct interlocutors— that we may hope to imitate Socrates in the “one small thing” he claims to know, namely, how “to take a speech from another . . . and accept it in a measured way” (Theaetetus 161b4–5).32 Finally, Platonic writing strategically addresses the obstacles to philosophical education that are inevitably posed by any political cul­ ture. Consider in this connection that what is imaged as cultural soil in the Republic is internal to the soul in the Phaedrus. This does not mean that, from the perspective of the Phaedrus, political culture is irrelevant to the problem of philosophical education. In the Republic, Socrates emphasizes the fluidity of the relationship between the psy­ che and its cultural surroundings, as well as the impossibility of fully isolating one from the other.33 The horticultural image of the Phaedrus confirms this point, insofar as most, if not all, of the seeds of one’s self-understanding will presumably come from outside of the indi­ vidual learner.34 In the absence of philosophical writing, the possi­ bilities for philosophical growth would thus seem to be severely limited

32 Sayre maintains that, in writing his dialogues, Plato hoped “to stimulate in the reader the same effect that might be achieved by direct conversation with Socrates himself ”; those of us who cannot converse with Socrates directly may thus be “com­ parably served at second hand by reading a Socratic conversation with someone whose misconceptions are similar to our own” (Sayre 1992, 235; cf. Sayre 1995, 25–26). The preceding paragraphs flesh out a possibility Sayre raises but does not pursue, namely, that Plato’s readers may be better served by his writing than they would have been by the opportunity to converse directly with Socrates. 33 Thus, the young man who hears the praise and blame of the multitude in places of public assembly will almost inevitably internalize the ends and habits of life that make up the cultural soil into which he has chanced to fall (Republic 492b–c). 34 Where seeds or logoi ultimately come from is another, very interesting ques­ tion that cannot be addressed here.

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by the contingencies of time and place that shape particular cul­ tures. Platonic writing mitigates this limitation by making a whole world of Socratic dialogue permanently available to readers. For only when written do Socratic speeches become an indefinitely renewable philosophical resource. The very act of reading paves the way for philosophical learning by removing one from the midst of the multitude to a place of quiet reflection. But one thing that writing cannot do is teach us how to read. For this, we need a living teacher. Similarly, I suspect, one can learn only through spoken dialogue how to engage in the inner, silent dialogue that brings to life the writings of Plato. In this sense, too, Platonic writing remains dependent upon Socratic speech. While much more needs to be said about this, time does not permit such reflection on this occasion. Let it suffice to conclude by remarking upon the aptness of the garden of Adonis as an image of Platonic writing. In honoring an ever-youthful god who is reborn each year, these gardens help to guarantee the cyclical renewal of life. So, too, the Platonic dialogues continue to renew and refresh the life of the psyche by presenting us with the deathless and inexhaustibly fecund double-image of a Socrates who is an author and a reader as well as a speaker and a listener—a Socrates “grown beautiful and young” (Second Letter 314c4).35

35 I would like to thank Charles Griswold and Patrick Deneen for looking over an earlier version of this essay. They are not responsible for any of its remaining shortcomings.

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GLAUCON’S COUCH, OR MIMESIS AND THE ART OF THE REPUBLIC Jay Farness

As a teacher of literature in an English department, I have limited access to Plato—both because he is what they call a philosopher and because he philosophizes in Greek. Yet Plato has had an enormous impact on thinking in my field, even though very few people in lit­ erature or in English study Plato. We subsist on rumors of Plato impressed on us in our schooling or circulating in textbook synopses. And we know a Plato guardedly anthologized in texts of literary crit­ icism. I have become all too familiar with the power those anthol­ ogized selections exert over well-meaning, generally well-read students: this is the power to immobilize the energies, continuities, and dia­ logical reversals of Plato’s writing. I will try for a while to reverse this trend. If I seem to belabor certain of these familiar selections, which are admittedly arresting in their exemplary power, it is in an attempt to jar them loose from our frames. As iconoclastic as he is, Socrates is good at installing remarkably durable images in the minds of those who read what he says. The manner of this essay is inter­ pretive, responsive to meaningful silences and gaps in the text, the import of which is not self-evident. This is not something I do to a passive, helpless text; “Plato,” apparently like Socrates before him, demands it.1 The method of this essay is not that of a classicist, philologist, or philosopher, but of a student, reader, and teacher of European literature intrigued by ways postmodern thinking echoes some pre-modern thinking. My anthology opens with an image that Socrates does not paint, but that obliquely reflects the situation of Plato reception I have 1 Probably Plato (the writer or the text) does not authorize all these meaningful silences and gaps: some result from Socratic irony, for example; some result from the structural irony that has “Socrates” unaware that he is a character in Plato’s written dialogues; some result from the vagaries of history, the unconscious of cul­ ture, or the unforeseeable politics of reception and tradition in a distant future. However, Plato’s part in these meaningful silences and gaps has, in my opinion, been vastly underestimated.

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alluded to. The image is of Ion, who as a performer well illustrates the narratological distinction Socrates makes in the Republic: this is the difference between mimêsis, impersonation or narration in direct discourse, and diêgêsis, indirect narrative discourse (392d–394b). As much as he wants to favor Socrates and entertain him, Ion is baffled when Socrates is unwilling to let him perform his version of Homer in response to the philosopher’s inquiries. Ion can impersonate Homer, but he proves unable to discuss Homer indirectly or to modalize statements about Homer critically. His performance of Odysseus or Achilles or Hecuba mutes the virtual quotation marks necessary to narrative distance; and so Ion’s impersonation of Homer’s imper­ sonations jeopardizes distinction among rhapsode and Homer and hero, between present and past, between possessing and being pos­ sessed. And because he lets the audience determine his performance and mirrors what it wants—an anthology of Homer’s greatest hits— he also jeopardizes distinction between active and passive positions, between sender and receiver in communication. Not that Socrates does much better in trying to hold a parodic mirror up to Ion, who is not looking. Or more exactly, Ion is as deaf to Socrates’ discourse as Socrates purports to be to Homer’s music. The breakdown of com­ munication in the dialogue exemplifies for me the hazards Socratic logos encounters in an oral-traditional culture as it tries to extend its reach by criticism, metalanguage, or metacommentary. As the mimic, Ion cannot rise in thought above his mimetic per­ formances, which are bound to repetitions of culturally valorized mimetic bodies, discourses, and occasions. In light of the curriculum in the Republic, one view of Socrates’ contrary project might see it as an attempt to invent or develop some other logic—for example, the logic involving abstractions, general definitions, relations—that might organize and traverse such mimesis by means of concepts or that might by a discipline of self-criticism at least make the mobil­ ity of Ionic mimesis more accessible to thought.2 The birth travails

2 Like the differences between “analogical” and “hierarchical” recuperation of difference discussed by Page duBois (1982). Or, closer to my thrust in this essay, like Jennifer Wise’s version (1998) of the idea that the philosophy dramatized in the dialogues is the precursor of the graphic medium of the dialogues: “Without appear­ ing to have recognized what he was doing, Plato latched on to the representational structure of writing and built a whole metaphysics around it. In representing ver­ bal material in a fixed and decontextualized form, writing established new stan­ dards of ideality, repeatability, and sameness for words, abstract qualities that spoken

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of this new logic take place throughout Plato’s dialogues and when­ ever Socrates tries to abduct an interlocutor from the land of idle talk and carry him into his dogged manner of discussion. The example I wish to consider is less overt than what Ion, Meno, Polus, Charmides, Crito, or others present. Instead, consider with me the anti-anthologist’s nightmare—Socrates’ much-too-memorable misrepresentation of representation, the celebrated and controversial stipulation of mimesis early in Book 10 of the Republic where, as with Ion, Socrates also tries to organize mimesis by means of critical con­ cepts. The Republic, as widely reported, is racked with inconsistencies, nowhere more so than at this point, which has inspired so keen a strain of exasperation in commentaries like this one: “. . . in Book 10 we find many disturbing differences from the rest of the Republic. . . . we are driven by the peculiarities of Book 10 to see it as an excres­ cence. . . . the level of philosophical argument and literary skill is much below the rest of the book” (Annas 1981, 335). Something fine that a good philosopher finds this bad is certain to attract an idle literary mind. As one who thinks many peculiari­ ties in Plato are deliberate, I would like to explore this hunch right here at a source of the problem with mimesis. And like Julia Annas and many others, I too will note at this familiar source some fasci­ nating discrepancies in the way Plato shows Socrates not only using the term mimesis but also performing the term mimesis. In the first and longest part of this essay, I want to explore what many of us now see routinely: how and why Socrates undoes an argument in the very doing of it—here involving his criticism of mimesis. It is as if Socrates were well aware of the difficulty of trouncing mimesis with a philosophical concept, well aware of the mimetic liabilities of his own discourse, and well aware of the impossibility of perform­ ing this feat for another, who must ultimately embody his or her own truth, especially in the matter of justice. Then in a short sec­ ond part of the essay, I would like to step back from the “dramatic” setting to suggest how and why Plato shows Socrates apparently talk­ ing at cross-purposes with himself.

language, tied as it is to particular instances of utterance and engagement with unique constellations of perceptual data, never attains” (6).

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  I

Mindful of Socrates’ perplexity with Ion’s mimetic artistry, I am especially puzzled by how Socrates’ often-anthologized couch scheme in Book 10 organizes mimesis with respect to the medium of the mime­ sis or representation, the material in which a mimicking of some kind is rendered. But before I get to my picture of the couch, I will, first, suggest what I see as a general context missing from my anthology. Then second, I will sketch in my impression of an immediate context. 1. General context: At the beginning of Book 10, after he has appar­ ently concluded the dialogue, Socrates recurs to the business of poetry for one more interrogation, this time with Glaucon. It is Glaucon who, at the outset of the Book 2 discussion (358e–359c), has par­ ticularly emphasized the popular notion of justice as a grim com­ promise, a social contract, between the extremes of doing injustice (to adikein)—which is naturally desirable—and suffering injustice (to adikeisthai )—which much exceeds in pain what the doing of injustice gains in pleasure. Later, I will want to emphasize this doubling of injustice into complementary active and passive positions. For now, notice that Glaucon does not share Thrasymachus’ eagerness to seize the upper-hand, though he is keenly concerned that, if he does not, he courts inevitable injustice done to him, the kind of injustice that his host Lysias will one day know too well. It is Glaucon, too, who voices displeasure with the justice of the Golden Age “city of pigs,” where all are allies and share their rustic feasts. Instead, Glaucon wants an Iron Age utopia well stocked with interests and the ethics of mine and thine. When Glaucon sneers at the fare—“cakes and loaves,” with figs, chick-peas, beans, acorns, and myrtle berries for dessert—and the furniture—“rushes strewn with yew and myrtle”— Socrates asks, “How should it be?” “As is conventional,” Glaucon said. “I suppose men who aren’t going to be wretched (toÁw m°llontaw mØ talaipvre›syai) recline on couches (§p‹ klin«n) and eat from tables and have relishes and desserts just like men have nowadays.”3 (Bloom, 372d7–e1)

Various scraps of information about Glaucon come together in this remark and the prompt that it supplies Socrates in the sequel. There

3 Translations of Republic passages follow Bloom (1968) or Shorey (1953), identified in each case. I have made some silent alterations to these translations.

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is, for instance, as we learn from Apollodorus (Symposium 172–173), Glaucon’s keen interest in “the symposium.” A lover, a reveler, a man about town, Glaucon wants his dinner parties and the culture they epitomize; he wants, in other words, an apology for justice that he can live with. The verb translated “be wretched”—talaipôreô— despite the archness of its overstatement illuminates Glaucon’s atti­ tude toward these hard-working, rustic citizens and foreshadows his role in the Republic, which is avoiding their lot.4 On the one hand, talaipôreô denotes hardship, struggle, labor, which Glaucon would avoid as an aristocrat in a more modern, more luxurious city. That verb meaning and the passive form it takes, on the other hand, glance at the wretchedness, the unhappiness, that Glaucon hopes to avoid suffering, as justice according to the popular and Thrasymachan notion is thought to suffer. “As is conventional” (ëper nom¤zetai)—with these words Glaucon founds the luxurious city that will be gradually purged to become, first, the city dominated by guardians, then, more exclusively, the preserve of philosopher-kings. Socrates presses on with this conver­ sation even as the discourse offers more cases and reasons for avoid­ ing dialogue, for withdrawing into ever more isolated versions of the self, until at the close of Book 9, political experience is entirely sub­ jective (592a–b), an implication that Glaucon is surprisingly quick to grasp. The exemplary soul resolves the problems of faction, of jus­ tice as a bewildering and untrustworthy network of shifting allies and enemies, by withdrawing from this network and constructing fan­ tasies of autonomy, of autarky and autarchy, which even if they could be actualized would degenerate in time. These scenarios have the effect of intensifying the exemplar’s consciousness of factional strife, in fact driving it inward, rooting it more deeply, where the others who threaten cohabit in the same body, even in the same soul with the “reasoning part,” which finally has no sure allies. This consequence of Glaucon’s choice is a lot to pay for couches and tables, desserts and relishes. It marks the big context of Book 10’s couch, the couch of Glaucon, who makes his bed by way of Socrates and must—so to speak—lie in it.

4

I have found Griswold (1981) suggestive for the connotations of the Republic’s couches, as well as useful for summaries of prior bibliography and commentary rel­ evant to Book 10’s couch.

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2. Immediate context: The immediate context and prologue to Socrates’ Book 10 mimesis discussion involves some friction between Socrates and Glaucon that is worth noting. The book opens with Socrates urging knowledge of mimetic arts as a remedy, a pharmakon, against their power to maim. So this remedy “must be spoken” (rhêteon). “Most certainly,” Glaucon said. “Then listen, or rather, answer.” “Ask.” “Could you tell me what imitation (mimêsis) in general is? For I myself scarcely comprehend what it wants to be.” “Then I,” he said, “of course, will comprehend it.” “That wouldn’t be anything strange,” I said,” since men with duller vision have often, you know, seen things before those who see more sharply.” “That’s so,” he said. “But with you present I couldn’t be very eager to say whatever might occur to me, so look yourself.” (Bloom, 595c4–596a4)

Socrates’ conspicuous self-correction—“listen, or rather, answer”— identifies one problem: even though urged by Glaucon and Adeimantus, this is and has been a one-sided dialogue, and Glaucon’s responses here show him somewhat defensive about that. He wards off with mild sarcasm a request for a tentative definition of mimesis, even though Socrates has earlier in the dialogue coached Glaucon and his brother with any number of possible replies. This diffidence elic­ its an odd side-swipe at Glaucon’s insight and Socrates’ indirect brag of his keener vision. Glaucon retorts with a statement I will come back to later, an expression of his reluctance to get involved. This statement is uneasily reminiscent of what we hear from Thrasymachus, Callicles, and others, not so much confessing incapacity (the matter of “duller vision”) as too keen an awareness of Socrates’ presumed mastery in this kind of discourse: “so look yourself.” This exchange both alludes to the procedure of elenchus, or refutation, and declares its frustration when its subject opts out of the exchange. The discussion that follows, ranging across a number of philo­ sophical topoi, might leave us wondering just how much—or how little—Glaucon knows of Socrates’ accustomed repertoire of ideas and arguments.5 For various reasons Glaucon has been regarded as a

5 Socrates confidentially invites Glaucon to share in “the accustomed method” at 596a, treating Glaucon “as already a loyal Platonist” (Adam 1969, 2:387). But

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smart, talented, ambitious companion of Socrates and worthy brother of our author; but two of the dialogues linked to the Republic—the Phaedrus and the Symposium—might invite us to compare him to Phaedrus and Aristodemus, as well. Glaucon is more substantial, and he moves in faster company than these two, but it is not clear that he ultimately grasps Socrates’ commitments any better than the fanat­ ical Aristodemus, on the one hand, or the more overtly self-serving Phaedrus, on the other. Glaucon’s apparent tractability in dialogue is offset by a certain guardedness that deflects hard questions from himself, and may here provoke Socrates into the coarser, more hor­ tatory mode that Annas and others lament. This, at any rate, is an immediate context for Glaucon’s couch, with which I mean to sug­ gest that Socrates and Glaucon might not be strong enough allies to banish mimesis, even that Socratic interests might be clashing with the interests of Glaucon, or that Socrates might for justice’s sake be wary of giving Glaucon a pharmaceutical means to harm himself (331eff.). Now, at last, we come to my main text. The case is familiar; it goes like this. Some god makes the real chaise longue. Then a car­ penter makes an actual chaise longue by consulting this divine arche­ type. Finally along comes a painter who makes an imitation chaise longue by reference only to the carpenter’s product. An artist’s ren­ dering of the klinê—my chaise longue—therefore becomes according to the Socratic scheme a distant shadow, an imitation of an imita­ tion, of the thing itself (597aff.) “There turn out, then, to be these three kinds of couches: one that is in nature, which we would say, I suppose, a god produced? Or who else?” “No one else, I suppose.” “And then one that the carpenter produced.” “Yes,” he said. “And one that the painter produced, isn’t that so?” “Let it be so.” “Then painter, couchmaker, god—these three presidents (epistatai ) over three forms of couches.” “Yes, three” (Bloom, 597b5–15)

Glaucon seems unfamiliar with the technicalities of this method (at 597c, for exam­ ple, he is unaware of the “third man” problem that Socrates alludes to), and later, and more tellingly, Socrates’ assertion of the soul’s immortality takes him by com­ plete surprise (608d3–10).

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This exchange observes such good dialogical etiquette in so mun­ dane a matter that one might already suspect some Socratic funny business here—the presidents of couches, indeed!—especially when a better translation, more attuned to the clash of latent metaphors, might specify three chairmen of couches. If you think of the Symposium—and Glaucon’s involvement in both texts may be our cue that we should—it is no mere joke to suggest that the real force of this analogy might depend on a figure miss­ ing from the picture: it might depend on who is reclining on this famous klinê, or dinner couch, and on what this recliner is saying between swallows. Imagine that this recliner were a Socrates, for instance, and that his presence kept Glaucon from saying or know­ ing what he thinks (596a2–3): no wonder this figure should, in a sense, be missing. I shall return to this conspicuous exclusion in a moment. More immediate to Socrates’ point is the suggestion that mimesis-as-copying is supposed to re-present an objective reality—the chaise longue—and be judged on its adequacy to this original reality. And Socrates, voicing what will become a classical aesthetic, voicing what perhaps already was a commonplace view, points out that in such cases the original is a concept or idea—chaise longue in the abstract— not Agathon’s favorite couch, the lumpy, comfortable one with the missing buttons. Agathon’s chaise longue can’t do adequate justice to the more divine idea of a single sublime chaise longue, “one that is in nature, which . . . a god built.” It has long been well understood how Socrates’ couch scheme might lay hold of mimesis. This scheme presents sequences of first to last, better to worse; its mention of a god institutes a hierarchy and implies a rationale; its shift of media from thought to matter to image distinguishes grades of being, externalizing and separating them. In short, here is a system of analogues and correspondences vaguely similar to earlier, divided-line specifications and quite acces­ sible to thought, a perfect flower for our anthology. But any good commentary will also show you that the nice simplicity of this exam­ ple has the effect of multiplying problems (and of proliferating diver­ gent opinions about its Platonic orthodoxy); before you know it, differences over this passage are recapitulating the plot line of the imaginary republic and the real defects and mental reservations that pile up from its oversimplifications. This klinê, I mean to say, is a Procrustean bed. But I want to rest my case mostly on one of its deficiencies, to my mind the main one.

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This klinê is, as I suggested, conspicuous for the body that the example excludes—after all, what is a dinner couch without its pray­ ing, eating, drinking, singing, speaking symposiast? For me, this excluded body tells on Socrates’ mischievous analogy. Proceeding from this chaise longue and the case of painting, Socrates claims that the tragic or epic poet imitates in the same way that the painter of couches imitates. The extraordinary thing about this claim is that it restricts the scope of mimesis in a way that makes Ion and his kind—as well as Socrates—disappear. That is, mimesis as represen­ tation, for example as a painting that represents or imitates or copies a chaise longue—this sense of mimesis suppresses mimesis as embod­ ied imitation, as the miming performed by the human body in tra­ ditional artistic, theatrical, musical, cultic, festive, and educational forms. The couch without its body tropes, so to speak, mimesis with­ out impersonation; and impersonation—as a mimetic enactment of performing bodies—is most of mimesis in classical Greece. By recall­ ing these embodied versions of poetry and art, we pay homage to one side of Socrates’ mentions of painting—that is, of zôgraphia: life painting. His use of this term—rather than, say, hê graphikê, which Socrates also knows (603a)—might be implying the living being that his couch excludes, implying the whole range of mimetic operations that cycle back and forth through Ion-like living bodies and the liv­ ing bodies of an audience. Building upon the earlier insights of Koller and Else, Eva Keuls’ useful study of Plato’s relation to the fine arts (1978) reviews the antecedents of mimêsis as it occurs in Plato and reaffirms the con­ clusion from Koller (1954) and Else (1958) “that the basic English translation of mimesis as ‘imitation’ is wrong or at least misleading. The radical meaning of the term in ancient Greek was . . . ‘enact­ ment’.” (Keuls, 2) “Enactment” suggests the affiliation of mimesis with the drama—with performance, impersonation, with dynamic, living presentation rather than with imitative or duplicative re-presentation of fixed appearances. Keuls continues: Koller concentrates on the medium of expression inherent in mimêsis rather than on the object of the expression. Yet it is in the latter aspect that Plato introduced a radical change in the conception. . . . The “enactment of appearance” is a contradiction in terms: as if to under­ score the paradoxical nature of this doctrine, Plato makes his imagi­ nary painter of Book 10 use a purely stationary model, the famous bed. From what we can surmise about the art of painting in the early fourth century, his selection of subject matter is far-fetched. (11)

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Keuls probably overstates the novelty of pictorial rather than enacted mimesis in Book 10. But it is evident from general usage and from the Republic itself that the preponderant sense of mimesis and its cog­ nates, in Plato’s as well as Socrates’ time, involved presentation and performance, not what we think of as pictorial realism. Moreover, these discussions of mimesis as enactment—Koller’s, Else’s, Keuls’— emphasize the anthropomorphism implicit in mimesis, even when it is extended, apparently metaphorically, to objects. It may be worth simply observing that, for deeply rooted motives, the ancient picto­ rial art to which Socrates alludes aimed at representing human form, not furniture without its informing human figures—hence, again, zôgraphia. As Keuls adds, “Still lives, landscapes or other purely sta­ tic themes are not attested for the classical period” (1978, 11). Keuls errs in blaming Plato rather than Plato’s Socrates for so delimiting the sense of mimesis in his illustration. But she is right about the fact that Socrates’ example of mimesis is peculiar. Let me recapitulate: the example does not represent what it purports to— the typical mimesis of the artist; but by the vacancy of its couch, it does weirdly, backhandedly represent its own failure to represent mimesis adequately. Socrates’ account of mimesis conspicuously nar­ rows the broader range of the mime-family of words by supposing that human and non-human media of representation are commen­ surate, that what is true of still lifes is true of tragedies. It supposes that performed, embodied mimesis is consistent with what we might term instrumental mimesis—an imitation modeled by a determinate technê in some medium external to the artist and the art. This vari­ ation on Socrates’ familiar technê theme, by the way, can be true only to the extent that you can also take Socrates out of the pic­ ture, since Socrates exists for us as some kind of enactment within the dramatic fiction of the dialogues—a complication I will try to organize somewhat in the second part of this essay. As much as the change of subject—from human figure to furniture—the change of medium skews the analogy. Indeed, I’m argu­ ing that these are the same change, that in the case of mimesis, to change “the medium of expression” is to change “the object of expression.” To imagine imitation across media, from three-dimensional wood to two-dimensional painting, organizes and deprob­ lematizes the imitation, decontextualizing mimesis into a simpler concept of correspondence or re-presentation. Mimetic participation, the performing body in motion, an actor impersonating Achilles, gets

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revised as mimetic correspondence, sorting unlikes, comfortably dis­ tinguishing among abstract idea, material artifact, and painted copy. Imagine a more troublesome example, like one offered in the Cratylus (432a–c): what about an imitation chaise longue constructed out of wood, wadding, and fabric—that is, out of the same stuff as a proto­ type chaise longue? How do we conceive the imitation in this case (a case, incidentally, truer of actual couch manufacture)? How would we know it for an imitation? Or recall the mutes of the Cratylus imi­ tating notions with their bodies and so always risking the mistake of motion and notion, of non-sign and sign (422e–423b). This example, like Socrates’ strictures for the republican guards that we will see in a moment, suggests how tricky is the use of body mimicry for quot­ ing or citing.6 By factoring out the medium of human being and its contexts in his new stipulations of mimesis, Socrates also re-presents rhetorical and political fact as epistemological theory. Theory, that is, plays better when it minimizes or eliminates human error (i.e., people’s tendency to wander from agenda). This is a move of utopian think­ ing quite in keeping with impulses expressed in the ideal state and in the epistemologically rich and politically rigid middle books of the Republic. Socrates slights mimesis as disembodied painting paradoxi­ cally because the context of this illustration, in fashioning an ideal republic, takes mimesis so seriously—not only as a play device of entertainers but as a fundamental mechanism of socialization. The medium of the imaginary republic is the human being; the Greeks tacitly knew, far better than we do, to what extent this human medium consists of the human being as an organ of oral culture, as a speaking, listening body enmeshed in continuous cultural repro­ duction. It’s critical to Socrates’ line of thought in legislating the republic that the versatility of the human body and its various faculties and aptitudes, especially its powers of action and its pow­ ers of speaking and expression, be somehow constrained. And hence,

6 The issues here have bedeviled theatrical and performance theory. “If it is the nature of a sign not to be what it represents, what does that say about actors? . . . Diderot wrestled at length with this paradox, concluding at one point that actors must on some level be quite devoid of their own personality in order to represent other per­ sonalities . . . . The question goes further: Can men and women, who onstage rep­ resent men and women, albeit ‘other’ ones, even be said to function as signs at all, since at root they also are what they represent?” (Wise 1998, 231–232).

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the really troubling imitation for the authoritarian ideology of this imaginary republic is not some painting of a dinner couch, but the human body’s—the human being’s—performance of acts stipulated by the republic’s masters to be anti-social. The authoritarian republic will therefore educate its citizens to perform only certain activities, and the city’s guardians intend rig­ orously to proscribe performances of other sorts that might encour­ age or condition bodies to move in foreign ways. One path toward this objective is to downplay the imitative potential of the body by restricting socially acceptable music that the young will be exposed to. Another way is by rigorously maintaining that each person is capable by nature of only one function in the general division of labor. Nature made one to be an upholsterer, and nothing else. Nature made another to be a constable, and nothing else. And nature made a few—we know where this leads—to be philosopher-kings. By excluding theatrical imitation, imitation against the grain of this legislated “nature” (i.e., not really nature but its social con­ struction), the stage will be cleared for the main mimesis of the state. “Now, Adeimantus, reflect on whether our guardians ought to be mimics (mimêtikous) or not,” says Socrates. “Or does this follow from what went before—that each one would do a fine job in one activ­ ity, but not in many, and if he should try to put his hand to many, he would surely fail of attaining fame at all?” (Bloom, 394e2–6) After all, Socrates continues, in a revealing question, “doesn’t the same rule (logos) hold for mimesis, that the same person is not able to imi­ tate many things as well as one thing?” (394e8–9) Bound by the same logos (rule, argument, discourse), vocation and imitation to all appearances come to the same thing: mimesis is permitted when it is not mimesis at all, but only correct behavior. Or put differently, correct behavior is correct mimesis: . . . if they do imitate, they must imitate what’s appropriate to them from childhood: men who are courageous, moderate, holy, free, and everything of the sort; and what is slavish, or anything else shameful, they must neither do nor be apt to imitate, lest they get a taste for the reality from its imitation. Or haven’t you observed that imitations, if they are practiced continually from youth onwards, become estab­ lished as habits and nature, in body and voice and in thought? (Bloom, 395 c3–d3)

In this is only an external and conventional difference between imitation and what passes for virtue in this republic, which pre­

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fers a kind of unconscious virtuosity to the possibility of virtue.7 In avoiding the city of pigs, Socrates’ succeeding utopia becomes a city of the apes, the behavioristic determinism of which must rig­ orously exclude the introduction of foreign behaviors its citizens might mimic. The city founders would for the most part simply legislate away this temptation rather than educate its citizens to contend with drama, poetry, and other mimetically performing arts, which the republic will censor or ban altogether. The city founders choose cen­ sorship over more liberal education, it would appear, because rais­ ing citizens’ consciousness about dramatic imitation would entail raising their consciousness about the theatrical constitution of their own city and its tacit mimetic fictions. This double standard of mimesis allows Socrates to imagine reinscribing an interpretation of human nature in the medium of the citizen body and then forestalling further uses of this privilege by mystifying his representation—his artificial or imitation body—as an original form, the truly human. The “well-born lie” is duplicitous in being up-to-date but seeming old and well-bred, in being artificial but seeming natural, native-born. In so successfully practicing behind his back the mimesis that he preaches against to our faces—and many have taken him at this face-value—Socrates exemplifies mime­ sis working as the medium of ancient ideology. Why such verbal legerdemain, and what does it have to do with couches and reproductions of couches? Why Glaucon is the true president of the couch—the user who might best know its truth (601e–602a)—I have already suggested: he asked for it. So, too, “Kallipolis” is Glaucon’s city (527c2), and the argument is as he and Adeimantus helped dictate, even though Glaucon is at times reluc­ tant to accept it from Socrates, whose midwifery in discussion I am taking seriously here. This means that Socrates is unable to disclose himself to Glaucon and others for reasons that stem from the inex­ perience and incapacity of his discussants as well as from the dia­ logical structure of Socratic truth, particularly as it disappears into the mimetic and transactional figurations of performance. There are

7 To catch the weirdness of this, one might refer to Judith Butler’s accounts (e.g., Butler, 1997) of the performance of identity—of the way people are their perfor­ mances. This view is certainly not Socratic, but it does resonate with the guardian virtue portrayed in the Republic as well as with the theatricalized contexts in which Socrates often operates.

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silences—of ignorance, of error, of irony, of existential conscience— that we, as a dramatically attuned audience, are invited to hear. In part two of this essay I will try to indicate gaps that we, as inter­ preters of text, are summoned to read.8 Compared to these discursive and textual structures, the philoso­ phy of the couch is ridiculously simple. It shares the prior utopian discussion’s insistent, reductive emphasis on mind over matter, on instrumentality, calculation, external control, on standing outside of— or lying on top of—a production. In arts of ordinary manufacture, the producer and the thing produced clearly differ. The couch exam­ ple retains this symmetry down the levels of its hierarchy: god makes idea; carpenter makes couch; painter makes painting. Painter and painting thus differ: one is the maker, one is the medium; one is active, one is passive. Not so with the enacted dynamic of mimesis where the performing body is both the medium and, to an inde­ terminate extent, the maker. What is more, the exaggerated difference between producer and thing produced, agent and patient, parallels and reinforces Glaucon’s original (and false) dichotomy between active and passive, between doing injustice and receiving it. This abiding contrast between agent and patient infiltrates Book 10 as an impor­ tant subtext of the discussion, but it already has been a decisive theme of the imaginary state and its paideia in the central books of the Republic. There, legislators mold guardians; guardians mold aux­ iliaries and other citizens; the human material of the state is as a passive external medium in which the legislators and guardians effect their will.9 The philosopher-lawgivers of the republic position themselves like the philosopher evoked at the end of the Phaedrus (276c–277a): “he who has knowledge” and inscribes it in the souls of epigones.10 Under certain circumstances, the republic’s philosopher will share his vision of the truth by means of a similar process: “stamping on the plas­

8 In this I obviously depart from the Socrates-as-Plato’s-mouthpiece mainstream of Republic interpretation, but I’m also taking the ironic dimensions of Socrates’ per­ formance and Plato’s texts seriously. That is, the irony does not exist just for its own sake or just because I can make it. A fuller account of these difficulties is my Missing Socrates 1991. 9 Jacob Howland 1998b, 654–657, is exactly right to be bothered by the coer­ civeness of these formulations. 10 For an extended account of this similarity that has much influenced my own thinking, see Berger 1994.

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tic matter of human nature in public and private the patterns that he visions there,” like an artist “who used the heavenly model” to trace the lineaments into what Socrates professes to hope might be a receptive city (Shorey, 500d10–e4). “They will take the city and the characters of men, as they might a tablet, and first wipe it clean—no easy task. But at any rate you know that this would be their first point of difference from ordinary reform­ ers, that they would refuse to take in hand either individual or state or to legislate before they either received a clean slate or themselves made it clean.” “And they would be right,” he said. “And thereafter, do you not think they would sketch the figure of the constitution?” “Surely.” “And then, I take it, in the course of the work they would glance frequently in either direction, at justice, beauty, sobriety and the like as they are in the nature of things, and alternately at that which they were trying to reproduce in mankind, mingling and blending from var­ ious pursuits that hue of the flesh, so to speak, deriving their judg­ ment from that likeness of humanity which Homer too called, when it appeared in men, the image and likeness of God.” “Right,” he said. “And they would erase one touch or stroke and paint in another until in the measure of the possible they had made the characters of men pleasing and dear to God as may be.” “That at any rate would be the fairest painting.”

(Shorey, 501a2–c2)

With these benevolent reassurances, Socrates would answer those skeptical of philosopher-kings, those “advancing to attack us with might and main” (Shorey, 501c4–5). He fantastically imagines, for Adei­ mantus, that this account would have the rhetorical impact on the angry, anti-philosophical real-world multitude that it describes philoso­ phers having on utopian character. That claim is funny enough and begs us to differ (and Adeimantus to hedge, 501c–e). But there is also in this passage another chance for differing: Socrates’ metaphor­ ical painting comprises another of the Republic’s celebrated doubletakes, flaunting Socrates’ apparent discursive debts to the mimetic arts he condemns, too eagerly holding open the door for the fool­ hardy deconstructor.11 My choice of response, however, would instead

11

Say, for one, Derrida 1981.

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emphasize the passage’s insistent dichotomy between producer and human thing unconsciously produced, as if, with the right flourish of something called mimesis, education could be as easy as paint­ ing. So Socrates also says in the Phaedrus in the false dichotomy between active and passive instruction with which it concludes: edu­ cation in a logos is a kind of vegetable husbandry (276b–277a), or it is a matter of a magisterial soul-writer and a receptive soul to write in (278a–b). Such active-passive dichotomies test one’s credulity throughout the dialogues, often, as here, in pointed contrast to the more middle-voiced aspirations of learning, of Socratic conversation, of Plato reading. In problematizing Socrates’ preference for versions of mimesis that strongly dichotomize active maker and passive medium, I know it is not quite true to say, in contrast, that the actual mimetic performer is both medium and maker. Linguistic performance involves making in only a very restricted sense. Moreover, as we see from the Ion or more generally from studies of practitioners in an oral tradition, arti­ sans in such settings tend to be anything but self-sufficient makers. They are conditioned by traditional practices and genres, by audi­ ence demand, by their vanity before admiring others, and by the authoritative discourses that dominate linguistic, rhetorical, and poetic transactions.12 Such circulating discourses fill out the utterances of Ion, Gorgias, Thrasymachus, Polemarchus, Glaucon, Adeimantus, and others with citations, commonplaces, virtual quotations, and speech acts constrained by occasion and by context. Utterances of speakers in Plato convey a strong sense of intertextuality in spite of—and because of—Socrates’ efforts to make interlocutors arrest and own up to these circulating logoi. Indeed, it is the way in which Socrates tirelessly works this middle ground between one’s passive infiltration by cultural discourses and the active, consciousness­

12 “One of the main reasons why the oral-performative and semiotic functions cannot be pitted against each other in any predictable, universally valid way is that the actor, in performing as his phenomenally real self, is even here involved in representations—not of the character but of himself. That is, he represents himself with an eye to gaining the audience’s approval.” (Wise 1998, 234) The convergence of traditional discussions of oral tradition with new concepts of “discourse” and “per­ formance” inspired by contemporary criticism and theory has resulted in a num­ ber of recent relevant studies and collections, including Herington 1985, Gentili 1988, Dougherty and Kurke 1993, Stehle 1997, Falkner et al. 1999, and Goldhill and Osborne 1999.

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raising possibility of “one’s own” logos that energizes most of the dia­ logues, including the dialogue of Book 10 and Socrates’ exaggera­ tions of active and passive performance there.13 In that Book 10 argument I see that Socrates actually makes the following pretty fair accounting of poetic mimesis, with epic and tragedy foremost in his mind: Imitation, we say, imitates human beings performing ( prattontas) forced or voluntary actions, and, as a result of the action, supposing them­ selves to have done well or badly, and in all of this experiencing pain or enjoyment. (Bloom, 603c4–7)

In this specification, the object of poetic mimesis, the implied equiv­ alent to the painting of the couch, is the fictional character, an imper­ sonated imitation of human being. Having clearly focused this description, you would think an eager critic of mimesis would point out the tricky similarities between such mimesis and actuality: here how the description of stage actions and everyday actions coincide and so risk cognitive and ethical confu­ sions. So you would think Socrates would eagerly target the hypocrisy of poetry he has just specified as exactly the sort of wayward imper­ sonation he was so careful with in Book 3. Wouldn’t he be espe­ cially mindful of Glaucon’s and Adeimantus’ earlier concerns that one’s real nature might hide in such poetic impersonation, which might confer on the impersonators a Gyges-like invisibility? Or, on the other side, which might forge the conditions for the just man’s appearing to be the opposite? Despite its plausible similarity to the

13 Nightingale’s accounts (1995) explore and illustrate discursive practices alluded to in this paragraph—for example, “as the Phaedrus indicates, the activity of phi­ losophy is a perpetual engagement with the discourse of others, whether that dis­ course be presented in an analytic or non-analytic mode” (162). I am not comfortable with her low estimate of Plato’s textual sophistication (her high estimate of his rhetorical sophistication notwithstanding)—for example, “If, in the category of spo­ ken discourse, it is the ongoing philosophical conversation that enables one to achieve authenticity, then it is clear that the written text is simply the wrong container for authentic discourse. To be sure, a written text may serve to initiate or lay the groundwork for a philosophical dialogue, but it must find a way to usher the reader outside its narrow bounds—to announce itself as an unauthoritative and, indeed, ‘alien’ discourse” (168). The modern theoretical touchstone for this theme is Bakhtin’s distinction between “authoritative discourse” and “internally persuasive discourse” (Bakhtin 1981, 342–48). This is not the distinction between what is written and what is spoken: speech as well as text may instantiate either type of discourse.

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deceptive painted couch, this genuine liability of the life-like drama is lucidly remarked, then passed over. Why? Not because he does not know about it. In the Ion, Socrates makes jokes about the willing suspension of disbelief (535b–d). Instead of this easy but potent criticism of dramatic impersonation, Socrates chooses to focus on the effect of mimesis on passive spectators, one of whom is our besieged logistikon in its hostile body and soul. In doing so, Socrates resumes his handling of Glaucon’s original anxi­ ety before the prospect of unjust suffering, which is now manifest in the pathos of the dramatic spectacle, particularly in the case of a good man who loses self-control in a flood of pity and lamentation. Redoubling the point, the description of this man itself makes pathetic appeals, not only in evoking theatrical images, but in staging this good man’s response for Glaucon’s view, reproducing the contagion of pity and sorrow that spreads from character to actor to spectator to citizen and, now, to a Socratic audience. The Book 10 sequence from empty couch to suffering soul, from mimetic art to its inner effect that culminates in Socrates’ attack on the power of tragic suffering, in a way reprises the drift of Books 3–9, from dinner accommodations to embattled logistikon. In restag­ ing this sequence, Book 10 might renew or reconfirm one’s intu­ itions about the ethical crudeness of the guardian state, its legislators, and its proponents—that it is not voluntaristic, that it places only carefully delimited accents on knowledge or self-knowledge, ethical action, and personal responsibility, dwelling instead on correct behav­ ior, self-gratification, self-preservation, and the ultimate inadequacy of these for modeling the just person. No wonder these accents do not ring true: they do not agree with Socrates’ justice as it is indeli­ bly enacted and represented in the Apology or in dialogues that most directly bear on the trial and death of Socrates, dialogues that in my view enjoy a certain privilege in the philosophy of justice accord­ ing to Socrates and Plato. And so in the silences of its differences I imagine in the ideal republic Socrates’ homage to Adeimantus and, especially, to Glaucon. For all his promise of intellect, courage, and good nature, one might imagine Glaucon passive, reclining on his couch, at ease in the feasts of the conventional city, pleased with his superiority to the money­ making many, anxious lest he might suffer injustice but not yet mobi­ lized to do justice, hoping Socrates has the prescription, the pharmakon, to cure his uneasy mind and keep Thrasymachus and his persua­

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sion really at bay. To put it this way seems cruel to Glaucon, I know: it seems a version of the injustice he dreads, so maybe we should prefer Socrates’ pathetic image of a namesake—the passive sea Glaucus, changed by a drug some say, suffering one indignity after another, the original members of his body . . . broken off and mutilated and crushed and in every way marred by the waves, and other parts have attached themselves to him, accretions of shells and seaweed and rocks, so that he is more like any wild creature than what he was by nature. (Shorey, 611d2–6)

Sophistications have paradoxically made the soul wild in its disor­ der, its wish for urbanity reduced to a true state of nature. If there is instruction here, it takes the oblique and threatening form of accel­ erating Glaucon’s crisis, of making his mind more uneasy that “par­ ticipating in virtue by habit and not by philosophy” (Shorey, 619c7–d1) is not enough, even if somehow those “rocks and shells were ham­ mered off ( perikroustheisa)—those which, because it feasts on earth, have grown around it in a wild, earthy, and rocky profusion as a result of those feasts that are called happy” (Bloom, 611e5–612a3). And so Glaucon’s couch and its commentary, indeed the whole Republic, climaxes in the hortatory rhetoric that Clitophon, in a doubt­ ful work of undoubted pertinence, claims that Socrates substitutes for real instruction.

II I take the trouble to distinguish between performed mimesis— embodied enactment in heavily contextualized, conventionalized settings—and instrumental mimesis—a painter or writer fashioning cor­ respondences in inert matter—because both versions intersect in the Plato that I hold. The obvious instrumentality of the book—its let­ ters corresponding to phonemes—enfolds the fiction of embodied, contextualized performance. To appreciate this difference in closing, I want to pull back from the power of that dramatic fiction and from the pathos of a Socrates whose fictionalized teaching as one character to another in Plato is remarkably unsuccessful. So let us imagine a Socrates processed into both mimetic perfor­ mance and into writing: he is in one sense presentational, a habitué

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of performing bodies in a living theater; in another sense he is rep­ resentational, divested of his living theater and invested in a textual body. The correspondence view of mimesis, organizing resemblances across differences of media, fits the case that Socrates cannot quite make but Plato will. As a crucial gap that we must read, not hear, this structural irony deforms Socrates’ discussion of mimesis in the Republic as it deforms his discussion of writing in the Phaedrus. The fictional Socrates, who is portrayed as participating in embod­ ied mimesis, performs on two occasions in the Republic. First, he per­ forms in a conversation with Glaucon, Adeimantus, and others. I see this performance as alienating Socrates from himself to the extent that he ventriloquates his auditors’ ignorance of justice or their anx­ iety about injustice. He performs for them what they are able to hear, what they are willing to hear (Polemarchus: “Could you really persuade . . . if we won’t listen?” Bloom, 327c12), and what they are otherwise unwilling to voice (“With you present I couldn’t be very eager to say whatever might occur to me, so look yourself ”). The second occasion of Socratic performance in the Republic occurs in monologue, in the narration of this whole conversation to an unspecified, implied auditor. This auditor is not us; we are reading a book. Instead, this imaginary auditor is someone who never inter­ rupts, never fractures the monologue into dialogical parts. Socrates, who claims aversion to paintings or texts that forever repeat the same words (Phaedrus 275d4–9), here is portrayed as knowingly com­ plicit in such repetition, offering a narrative, but not opening it up for comment or discussion. Though it is usually taken for granted, this occasion of Socratic performance bothers me, because it need not have been presented this way. Plato did not have to make the Republic a story from the next day; he could have made it a “dia­ logical drama,” as it were, rather than an extended exercise in nar­ ration. But he chooses to show Socrates as the enabler of one-way discourse, who apparently repeats a logos verbatim—just as if he were a picture or a book—for some unspecified person willing to receive this repetition without interruption. In this performance Socrates is apparently the agent; somewhere in fictive time an ear passively takes it in. But perhaps we know better; Socrates will have been respond­ ing to a demand, a demand of Phaedrus, of Apollodorus, of Euclides, or of some other Glaucon-like trafficker in the latest word. And so the mimetic drift, lamented in the Phaedrus as a drift distinctive of writing, has begun: it “drifts all over the place, getting into the hands

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not only of those who understand it, but equally of those who have no business with it; it doesn’t know how to address the right peo­ ple, and not address the wrong” (Hackforth 1952, 275e). But Plato’s writing is not like this, as if the loss of Socrates has prepared it for the loss of contextualization lamented in the Phaedrus. Plato’s writing estranges mimesis and calls attention to its liabilities, even as it submits to them. The antagonism of mimesis as presen­ tation and mimesis as representation, the pre- and post-philosophical versions of mimesis, registers the momentous impact of literacy, especially for us who see Plato bending the arts of literacy away from logographic and logocentric strategies and toward the kind of reading and interpretation we know more familiarly.14 In non-literate cultures where human beings and cultural discourses are scarcely distinguishable from one another, this particular antagonism between versions of mimesis scarcely, if at all, exists. Nor will this problem of mimesis much strike an inveterately literate person accustomed to the make-believe reposing in books. To this peaceable reader, accus­ tomed to harmless fictions, Socrates’ critique of poetry seems an astonishing overreaction. For us, the theatrical perspective might help: imagine the difference having the script of a performance—even a sense of a script—would make. To have access to a script is poten­ tially to rouse the passive spectator in you to action, to assert a power of reading and interpretation, of relative abstraction from con­ text, against the powers of discursive programming Socrates depicts in the mimetic culture of both actual and ideal states. The script, if we had it: with Plato, we do have it; it is the lever­ age for my critique of Socrates’ performance (as staged in Plato). Here the book becomes a means to fight off the overwhelming spell cast by spectacle, drama, and poetry performed. What captivates you as naturally as discourse, music, action, and spectacle over there, here comes by effort, learning, and hard work as you methodically peruse and decode the conventional marks on the page. Of course, mere possession of a script does not inoculate you against the charms of spectacle. But against these mimetic charms, spreading outward to enchant an audience, the script, if we had it, might help us counter the spell with an idea of fiction, might help us counter the per­ forming actor with an idea of written character; a script, if we had

14

See Thomas 1989, 1992; Robb 1994; Wise 1998, among numerous others.

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it, might offset the charismatic human medium by introducing a sec­ ond, artificial medium—a cooler medium—and thereby make possible something like Socrates’ abstraction of mimetic representation as a relation of correspondent but unlike things. Remember, however, that these sequences are to some extent reversible. The disenchanting power of the script for a reader also affords for a writer—especially the ancient Greek logographer—the possibility of more artfully planning, prescribing, and staging enchant­ ment in the theater, the court, the assembly, or the lecture hall. After all, if written language worked only in the one direction, if it only released discourse from the pressure of performance, if it only estranged theatrical enchantments, the dialogues of Plato as candid little scripts of everyday Athenian drama should have produced such estranging effects. In theory, by making the social text conspicuous in the Republic, the Apology, or the Charmides, Plato should be raising general consciousness about the theatricality and the textuality of everyday life. But one must confess that the dialogues have hardly had this effect, even though these books caution against our mimet­ ically reconstituting them as living theater. This proves an ineffectual caveat against the powerful habits working in the other direction of writing, toward writing’s incorporation in mimetic performance and toward the powerful biases whereby we suppress self-consciousness about embedded mechanisms of ordinary social and physical life. Even in the modern world. Even right now as we understand the dialogues and teach or preach our understanding in a living theater, often in imitation of Socrates. What at last I want to hold on to is how writing caters in oppo­ site directions to two versions of mimesis, each channeling through Socrates, how writing, in the person of Socrates, mediates these two versions of mimesis, which according to Plato define an ancient cri­ sis in representation pitting abstraction against embodiment, an art corresponding to terms, definitions, ideas against an art nurtured in human bodies. Looking one way, we see writing is a graphic art, like a painting of an empty couch, drawn away from its embodi­ ment; writing involves a system of representations, according to which marks on paper correspond to vocal sounds of speech. But writing— as it is enacted or read aloud, as Greeks usually read—is also an embodied art, and an expression of a speaking, gesturing, signifying body, and so it participates in what I have termed performative mimesis. Ancient writing, then, is open to and functions in two sys­

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tems of mimesis; it is the medium by which these systems commu­ nicate with one another and appropriate one another and the medium by which they cause trouble for one another. But it is also a medium by which technical and institutional change comes to be transacted, a medium by which such change begins to be articulated or under­ stood, and writing is a medium in which traces of such change are couched for our subsequent disembedding.

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SOCRATES’ ARGUMENTATIVE BURDEN IN THE REPUBLIC Hayden W. Ausland

“Analyses of the Republic abound.” Shorey means attempts to describe the several ideas as they unfold or outlines of the dialogue’s overall philosophical argument.1 Widespread disagreement suggests that even when such analyses take literary features into account, the result may not be an adequate key to the underlying structure.2 An alternative possibility explored in this study is that the fundamental principle of organization is rhetorical in character. At the very beginning of Book 2 of the Republic, the old question whether Book 1 is a stand-alone Socratic dialogue is settled easily and definitively: Socrates says that he had thought the conversation was finished. If Socrates himself thought of the dialogue as com­ plete, then it seems analytically true that it must be a complete Socratic dialogue. Of course, he thought that yesterday. Today, in retrospect, it seems to him that Book 1 was like a prooimion. What does he mean by this? The term was in his day used of certain instrumental preludes; and it was the name for poetic compositions 1 Shorey 1930, 2:vii. In a note he cites seven ( Jowett, Grote, Gomperz, Boyd, Nettleship, Überweg-Praechter, and Wilamowitz). 2 A detailed attempt is found already in Montecatino 1594, who, beginning with a division between the introductory scene and the part of the dialogue addressed explicitly to the question of justice, subdivides the latter in scholastic fashion into 187 further parts. Later scholars were prone to hold that the basic structure of the work was simple and obvious enough—so Schleiermacher 1973, 338–39 [Engl. 352]; Stallbaum 1858, lxxix; and Campbell 1894, 1. Yet the same scholars will count different numbers of parts (these find six, four, and five main parts, respectively), or perhaps divide them differently (thus, in addition to Schleiermacher’s, mutually distinct plans in six parts were offered by Steinhart 1855, Cornford 1941, and Voegelin 1957). His concern with Plato’s supposed development led Susemihl (1857) to divide the dialogue into eight main parts. By contrast some articulations of the dialogue are explicitly founded on dramatic or rhetorical principles; so Bacher 1868–75 (five parts of his own), Kutzner 1877 (the same five as Stallbaum’s) and Dreinhöfer 1886, 12 (only three parts). Others have sought to combine more than one of the above perspectives and in this way to reveal a finer underlying archi­ tecture; thus Hildebrandt 1933, xxx (seven parts). Cf. Vretska 1958, 42–46 and Voegelin 1957, 46–52.

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like the Homeric Hymns, i.e. designedly incomplete songs of praise of certain gods; but it also is a technical term in reference to the begin­ ning of a rhetorical speech in which the speaker seeks his audience’s attention, good will, and curiosity. In which of these senses is he metaphorically applying the term? In any case, of course, an ostensible reason he likens Book 1 to a prooimion is that Plato’s brothers did not permit the dialogue to conclude in perplexity, as so many other Socratic dialogues do. Instead, Glaucon reacts immediately as many readers do, once they attain the end of an aporetic dialogue,3 indicating that Socrates’ argu­ ments have not really persuaded him, even though they may have silenced Thrasymachus. He hereby introduces into the dialogue the theme of seeming versus being, of opinion versus knowledge. After Glaucon outlines how Socrates can better argue to produce a gen­ uine persuasion, Adeimantus is moved to add some considerations that will make the full import of his brother’s request clearer. It is then in response to their joint challenge that Socrates develops his argument in the main body of the dialogue. It therefore is perhaps useful to inquire with some care exactly what the nature of their challenge is.

Glaucon’s Speech In recognizably Socratic fashion, Glaucon leads Socrates through a short dialogue in which they agree on a division of goods into three kinds: (1) those welcomed for themselves but not sought for things flowing from them, (2) those welcomed both for themselves and for things flowing from them, and (3) those burdensome, if beneficial, goods accepted for the sake of wages and other things flowing from them, but not for themselves (357b4–d3). Glaucon illustrates each kind with examples; and, in answer to his next question, Socrates says that he regards justice as a good of the best kind, the second kind that one who intends to be blessed (makarios) must wish to have both for its own sake and for the sake of things flowing from it (358a1–3). Glaucon replies that this is not the view of most, who think instead that it is of the kind sought only for the things that

3

Joseph 1935, 1.

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flow from it (i.e., kind 3), now specifying these as wages (misthoi ) and reputations (epidokêseis) founded on opinion or seeming (doxa, 358a4–6). Socrates says that he knows this, but has for some reason been him­ self left unimpressed by Thrasymachus’ efforts to blame justice and praise injustice accordingly. Socrates here narrows the theme of real as opposed to seeming persuasion introduced by Glaucon to one of instructive praise and blame.4 Glaucon’s division of goods is not the same as one more com­ monly found between the psychic, somatic, and external goods. Indeed, it seems otherwise strangely absent from the classical philo­ sophical tradition.5 Possibly the closest parallel passage is found in Cicero’s De Inventione. This work employs the traditional division of rhetorical speech into forensic, deliberative, and demonstrative (i.e., epideictic); and Cicero follows Aristotle in identifying the aim of forensic speech as the just and that of epideictic as the honorable. But he balks at Aristotle’s identification of the aim of deliberative speech as the advantageous, preferring to say that it is both the advantageous and the honorable (utile and honestum). It is in this con­ nection that he introduces the same division Glaucon makes.6 When

4 éllÄ ¶fh: âV S≈kratew, pÒteron ≤mçw boÊlei doke›n pepeik°nai µ …w élhy«w pe›sai ˜ti pant‹ trÒpƒ êmeinÒn §stin d¤kaion e‰nai µ êdikon; (357a4–b2) Socrates: O‰da, ∑n dÉ §g≈, ˜ti doke› oÏtv ka‹ pãlai ÍpÚ Yrasumãxou …w toioËton ¯n c°getai, édik¤a dÄ §paine›tai: éllÉ §g≈ tiw, …w ¶oike, dusmayÆw. (358a7–9) According to ancient rhetorical theory a prôoimion is supposed to render one “ready to learn” (eÈmayÆw, see Lausberg 1998, section 272). Much twentieth-century Anglo-American discus­ sion has sought to pin down the precise task set Socrates by Glaucon in terms bor­ rowed from modern ethical theory (cf. Annas 1981, 59–71 with Centrone 1999, n. 83, pp. 746–47). For a recent reconsideration, see Stemmer 1988. That Socrates’ task is in some way encomiastic is lately noticed in Nightingale 1993 (112, n. 1), where the governing idea, however, is that Plato’s rhetorical efforts are part of a “critique” intended to “challenge the binary logic of praise and blame” in a way that “undermines the genre in its traditional form.” (129–30) 5 Since Muret 1602, 678–81, Glaucon’s division has been compared with Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 1.7.4–5, where he differentiates ends in relation to “the three lives” (cf. 1.5.2). Comparing also 1.6.9, which builds a dilemma to be posed Platonists, Tucker 1900, 12, calls it “nothing philosophically recondite” and “sufficiently exact for the character.” Cf. Jowett and Campbell 1894, 3:58. The division itself appears to be a flexible argumentative topos; and indeed, the basis for the distinction as used by Glaucon is perhaps most prominent in Aristotle in the Topics (see 3.1 116a29–39 and 118b20–26). Reeve holds it “subtle and complex,” revealing Glaucon as famil­ iar with philosophy (1988, 24). For some reason, White (1979) attributes the divi­ sion to Socrates (74) or Plato (75) rather than to Glaucon; cf. White 1984, 393. 6 Nunc ad deliberationis praecepta pergamus. Rerum expetendarum tria genera sunt; par autem numerus vitandarum ex contraria parte. nam est quiddam, quod

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he later gets to epideictic speech, Cicero reverts to the conventional division into psychic, somatic, and external goods. What is his source for the division he shares with Glaucon? In Book 3 of the De Finibus, a similar division is applied to the Stoics’ “preferred indifferents” (Lat. indifferentia praeposita; Gk. adiaphora proêgmena), i.e. those things in one degree or another pertinent to the good life although indifferent to virtue and vice simply, in the stricter sense required in Stoical moral theory.7 This Stoic division is there­ fore implicit also in Book 3 of De Officiis, which examines the pos­ sibility of a seeming conflict between advantage (utile) and the honorable (honestum). Cicero there reports Panaetius as having said that there were “three heads under which men customarily deliberate and con­ sult about duty: first, the question whether the matter in hand is morally right or morally wrong; second, whether it is expedient or inexpedient; third, how a decision ought to be reached, in case that which has the appearance of being morally right clashes with that which seems to be expedient.” (De Officiis 3 [2] 7) By Cicero’s day, the firmer Stoic doctrine that no such opposition exists had effectively yielded to an Academic-Peripatetic argument that the opposition is at least apparent enough in practice to warrant a popular teaching that the honorable is preferable to the advantageous. The man cred­ ited with having softened the original Stoicism with this more flexible outlook of “middle” Stoicism is Panaetius, known also as a close stu­ dent of Plato and Aristotle.8 So when Cicero adopts a Stoical posi­

sua vi nos adliciat ad sese, non emolumento captans aliquo, sed trahens sua dig­ nitate, quod genus virtus, scientia, veritas. est aliud autem non propter suam vim et naturam, sed propter fructum atque utilitatem petendum; quod pecu­ nia est. est porro quiddam ex horum partibus iunctum, quod et sua vi et dignitate nos inlectos ducit et prae se quandam gerit utilitatem, quo magis expetatur, ut amicitia, bona existimatio (De Inventione 2 [52] 157). 7 De Finibus 3 (17) 56 (cf. 55); also at Diogenes Laertius 7.107. Cf. the analogous division between constituent, productive, and both constituent and productive goods at 3 (17) 55 with Diogenes Laertius 7.97 and (less clearly) Stobaeus, Ecl. 80.15–16 W (cf. 82.20–83.9 W). Adam (1969) cites such passages as the closest parallels for Glaucon’s division. Cf. White 1984, 393, n. 1. Such finer differences within species of adiaphora are for some reason passed over in Inwood 1999, 101. For things inter­ mediate between virtue and vice yet having more or less worth in various specific regards, see Stobaeus Ecl. 80.14–83.9 W and cf. Long and Sedley 1987, 2.355 (on Diogenes Laertius 7.107 = L-S 58m). 8 On Panaetius, cf. Cicero, De Finibus 4 (28) 79 with Stoic. Index Herc. col. 61 (frag. 57 V. Str.). For attribution of the division to Plato, see Apuleius, De Platone et eius Dogmate, 2.10 and cf. Atticus apud Eusebius, Prep. Evang. 15.4 (797c–d). Plotinus

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tion in the De Officiis, it is perhaps in this sense. Cicero and Panaetius at any rate do seem to agree that many men do as a matter of fact compare the advantageous with the honorable, while suggesting, how­ ever, that the many do at least sense that even making the com­ parison is somehow wrong.9 This rather closely reflects the situation of Glaucon, whom Xenophon pictures as politically ambitious and who in Book 1 responded to Socrates’ suggestion that the best men rule only for the wage (mis­ thos) of avoiding being ruled by their inferiors.10 At the beginning of Book 2, the same Glaucon takes the initiative in recasting a dialec­ tical question as a problem for rhetorical discourse, doing so in terms Cicero will regard as in the first instance proper to deliberative dis­ course, whether ethical or rhetorical. But Socrates for some reason immediately reinterprets the problem as one for an epideictic dis­ course of praise or blame.11 Glaucon regroups. He says that Socrates’ proof in regard to jus­ tice and injustice did not suit him. He wants to hear something of a different kind, which he now describes in two ways. First, he says that he desires to learn what justice and injustice are and what power they have in themselves while in the soul, without regard to “wages” and other things flowing from them. (358b4–7) He sketches how he means to reformulate the position of Thrasymachus in accordance with this desire. He plans to observe three distinct phases, in which he will establish: (1) what justice is and whence it came to be (dikaiosÊnhn oÂon e‰na¤ fasin ka‹ ˜yen gegon°nai); (2) that all those

reminds us that the principal good sought for itself is ultimately the good itself (Enn. 1.7.1). 9 Qui autem omnia metiuntur emolumentis et commodis neque ea volunt prae­ ponderari honestate, ii solent in deliberando honestum cum eo, quod utile putant, comparare, boni viri non solent. Itaque existimo Panaetium, cum dixerit homines solere in hac comparatione dubitare, hoc ipsum sensisse, quod dixerit solere modo, non etiam oportere. Etenim non modo pluris putare, quod utile videatur quam quod honestum sit, sed etiam haec inter se comparare et in his addubitare turpis­ simum est. (De Officiis 3 (4) 18) Hence Cicero’s difference with Aristotle about the goal of deliberative speech in the De Inventione. 10 Cf. Republic 347a3–b1, Xenophon Memorabilia 3.6–7. Xenophon begins by not­ ing that Socrates was well-disposed toward Glaucon on behalf of Plato, further implying that Plato had also tried to quell Glaucon’s ambition. Cf. Moors 1981, 7 with notes 18–21. 11 That he does so with Glaucon following him goes some way toward explain­ ing what readers since Schleiermacher (1973, 341) have noticed, viz. a decided change in style between Book 1 and the following books.

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practicing it do so unwillingly, considering it as a necessity rather than a good (˜ti pãntew aÈtÚ ofl §pithdeÊontew êkontew §pithdeÊousin …w énagka›on éllÄ oÈx …w égayÒn); (3) that they do so reasonably, since, as they claim, the unjust is far better than the just life (˜ti efikÒtvw aÈtÚ dr«si: polÁ går éme¤nvn êra ı toË éd¤kou µ ı toË dika¤ou b¤ow, …w l°gousin). (358b7–c6)

The reason he thus reformulates Thrasymachus’ position, which he knows all too well but is at a loss (358b7) to refute, is to invite in response a proof of the kind he lacks. This proof he now char­ acterizes for a second time in the epideictic terms just introduced by Socrates: Glaucon wants to hear justice “praised in and of itself ” (aÈtÚ kayÄ aÍtÚ §gkvmiazÒmenon, 358d2). For this reason he will rehearse at length a praise of injustice and blame of justice along the lines just given, in order that Socrates may use it as a model for his own praise of justice and blame of injustice.12 And in fact, the way Glaucon reformulates the position of Thrasymachus observes certain conven­ tions of epideictic form. A relatively full theoretical scheme is set out in Aphthonius, Progymnasmata: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)

proem generation (nation, country, ancestors, fathers) rearing (activities, art, laws) actions (psychic, somatic, by fortune) comparison epilogue

The many parallel schemata found in other rhetorical sources differ in details, but virtually all begin (after a proem) with the origins of the person to be praised and then proceed through his growth to the attainment of maturity, before making some kind of final comparison.13 The point is to focus upon the good qualities of the lau­

12 358d3–6. Philosophical scholars regularly confound Socrates’ new epideictic task with the more dialectical (i.e. quasi-forensic) effort of the first book; thus one recent paraphrase of 358d3–6 “. . . Glaucon proposes to defend injustice in pre­ cisely the way that he wants to hear justice defended . . .” (Reeve 1988, 25; simi­ larly Dahl 1991, Kraut 1992a and 1997). 13 For basic theoretical treatments, see Ad Alexandrum, 1.1, 3.1–4, and 35.1–19; Aristotle, Ars Rhetorica A.9; [Cicero] Ad Herrenium, 3 (6) 10–(8) 15; Cicero, De Inventione 2 (59) 177f. (cf. 1 (24) 34–36, 2 (10) 32–34, and (53–54) 159–65); id., Topica (24f.)

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dandus, and the center of the praise is regularly of the mature man’s voluntary, active exercise of virtue.14 The Rhetorica ad Alexandrum makes an interesting point explicit. There, the proem is followed by a “dis­ tinction between goods (a) internal and (b) external to virtue” which is the basis for a slightly different ordering of the matters praised. Comparison seems missing, but is then made one of the ways in which the encomiast can amplify his praise;15 others of these ways include multiplying the good things done by him and showing that he has acted well on purpose and willingly.16 Not only can persons be praised, of course, but also other things, such as cities.17 What exactly does Glaucon do to praise injustice and blame jus­ tice? In the first part of his speech (358e3ff., which begins with the word pephukenai ) he presents the genealogy of justice according to something resembling modern hypothetical contract-theories, with which it is usually loosely compared:18 justice is not natural, but con­ ventional and it is born of men’s underlying fear of suffering injus­ tice. Such accounts surface for various reasons in ancient literature; but in respect of the poetic-rhetorical tradition, this one appears, not as a philosophical doctrine, but as the start of an invective against justice exposing its ignominious mythical origins.19 The second part of Glaucon’s speech (359b6ff., which begins with reference to practitioners’ adunamia) blames justice as something under­ taken only unwillingly, as a kind of deuteros plous to pleonexia. His argu­ ment again seems to anticipate a later view that every man need

91–94; Quintilian, Inst. Orat. 3.7.1–18; Emporius, Praeceptum Demonstrativae Materiae (Halm 567–570). For praise and blame in exercise books, see Aphthonius, Progymnasmata 8–9, Hermogenes, Progymnasmata 7, Theon Progymnasmata 8, Nicolaus Sophista Progymnasmata 8–9, Priscian Praeexercitamenta 7. For fuller exposition of epideictic the­ ory, see Menander Rhetor, per‹ ÉEpideiktik«n. Ancient practice is set out thor­ oughly in Fraustadt 1909; for overall theory, see Burgess 1902. For earlier theory and practice in particular, see Buchheit 1960 and Kraus 1907. 14 “It is universally agreed that this is the chief topic.” (Burgess 1902, 123, in reference to praxeis). 15 See Burgess 1902, 125: “This [sc. sunkrisis] is regarded as a most important division, but in application it is left to circumstances and the judgment of the writer.” 16 See [Aristotle] Ad Alexandrum, 3.6–12 and cf. Aristotle, Ars Rhetorica A.9 1367b22–24. 17 For listings and descriptions of conventions in the praise of cities, see Kienzle 1936; Schroeder 1914; and Gernentz 1918. 18 Thus, e.g., Nettleship 1901, 52 and, more recently, Allen 1987, 53f. Cf., how­ ever, Hyland 1988–89, 249. 19 Cf. the corresponding part of exemplary vituperation of Philip in Aphthonius, Progymnasmata 9: “For he came forth from a people which is the worst of the bar­ barians, seeking to move from place to place because of cowardice, etc.”

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only look within himself to see such truths.20 Glaucon also offers a paradigm in a curious version of the story of Gyges’ accession to the throne of Lydia. In the classic Herodotean version, Gyges com­ mits this wrong quite unwillingly—indeed only out of dire necessity.21 In Glaucon’s version, it is Gyges’ special power to escape notice in his injustice that reveals that he was unwillingly just before. Looking to this exemplar, Glaucon concludes it to be obvious that all men are unwillingly just, from necessity, and hence insincere in their pub­ lic praise of justice. In the third part of his speech (360e1ff., which begins with a ref­ erence to krisis), Glaucon effects a comparison between ideal versions of the just man and unjust man. This involves first hypothesizing at some length that neither is ever recognized for what he is. Socrates compares this process to scrubbing statues in preparation for the application of colors. Glaucon now adds these by depicting the life of the just man in tones of complete misery and that of the unjust man in the exactly opposite way. The comparison or judgment (krisis) he points to thereby favors the life of the unjust man who can entirely get away with it. In rhetorical terms, this section is Glaucon’s comparison (synkrisis) as required in encomia and invectives.22 Significantly for an interpretation of the Republic as a whole, Glaucon’s speech not only observes regular epideictic categories, but indeed serves also as the model for Socrates’ treatment in the rest of the work.

(A) Books 2–4: The Nature and Origin of Justice Socrates does not praise justice directly.23 After Glaucon and Adei­ mantus have made their joint challenge, he institutes the proce­ dure of examining what justice is first in the city and then in the man, proposing that they watch a city coming into being in order that 20

Cf. Hobbes, Leviathan, Introduction (final paragraph) with Taylor 1927, 270. “Gyges handelt bei Herodot énagkazÒmenow, oÈk §y°lvn. Herodot kann sich gar nicht genug tun, eben dies zu betonen.” (Witte 1947, 6) 22 See the chapters on encomium and on comparison in the exercise books cited in Note 13, above. For Socrates’ term krisis (360e1), see Ioann. Sard., In Aphthon. Progymn. 180.19–21: §ke›no d¢ per‹ t∞w sugkr¤sevw pr«ton lekt°on, ˜ti aÈtÚ toÎnoma t∞w sukris°vw parå to›w érxa¤oiw oÈ f°retai, éllÉ ént‹ toË sugkr¤nein kr¤nein ¶legon. 23 As, e.g., Aphthonius does wisdom (Progymnasmata 8). 21

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they may see justice too coming into being.24 Beginning in this way, Socrates consumes the remainder of Books 2 through 4 in exhibit­ ing justice, successively, in the light of (1) its natural origins, (2) its relatively innocent nurture25 (3) its purifying education in gym­ nastic and music, and (4) its full flowering amongst the other virtues found both in the city and in a man. These are the categories specified by writers like Aphthonius. Socrates thus answers the first part of Glaucon’s speech by constructing on natural principles a hypothetically best city, as a context for the practice of justice by a fully formed virtuous man. Socrates’ praise of justice in this first part becomes primarily the praise of a certain city and secondarily that of its citizens, although the order Socrates observes is in line with that for the praise of either.26

(B) Books 5–7: That the Just are Just Willingly At the juncture between Books 4 and 5, Socrates was, he later says, about to describe the several inferior cities. But he gets to this only after an apparent digression formed by Books 5–7. In these Books he overcomes three waves of paradox, the third and greatest of which occurs in the assertion that the thus-far-fictional city is actually fea­ sible, provided that philosophy and political power coincide. In order to bring this about, one must convince the people to embrace phi­ losophy and the philosophers to descend to politics. The people can be persuaded to submit, Socrates argues. When he turns to the philosophers, his words are reminiscent of Glaucon’s when he argued that men practice justice only unwillingly.27 Socrates now says that the philosophers must be compelled to rule and will approach the Cf. 368e8–369b1 with Glaucon’s first theme at 358c1f. On the theme of nurture, cf. 372a5–c3 and 373d4–6. 26 See, e.g., Hermogenes, Progymnasmata 7: “Furthermore encomium of a city you may undertake from these topics [sc. those for praising men] without difficulty. For you will tell of its race that its citizens were autochthonous, and concerning its nur­ ture that they were nourished by the gods, and concerning its education that they were educated by the gods. And you will expound, as in the case of a man, of what sort the city is in its manners and institutions, and what its pursuits and accomplishments.” The city developed in Books 2–4 is for this reason an apt model for Atlantis, whose story follows encomiastic rules very closely; cf. the above topics with Timaeus 23d4–25d6 and Critias 109b1ff. 27 Cf. 358c2–4, 359b6f., and 360c5–7 with 540b2–5. 24 25

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task as a necessity rather than an honor; but he himself never says that they will do so unwillingly (akontes), and several parts of the dia­ logue are clearly devoted to his trying to teach the difference to Glaucon.28 The Republic’s full-fledged philosophers are thus not unlike Cicero’s honorable men in recognizing only apparent conflict between the honorable and the useful, and feeling compelled to do what is right. Socrates’ last last word on the matter is that the philosophers will identify what is just as the greatest necessity.29 Glaucon challenged Socrates to show that it is not by compulsion and per alium that men are just; Socrates responds by showing that the best men imaginable will be just, under the compulsion of jus­ tice per se. The answer to a question whether men can be just will­ ingly is left unstated; perhaps each must look within himself to see. Books 5–7, then, fully answer to Glaucon’s second point. They char­ acterize the best city’s best men as being just under compulsion with­ out saying that they do this unwillingly. Glaucon silently reinterpreted Gyges’ quite compulsory injustice in Herodotus’ story as something voluntary in his own. Socrates does something similar with justice. His benevolent deception is prepared for dramatically in the way he is compelled to enter the discussion of these books, which itself repeats the way he was playfully forced to stay in the Piraeus.30

(C) Books 8–10: That the Just Life is Better than the Unjust Life When Socrates returns to his consideration of inferior cities and men in Book 8, we are somehow back in the real world. He studies at 28 Where Glaucon says oÈx …w égayÒn (358c4; cf. 360c7 …w oÈk égayoË fid¤& ˆntow), Socrates’ words are oÈx …w kalÒn ti (540b4). In Book 2, Glaucon argued that men were just only through an incapacity (adunamia) for complete injustice (see the pre­ vious note); by Book 7, he can agree that it is impossible (adunaton) that philoso­ phers will ignore just arguments that they should rule, since they are just men:

ÉAdÊnaton, ¶fh: d¤kaia går dØ dika¤oiw §pitãjomen. pantÚw mØn mçllon …w §pÉ énagka›on aÈt«n ßkastow e‰si tÚ êrxein, 520e1–3. 29 tÚ d¢ ÙryÚn per‹ ple¤stou poihsãmenoi ka‹ tåw épÚ toÊtou timãw, m°giston d¢ ka‹ énagkaiÒtaton tÚ d¤kaion, ka‹ toÊtƒ dØ ÍphretoËnt°w te ka‹ aÎjontew aÈtÚ diaskeuvrÆsvntai tØn •aut«n pÒlin; (540d6–e3). Cf. Cicero, De Inventione 2 (58) 17 (ac

summa quidem necessitudo videtur esse honestatis) with De Officiis, 1 (9) 28: Itaque eos ne ad rem publicam quidem accessuros putant nisi coactos. Aequius autem erat id voluntate fieri; nam hoc ipsum ita iustum est, quod recte fit, si est voluntarium. Some prefer the reading of lesser MSS., which have putat for putant; the indicative mood of erat suggests rather some subtlety on Cicero’s part. 30 Polemarchus is principal agent both times.

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some length four types of polity, and their corresponding human souls, in progressive decline from the ideal to the worst case, which is tyranny and the tyrannical soul. He now juxtaposes the tyranni­ cal way of life with the life of justice, comparing them with one another in a judgment.31 With this comparison, he makes the case that the just life is far better than the unjust life (729 times better, to be precise). Book 9 ends by listing the priorities of the man of good sense; these are, in order, psychic, somatic, and external goods, i.e. the conventional rhetorical categories for encomiastic discourse.32 But the comparison is not yet completed, since now Socrates sud­ denly recalls the topic of mimetic poetry. Only after he has com­ pleted an extended polemic with various related considerations, does Socrates consider himself as having completed his answer to Glaucon.33 And even then he goes on to praise justice in reference to its fur­ ther rewards. To see why the dialogue continues in this way requires considering the speech of Adeimantus.

Adeimantus’ Three Kinds of Speech (a) Epideictic, 362e1ff. Adeimantus’ general approach is by contrast more descriptive than exemplary. He at first stays within an encomiastic framework, spec­ ifying for Socrates the complementary task posed Socrates by those who praise justice and blame injustice, but for extrinsic reasons. One such kind of praise and blame is that offered by fathers to sons; another is that available to all in the writings of the poets. In his

31

Cf. 360e1–3 and 361d2f. with 544a5–8 and 545a5–8. The encomiast should concentrate on the goods of the soul primarily, and those of the body or external goods only insofar as these constitute signs of a man’s use of the goods of the soul. See Cicero, De Inventione 2 (59) 178, [Cicero] Ad Herrenium 3 (7) 13–(8) 15 [cf. (4) 7]. Cf. Ad Alexandrum 35 1440b20–23. 33 A matter on which almost all scholars agree, despite the differences mentioned in Note 1, above, is the relative separateness of Book 10. But see Book 10, 612c7–e1. The faulty estimate of Book 10 as an appendix to the whole seems to derive from two circumstances: the recurrence of certain motifs first palpable in Book 1; and the accident of a book division at a moment of transition. For the artificiality of our present division into ten books, cf. Schleiermacher 1828, 337–38 with Birt 1882, 447. For the integral role played by the “digression” on mimesis in the argument begun in Book 9, cf. 591c1–d1 with 608b5–10. For scholars’ disagreement on the point at which the comparison of lives ends, see Kraut 1997, 272 and 280. 32

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outline of this aspect of Socrates’ challenge, Adeimantus retains the terminology of praise and blame used by Glaucon, resuming it also at the end of his speech, when he sums up on behalf of both.34 His point at first is that those who praise justice for the advantages flowing from a reputation for it (eudokimêseis) multiply these as mate­ rial for encomiastic amplification. Further, like Homer and Hesiod they add to those mentioned by Glaucon further benefits from a reputation for justice with the gods. And the eschatological mysterypoets and their followers do not even stop there, but extoll also rewards in the afterlife or for later generations. Adeimantus calls the divinely awarded results of an esteem for justice the “wages” (mis­ thoi ) of virtue, so depicting these speakers as moving beyond praise proper or even the felicitation (eudaimonismos), with which Glaucon ended his speech, into an attribution of blessedness (makarismos).35 (b) Forensic, 363e5ff. After having set out the opposite arguments used by those who praise justice and blame injustice on extrinsic grounds, Adeimantus pro­ ceeds to lay out for Socrates’ additional consideration “another kind” of speech concerning justice and injustice. Like the amplified enco­ miastic speech he has just outlined this kind occurs both privately and publicly.36 Adeimantus’ second kind of speech about justice and injustice drops the categories of praise and blame, though its gen­ eral object will remain persuasion.37 Adeimantus here again employs,

34

See 362e2–3, 363d4–5 and e3–4, 366e1–5, and 367b6–c2. See 366a5–7, 363c3, and 363d2. The (viz. seeming) unjust accordingly suffer not only the punishments (timvrÆmata 363e2) of this world mentioned by Glaucon, but corresponding indignities in Hades. For amplification as particularly appropri­ ate to epideictic, see Ad Alexandrum 3.6–12 and cf. Aristotle, Ars Rhetorica 1368a26–29. For the distinction between encomium or praise, and eudaimonismos and makarismos, cf. Ad Alexandrum 35 1440b20–23 with Aristotle, Ars Rhetorica A.9. 1367b28–36, E.E. 2.1, 1219b8–18, Nicomachean Ethics 1.12, 1101b21–34, and Magna Moralia 2.2, 1183b20–37. 36 Cf. 363e6–364a1 and 364a7–8 with 362e4–363a1 and 363a6–7. 37 364b6, c4, and e5. ÍmnoËsin at 364a1 might seem to imply praise, but its sense here is like Cephalus’ use in Book 1 in reference to his contemporaries who “harp on” the ills of old age (cf. 392b2). The kalÚn m¢n is concessive to xalepÚn m°ntoi ka‹ §p¤ponon at 364a2–3; ≤dÁ m¢n . . . dÒj˙ d¢ mÒnon at a3–4 are more coor­ dinate, and the first pair of clauses is thus itself concessive to the second; Adeimantus’ point is that people universally lament that something as noble as virtue should be so hard while vice is both pleasant and only conventionally shameful. Shorey’s “[a]ll 35

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not so much the technical forms, as the tropes and themes of one of the main genê of rhetorical discourse. The second speech first takes the form of a general lament that justice is burdensome though noble, and injustice pleasant while only conventionally shameful. The lat­ ter is therefore a practical choice for the unjust, who do better than the truly just in their respective affairs. Adeimantus finds most strik­ ing of all, claims to the effect that the gods too assign fortunes and misfortunes to those undeserving of them. This strange notion allows charlatans to profit by persuading rich clients that the unjust can benefit via magical devices for buying off the divine agents respon­ sible for assigning good and bad fortune. The situation Adeimantus depicts in this part of his speech pre­ supposes a distribution of goods and evils that is unjust and stands in need of correction.38 The charlatans persuade the more fortunate that they have the power to absolve their clients of past injustice or to help them harm an enemy with impunity, whether justly or not; the charlatans claim to be able to do this by persuading the gods to do their will. The image Adeimantus here develops is one of a court for private lawsuits in which the gods serve as judges and the role of paid advocate is assumed by professional divines who per­ suade rich but rightly liable litigants that they possess the power of persuading these judges to decide the suit unjustly. (364b5–c5.) The private version of Adeimantus’ first kind of speech featured paternal authorities praising the appearance of justice; the private version of his second kind of speech assumes a form according to which injus­ tice prevails over justice in a corrupt court system.39 Adeimantus’ second kind of speech has thus left the realm of encomiastic for that of forensic oratory. This model is further confirmed when he now again passes from the private speech to public: he again makes men­ tion of the same poetic authorities he used previously, except this time Hesiod and Homer are adduced as “witnesses” (martures) on behalf of the arguments put forward by the advocates mentioned, while the eschatological poets are present now only in the form of their books, which the same advocates provide as authoritative

with one accord reiterate” (1930) is thus preferable to, e.g., Thomas Taylor’s “all with one mouth celebrate” (1804). 38 364b3–5. 39 Cf. Aristophanes, Clouds 889–1104.

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technical documents.40 According to these they profess not merely to help their private and public clients escape justice here and now, but to ensure their continued security by persuading even the judges of the next world.41 (c) Deliberative, 365a4ff. The second part of Adeimantus’ speech thus goes over the same ground in forensic images that the first part treated encomiastically. It therefore perhaps comes as no suprise that, in the third part of his speech, the final part before he turns to his summation, Adeimantus frames the same difficulty for Socrates a third time in the form of a conjecture regarding the likely reasonings of the souls of youths sufficiently talented to be alive to the force of speeches of both the kinds just outlined. This speech too has both private and collective strains; but these are harder to make out in this instance, for the very good reason that no one publicly recommends injustice. Adeimantus represents this third kind of speech initially as a solil­ oquy in which one such youth considers whether to live justly or unjustly. Poetic authority again appears, but now as a mix of poetic statements syntactically embedded as the actual terms of the youth’s deliberation; he seems to take on the poet’s lyrical persona.42 Inclining at first toward injustice, the youth marshalls, now in a deliberative mode, points urged in the earlier two speeches. This is the individ­ ual phase of the deliberation. Next an objection is raised: “But wait” someone will say, “since is it not easy always to escape notice when one is bad.” (365e6f.). Who is speaking here? Is the youth by him­ self entertaining a hypothetical objection, or is he deliberating in the company of others? Just as the youth might be inclining to a choice for justice, Adeimantus answers the objection in the voice of a plu­

40 364c5f. and d4f. See also e3–5. For the appeal to poetic authority as a kind of witness, see Aristotle, Ars Rhetorica A.15 1375b26–1376a2 and cf. Dissoi Logoi 2.19, 2.28, and 3.10. For the interpretation of documentary texts in forensic rhetoric, see Cicero, De Inventione 1 (12–13) 17; Cicero Ad Herrenium 1 (11) 19; Hermogenes Peri Staseon 39.20ff. Rabe. On courtroom maneuvering generally, see Bonner 1927, chap­ ter 9 (“Tactics and Technicalities”). 41 364e3–365a3. Cf. the chief benefit Cephalus discerns in being rich at 330d1–331b7. 42 Thus 365b1–4; the speech continues with similarly dovetailed allusions to Simonides and Archilochus; see Shorey 1930, ad loc.

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rality of such youths, who now propose to form political groups together for purposes of subverting justice in the courts and in delib­ erative assemblies, whether by deceit or by force. This complication was prepared for at the outset of the section, where a plurality of youths entertained an indirect question framed in the singular num­ ber. One youth deliberates on his own behalf in the first person sin­ gular until the objection mentioned is entertained. This is answered by someone now speaking in the first person plural about a joint solution. The image conveyed is of a lone, potentially decent youth being corrupted through group pressure.43 At this point the deliberation has become corporate, if not actu­ ally public. A further objection is raised that at least one cannot fool or force the gods. To counter this point, Homer and Hesiod are again brought in as authorities for the gods’ existence and for divine corruptibility; but the point is now urged with a view to choosing a way of life for the future. A third objection founded upon the idea of a judgment subsequent to this life is likewise disposed of with ref­ erence to the doctrines of the eschatological poets. The problem of persuasion first introduced by Glaucon has become one of deliberative oratory carried on both individually within the souls of the young and collectively among them as a group. This third kind of speech takes its material and cues from the arguments outlined already in encomiastic and forensic terms. In this part of Adeimantus’ speech, we see the souls of clever youths inclining both individually and collectively toward injustice rather than justice, and doing so on grounds of well-formed deliberative argumentation incor­ porating the authority of the poetry they have by now fully imbibed.44 Yet their reliance on the poets seems more sophisticated than the appeals made in the other two speeches: only in the third speech is

43 t¤ ofiÒmeya ékouoÊsaw n°vn cuxåw poie›n, ˜soi eÈfue›w ka‹ flkano‹ . . . sullog¤á n ka‹ pª poreuye‹w tÚn b¤on …w êrista di°lyoi; l°goi går ín sasyai . . . po›Òw tiw ín v ktl. (365a6–b1). One youth deliberates from 365b1 until c7. The first possible objection: ÉAllå gãr, fhs¤ tiw, oÈ =ñdion ée‹ lanyãnein kakÚn ˆnta. The joint solu­ tion: OÈd¢ går êllo oÈd¢n eÈpet°w, fÆsomen, t«n megãlvn: éllÉ ˜mvw, efi m°llomen eÈdaimonÆsein, taÊt˙ fit°on ktl. For an attentive, if differently oriented, reading of

this passage, see Blundell 1992, 32–33. Compare Stokes’ interpretation of a simi­ lar move in Book 1 (1987, 71–72). 44 For the future as the province proper to deliberative oratory, see Aristotle, Ars Rhetorica A.3 1358b4f. The materials for deliberative oratory are in general the same as those of demonstrative oratory reorganized for deliberative occasions (1367b37– 1368a4).

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the prospect of divine retribution dismissed by an argument partly countenancing atheism.45 This suggests that Socrates may be required to address his answer to an audience ultimately unimpressed by tra­ ditional accounts of the divine world. Adeimantus has specified three kinds of speech that in one way or another contribute to this result, three speeches that exhibit the features of the three genres of the rhetorical art that found their tra­ ditional articulation in Aristotle.46 That Plato too recognized such a division is clear from the Phaedrus, where a written forensic exercise attributed to Lysias is followed by a deliberative speech by Socrates, which he subsequently amends with another that is epideictic in form.47 If this, as seems likely, is the principle by which Adeimantus’ speech is organized, one may ask why the whole is put forward at first in a way that would seem to answer to Glaucon’s speech, which was primarily epideictic in form. Why, in other words, has Plato balanced an initial challenge with a second challenge organized on a broader scale that seems to subsume the first? Glaucon has acted as the devil’s advocate, espousing what we may call an immoral position. Adeimantus began by putting forward a coordinate position on behalf of a hypocritical morality.48 In the terms of Glaucon’s original distinctions, Glaucon argued that justice is intrinsically bad, while his brother has argued that it is good for extrinsic reasons only. In order for Socrates to establish his view that justice is good both intrinsically and for its extrinsic benefits, he must

45 Cf. 365d7–e1 with Thucydides 5.104f., Plato, Laws 10 888b4–c7, and Epicurus fr. 368 Usener. 46 Aristotle, Ars Rhetorica A.3. 1358a36–b8. For the later tradition, see Volkmann 1885, 16–32. 47 This has usually gone unnoticed (although see the remarks of Benardete 1991, 117, 120, and 128–31). In one sense, of course, all three are epideictic. The foren­ sic premiss of the Lysian production is only hypothetical, and something similar goes for the other two, given their context. Cf. 237b7f. with 238d8f. for the delib­ erative character of Socrates’ first speech, and cf. 243a2–b7 with Gorgias’ Encomium of Helen (at its core a forensic defense speech) for Socrates’ epideictic appropriation of the classic Stesichorean palinode. The three traditional genres are also outlined in the technical remarks at 261a7–e4, where the epideictic genre is represented by the paradoxes of the Eleatics. See also Plato, Sophist 222c9–d3. For the pre-Aristotelian origins of the distinction, see Hinks 1936. 48 See Montecatino 1594, on his sections 27–36: argutationes, iustitiam non esse iniustitia praestabiliorem, sed hanc illa concludentes: [Glaucon] ex sermonibus lau­ dantium iniustitiam contra iustitiam . . . [Adeimantus] ex sermonibus laudantium iustitia, et iniustitia vituperantium. Cf. 363e2–3.

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be able to refute both these positions; and Adeimantus is right to insist on this. But, in the course of outlining the three kinds of speech, he goes beyond the epideictic genre, and so does more than fill out the frame of Glaucon’s basic argumentative problem. Indeed, even in the way he initially characterizes the fuller epideictic challenge, Adeimantus enlarges significantly upon Glaucon’s challenge in a way that pervades his own speech in all three of its parts.49 Adeimantus in this last sense augments Socrates’ task in two gen­ eral ways. First, he indicates clearly that Socrates’ praise and blame will have to compete both in the private sphere and in the realm of public discourse occupied by the poets. Socrates’ epideictic treat­ ment of the poets is quite obvious within the main argument: the parts of Books 2–10 usually isolated doxographically as “Plato’s crit­ icism of the poets” (that is, his blame of the poets) will be found to answer closely to these concerns of Adeimantus.50 Less obvious to us now, perhaps, are the ways in which Socrates competes with the poets in a forensic or deliberative mode.51 What about private dis­ course? Socrates’ competition with falsely solicitous parents and per­ suasive professional fakes will also surface from time to time throughout that same argument in forms recognizable since at least the time of Aristophanes,52 while his mode of address to a youth about to make the wrong decision how best to live his life can be seen especially toward the end of the main argument (see Book 9, 589c6) and also dramatically, in his manner throughout with Glaucon and Adeimantus themselves.

49 Readers tracking “philosophical” arguments sometimes have difficulty seeing that Adeimantus adds much of significance (so, e.g., Annas 1981, 65). Straussians with better appreciation of the work’s rhetorical dimension characteristically find subtle thematic differences more or less germane to understanding the text on its face (cf. Bloom 1968, 342–43, Nichols 1987, 64–66, Benardete 1989, 40–41, and Howland 1993, 84–86 with Strauss 1964, 91). Stokes 1987 sees differences of another character. 50 Cf. Friedländer 1969 3:77 [German in id., 1930, 358 or 1960, 68] with Stokes 1987, 74. 51 Socrates blames poets for depicting unjust distribution by the gods in Book 2, 379c9–e2; for his disparagement of pernicious accounts of the afterlife, see Book 3, 386a6ff. By Book 10, the entire deliberative aim of the work is still threatened by the power that mimetic poetry has to occupy a man’s soul; see 607e4–608b10. 52 See the distinction Socrates makes between philosophoi and philodoxoi in Book 5, 479–80, and the depiction of parents’ vicious influence over their offspring in the discussion of the degenerate polities in Books 8–9.

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Adeimantus not only sets up these terms, but functions through­ out the main dialogue as a stimulus in line with them. Thus in Book 4 Socrates responds to a hypothetical accusation by defending him­ self in a forensic manner against the charge of having unduly lim­ ited happiness for the guardian class; and in Book 6 he answers a calumny directed at philosophy by those who find his argumenta­ tion suspect, recommending in a deliberative mode a salutary course of action for the city as a whole. In these cases too it can hardly be accident that both times the challenge comes from Adeimantus as he temporarily assumes the role of Socrates’ interlocutor.53 A second way in which Adeimantus augments Socrates’ task is by directing his and our attention beyond the praise of a just life here and now among men alone to that of the just life in the light of the divine realm and of eternity. Glaucon stressed the need for a judgment between the just and the unjust life; but he located it prin­ cipally within the human dimension.54 What Adeimantus adds to this will become the dual requirement that the “perfect” types that Glaucon outlined escape not only the notice of men, but also that of the gods, and that they do so not only in this life, but also in the next. He makes this explicit shortly, and it is recalled regularly during the main argument and reclaimed systematically in Book 10 as the judgment is being completed.55 Adeimantus’ speech therefore also explains why, after Socrates has satisfied the brothers in accor­ dance with their demand that the just and unjust men go wholly unnoticed as such, he can end the dialogue by dropping this con­ cession and speaking poetically of the benefits of justice flowing from divine recognition of it both here and in the next life. The myth of Er finally combines all the relevant motifs in Socrates’ answer to the eschatological poets.

53

See 419a1ff. and 487b1ff. An exception is found in his closing reference to the likelihood of the unjust man’s being favored more by the gods (362c3–6), which should rather be regarded as a kind of musical pickup phrase for Adeimantus signifying the limit of Glaucon’s stated concerns. 55 See 365a4–366b2 and cf. 366b4–6, 366e6f., and 367e4f. For mentions within the body of the greater argument, see 392c3–4, 427d6–7, 445a2–3, 580c6–7, and especially 612b4–5. Also at the end of Book 10, for fooling both men and gods, see 612c9 and 612d4–5; for fooling men and gods while alive, see 613e6f.; for fool­ ing men and gods after death, see 614a6; for fooling men and gods in this both life and the next, cf. 612b4 with 613a6–7 and 621c6–d3. 54

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The effect of Adeimantus’ various additions is to render unmis­ takable the full force implicit in Glaucon’s challenge. Lest the latter’s desire to hear justice praised adequately be taken in too narrowly technical a sense, Adeimantus clarifies how his challenge to Socrates ultimately requires that Socrates persuade Glaucon that the just life is better than the unjust life by means comprehensive of the art of persuasion taken as a whole. Adeimantus thus makes it clear that Socrates’ rhetorical task will call upon powers of invention tran­ scending those implied by the normal technical partitions of rhetoric. It is in this regard significant that, having gone through the three kinds of speech by which men are persuaded that an unjust life is better, Adeimantus asks Socrates, “What further speech” (katå t¤na . . . ¶ti lÒgon) might serve as a foundation for the choice of justice instead (366b3ff.). Referring back to “all that has been said” (366b7ff.), Adeimantus now reverts to the terms in which Glaucon set up the original encomiastic model for Socrates, now compounded with the tenor of the phases of his own tripartite speech: what device is there for preventing a gifted man from (a) laughing when he hears justice praised, since (b) virtually no one refrains from injustice except unwill­ ingly, as is clear from practice, and (c) quite reasonably so, in the absence of a praise of justice that can truly convince us of its intrin­ sic benefits (366b7–e9). Unlike praise in regard to extrinsic benefits only, this praise must have the power to persuade the young to guard against allowing their internal deliberations to be decided by the several voices inclining their souls toward an unjust life.56 Having now fully tied his discourse to his brother’s, Adeimantus refers both to the context from which they sprang, which was Socrates’ refutation of Thrasymachus and its failure to produce genuine con­ viction. He first joins Glaucon in disclaiming personal responsibility for their arguments and then reiterates Glaucon’s challenge in terms that are comprehensive of the entire task he and his brother have collaborated in laying out for Socrates. He states it twice, once to highlight his brother’s requirements, and again to include his own. His first statement runs as follows: 56 efi går oÏtvw §l°geto §j érx∞w ÍpÚ pãntvn Ím«n ka‹ §k n°vn ≤mçw §pe¤yete, oÈk ên éllÆlouw §fulãttomen mØ édike›n, éllÉ aÈtÚw aÍtoË ∑n ßkastow êristow fÊlaj, dedi∆w mØ édik«n t“ meg¤stƒ kak“ sÊnoikow ¬. (367a1–4) Note the resumption of

the theme of reflexive guardianship, introduced during the argument with Polemarchus in Book 1 (333e3–4), and concluded in the myth of Er by Socrates’ reference to the guardian spirit each souls is prospectively allotted in the afterlife (620d8).

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142 So do not to us rior to injustice, ing it, such that reputations, just

solely indicate by way of speech that justice is supe­ but what either in and of itself does to one possess­ the one is good and the other bad; and abstract the as Glaucon in his speech has bidden you to do (tåw d¢ dÒjaw éfa¤rei, Àsper GlaÊkvn diekeleÊsato).57

Adeimantus explains the last clause: unless Socrates ignores repute by adopting Glaucon’s extreme hypothesis of perfectly just and unjust types wholly unrecognized as such, he might as well be praising not being just but seeming just, and recommending deceit in being unjust, thus concurring with Thrasymachus’ understanding of justice and injustice. But this would be out of tune with Socrates’ agreement that justice is to be numbered among the greatest goods, those sought for their consequences (among which repute is to be counted) but even more for themselves. Adeimantus in this way returns to the division Glaucon made at the beginning of Book 2, which already pointed to the eventual focus on deliberative discourse and also aptly highlighted the importance of praising justice for itself rather than for its consequences. Adeimantus then once more alludes to Glaucon’s refusal to accept Socrates’ refutation of Thrasymachus as an ade­ quate praise of the just life, while casting additional light on grounds of that refusal. He could accept, Adeimantus says, any one else prais­ ing justice and blaming injustice on extrinsic rather than intrinsic grounds; but he expects more from Socrates, who has spent his life in examining the difference.58 He closes his and his brother’s entire appeal to Socrates by restating their joint challenge in the form that will determine Socrates’ treatment of the question in 2–10 as a whole: So do not to us indicate solely by way of speech that justice is supe­ rior to injustice, but also what either does to one possessing it in and of itself, whether or not he fools both gods and men (§ãnte lanyãn˙ §ãnte mØ yeoÊw te ka‹ ényr≈pouw), such that the one is good and the other bad.59

By the time the Republic is finished, Socrates has fulfilled the require­ ments articulated by both Plato’s brothers. His encomium of justice in itself is combined with elements from the other three conventional genres in a new kind of speech compounded out of all together and

57 58 59

367b2–6. Cf. 358b4–6, d1–2, 363a1–5, and 367d2–5.

367d5–e1. Cf. 357a3f. and 358c6–d3.

367e1–5. Cf. 366e5–7.

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a little bit more. What Socrates has to offer after Book 1 is not the same as the positive “doctrine” of what we call philosophy; and it is not merely the “criticism” of what we now call literary theory. It is what Socrates calls a search or investigation, the goal of which is discovery—or, as the rhetoricians would say, invention.60

60 For the motif of search, see 368c5, 7, d2, e1; 369a1, 10; 420b3; 427d8, e6, e13; 428a2, a5, a9; 472b4, b7, c4–5; 473a7, b1; 473b4. For Socrates’ three main eÍrÆseiw, see 444a6 (his definition of justice), 520e4 (his device for having the philosophers rule), and 612b3 (his conclusion that justice is best for the soul).

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COMMENTS ON HOWLAND, FARNESS, AND AUSLAND: NEW READINGS OF PLATO’S REPUBLIC Catherine Zuckert

The papers by Howland, Farness, and Ausland all offer new and emphatically literary readings of Plato’s Republic. The approaches or primary modes of analysis in all three papers differ, however, as do the disciplines from which the authors come. Howland, a professor of philosophy, explores the nature of philosophical education by ana­ lyzing Plato’s use of the “horticultural image” in the Republic, Euthyphro, Theaetetus, and Phaedrus. Farness, a professor of English, argues that Socrates’ critique of imitation is undercut by his own use of imita­ tion in the education he prescribes in the Republic. Ausland, a pro­ fessor of classics, suggests that the speeches of the primary interlocutors in the Republic—Glaucon, Adimantus, and Socrates—should all be understood primarily in rhetorical terms. Ironically, the fundamen­ tal question I have about each of the three papers is the same— namely, whether the emphasis on the literary aspects of the dialogue(s) does not lead the author to neglect important aspects of the philo­ sophical argument. Like many of the contributors to this volume, I think that analytically trained philosophers have for too long con­ centrated on the arguments in abstraction from the literary elements and context. (Charles Kahn’s Plato and the Socratic Dialogue [1996] thus represents a welcome break or development.) Like many late twen­ tieth century scholars (e.g., Gadamer [1980], Strauss [1964], Klein [1965], Frede [1992], Sayre [1995], Sallis [1986]), I am convinced that the two aspects of any reading of a Platonic dialogue or dia­ logues should be complementary and mutually enlightening. Neither should be ignored. When Socrates suggests that like a seed, a philosophical soul needs to be placed in the proper soil and receive the necessary nurture or cultivation in order to develop and flourish, Howland argues, he “invites us to imagine that the education of potential philosopherkings could be effectively and dependably institutionalized as one of the highest operations of the regime.” By making the emergence and education of philosophers dependent upon the political context or

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regime, in the Republic Socrates leads his readers to conceive—or, really, to misconceive—philosophical education in essentially passive terms. In fact, Howland argues, philosophy is an essentially active, autonomous endeavor that individuals undertake by and for them­ selves. Socrates’ use of the horticultural image in the Phaedrus to elu­ cidate the character of good writing—the implanting of words or speeches in the soul of another where they can bear fruit, if the nous of that soul examines them critically—provides a much more accu­ rate version or vision of a philosophical education. Such an educa­ tion occurs primarily in the soul or mind of an individual in dialogue with him- or herself, mediated, if at all, by the words of another recorded in a book. Howland himself points to the problem I find in his analysis of the presentation of philosophical education in these Platonic dia­ logues when he writes of the “‘turn to philosophy’ . . . guided by the decision to cultivate one’s own soul.” The notion of such a “turn” is presented much more clearly and obviously in one of Socrates’ more famous images in the Republic, the cave, than it is in the “hor­ ticultural image” at the end of the Phaedrus. In describing our nature with regard to education by means of the image of the cave (515c), Socrates says that a person needs to be freed from his chains, pre­ sumably by another, who also turns the formerly bound person around and drags him or her up into the light. There must, in other words, be a teacher or liberator. Explicating his image, Socrates states that “education is not what certain men assert it to be, . . . put[ting] knowledge into the soul that isn’t in it. . . . But [turning the soul] around from that which is coming into being . . . to endure looking at that which is” (518b–c). Not only is the soul of a philo­ sophical student re-directed; it also acquires a capacity it did not ini­ tially have. Both developments presuppose the help, at least initially, of another. As Socrates presents it in the Republic, in deed as well as in speech or argument, philosophical education is not primarily a solitary activity undertaken by a scholar in his study. Nor, I would argue, is the philosophical education presented in Socrates’ famous palinode in the Phaedrus. There Socrates suggests that an intense desire to recapture a view of the eternally unchang­ ing ideas is first aroused when a person perceives an image of his “god” in the face of another. That desire finds satisfaction, more­ over, only in a philosophical friendship. Could such a “friendship” or the necessary liberation and dialogue occur over time by means

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of writing, as Howland suggests? Perhaps it could. Nevertheless, I would insist, the education is not “autonomous,” even though it requires a certain degree of freedom. The question Howland raises about the character not merely of philosophical education, but of philosophy itself is fundamental. Is philosophy essentially and necessarily a social, interpersonal activity, as Plato’s Socrates suggests when he insists that he needs someone to interrogate in order to seek knowledge and that he cannot sim­ ply give a “speech” by himself ? Or does philosophy consist finally in an internal dialogue, as Socrates describes thought (dianoeisthai ) in the Theaetetus (189e) and the Eleatic Stranger describes dianoia in the Sophist (263e)? (In neither case, we might note, is the internal dia­ logue identified with philosophia per se.) Unfortunately, by concentrating on the “horticultural image,” Howland misses the essential change or distinction between the edu­ cation of the guardians and the education of the philosophers in the Republic. (At 504b–d Socrates states that their previous description both of the virtues and of education in the virtues was deficient.) Howland’s concentration on the horticultural image also prevents him from seeing what is really at stake in the discussion of writing in the Phaedrus. In order to gain knowledge, human beings must not merely discover how to acquire it from other things or people, that is, from something or someone(s) beyond themselves; if what they think they “see” is to become or remain anything more than a fleeting, subjective “vision” or inspiration, they must be able to com­ municate their experience or findings to others in order to preserve what they have discovered. Logos is central to the process of com­ munication; writing offers the promise of preserving what is com­ municated over time. In a statement Howland quotes, Socrates argues that the best use of writing does not occur when a man merely lays up a store of reminders for himself, but “when a man makes use of the science of dialectic, and taking a fitting soul plants and sows in it words accompanied by knowledge, which are able to help them­ selves and the man who planted them, and are not without fruit but contain a seed, from which others grow in other characters, capable of ren­ dering it forever immortal, and making the one who has it as happy as it is possible for a man to be” (276e4–277a4 [emphasis added]). Howland is correct in insisting that political “socialization” or accul­ turation cannot produce a philosopher or philosophy. Nevertheless, in the Republic Socrates points out that so long as the family, friends,

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and fellow citizens of a potential philosopher remain not merely indifferent, but actively hostile to philosophy, such rare individuals will develop their potential only as a matter of chance. The preser­ vation and perpetuation of philosophy requires not only the kind of dialectical interchange among private individuals that Socrates mod­ els; it also requires a tolerant, if not positively supportive social con­ text. Through his writings Plato sought to foster both. In the Republic, we should recall, Plato shows Socrates persuading Plato’s brothers, who never became philosophers themselves, that philosophy is good— not merely for the individuals involved but for the city as a whole. Like Howland, Farness begins with an examination of the educa­ tion Socrates proposes in the Republic and concludes with reflections on the educational function of Plato’s own writing. Farness concen­ trates, however, on Socrates’ (in)famous critique of “imitative” poetry in Book 10. Following Eva Keuls (1978), Farness argues that the form of “imitation” with which Socrates is most concerned is not static re-presentation or re-production of things, so much as dra­ matic re-enactments of human experiences that occur not only on stage but also in “real life.” The reason Socrates initially suggested that a just city would have to prevent future guardians from imi­ tating any but the best life, Farness reminds us, was the power of imitation to form the characters and habits of both actors and audi­ ence. In Book 10 Socrates explicitly seeks a pharmakon against the corrupting effects of imitation, especially of extreme passion; but in the dialogue, Farness concludes, Socrates himself does not identify such a remedy. In his writing, however, Plato does. Plato both leads us to imagine the interaction of characters on stage, as it were, and to critique their arguments with abstract, general ideas, which are, in turn, tested by their enunciation and adoption by particular characters. What I find lacking in Farness’s playful, but richly suggestive and elegantly written analysis, is a meditation, first, on the relation between the action and the argument. How exactly does Socrates’ own re­ presentation, his re-telling of the conversation, and Plato’s represen­ tation of Socrates as an imitation, relate to Socrates’ stricture that all poetry allowed in the just city must be narrative, rather than dra­ matic in form? The action, form, and argument would in this case appear to be consistent—on Socrates’ part, at least, if not on Plato’s. How does the bringing together of image and reality that Farness stresses in dramatic imitation and education affect the distinction that

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Socrates emphasizes between the sensible and the intelligible, a dis­ tinction Farness appears to endorse and perpetuate in the distinc­ tion he draws between dramatic enactment and abstract, critical argumentation? Why does Farness ignore Socrates’ own fiction, the “myth of Er” at the end, emphasizing as it does individual respon­ sibility, in contrast, if not diametric opposition to what Farness char­ acterizes as the “ethical crudeness of the guardian state” with its emphasis on “correct behavior, self-gratification, self-preservation, and the ultimate futility of these for modeling the just person”? Doesn’t this “myth” represent the kind of poetry that could and should be re-admitted not only by a just city but also by a just individual? Does Plato’s writing undercut the validity of this Socratic dramatic narrative the same way it does the explicit argument about the con­ struction of the just city in speech? Whereas both Howland and Farness bring out ways in which Platonic texts undermine their own explicit critiques—of writing and of imitation—Ausland argues that the speeches represented in the Republic constitute and should be understood to be exemplary exam­ ples of rhetoric. Ausland’s explication of the rhetorical character of the demands that Plato’s brothers Glaucon and Adimantus make on Socrates is extremely impressive, particularly the way in which Ausland relates these early speeches to the remainder of the dialogue. Quite frankly, however, to me it seems unlikely that Plato organized his master dialogue in terms of types of speeches that were first identified by his student Aristotle and whose definitions were later modified by students of Plato like Cicero. To be sure, Socrates and Plato were clearly concerned with rhetoric; but they just as clearly did not think it was the most important form of speech or human activity. In the Phaedrus (266d–271d) Socrates talks about the kinds of lessons rhetori­ cians offered in his time and relegates them to a secondary, if not tertiary level of importance; he criticizes not only the form but also the content of Lysias’ speech—and Lysias was a renowned rhetori­ cian. In the Gorgias Socrates is perhaps even more critical of Gorgias and his student Polus, since there he denies that they practice an art. One can argue, more successfully I think, that Plato shows Socrates engaged in a contest with both the poets and the rhetori­ cians. That contest is not merely a matter of the organization of different types of speeches or effective use of words, however; it has a content. I do not think that Ausland has brought that content out. The substance of the argument concerns not merely the best, the

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happiest and most virtuous form of human existence; it also con­ cerns the basis of Socrates’ advocacy of philosophy—his assertion in the face of all poets and philosophers except Parmenides that there is something that is not in flux, but that endures and can, therefore, be known. (Cf. Theaetetus 152d–e) Because he reads the dialogue in terms of the kinds of speech or speeches its characters employ, Ausland understands the dialogue primarily as a matter of speech—as a form of rhetoric. I agree with him in thinking that Socrates is a master rhetorician. However, I think that Socrates is more. Admitting that the Republic is at one level a masterful piece of rhetoric, one still has to pay attention to the arguments and examine them critically. Ausland concludes that Socrates fulfills Glaucon and Adimantus’s demands. In fact, I believe, at a rather simple and obvious level Socrates does not. He begins his response to the brothers in Book 2 by stating (368b–c) that he doesn’t think he will be able to satisfy them, but that it would be impious not to try. Glaucon asks Socrates to show that justice is good (and that the just life is therefore choiceworthy) in itself—not for any extrinsic reward or necessity. Ausland admits that in Book 7 Socrates and Glaucon conclude that the philosophers, as just men, will be compelled to rule (and so to do what is just, because it would be unjust for them to be ruled by someone inferior). They do not want to rule, however; they do not choose to rule; they do not appear to believe that justice in itself is good. At best, they are per­ suaded of the need to be just and so to pay the city back for their education by serving their time. That sounds a lot to me like an exchange of goods, if not extrinsic necessity. Socrates does not fulfill Glaucon’s demand that justice be shown to be good in itself. Nor does Socrates respond to Adimantus’ demand that justice not be praised for the rewards it brings in this life or the next, when in the myth of Er he suggests that only the just man will make a good choice in the next life. Those who have been just only on the basis of opinion or law will choose to be tyrants and eventually suffer ter­ rible punishments. At the end of his paper Ausland draws a striking conclusion: Socrates has not only fulfilled the requirements articulated by both Plato’s brothers. His encomium of justice in itself is combined with elements from the other three conventional genres in a new kind of speech compounded out of all together and a little bit more. What Socrates has to offer after Book 1 is not the positive “doctrine” of

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what we now call philosophy; and it is not the “criticism” of what we might call literary theory. It is what Socrates calls a search or inves­ tigation, the goal of which is discovery—or, as the rhetoricians might say, “invention.”

As Ausland thus reminds us, the Platonic dialogues constitute a unique form of writing—a combination of drama, philosophy, and rhetoric that has been copied, but not duplicated by any author since. Determining how these disparate elements are related has posed a problem for centuries of commentators. What are we to make of the writer who condemns writing? Of the poet who would banish poetry? Of the rhetorician who insists on the primacy of truth over persuasion? All three of these papers explicitly address the problem. The problem and the paradoxes, nevertheless, remain. To solve them, I suspect, a critic would have to investigate what it means to pre­ sent philosophy as an activity of embodied individuals, constrained by both space and time, having to deal with other human beings while having a private life of the mind, with some kind of access to an enduring truth. Such an analysis would have to be literary, to take account of the concrete particulars, and philosophical, to explain the access and status of the truth disclosed and preserved. Such an analysis would also probably exceed the compass not merely of one, but even of a set of papers like those before us.

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TO HEAR THE RIGHT THING AND TO MISS THE POINT: PLATO’S IMPLICIT POETICS Michael Erler 1. The unity of the creative poet and the reflective scholar is an important feature of Hellenistic poetry.1 The poems, for instance, of Callimachus reflect upon the rules of creating poems, and at the same time illustrate the application of these rules: practicing the craft and reflecting on it go together.2 Of course, this combination is not new with the Hellenistic poets. Long before, Homer and Hesiod were their own interpreters. And this also is true of lyric poets like Pindar or tragic poets like Euripides. They too combine the craft of poetry with reflection. Their poems contain what one could call a kind of “implicit poetics.”3 The rhapsodes in turn continued the selfinterpretation of the poets without being creative themselves. The Sophists were their heirs to the extent that they were interpreters of poetry for their purposes. Finally, the Attic philosophers, and fore­ most the Peripatetics completed this development. Plato and Aristotle integrated poetics into the curricula of their schools. Viewed against this background, the self-reflection of Hellenistic poets like Philetas or Callimachus looks more traditional in its combination of theory and practice. Or so the story about emancipation and reunification of poetical theory and practice goes, a story that Rudolf Pfeiffer tells so masterfully in his History of Classical Scholarship.4 In what follows I shall not attempt to challenge this analysis. I shall try, however, to modify it in one respect. My main thesis will be that Plato’s dia­ logues play a special role in this scenario.5 There can be no doubt that the dialogues prove Plato to be a creative author indeed, turning a popular genre, the sôkratikoi logoi,

1 I would like to thank Gretchen Reydams-Schils for turning what I thought was English into an, I hope, at least readable version, and Allan Silverman for helpful comments. A French version of this essay appeared in Fattal 2001, 55–86; a reworked German version appeared in Jain 2001, 123–42. 2 Cf. Fuhrer 1992, 252ff.; Asper 1997.

3 Nünlist 1998, 1ff., 329ff.

4 Pfeiffer 1968, 3ff.

5 I hope to deal with this elsewhere soon.

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into fine pieces of art.6 We have good reason to consider the dia­ logues a new form of poetry.7 But they also show that Plato is a reflective author, who, like the poets before him and the poets of Hellenistic times after him, combines poetical craft and poetological reflection. He does so in two different ways. First, he presents the reader with explicit discussions of poetological problems, for exam­ ple in the Ion or the Republic.8 Second—and this is a point to which I want to draw attention—by using literary motifs and metaphors, or by illustrating behavior in a certain way, Plato stimulates the reader to reflect about the poetical norms and rules of his art. This can be called the “immanent poetics” of his dialogues.9 Passages such as the beginning of the Timaeus and the Critias, the beginning of the Statesman, the first pages of the Theaetetus, or many others obviously are meant to make the reader think about the relation between his­ torical facts and fiction, about the advantages or disadvantages of different forms of the dialogue, about the philosophical and literary function of motifs or of literary strategies, or about the significance of different forms of discourse.10 We can interpret passages like these as Plato’s reaction to a contemporary poetological discussion in his time. But they also can and should be read as Plato’s comments on his own work, which helps us to appreciate his achievement as a poet. Like earlier poets and like the poetae docti in Hellenistic times, Plato wishes to stimulate reflection on philosophical methods and poetological rules that he himself applies and illustrates in his dia­ logues. In this process of poetical theory and practice diverging and reuniting, Plato’s dialogues signal continuity and bridge the gap between classical and Hellenistic literature.11 In this paper I wish to explore yet another example of this “implicit poetics” of the poeta philosophusque doctus, Plato. I take this example from the variety of modes of discourse that Plato depicts in the dialogues,12 the rules and philosophical relevance of which he also dis­

6

See Kahn, 1996, 1ff.; Clay 1994. Cf. Aristotle, Poetica 1447b11; De Poetis fr. 3 (= 2Rose 72). 8 See Flashar 1958; Ferrari 1989. 9 Dalfen 1974; Gaiser 1984, 103–123. Helpful discussion by Giuliano 1999, 309–344. 10 See Erler 1992, 1994, 1997. 11 See Kassel 1991; Dover 1971, lxxi, argues for an earlier beginning of Hellenism in literature. 12 See Dalfen 1989, Liebermann 1997. 7

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cusses on a theoretical level. In most cases he uses the discussion to illustrate and confirm the strength and the superiority of oral dis­ course over the written word. Time and again the reader is reminded that the spoken word is trustworthy and is the vehicle of truth.13 Sometimes, however, it appears that the dialogues tell a different story. Sometimes they even seem to warn the reader not to trust in oral transmission too much, and not to underestimate the dangers of misunderstanding. To make this point, I would like to draw attention to a motif of interlocutors having heard something and making use of this infor­ mation in discussion. I shall argue that this motif highlights what one could call a weakness of the spoken logos. Of course, scholars such as Sylvia Usener (1994) and Andrea Nightingale (1995, 133–71) have recently dealt with the motif of hearing and hearsay in Plato’s dialogues in a probing manner. But perhaps one could add further reflections to their findings. For one thing, often the content of this oral information seems to be of great philosophical relevance for the discussion. The discussion, however, illustrates that the receiver of the message is not able to handle the information successfully. The problem comes down to this: to hear the right thing, but to miss the truth. One suspects that this happens because the receiver treats this information as what later came to be called akousmata, that is, aphoristical remarks without proof and without arguments. The infor­ mation does not prove to be stable; it runs away. Its defender is unable to catch the bird, so to speak. But Plato also shows how this weakness can be overcome. He does so by illustrating wrong and right in the interlocutors’ attitudes. Even more, the doctus philoso­ phusque poeta also offers help to the reader, by methodological selfreflections that act as comments on this practice. I want to substantiate this claim, both by drawing from the dialogues and by making use of the Seventh Letter. I am aware that the authenticity of this letter is not accepted by all scholars.14 I shall argue, however, that the very passage about the weakness of the spoken logos—often used as an argument for the inauthenticity of the letter—can be read as a com­ ment on our motif. I shall suggest that our motif forms part of what

13

Cf. Phaedo 99e; Critias 46b; see Erler 1987, 268ff. For recent discussions of arguments against authenticity, cf. Sayre 1995, xviii–xxiii; Gonzalez 1998b, 245–248 and notes, 378–379; Brisson 1987, 139ff. 14

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one could call Plato’s “critique of orality,” which does not contra­ dict but supplements the critique of writing in the Phaedrus. 2. Let us now turn to the dialogues. As is well known, Plato’s dia­ logues describe a world in which the spoken word plays a dominant role. Although sometimes books are used in discussion as in the Parmenides or the Theaetetus, Plato emphasizes and highlights the impor­ tance and the superiority of the spoken word over written texts. As the Phaedrus explains and the dialogues show,15 the reason for the deficiency of the written text and for the strength of the spoken word is that books remain silent, or rather always give the same answer if one puts a question to them (275b). This reminds one of the Protagoras, where Socrates compares a rhetorician like Pericles to books, because if one asks him a question, Socrates says, he would only answer in a long harangue, like the ringing of a brazen pot (329a). Written texts cannot protect or defend themselves if they are abused and if the author does not come to their rescue.16 They can­ not choose appropriate audiences, but deliver their message regard­ less of whether it will be met with understanding or not. Yet both requirements, the ability to ward off abuse and the ability to answer questions, are essential for the pursuit of real knowledge. Oral com­ munication, therefore, is the foundation of knowledge. Plato offers a variety of modes of oral discourse, according to whether people fail or succeed in becoming philosophers. As in everyday life, so too in Plato’s world of oral communication the motif of hearsay and how to use it is important. This is the case not only in the Phaedrus, but also in many other dialogues.17 The hearsay themes cover different areas and topics, such as religion, medicine or philosophical doctrines.18 Often definitions or suggestions that seem to be decisive for the discussion are received by hearsay. Yet the search for a solution of the problem at hand often fails. By reflecting on its different aspects, Plato helps us to understand the literary and philosophical context of the motif. Let us remind ourselves of some examples. 3. Our first example comes from the Laches: after discussing courage at some length, Socrates and Laches are “storm-tossed” by the argu­

15 For the historical background, see Havelock 1982 [with problematic conclu­ sions, see Pöhlmann 1988, 7–20]; cf. Erler 1987, 21ff., 38ff.; Kullmann 1990; Reale 1998; Thomas 1992. 16 The importance of the motif is stressed by Szlezák 1985. 17 For the Phaedrus see Nightingale 1995, 133ff. 18 Usener 1994, 151ff.

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ment (194c). Although Laches is still convinced that he knows what courage is, he agrees that it has escaped him somehow. This is why he cannot pin it down in words. He asks Nicias for help. The lat­ ter promptly comes to Laches’ aid by suggesting a definition: “Courage is the knowledge of what is and is not to be feared in war and in everything else” (194e). This definition, Nicias says, is based upon what he has often heard from Socrates (194c), namely “that each of us is good in those things where he is wise, bad in those where he is ignorant.”19 Socrates pretends not to understand (194c). But when Nicias insists on it, Socrates finally agrees, “By heaven, Nicias, you are right” (194d). In fact earlier in the dialogue we already have learned that Nicias has had conversations with Socrates before (187e– 188e). Moreover, the content of what Nicias heard from him reminds us of what Socrates himself proposes in the Republic. In fact, in the Republic Book 4, Socrates provides a definition of “civic” courage, which sounds quite similar to Nicias’ proposal in the Laches (430b). Although we learn in the Republic that this definition still falls short of accurate knowledge and does not make any reference to the form of the good (435d, 504b–d),20 there can be no doubt: Nicias’ defini­ tion of courage, based on what he heard from Socrates, is surely plausible and formally adequate insofar as it satisfies extensional criteria.21 Nevertheless in the Laches the philosophical discussion about this definition fails. As Socrates describes it in the Euthyphro (7a), the definition is beautiful (pagkãlvw)—which, I take it, means “work­ able” or “adequate”—, and yet it remains unclear whether it also is true (élhyÆw).22 That is to say, although Nicias has heard some­ thing that in some respect is correct and in addition is of impor­ tance for his case, he misses the truth. He proves unable to make proper use of what he heard, when he tries to defend it against the

19 194e taÊthn ¶gvge Œ Lãxhw, tØn t«n dein«n ka‹ yarral°vn §pistÆmhn ka‹ §n pol°mƒ ka‹ §n to›w êlloiw ëpasin and 194d: pollãkiw ékÆkoã sou l°gontow ˜ti taËta égayÚw ßkastow ≤m«n ëper sofÒw, ì d¢ émayÆw, taËta d¢ kakÒw cf. v. Fritz 1978, 200,

who mentions in this context the Seventh Letter. 20 Penner 1992, 13, note 24. 21 Kahn 1996, 157ff., 164ff. For the different treatment of the definition of courage in the Protagoras, see Vlastos 1994, 24ff.; cf. also Manuwald 1999, 429–431; for the aporia in the Laches see Michelini 2000a, who rightly, it seems to me, stresses that Plato is not an aporetic but that the aporiai in his work are part of his endeavour to change culture (cf. Kahn 1996, xiii). 22 Cf. Erler 1987, 151.

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Socratic elenchos. One suspects that he either misconceived what he heard, or that he understood it only superficially: to “mishear” ( para­ kouein) is a word Socrates uses on other occasions to describe this situation.23 Nicias feels insecure. He agrees that the definition he proposed, and which is based on what he heard from Socrates, needs to be stabilized (bebai≈svmai, 200b) by further discussion. This, in a way, could be called a standard situation in the dia­ logues: often Socrates’ partners recall and introduce into the dis­ cussion information that they have received from others by hearsay; and often they fail to make proper use of it, although the informa­ tion clearly could be decisive in avoiding the aporia they face at the end. “We were really quite ridiculous,” Socrates says to Clinias in the Euthydemus, “just like children running after crested larks. We kept thinking we were about to catch each one of the knowledges, but they always got away” (291b).24 “Trying to catch the bits of knowledge and failing to get hold of it:” time and again this metaphor occurs in the dialogues. It indicates that something went wrong in the attempt of Socrates’ partners to defend their position and to make use of outside information. The motif of “hearing what is right, but failing to use it prop­ erly” occurs in other dialogues as well. I want to draw attention only to the Theaetetus here. When Theaetetus tries for the third time to define knowledge, he refers to what he at some point had heard from someone else but eventually had forgotten: “Oh yes, Socrates, that’s just what I once heard a man say; I had forgotten, but now it’s coming back to me. He said that true judgment, with a logical account, is knowledge.”25 This sounds familiar to Socrates (201d– 202c). In the discussion that follows, he wishes to test whether they have heard the same version (202c–206b). Clearly this thesis should appeal to anyone who has read the Meno, in which the relation between right opinion and logos is seen as an important contribution to the discussion.26 But Socrates also realizes that again the “cor­

23

Cf. Protagoras 330e; Theaetetus 195a; Seventh Letter 339e. Cf. Euthdemus 291b: Àsper tå paid¤a tå toÁw korÊdouw di≈konta, ée‹ ”Òmeya §kãsthn t«n §pisthm«n aÈt¤ka lÆcesyai, afl dÉ ée‹ Ípej°fugon, cf. Euthphro 11b; 14b; Meno 97d; cf. Erler 1987, 78–96. 25 Theaetetus 201c: ˜ ge §g≈, Œ S≈kratew, efipÒntow tou ékoÊsaw §pelelÆsmhn, nËn dÉ §nno«. ¶fh d¢ tØn m¢n metå lÒgou élhy∞ dÒjan §pistÆmhn e‰nai. Translation is Levett’s (1992). 26 See Cornford 1957, 141–142, 158; excellent discussion in Burnyeat 1990, 234ff. 24

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rect” “hearsay” does not hold up to scrutiny. Theaetetus is obvi­ ously unable to explain or defend properly what he has heard and introduced into discussion. This again seems to signal that it is not enough merely to be able to repeat what one has heard. Like Nicias, Theaetetus obviously is not able to back up the hearsay in a philo­ sophically sound manner. The situation with which we are confronted in the Laches and the Theaetetus recalls the claim made in the Republic about what is right but nevertheless of inferior value: at one stage of the discussion the interlocutors agree that Socrates’ statements about the community of women and children might be right (orthos); but Adeimantus nev­ ertheless thinks that the argument went off the track and is of infe­ rior value ( phaulôs). He therefore asks for more (449c): “Well isn’t that right,” Socrates asks Adeimantus. “Yes,” he replies, “but this word ‘right,’ like other things, requires defining (lÒgou de›tai) as to the way and manner of such a community.” This looks like a first comment on what we have learned about akousmata so far: they might be right in what they say, yet without an argument they are deficient ( phauloi ).27 For proper use, correctness has to be supplemented with another logos, an argument that stabilizes the hearsay. So we are in a position to draw a first conclusion: the motif, “to hear something right, but to miss the truth,” shows that even the spoken logos can be deficient and weak. But it also signals that this weakness can be overcome through oral examination and interpretation, as the dia­ logues demonstrate. This supposition is confirmed by other occurrences of the motif in Plato’s dialogues.28 The Charmides, for instance, brings in some additional aspects that help to analyse what the motif wants to tell us. After he has failed to defend a second definition of temperance, Charmides offers a third one. He remembers—rather by accident, it seems—that he heard something that he thinks might be useful for the discussion: “I have just remembered having heard someone say that temperance is minding one’s own business.”29 The inter­ locutors quarrel a bit over the origin of this definition. Critias is the most obvious candidate (162d), although the formula might be an 27

See Szlezák 1985, 286. Cf. Usener 1994, 150. 29 Charmides 161b: êrti går énemnÆsyhn—˘ ≥dh tou ≥kousa l°gontow—˜ti svfrosÊnh ín e‡h tÚ tå •autoË prãttein. Translation is by Sprague (1992 [1973]). 28

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old saying (162d). They agree, however, that it does not make much of a difference from whom Charmides has heard it (161c). The con­ tent of the hearsay is of importance, for again it seems to be ade­ quate in a way. Moreover, the reader of the Republic will remember that in this dialogue “doing one’s own thing” plays an important role in defining what justice is; and we will recall that Socrates makes use of it elsewhere too, combining it with the Delphic formula of knowing oneself.30 Yet again, in spite of being correct, the oral infor­ mation does not prevent the discussion from failing in the Charmides as well. We come up against what we can now call a standard sit­ uation in the dialogues: an important and correct point is introduced into discussion, but in the wrong manner. The Charmides, however, gives us a little more information about how to profit from this kind of “hearsay.” Socrates explains how the “formula” Critias heard should have been put to use. Because the person who transmitted the claim that temperance was “minding one’s own business,” was speaking in riddles (161c–162a–b), it was wrong to take the hearsay at face value. The hearsay introduced into the discussion is not to be used like a “magic” formula without argument. It needs further examination. Yet neither Charmides nor Critias are capable of han­ dling the information successfully. It is obvious that they are not able to overcome the weakness of this kind of oral transmission, although it is obvious that this can be done. The passage signals that to hear the right thing does not mean to possess the truth automatically. Further examination and arguments are needed. And here the receiver of the hearsay and his or her disposition come into play. Let us see what is expected of him. 4. Before turning to Socrates himself, I wish to draw attention to the Timaeus. This dialogue can make an initial contribution to what is needed to handle akousmata in the right way. In this dialogue Timaeus begins by claiming that God is good and that God there­ fore desired that all things should come as near as possible to being like himself (29e). Timaeus agrees that this is a supremely valid prin­ ciple of becoming and of the order of the world, and he confesses that he received it “from men of understanding” (30a). I grant that he does not say that he got this information by oral transmission. Timaeus does not refrain from using this information in a discus­

30

Timaeus 72a; see Kahn 1996, 189f. Cf. also Apology 33a6–7.

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sion, and he does not offer arguments to make a case that his infor­ mation is right. Rather, he accepts it as right and uses it as a foun­ dation for his long monologue about cosmology. Viewed in the context of what we have said so far, this shows that he misbehaves in the same manner as Critias or Nicias did. But Socrates agrees to listen to his monologue. The content of the information about the divine principle, again, is doubtless correct. In addition, Socrates obviously expects him to handle what he learned from others in a proper way. And indeed the monologue proves Timaeus competent to offer a coherent cosmology. That is to say: like Laches or Critias, Timaeus received information the content of which is right from a Platonic point of view. Like them he accepts the message without argument. Yet, unlike Laches, Nicias, or Critias, Timaeus obviously knows how to make use of the information. The reason for this we find at the beginning of the dialogue. There Plato describes Timaeus as being someone who is well disposed towards philosophy and the sciences: “He knows more of astronomy than the rest of us,” Critias says, “and has made knowledge of the nature of the universe his chief object” (27a, transl. Cornford 1937). Socrates presents him as a politically experienced member of an “admirably governed state, the Italian Locri”; in this community he has “not only enjoyed the highest offices and distinctions” but, Socrates adds, “he also reached the highest eminence in philosophy” (19e–20a). Timaeus is an expert in science and in philosophy: he comes across as an exceptionally gifted person with a natural affinity (sugg°neia) for the subject he is going to treat.31 This is why it makes sense for him to pray to the gods for knowledge,32 for he can properly use the information that they offer. This is one reason why he is presented as someone who makes good use of correct information, even if he does not offer a logos to turn the right information into truth. What the Eleatic stranger says about Theaetetus in the Sophist applies to him as well: “But I can see clearly that, without any argument of mine, your nature will come of itself to the conclusion which you tell me attracts you at this moment. So I will let this go” (265d–e; transl. Cornford 1957).33

31 On the high philosophical qualifications of Timaeus, see Szlezák 1997a, 195f.; on the transmission of knowledge in the Timaeus, see Brisson 1982, 32ff.; for some of the poetological implications, see Erler 1997. 32 I owe this to Gretchen Reydams-Schils.

33 Sophist 265d–e: §peidØ d° sou katamanyãnv tØn fÊsin, ˜ti ka‹ êneu t«n parÉ

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This adds a new aspect to our problem: a receiver’s natural incli­ nation to philosophy contributes to a correct handling of what could be philosophically relevant. Though Nicias, Laches, or Critias illus­ trate what happens if one lacks this natural disposition, this inclina­ tion is a necessary but not a sufficient condition to overcome a weakness of the logos. Socrates’ case is, of course, quite different. He represents to per­ fection the natural inclination for philosophy. Let us therefore turn to Plato’s prototype of the philosopher because he embodies the cor­ rect handling of oral information and hence confirms what we have argued so far. Of course Socrates prefers to discover things without taking recourse to authority. Sometimes, however, Plato makes him refer to ancient sources, wise women and men, especially when Socrates, who claims to know nothing, introduces teachings of cru­ cial importance into the discussion.34 Later, during the imperial period, opponents of Plato’s philosophy referred to these passages as a proof that Plato lacked originality or even accused him of plagiarism. They neglected, however, Socrates’ handling of information.35 This is directly relevant for my thesis: although Socrates often agrees that what he heard from ancient authorities is important and even correct, he does not like to accept what he has heard without having it tested in dialectical discussion. Take for instance the Meno. In this dialogue Socrates tells us that he received the doctrine of immortality of the soul from wise women and men (81a), with Pindar being one of them. Socrates clearly approves of the thesis. Nevertheless he insists that Meno and he himself should examine whether those wise author­ ities are right (81b). On the other hand, if Socrates refers to hearsay and does not test it, he makes it perfectly clear that this informa­ tion has to be handled carefully and hypothetically as he does with respect to the “much talked about” doctrine of ideas in the Phaedo.36 ≤m«n lÒgvn aÈtØ prÒseisin §fÉ ëper nËn ßlkesyai fπw, §ãsv. This reminds one of the smikrå ¶ndeijiw of the Seventh Letter 341e; 340c. 34 Phaedrus 275b; 240c; cf. Meno 81a–b; Phaedo 70c; Gorgias 499c; 510b; Symposium 175d; 195b; Republic 329a; Laws 677a; 716c; 715e; 757a. 35 See Baltes 1999; for the aspect of “transposition” of traditional knowledge in this context see Erler 2001. 36 See, e.g., the Phaedo where the doctrine of ideas is introduced as a muchdiscussed topic (100b: poluyrÊlhton, cf. 76d), which is not affirmed by arguments and therefore remains a hypothesis. Of interest also is Republic 504cff. where the idea of the good as megiston mathêma is introduced as “hearsay:” see Erler, “Die Idee des Guten: Platon ein Aporetiker?” forthcoming.

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Thus it is quite clear that this kind of examination of hearsay does not necessarily have to be negative. In fact, in most cases the infor­ mation is confirmed. But a close examination is the final test for the acceptance of the information. A scrutiny of the oral information is what Socrates expects from Laches, Nicias, Critias, and from him­ self. To accept an akousma is to go beyond its formula-like quality to arguments that can ground it in truth and thus show its truth. 5. That this is the way to handle akousmata becomes clear in the Sophist. For like the Timaeus this dialogue depicts how a person with a natural affinity toward philosophy behaves.37 The Eleatic stranger is presented as a properly disposed person who, among other things, might teach the reader to handle oral information in a proper way. He is asked to report what people in Elea say about a Sophist. We recall Nicias, Laches, Critias, or Theaetetus, but we immediately notice an important difference: unlike Theaetetus, for instance, the Eleatic stranger does not just happen to remember what he heard; he remembers well (oÈk émnhmone›n), and he remembers not only a formula but what he heard “thoroughly discussed” (§pe‹ diakhko°nai g° fhsin flkan«w, 217b). He has more than a definition to offer, being able to reproduce the process that led to this definition. That is to say, his akousma is not devoid of argument and therefore might be able to escape misinterpretation. The discussion that follows in the dialogue explains and establishes the content of his oral information in a manner that one could indeed call “reasoning of the cause,” since it explains why the Sophist belongs to the image-making art by answering the question of what an image is. The famous digres­ sion (236e–264d) in the dialogue carries with it all that is necessary to answer exactly this question. It shows how to overcome the lim­ its imposed by Parmenides’ prohibition against talking or thinking about non-being, by analysing the structure of the logos (262d) and explaining how false opinions or how false discourses occur (264d). We recall that it is not enough merely to accept hearsay as a kind of formula without argument; now we see what the argument should be like. One has to offer the reason why the formally cor­ rect information is correct. One has to reproduce the argument that anchors the akousma, for often the akousmata offer conclusions of argu­ ments. Therefore one has to rediscover the premisses that led to the

37

See Szlezák 1997b, 90–91.

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conclusions transmitted as akousmata and that might be regarded as being of higher value than hearsay taken by itself.38 The Sophist sug­ gests that the akousmata only then hold up to scrutiny in discussion; and, we suspect, they can be remembered properly, only if this con­ dition is met. I am claiming therefore that the man from Elea is meant to illustrate how to deal with hearsay in a way which might lead to positive results, by developing the strand of thought which led to the conclusions the hearsay entails. 6. Let us pause for a moment and review the arguments developed so far. We started by considering passages that illustrate how hearsay is used in discussion. We saw that the content of these akous­ mata often is of importance for the problem under consideration and is reasonable even from Socrates’ point of view. We also noticed, however, that the receiver often fails to make proper use of these akousmata in the discussion. For the receiver might have misheard the message ( parakouein), like a hasty servant who hurries out of a room, before he has heard the whole of what one is saying, or when he has understood the message only superficially.39 Our motif there­ fore signals a certain flaw inherent in oral communication: to treat hearsay like formulas or akousmata devoid of argumentation leads to misunderstanding and abuse, because without argument the formu­ las are unclear and unstable. The dialogues show that it is neces­ sary to test akousmata in dialectical discussion, and how this should be done. This, of course, serves as a reminder also of the critique of writing in Phaedrus. For the problem of lacking clarity and stabil­ ity also applies to the written word, which also is reproached with being rigid and liable to misunderstanding.40 In the Phaedrus we also

38 Cf. Graeser 1993, 128f. This might help to clarify the much-disputed “things of higher value” (timiôtera) in the Phaedrus, since premisses (e.g., ideas or principles) might be regarded as of higher value than the conclusions drawn with their help (for an opposed view, see Heitsch 1989, 278ff.; but see Szlezák 1990, 75–85). In the critique of writing Plato requires the presence of the author, or one of his pupils, in order to protect the text from misunderstanding and abuse. Plato’s Socrates wants the defender to prove that the text is of inferior value (faËlon épode›jai, Phaedrus 278c5; 278c6), by means of what Plato calls timiôtera (278c–d). This same pattern applies to akousmata in oral communication: if they are handed over and accepted like formulas or books, they are not of much help. 39 Arist. Nicomachean Ethics VII 6, 1149a265ff.; cf. Theaetetus 195a: parakoÊein, parakousma cf. Aristophanes Frogs 750; Theaetetus 157e; 195a; Protagoras 330e; Euthdemus 300d; Seventh Letter 340b; 338a; 339e. 40 Kahn, 1996, 389.

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learn how to handle written texts in order to avoid those difficulties and it has been argued that the dialogues reflect those prescriptions.41 In what follows I shall argue that the dialogues also comment on the examples of wrong and right behavior that I have examined so far. Those passages form what one could call Plato’s critique of oral­ ity. Like his critique of writing, Plato’s critique of orality promotes a better understanding of the philosophical and literary background to motifs he uses in his dialogues. 7. Plato’s dialogues, I submit, illustrate both the communicative and the content aspects of the motif, “to hear the right thing, but to miss the truth,” while simultaneously offering help in recognizing its philosophical connotations. I shall argue that the Meno and the Seventh Letter prove especially helpful in this respect. I realize that the authenticity of this letter is still under dispute. I shall argue, how­ ever, that the famous digression in the letter which deals with the weakness of the spoken word does not contradict Plato’s dialogues. On the contrary, the passage in question can be understood as a comment on those passages in the dialogues which—as I claim— illustrate the problem of misunderstanding inherent in spoken words that appear “in unchangeable form.” This interpretation would add some internal evidence in favour of authenticity.42 First let us have a look at the Meno. This dialogue, I think, offers a commentary on the metaphor that hearsay in spite of appearing to be adequate nevertheless “runs away,” and that the receiver of the information is unable to “catch the birds,” as Socrates puts it in the Euthydemus. Plato wants us to realize that this metaphor has philosophical relevance. To recognize this, let us recall that the Meno deals extensively with right opinions (orthai doxai ) and their relation­ ship with true knowledge (epistêmê). Socrates demonstrates that to walk off like runaway slaves or Daedalus’ statues is characteristic of opin­ ions that might be correct, and he explains that the metaphor of running away marks their ontological status. Opinions, Socrates says, are not necessarily wrong; but unlike knowledge they are unstable (97d). We recall that the akousmata too often run away and refuse to

41

For the critique of writing as a help in analysing the dialogues, see Szlezák 1985 (boêtheia-structure) and Erler 1987 (Aporia). 42 Allan Silverman ( per litteras) reminds me of passages in the Meno (75dff., 79dff.), where Socrates does not seem to be able to recall what Gorgias said and where Meno claims to have heard the truth from Gorgias; see also Scott 1995, 42ff.

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come to a standstill. This signals what we had already observed. The akousmata are right as far as the level of content is concerned. But they are deficient in as much as they do not come with a reflection on the reason why they are correct. Laches or Critias were unable to offer this kind of reflection, but the Eleatic stranger was able to do so. The Meno, in turn, teaches us that this weakness of commu­ nication can, in fact, be overcome. In his account of how to make opinions stable, Plato uses a religious concept: in religious contexts it was customary to bind a deity in order to keep her in place and to reap the benefits.43 Like the beneficial divinity, right opinions must be secured with the “tie of the cause” or rather by reasoning about the cause (logismos aitias 98a). I take that to mean exactly what we have said before: one has to explain the reason why the argument that the hearsay contains is right. In order to gain this kind of knowl­ edge, one has to practice reflecting on the problem over and over again. When they are secured, opinions turn into stable and clear knowledge (97d–e), thereby becoming more valuable (timiôteron). This signals the importance of training (meletan): if someone were to ask the same questions many times over and in many ways, true beliefs would become sure knowledge (85c). But we also learn that to scru­ tinize the argument once or twice is not enough. One has to reflect upon the reasons why the result is correct. One has to sustain this reflection until one knows the whole chain of argumentation, and how the result—i.e. the correct akousma—necessarily follows from the initial premisses. I take this to underlie the Eleatic’s claim that he had “heard the issue thoroughly discussed and remembered what he heard” (217b). He indeed is able to offer both the akousma and the reason why it is correct. It is in this context that our observations concerning akous­ mata that “seem to be right, but run away” gain depth. As we con­ jectured in analysing hearsay, formal correctness of information is not enough. The motif of akousmata that run away signals that the interlocutor is unable to stabilize them. He lacks the dialectical abil­ ity, that is, the only skill that leads one to reasoning about the cause. If the receiver of this kind of hearsay misses the truth, he proves unable to “tie down,” so to speak, the akousma, that is the right opin­ ion. The transition from true belief to knowledge is an instance of

43

See Merkelbach 1970–71; Meuli 1975; Kassel 1983.

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recollection.44 Applied to akousmata this means that akousmata which carry true beliefs appeal to preconceptions in us that are asleep and need to be waked up. To awaken them requires elaborate training, which often fails, but sometimes is successful, because after “being examined many times in many ways on a given hearsay, the pupil would come to understand as consummately as any person” (Meno 85c–86a). The passages we have been discussing illustrate this kind of exercise. Again we become aware of the art of the poeta philosophusque doctus, Plato: like archaic poets, Plato uses metaphors to hint at the phi­ losophical and poetic background of elements of his art.45 To hear the right thing, but to miss the truth, is a poetic motif. One might call it an element of Plato’s figurative immanent poetics. But it is also a philosophical device suited to alert the reader and invite him to avoid the difficulties that Socrates and his partners face in the dialogue. We shall now turn to the Seventh Letter, as supporting evidence for my thesis and for the philosophical background of our motif. For the motif itself, “to hear the right thing, but to miss the truth,” is thematized in this letter,46 together with its philosophical connota­ tions: weakness of language, the required disposition of the recipi­ ent, conditions for using akousmata properly. Like the dialogues, the letter is, to a certain extent, clearly self-referential,47 in that it illus­ trates a problem and simultaneously offers a methodological discus­ sion that helps to make clear what the problem is and how to solve it. More importantly the letter even reads like a commentary on the communicative aspect of the problem, that is, on how to use hearsay properly. To bring this point home, let us first remind ourselves of the context of the famous digression about teaching by means of either spoken or written language. For it should be stressed that the indictment in the Seventh Letter pertains not merely to the written word, but also to the attempt to express true philosophical under­ standing in language.48 The passage goes on to discount the idea 44

Cf. Kahn, 1996, 162. See Silk 1974, 48 and note 24. 46 Against the view, that the letter 341c refers to hearing books (so Guthrie 1978, 411 note 2) see Szlezák 1979, 354–363. 47 As elsewhere, cf. Brumbaugh 1988; Sayre 1988. 48 The Phaedrus offers a critique of the written and of the spoken word (277e), but stresses the former (See Heitsch 1993, 210; cf. Protagoras 329a; 334c–336d). 45

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that Dionysius could possibly have written a textbook that conveyed the essential core of Platonic philosophy adequately. The context of the digression (342a–344d) matters here, since Dionysius claims that he learned the core of Platonic teaching through listening (341b). He might be one of those who think that they have had sufficient oral exposure (341a–b):49 we remember that the Eleatic stranger, too, claims to have heard sufficiently from the Eleatics what a Sophist is. Unlike the Eleatic stranger, however, but like Critias, Nicias, or Laches, Dionysius fails to make proper use of what he heard. He misunderstands and misbehaves (341c), in his assumption that it would be a good idea to publish a book about Plato’s most impor­ tant teachings, which, of course, Plato would refuse to write down (344e). Dionysius fails Plato’s test, because like Socrates’ partners in the dialogues he is “full of misunderstandings” (340b, ofl parakousmãtvn mesto¤). In this context the attack against the written word is launched (341a–343a). Given the instability of language, it is illadvised to try to express what is understood in an unchangeable medium (343a). This attack is supported by general reflections about the weakness of language as such (tÚ toË lÒgou ésyen°w), that is, its inability to express the essence of a thing without expressing the quality ( poion ti, 342e–343a).50 Important philosophical insights can­ not be communicated, so the argument goes. They “cannot be stated like other kinds of knowledge.”51 This distrust of language is far more radical than anything we find in the critique of writing or in the dialogues. And this is why scholars tend to suspect that this passage could not have been written by Plato. It seems to suggest that Socrates in the Meno asks for something impossible, when he proposes that right opinions can be prevented from running away by reasoning about the cause. If it is not possible to recognize the essence in prin­

49

Cf. Phaedrus 276c; Phaedo 101e. This is said twice 342e–343a; 343b–c; cf. the helpful analysis of the digression by Graeser 1989, 12f. The second passage seems to be more radical: mentioning only poion ti, whereas the first passage reckons with the possibility that essence (ousia ) is offered as well. This difference has been stressed by interpreters like Gonzalez, 1998b, 254ff. with notes. However, the second passage refers back to the first and its context might explain why only the aspect of the poion ti is stressed. No difference was seen by v. Fritz 1978, 185; but cf. the doubts of Graeser 1989. 51 Seventh Letter 341c: =htÚn går oÈdam«w §stin …w êlla mayÆmata; for a good dis­ cussion see Kullmann 1991, 4 and note 7. 50

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ciple, then right opinions cannot be fixed; and the dialogues illus­ trate just this point.52 The critique of orality in the Seventh Letter, however, by no means excludes every possible avenue for gaining knowledge. Two condi­ tions are specified under which knowledge can after all be obtained. First, dialectical examination of the language tools, name, definition, and image, by “rubbing” them (341c), might produce “a leaping flame which kindles in the soul of the learner a fire that is able from then on to nourish itself ” (341d). Ongoing and protracted dialecti­ cal training in exchanges between pupil and teacher, which rely on questions and answers in friendly tests and on refutation without ill will (344b), might overcome the weakness of language.53 This reminds one of the long training Socrates mentions in the Meno and of the long training Socrates unfolds in the Republic, which leads to vision of the good. I think it is not a coincidence that in the Republic too the simile of “rubbing” and the “flame” occurs, together with the conviction that, by this “rubbing,” knowledge of justice might be established and confirmed (435a).54 Perhaps one might even say that the dialogues show moments in the kinds of ongoing and life-long inquiry that might bring the seeker to the goal. To achieve this goal—and this leads to the second condition—one needs a person with natural affinity (sugg°neia), who devotes him(her)self to the search for this knowledge. This is why an essential component of the dialec­ tical discussion is the eklogê, the selection of a suitable partner for the shared inquiry. This choice of partner determines the level of the discussion.55 Observing how a potential interlocutor handles

52 Cf. Gonzalez 1998b, 262. There were, however, attempts to define the Idea of the Good in the Academy, cf. Aristotle, Metaphysica N4, 1091b13–15. Theopompos shows that they tried to find definitions as answers to the aporiai (8115F 275), cf. v. Fritz 1978, 202f. 53 Seventh Letter 344b: mÒgiw d¢ tribÒmena prÚw êllhla aÈt«n ßkasta . . . §n eÈmen°sin

§l°gxoiw §legxÒmena ka‹ êneu fyÒnvn §rvtÆsesin ka‹ épokr¤sesin xrvm°nvn, §j°lamce frÒnhsiw per‹ ßkaston ka‹ noËw . . . Cf. Kahn 1996, 389. For the meaning of §j°lamce

cf. v. Fritz 1978, 179f. 54 Republic 435a: ka‹ taxÉ ín parÉ êllhla skopoËntew ka‹ tr¤bontew Àsper §k pure¤vn §klãmcai poiÆsaimen tØn dikaiosÊnhn, ka‹ fanerån genom°nhn bebaivsa¤meyÉ ín aÈtØn parÉ ≤m›n aÈto›w. Cf. Blössner 1997, 154ff. 55 The partner has to be suggenØw toË prãgmatow (Seventh Letter 344a); cf. Szlezák 1985, 63; Erler 1987, 266; the importance of the choice of the partner (§klogÆ) cf.

Phaedrus 275e; 276e; Republic 535a; Plato makes Socrates reflect on this in the Statesman, see Erler 1992.

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matters of hearsay might help one to make the right choice. The motif, “to hear the right thing, but to miss the truth,” signals that, like Dionysius, Socrates’ partners are often full of parakousmata and misunderstandings. They belong to the large audience that would not be suited for real knowledge, whether in written or spoken form (341d–e). Neither Critias, nor Nicias, nor Laches has a natural affinity for the subject of the search, since they use hearsay like a formula, “in unchangeable form, as happens when things are written down” (343a), without being prepared to accept the test of a dialectical con­ versation. Plato encourages us to connect writing and hearsay, as he does in the Phaedrus. The two reproaches that were articulated there against language “in unchangeable form as happens when it is writ­ ten down,” namely, lack of stability and lack of clarity (343a), were directed against the alleged supremacy of the written word. It seems that there are two main problems with orality: on the one hand, it is unstable when not tied down, on the other hand, it is, like the written word, too rigid for dialectical discussion. The Eleatic stranger and others, by contrast, belong to the happy few “who are capable of finding out knowledge for themselves with lit­ tle demonstration” (341d–e). We also recognize that both Plato’s assessment of writing and his assessment of orality are by no means limited to criticism: in both cases he suggests that dialectic and the interlocutor’s disposition can help to overcome the problems. The literary motif, “to hear the right thing, but to miss the point” is a means of illustrating the problem and of hinting at its philosophical connotations. Given that Plato uses the motif as early as the Laches, it seems beside the point to interpret the remarks of the Seventh Letter as a sign of the disillusion of an aging professor who no longer believes in the success of oral teaching. Quite the contrary, because of differences in their respective contexts, the Phaedrus and the Letter naturally stress different aspects of the same problem: the possibility of misunderstanding inherent in both the written and the spoken word. Both the critique of writing and the critique of orality, as well as the solutions to those problems are presented by the dialogues. 8. But we can go even further. We mentioned at the outset that Plato’s dialogues belong to and describe a world in which the oral transmission of knowledge is crucial. When texts play a role, as in the Parmenides or the Theaetetus, the superiority of the spoken word comes across in a manner that squares with the famous critique of writing in the Phaedrus. Yet we have seen that the motif, “to hear

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the right thing, but to miss the truth,” is part of an implicit discus­ sion about the method of transmitting knowledge. We now see that in the context of the transmission of knowledge one can also find a critique of orality. The motif points to a weakness of the spoken word. Akousmata used as mere formulas are not better than pieces of written texts. Therefore, the alleged superiority of the spoken word is not to be accepted unconditionally. Literary motifs, metaphors, and self-referential passages in the dialogues indicate what those con­ ditions are. Akousmata have to be tested by calculating the reasons, by establishing a new foundation in order to tie down what is run­ ning away. These conditions add up to what can be called Plato’s critique of orality and again, like his critique of writing, might be understood as Plato’s reaction to a contemporary ongoing discussion.56 We could think of philosophical practical maxims like those of “Democrates”—which perhaps stands for Democritus—who was convinced that, “If anyone listens with intelligence to these gnomes of mine, he will perform many deeds worthy of a good man and will avoid performing many bad deeds” (DK 68B35, transl. Barnes 1996). Another instance of this debate could be seen in the orally transmitted maxims and sayings of the Pythagoreans, whose philos­ ophy consists of akousmata that sound like ready-made answers, pre­ sented without proof and without argument, to questions, such as “who is the most wise,” that might have circulated in the 5th century.57 Plato’s rival Isocrates, however, comes most readily to mind: he represents the traditional position, when he regards akousmata as the source of information that is the most reliable. Akousmata are part of the paradosis at school, where the souls of the pupils were filled up with akousmata.58 What teachers like Isocrates promised seems to have met the expectation of their pupils. I think that this historical background puts the dialogues into perspective. We have already taken a close look at the hearsay of which characters such as Laches, Nicias, Critias, or others make use in the discussion. We remember that akousmata did not abide with them. We now realize that Plato not only wishes to illustrate this traditional attitude;59 he also means

56

See Barnes 1983; cf. Nightingale 1995, 139ff. Barnes 1983, 94; Jambl. VP 82 = 58C4 and Burkert 1972a, 166ff. 58 Cf. Panathenaicus 150; Panegyricus 30; To Demonicus 12, 19; see Nightingale 1995, 141f. 59 Cf. the filling up metaphor Phaedrus 235c–d; Symposium 174d; the behaviour of 57

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to challenge this tradition by contrasting several responses: the tra­ ditional one, which accepts akousmata without criticism; the sceptical one, which draws attention to the problems involved; and the dialec­ tical attitude, favoured by Plato’s Socrates, which turns akousmata into knowledge by “the calculation of reason.” 9. The motif “to hear the right thing, but to miss the truth” and the suggestions of how to cope with these difficulties teach us some­ thing about Plato’s general approach toward the philosophical and literary tradition and also tell us how he wants us to respond. The topos covers hearsay of what the wise old men and women taught, and how Socrates deals with this information. And in the Sophist, Eleatic dialectic becomes Platonic dialectic. The dialogues not only illustrate the introduction of different philosophical traditions into the cultural life of Athens, they also show how these traditions are to be received. This shows that Plato neither rejects the philosophical tradition, nor accepts it unconditionally, but rather adapts and inte­ grates it: he wants to erect a new foundation, in order to raise the thought structure embodied in the tradition60 to a higher level of philosophical perfection. This provides us with an insight into Plato’s attempt to equate philosophy and mousikê,61 which at times makes the old tradition look new. The approach is reminiscent of Greek poets, who often claim their songs are not new, but who find new approaches to old stories: innovation by transposition. 10. The instructions for handling hearsay and tradition which Socrates demonstrates in the dialogues are the main reason why later Platonists regarded Plato as the first philosopher among the wise men of old. Though he did not discover anything new, they say, he nevertheless offered a new basis for traditional, age-old wisdom by transposition, that is, by reasoning the cause.62 We might interpret the approach of innovation by transposition as a reaction to con­ temporary attitudes toward tradition. Plato does not intend to reach out for novelties at all cost, as Sophists were inclined to do. Nor

Phaidros in the Phaedrus describes this kind of attitude well (Nightingale 1995, 135–6); Socrates sometimes imitates this, when he pretends not to remember or to be eager to hear (227d). Like written texts hearsay used as formulas will cause forgetfulness; knowledge has to be discovered from within oneself (Phaedrus 275a). 60 Kuhn 1941–42; cf. Diès 1927, 400ff. 61 Charmides 115a; Phaedo 61a; Republic 499d. 62 Proclus, Theol. Plat. I 5, p. 26,18ff. Saffrey-Westerink; see Erler 2001.

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does he intend to accept only topics that have been used before, striving merely for rearrangement, a position Isocrates seems to champion.63 And, finally, Plato does not share Choirilus’ sentiment either or Astydamas’, who express their dispair over the burden of tradi­ tion, lamenting that everything has been said before and nothing has been left for them.64 Plato’s approach to oral tradition, I think, is more nuanced. He agrees that most important things have been said before, but believes that even so they need a new philosophi­ cal foundation. The claim thus needs to be made or stated again, on a different—that is, Platonic—basis. This is true of the literary and philosophical tradition, and of Plato’s views on the importance of orality as well: the traditional acousmatic orality needs to be replaced, or at least supplemented, by dialectical orality. This is what our motif signals and the dialogues illustrate and discuss. 11. To sum up then: The motifs under consideration illustrate one particular feature of the world of orality that Plato describes in his dialogues so vividly, namely the dangers of oral transmission of knowl­ edge. It belongs to what one could call Plato’s implicit critique of orality and illustrates, it seems to me, a distrust of orality that at first sight might appear surprising. In many respects Plato suggests that one should not trust hearsay too much. Phaedrus is represented as someone who relies too much on what others say; and forgetful Socrates parodies this behavior. As is often the case with Plato, this poeta doctus philosophusque offers help for a better understanding of his literary motifs and of their philosophical background. Once again we can take note of how Plato combines poetical craft and selfreferential poetological reflection. Again we realize that Plato offers a kind of literature that continues the tradition of “immanent poet­ ics.” This combination is part of Plato’s rhetoric of philosophy and of his poetics. Bowra rightly says that no Greek poet says as much about his art as Pindar does;65 I would like to add that no prose author says so much about his art as does Plato.

63 64 65

Isocrates, Encomium of Helen 11–13, see Burger 1980, 118. Choirilus fr. 2, 1–5 Barnabe TrI 60 Astydamas II T 2a. Bowra 1964, 1; cf. Nünlist 1998, 328ff.

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RHETORIC AS PART OF AN INITIATION INTO THE MYSTERIES: A NEW INTERPRETATION OF THE PLATONIC PHAEDRUS Christina Schefer

Rhetoric is a central subject of the Platonic Phaedrus. The rhetoric of philosophy forms the climax of the dialogue. Most controversy has centered on the famous passage called “critique of writing” at the end of the Phaedrus (274b–278e). This passage gives a metathe­ ory of philosophical speech, the art of rhetoric (=htorikØ t°xnh). It is paradigmatic for all Platonic texts and therefore the basis of each Plato paradigm.1 This paper will show that Plato alludes to an unspeakable experience in this passage again and again. It is the unspeakable religious experience of the mysteries. Philosophical rhetoric seems to be only preliminary: it is presented as the necessary part of a mystery initiation, which culminates in something unphilosoph­ ical and unrhetorical.2 The passage begins with the special question about “propriety” (eÈpr°peia, 274b6) in writing. Socrates asks Phaedrus: “Do you know how you may best please god, in speaking and in doing, in refer­ ence to speech?” (o‰syÉ oÔn ˜p˙ mãlista ye“ xariª lÒgvn p°ri prãttvn µ l°gvn; 274b9–10). This corresponds to Socrates’ previous remark that “the prudent man” (ı s≈frvn, 273e6) seeking the true rhetoric should not seek it “for the sake of speaking to and acting with peo­ ple” (oÈx ßneka toË l°gein ka‹ prãttein prÚw ényr≈pouw, 273e5–6), “but that he may be able to speak what is pleasing to the gods, and in all his acts to do their pleasure to the best of his ability” (éllå toË yeo›w kexarism°na m¢n l°gein dÊnasyai, kexarism°nvw d¢ prãttein tÚ pçn efiw dÊnamin, 273e6–8). The main question is therefore: how shall the

1

See Szlezák 1985, 7ff. See esp. Schefer 2001a, where the relationship between Plato and the myster­ ies is analyzed in more detail. See also Schefer 2001b and 2001c. On the religious background of Platonic philosophy, which culminates in the unspeakable experience of the god Apollo, cf. Schefer 1996 and 1999. On the relationship between philo­ sophical logos and the mysteries, cf. also Schefer 2000. 2

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philosopher speak and act (l°gein ka‹ prãttein), if he wants to please the gods? The gods are also the reference point of rhetoric, since the passage ends with the definition of the philosopher as a divine human being (278d3–5) and with the definition of philosophy as “truly divine impulse” (ırmØ yeiot°ra, 279a9). That is why Socrates follows the true speaker, the dialectician, as if he were a god (266b6–7). From the beginning, therefore, the problem of rhetoric stands in a wider, religious context, in which words and acts, like myth and ritual, belong together. This religious unity of speaking and doing (legÒmena and dr≈mena) is particularly important in the mysteries:3 it describes the core of the mystery cults. Several testimonies mention the “doing” (poie›n) and the “saying” (l°gein) of the mysteries.4 Himerius, the sophist, for example, who treats himself as Hierophant and his pupils as initiates into the mysteries, says: “I want to reveal the holy things to the initiates by words and acts” (≤me›w d¢ flerå mÊstaiw ka‹ ¶rgƒ ka‹ lÒgƒ fa¤nvmen).5 The question about “propriety” (eÈpr°peia) in relation to the gods is typical of the mysteries as well. Herodotus interrupts his descrip­ tion of an Egyptian mystery myth by saying: “For me as a know­ ing man (i.e. as an initiate) it is not proper to report this myth” (§mo‹ m°ntoi §pistam°nƒ oÈk eÈprep°sterÒw §sti l°gesyai [sc. ı lÒgow], 2.47.2). The favour of the gods stands in the center of the myster­ ies and is a special characteristic of the initiate.6 This is confirmed by Aristophanes’ Frogs, which describe the mysteries of the initiates in the other world: “Participants of the feast that is dear to the gods, go . . . to the flowery grove and dance” (xvre›te/ . . . ényofÒron énÄ êlsow / pa¤zontew oÂw metous¤a yeofiloËw •ort∞w, 444–446). Plato, too, says in a passage of the Symposium referring closely to the mysteries,7 that the last aim of the initiated into the mysteries of love is “to become dear to the gods” (yeofilØw gen°syai, 212a6). And Theon of Smyrna, in his account of the various grades through which the

3

See Burkert 1972b, 43 with n. 14. Poie›n: Andocides 1.11 (on the mystery scandal of 415 B.C.): ÉAlkibiãdhn . . . tå mustÆria poioËnta (cf. 1.16); Thucydides 6.28.1: tå mustÆria . . . …w poie›tai §fÉ Ïbrei; Casel 1919, 16f.; Burkert 1972b, 317 with n. 63. L°gein: Herodotus 2.61.2, 46.2, 47.2–3, 171.3; Sopater Rh. 8.117.13 W.: §ãn tiw tå mustÆria e‡p˙, timvre¤syv; Plato Theaetetus 156a3: tå mustÆria l°gein; Casel 1919, 6. 5 Himerius Or. 69.9. 6 See Thomson 1935, 22f. 7 See Riedweg 1987, ch. 1.2, esp. 22ff. 4

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         177 (Eleusinian) initiate had to pass, calls the highest “the felicity (devel­ oped from the previous grades) that is related to being dear to the gods and living together with them” (≤ §j aÈt«n perigenom°nh katå tÚ yeofil¢w ka‹ yeo›w sund¤aiton eÈdaimon¤a).8 Thus, even the beginning of the controversial passage should remind us of the mysteries. Alluding to the theophilia of the mystery cult and the mystic unity of speaking and doing, Plato suggests that all logoi, whether written or spoken, are of only relative value and that rhetoric is only part of an initiation into the mysteries. It must be completed by a ritual act in the manner of the mystery cult. This is also confirmed by the passage itself: the central images stem from the mysteries. This applies to the myth of Theuth and Thamus-Ammon (274cff.) as well as the comparison between the worshipper of Adonis and the farmer (276bff.). Both images sym­ bolize the difference between oral and written speech. Nevertheless the written and the spoken are not simply opposites: they refer to the same thing—even though at various stages and with different success—and must therefore have a common basis. This common basis is the realm of the mysteries. The Greeks early identified the Egyptian god Theuth or Thoth with the mystic Hermes (Trismegistos).9 Thamus, the Egyptian god Amus or Ammon, the “hidden,” was seen as identical with the mystic Zeus Thebaieus.10 A well-known mystery god of course is Adonis, one of the dying and rising gods, who were above all revered in Eastern mystery cults.11 Plato confronts the mystês of Adonis (the Adoniast) with the profane farmer. But for the Greeks the farmer himself performed a holy, even mystic activity: agriculture was regarded as an invention or gift of the mystery goddess Demeter. Sacrificial feasts, mainly

8

Theon Smyr. p. 15, 5–7 Hiller. See A. Rusch, “Thoth,” RE 6A.1, 386ff.; W. Kroll, “Hermes Trismegistos,” RE 8.1, 792f.; Hornung 1999, 13ff., 54ff. See also van Moorsel 1955. 10 See Herodotus 2.42.4–6, 4.181.2; R. Pietschmann, “Ammon 1,” RE 1.2, 1854ff.; Heitsch 1993, 189. On the ram which every year was sacrificed and skinned in honor of Zeus Thebaieus, cf. the sacrifice of a ram at the climax of the Eleusinian mysteries (see Burkert 1972b, 311f., on the fleece on which Demeter and the mys­ tês sat, according to the Homeric Hymn to Demeter 196; cf. Clement Al. Protr. 2.15.2 [Arnob. 5.20]). A sacrifice of a ram took also place in the mysteries of Andania (see SIG 3 653.28ff.) and in the mysteries of Lerna (see Plutarch De Is. 35. 354f = Socr. Arg. FGrHist 310 F 2). 11 See Burkert 1977, 274f. and 1990, 64; Giebel 1993, 117f. 9

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feasts for Demeter, accompanied the whole Greek agricultural year.12 The mythical ancestor and prototype of the farmer was Triptolemus, the “thrice plougher” (connected by ancient etymology with tr¤polow): according to the Eleusinian tradition, which in the 4th century B.C.E. was also current in Athens, Demeter had given the first ear to Triptolemus on the Rarian Plain and had taught him agriculture. Afterwards she had sent him out on her car in order to spread the art of sowing and harvesting all over the world.13 So every farmer is truly a descendant of the Eleusinian hero. Behind the myth and the comparison, therefore, stand the mys­ teries once more. The mysteries are the background against which the written and the spoken logoi must be understood. But the mys­ teries are—contrary to the communis opinio—14 no metaphor. This is shown by the theoretical part of the passage: not only the images allude to the mysteries, but also the philosophical significance. All features, which characterize the true speaker, the philosopher, stem from the mysteries. The philosophos is defined as “the wise” (ı efid≈w), in opposition to “the learner” (ı manyãnvn).15 Efid≈w, used without object, literally means “one who has seen”. In the mysteries it describes the initiate, the mystês,16 who does not have to “learn” (manyãnein) any longer, but has achieved the highest stage of pure “experience” (paye›n) or “see­ ing” (ırçn) which is called “vision” (§popte¤a).17 The same is true for the other philosophical key words such as “the moderate” (273e6), “the one who knows to whom he should speak and be silent” (276a6–7), “the one who has worthier things” (278d8), and “the one who is able to help the logos” (275e5, 276c9, 277a1, 278c5). All these philosophical terms have a background in mystery religion.

12

See Burkert 1977, 248, 397f. See Sophocles fr. 596 R. and the Triptolemus; Servius Georg. 1.163; Kerényi 1962, 113ff.; Giebel 1993, 18. 14 See, e.g., Riedweg 1987, XI, 69 etc.; Szlezák 1988, 102 with n. 11; Giebel 1993, 53. 15 Phaedrus 276a8/a5, 278a1; see Szlezák 1988, 107. On the teacher-pupil-relationship in Plato’s dialogues and the inequality of the discussion partners cf. also Krämer 1959, 14 n. 14; Szlezák 1987 and 1989, 340f. 16 See Burkert 1969, 5. Standard testimonies are Euripides Rhesus 973 (semnÚw to›sin efidÒsin yeÒw); Andocides 1.30 (≤ går bãsanow deinØ parå to›w efidÒsin); the parody in Aristophanes Clouds 1241 (ZeÁw g°loiow ÙmnÊmenow to›w efidÒsin). 17 See Aristotle fr. 15 Ross = fr. 15 Rose (see below). Not only the epoptês, but even the mystês has a share in the vision (cf. Burkert 1972b, 303 with n. 3). 13

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         179 Let us begin with “the one who has worthier things” (ı ¶xvn timi≈tera, 278d8).18 T¤miow literally means “held in honor, worthy, venerable” and is used, especially in the comparative and superla­ tive, to praise temples, festivals, and rites.19 It is derived from timÆ, the “honor” of a god, that is, his realm of responsibility.20 Aristotle (Ars Rhetorica 1401a14) says about the Eleusinian mysteries that they are “the worthiest of all initiation rites” (tå mustÆria pas«n timivtãth teletÆ). Pausanias (10.31.11) reports the same thing: “The Greeks of former days honored the Eleusinian festival as much more than all other pious ceremonies as they honored gods more than heroes” (ofl går érxaiÒteroi t«n ÑEllÆnvn teletØn tØn ÉEleusin¤an pãntvn ˜posa §w eÈs°beian ¥kei tosoÊtƒ ∑gon §ntimÒteron ˜sƒ ka‹ yeoÁw §p¤prosyen ≤r≈vn).

The central word timiôtera, therefore, reminds us of the mysteries. Analogously, an important feature of the oral speech of the initi­ ate (ı efid≈w, 276a8) is that he “knows to whom he should speak and be silent” (§pistÆmvn d¢ l°gein te ka‹ sigçn prÚw oÓw de›, 276a6–7). Here Plato alludes to an old mystic formula, which also occurs in the Choephori of Aeschylus:21 Orestes tells the chorus to say nothing22 and demands of the chorus “to be silent where necessary and to say the right things” (sigçn yÉ ˜pou de› ka‹ l°gein tå ka¤ria, 582).23 Thus, the mystês or mystagôgos only speaks to initiates and must be silent among the uninitiated.24 In the same way an epigram of Halicarnassus praises the initiate, “who knows to hide what is secret and to say what is allowed” (ka‹ sigçn ˜ti kruptÚn §pistãmenow ka‹ é#te›n ˜ssa y°miw).25

18 On that key word of the Tübinger Plato paradigm cf., e.g., Szlezák 1990 and 1993, 71–76. 19 See Burkert 1977, 405; LSJ 1794 (t¤miow I.1.). 20 See Hesiod Theogony 882, 885. 21 See Thomson 1935, 20ff. and 1966, 2:153ff.; Seaford 1994a, 279 with n. 30. The mystic background of the passage is also confirmed by the word §popteËsai (Choephori 583), which refers to the epopteia of the Eleusinian mysteries. 22 581: Ím›n dÉ §pain« gl«ssan eÎfhmon f°rein. Cf. Euripides Bacchae 70: stÒma dÉ eÎfhmon ëpaw §josioÊsyv. On the “silence” (esp. eÈfhme›n) of the initiates, cf. Merkelbach 1988, 101f. and below. 23 See also Aeschylus Eumenides 277–78 and fr. 208 R.; Euripides fr. 413 N.2 etc. 24 See Aeschylus Agamemnon 36ff., esp. 39: mayoËsin aÈd« koÈ mayoËsi lÆyomai and Thomson 1966, 2:12f. See also Orphic fr. 245.1f. Kern: fy°gjomai oÂw y°miw §st¤: yÊraw dÉ §p¤yesye b°bhloi/pãntew ım«w and Riedweg 1993, 47f. and 1995, 54ff. Allusions to that old Orphic mystery formula occur in Plato Symposium 218b (= Orph. fr. 13 Kern); Empedocles DK 31 B 3.3f.; Pap. Derv. col. III 8 (ZPE 47 [1982] 3*); Pindar Ol. 2.85 alludes to the variant in Orph. fr. 334 Kern. 25 SEG 28.841. See Merkelbach 1988, 102.

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Even the word ı s≈frvn, “the moderate” (273e6), which means the philosophos, could be borrowed from the Dionysiac mysteries. SvfrosÊnh there—like “calm” (≤sux¤a)—a central quality of the mystês.26 Finally, the “help to the logos” has a religious background too: with the expression bohye›n t“ lÒgƒ, Plato refers to the sacred phrase bohye›n t“ ye“, “help the god,” which can be found in the old oath of the Delphic Amphictyony.27 Most significant is the definition of the play of writing as “telling myths” (muyologe›n) about justice and related subjects (276e2–3). Here Plato refers to his own writing about justice, the Republic, which describes itself as mythologein (376d9, 501e4).28 In the initiation of the mysteries mythologein is very important. In Plutarch (De def. orac. 22. 422c), we can read at the end of an account of a Platonic inter­ pretation: “. . . ‘so’, he said, ‘I heard him tell a myth about that, just as in the initiation of the mysteries, offering no proof for the logos at all’” (“ taËtÉ ¶fh per‹ toÊtvn muyologoËntow ≥kouon [. . .] mhd¢ p¤stin §pif°rontow.”). These mythical logoi have their special place in the “Lesser Mysteries” (mikrå mustÆria), where the doctrinal trans­ mission of the initiation takes place.29 As a preliminary stage they point towards the “Greater Mysteries” (megãla mustÆria), which for their part culminate in the unspeakable “vision” (§popte¤a) as the cli­ max and completion of mystery initiation.

26 See Euripides Bacchae 641 and Seaford 1996, 203; Sophocles Aias 677 (on the mystic background of Aias’ so-called “deception speech” [646–692], see Seaford 1994a, 282ff.); see also Seaford 1994b, 401f., 405 and Riedweg 1987, 61f. on Plato Phaedrus 254b6–7, where the vision of “beauty” (kãllow) and “moderation” (svfrosÊnh) is described as mystery vision of ritual statues. On svfrosÊnh as “chastity” of the Dionysiac mystês, cf. Euripides Bacchae 318; Merkelbach 1988, 122, 127 with n. 13, 141, 179. On the “calm” (≤sux¤a) of the initiated into the mysteries, cf. Diogenes Laertius 8.7; Lucian Vit. Auct. 3; on Pythagorean ≤sux¤a, see Sotion in Diogenes Laer­ tius 9.21 and Burkert 1969, 28; on Dionysiac ≤sux¤a, see Euripides Bacchae 389, 622, 647, 790 and Seaford 1996, 183, 201, 203, 212. See also Plato Phaedo 117e2–4 (the mystic scene of the dying Socrates); [Plato] Axiochus 370d4 (cf. 371de the ref­ erence to the Eleusinian mysteries); Libanius Or. 10.6; John Chrysost. Matt. 57.23. 27 See Heitsch 1993, 195 n. 430. Further examples: Xenophon Hellenica 1.2.6 (bohye›n tª ÉArt°midi); Demosthenes 18.155, 157 (bohye›n t“ ye“); Plato Apology 23b (t“ ye“ bohy«n, referring to the Delphic Apollo; see Schefer 1996, 75f.). 28 See Luther 1961, 536f.; Szlezák 1993, 66 with n. 2. 29 See Clement Al. Strom. 5.70.7f.: tå mikrå mustÆria didaskal¤aw tinå ÍpÒyesin

¶xonta ka‹ proparaskeu∞w t«n mellÒntvn, tå d¢ megãla per‹ t«n sumpãntvn, o manyãnein °ti Ípole¤petai, §popteÊein d¢ ka‹ perinoe›n tÆn te fÊsin ka‹ tå prãgmata. Cf. Burkert 1972b, 303; Riedweg 1987, 5ff., esp. 11; Giebel 1993, 30.

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         181 For Plato the ‘Greater Mysteries’ signify the “unwritten doctrines” (êgrafa dÒgmata).30 In contrast with the quicker persuasion by writ­ ten means, oral instruction only “achieves its aim after seven months” (§n ÙgdÒƒ mhn‹ . . . t°low labÒnta, 276b7–8).31 This is an allusion to the mysteries once more, because the “Greater Mysteries,” which lead to the goal (t°low) of initiation by the unspeakable “vision,” do not take place until seven months after the “Lesser Mysteries.”32 And just as the mysteries render the initiate “blessed” (eÈda¤mvn),33 so Plato’s oral philosophy makes the disciple “be blessed” (eÈdaimone›n, 277a3).34 Thus, the written must be completed by the spoken, and in turn the spoken must be completed by the unspeakable, as in the mysteries. Now we understand that the “critique of writing,” like every writ­ ten speech, is itself relative.35 Preference for oral speech must be completed by an allusion to religious experience. That is why Plato finishes the passage by emphasizing its play-character: “Now we have played enough with logoi ” (oÈkoËn ≥dh pepa¤syv metr¤vw ≤m›n tå per‹ lÒgvn, 278b7), after which Socrates asks Phaedrus to leave: “Do you now go and tell Lysias that the two of us went down to the stream and the temple of the Nymphs, and there listened to logoi . . .” (ka‹ sÊ te §ly∆n frãze Lus¤& ˜ti n∆ katabãnte §w tÚ Numf«n nçmã te ka‹ mouse›on ±koÊsamen lÒgvn, 278b8–9). This is resumed by the final word ‡vmen, “let us go” (279c8). Here we are reminded of the end

of Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae,36 where the women’s chorus at the feast of the Thesmophoria sings: “Now we have played enough” (éllå p°paistai metr¤vw ≤m›n, 1227). After that, the chorus asks

30

See below n. 134. The Greeks added the number, from which was counted, to the result. So, it must be seven, not eight months. 32 See Burkert 1972b, 293. On the telos of the mysteries, see text, below, and n. 116. 33 See, e.g., Euripides Bacchae 72ff.: Œ mãkar, ˜stiw eÈda¤mvn teletåw ye«n efid≈w . . . On the makarismÒw (“blessing”) in the mysteries generally, see Richardson 1974, 313f. 34 See also Aristoxenus Harm. 2, p. 39 da Rios (= Test. Plat. 7 Gaiser): the audi­ ence of Plato’s lecture “On the Good” expected instructions for “a completely won­ derful happiness” (eÈdaimon¤an tinå yaumastÆn); Plutarch Dion 14.3: Plato wanted to seduce Dionysius “into searching the secret good in the Academy and becom­ ing blessed through geometry” (§n ÉAkadhme¤& tÚ sivp≈menon égayÚn zhte›n ka‹ diå gevmetr¤aw eÈda¤mona gen°syai). Cf. Gaiser 1988, 29f. 35 See the paper of M. Erler in this volume.

36 This was discovered by Heitsch 1993, 65 n. 72.

31

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people to leave as well: “Now it is time for everybody to go home. May the two goddesses of the Thesmophoria (sc. Demeter and Persephone) show us their favour as a reward” (1228–1231). Indicating the play-character of the whole, Aristophanes breaks the dramatic illusion of the mystery festival.37 At the same time he hints at the real Thesmophoria, whose purpose was the manifesta­ tion of the two goddesses in a good harvest.38 Plato proceeds in the same way: he breaks the dramatic illusion of the dialogue by char­ acterizing it as play and so calls our attention to the written char­ acter of the dialogue. Moreover, he not only points to a fictional oral conversation (“tell Lysias,” 278b8), but beyond to a religious manifestation as foundation of the conversation. This is suggested by the reference to the holy place of the dialogue inspired by the Muses and the Nymphs, to which Socrates and Phaedrus “went down” (katabãnte, 278b8), and of which the reader was reminded again and again from beginning to end.39 The “way down” indicates a mystic manifestation: katabainein is a ritual term and hints at the katabasis of the mystês in the center of the Eleusinian mysteries.40 Socrates’ injunction to “tell” (frãzein) can refer to the oral revela­ tion by the highest mystery priest, the Hierophant. This is proved by the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, where at the climax it is said that the goddess went to the princes of Eleusis and “showed them all the performance of her rites and told her mysteries” (d[e›je] . . . / drhsmosÊnhn yÉ fler«n ka‹ §p°fraden ˆrgia pçsi, 474–476).41 Thus frãzein reflects the sacred words spoken at the “Greater Mysteries” and is connected with the unspeakable “vision” of the epopteia. Together with the reminiscence of the end of Aristophanes’ Thesmophoriazusae these references indicate that a ritual manifestation in the way of the mysteries is the true aim of oral speech. The seri­

37 See Burkert 1977, 365 about the Thesmophoria: “Nicht zu Unrecht wird öfters von ‘Mysterien’ gesprochen.” 38 See Burkert 1977, 365–370, esp. 369f. 39 See 230bc, 236e1, 238c9–d1, 241e4, 258e6–259b2, 262d1–6, 263d5–6, 278b8–9, 279b8 and the bibliography compiled by Görgemanns 1993, 122 n. 1; Heitsch 1993, 214 n. 493. 40 On the ritual katabainein at Delphi, see Schefer 1996, 27 with n. 92. On Kore’s kathodos/katabasis and anodos/anabasis, see Burkert 1972b, 288f. with n. 25. On the katabasis of the Hierophant Pythagoras in Demeter’s mystery temple at Croton, cf. Burkert 1969, esp. 25ff. 41 See Richardson 1974, 302f.

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         183 ous purpose of philosophy is not verbal instruction (either written or spoken), but mystic experience. Another hint in the same direction is the concluding prayer of Socrates:42 the philosopher asks Pan and the other gods of the place to give him mystic richness (279b8–c3). The ambiguous language of the prayer is typical of mystery ritual:43 it makes full sense only for the initiated, whereas the uninitiated cannot understand it. So, “the other gods” venerated at the river Ilissus are Achelous, Hermes, and the Nymphs, while for the initiate they are Demeter and Persephone.44 The requested “riches” (cf. ploÊsiow, 279c1) are twofold as well: they have an outer and an inner side, a material and a spiritual conno­ tation, like the mystic wealth (ploËtow) of the initiate described in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter.45 Socrates prays for “beauty” (cf. kalÒw, 279b9) and “wisdom” (cf. sofÒw, 279c1), the cardinal virtues of the initiated into the mysteries.46 The “gold” (xrusÒw, 279c2) in the prayer is the gold of the mysteries,47 which the initiate as “the moderate” (ı s≈frvn, 279c3) carries off as Hades did Persephone in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter.48 The gold symbolizes the manifestation of the divine or rather the golden light, in which the divinity appeared.49 It is

42

See Gaiser 1989, with literature. See Thomson 1957, 199–201; Seaford 1981, 254f. and 1994, 282f. 44 See O. Kern 1935, 298: “Aber das Gebet gilt auch den anderen, dort am Ilisos verehrten Gottheiten, wobei man, wenn man das Berliner Weihrelief der Wäscher vor seinen Augen hat, das im 18. Jahrhundert im Stadion gefunden ist und sicher aus dem vierten Jahrhundert stammt, zunächst an Acheloos, Hermes und die Nymphen, aber wohl auch an die in Agrai verehrten beiden eleusinischen Göttinnen denken muss.” See also below n. 110. 45 ˆlbiow ˜w . . ., 480–482; ˆlbiow ˜n . . ., 486–89. See Richardson 1974, 313ff. 46 On “the beautiful” (tÚ kalÒn) as the characteristic word of the initiated into the Dionysiac mysteries, cf. Euripides Bacchae 881 and 901: ˜ti kalÚn f¤lon afie¤ (from 902ff. the mystery language is evident); Merkelbach 1988, 124f. On the initiate as “the wise” (ı sofÒw), cf. Plato Meno 81a5 and Gorgias 493a2; Sophocles fr. 752 R.; Pindar Ol. 2.86; Plutarch De E apud Delph. 9. 389a etc.; see also above n. 16. 47 See Krummen 1990, 212ff. and 261f. with reference to Pindar Ol. 3.41ff. and Ol. 2.61ff. See also Homeric Hymn to Demeter 19, 431, and 279; Orph. fr. 168.12 and 14 Kern; Sophocles Oedipus at Colonus 1050ff.; Pausanias 2.7.6; Antigonus Car. Mir. 127 (141); and perhaps Plato Symposium 216e. 48 Cf. Phaedrus 279c1–3 (tÚ d¢ xrusoË pl∞yow e‡h moi ˜son mÆte f°rein mÆte êgein dÊnaito êllow µ ı s≈frvn) with the use of these verbs in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter 19f. (èrpãjaw dÉ é°kousan §p‹ xrus°oisin ˆxoisin/∑g É Ùlofurom°nhn) and 431f. (b∞ d¢ f°rvn ÍpÚ ga›an §n ërmasi xruse¤oisi/pÒll É éekazom°nhn). On the “modera­ tion” (svfrosÊnh) of the mystês, cf. above n. 26. 49 See, e.g., Antigonus Car. Mir. 127 (141): the “golden shine,” in which the cave at Mt Parnassus above Delphi appeared at certain times, namely when the mystic 43

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therefore the password for the mystic experience at the highest stage of the mysteries.50 Beginning, center, and end of the critique of writing harmonize in a striking way. They all refer to the mysteries. We are shown, not only by the images and philosophical terms of the passage but also dramatically, that Platonic rhetoric is only a preparatory stage of mystery initiation and that a kind of religious “vision” is the aim and climax of written and oral speech. This corresponds to the dia­ logue as a whole: the mysteries constitute the hidden unity of the Phaedrus. So the two basic subjects of the dialogue, the question of love (¶rvw) and of speech (lÒgow), are connected in the mysteries. They meet at the highest stage of initiation, in the epopteia as unspeak­ able experience, which is the goal of love and of speech. First to erôs: it is a basic emotion of the mystês that pushes him to complete the initiation.51 After suffering fear and confusion he feels hope and passionate desire for something joyful. This contradictory experience of the initiand is suggested in a fragment of Aeschylus: “I shuddered with passionate desire for this mystic rite of comple­ tion” (¶frijÉ ¶rvti toËde mustikoË t°louw).52 In a similar way Aias in Sophocles’ tragedy alludes to the mysteries as well by telling his wife “to go in quickly and pray to the gods for the completion, through to the end, of what my heart passionately desires” (¶sv yeo›w §lyoËsa diå t°louw, gÊnai, /eÎxou tele›syai toÈmÚn œn §rò k°ar).53 His last words, “even if now unfortunate, I am saved” (kefi nËn dustux«, sesvm°non), referring to the mystic transition,54 are followed by the mystic reply of the chorus: “I shuddered with passionate desire, joyful I flew upwards (¶frijÉ ¶rvti, perixarØw dÉ éneptãman).55 Finally, Pentheus, too, the hero of Euripides’ Bacchae, who “is anxiously and passion­ ately excited” (§ptÒhtai) like the mystic initiand,56 has a “great desire” (¶rvta m°gan, 813) to see the Dionysiac mysteries (teleta¤). Dionysus Liknites was awakened, corresponds to the blazing fire in the mystery rit­ ual (cf. Antoninus Lib. 19). On the light or fire at the climax of the Eleusinian mysteries, cf. Riedweg 1987, 48ff. and text, below. 50 See Eliade 1979, 262, with respect to the change of metal into gold as initi­ ation ritual in alchemy. 51 See Seaford 1994a, 284f. 52 Aeschylus fr. 387 R., translation by Seaford 1994a, 284. 53 Sophocles Aias 685–86; see Seaford 1994a, 284, with translation. 54 See Seaford 1994a, 284 and below n. 120. 55 Sophocles Aias 693. On “ritual flight” in the mysteries, see text, below. 56 Euripides Bacchae 214. On disturbance or excitement (ptÒhsiw), like shudder­ ing (fr¤kh) and fear (de¤mata), as characteristic emotions of the mystês at the begin­

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         185 Thus, erôs must have played a central part in initiation ritual even before Plato. It is no accident that in the Symposium Plato describes erôs in mystic terms. This can be seen especially towards the end of Diotima’s speech, where the priestess says: “In those erotic myster­ ies you, too, Socrates, can be perhaps initiated; whether you can be initiated as well in the final and highest mysteries, for the sake of which the others exist . . . I do not know” (taËta m¢n oÔn tå §rvtikå ‡svw, Œ S≈kratew, kín sÁ muhye¤hw: tå d¢ t°lea ka‹ §poptikã, œn ßneka ka‹ taËta ¶stin . . . oÈk o‰dÄ efi oÂÒw tÄ ín e‡hw, 209e5–210a2).57 Moreover,

Plato bases Socrates’ praise of Eros on a real mystery initiation, divided into “refutation-purification” (¶legxow-kãyarsiw), “teaching (with aitiological-genealogical myth)” (didaxÆ or t∞w telet∞w parãdosiw) and “vision” (§popte¤a).58 The connection between erôs and the mysteries is confirmed in a striking way by the Phaedrus itself. In Socrates’ second speech, the palinode, erôs appears as “divine possession” (§nyousiasmÒw, 249d2) and “madness” (man¤a, 249d5), both characteristic of Bacchic initiations.59 Socrates interprets the erotic madness as “recollection” (énãmnhsiw, mnÆmh) of the mystic vision of Beauty, which reminds us of the importance of “remembrance” (mnÆmh), contrasted with “obliv­ ion” (lÆyh), in the Bacchic-Dionysiac mysteries.60 Accordingly, the true lover, the philosopher, is shown as initiate, as “for ever initi­ ated into the perfect mysteries” (tel°ouw ée‹ teletåw teloÊmenow, 249c7–8) or as “newly initiated” (neotelÆw, 250e1; értitelÆw, 251a2). Seeing a beautiful face, he shudders at first like the mystês, but then reveres it as a god and sacrifices to it, with feelings of deep joy and satisfaction (251aff.). This ambivalent “experience” (pãyow, 252b2; cf.

ning of the initiation, cf. Plutarch De facie in orbe lun. 943c/d: (geÊontai xarçw) o·an ofl teloÊmenoi mãlista yorÊbƒ ka‹ ptoÆsei sugkekram°nhn metÉ §lp¤dow ≤de¤aw ¶xousi; Plato Phaedo 108b1, on the soul on its way to Hades: polÁn xrÒnon §ptohm°nh. See also Aristides Quint. De Mus. 3.25; Seaford 1981, 256 and 1994, 285; generally Richardson 1974, 306f.; Riedweg 1987, 60–67. 57 See Riedweg 1987, 2ff. 58 Symposium 199c3–201c9, 201e8–209e4, 209e5–212a7. See Riedweg 1987, 2–29, esp. 21 and 29. 59 See Phaedrus 249c7–8, 244d5–245a1, 265b3–4; Riedweg 1987, 35ff., 67; Burkert 1977, 435 and 1990, 95. 60 Phaedrus 249c2ff., esp. 250a1–5. See the famous gold leaf from Hipponion (about 400 B.C.) 6ff., which in v. 16 (mÊstai ka‹ bãkxoi) surely refers to BacchicDionysiac mysteries. See also Riedweg 1987, 40.

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254e1, 265b6), which is typical of the mystery initiation, is called by men ÖErvw, by the gods Pt°rvw, “the winged one” (252b8–9). The divine name echoes the regrowing of the soul’s wings by the perception of physical beauty (251bc), and the famous image of the winged soul flying upwards to the contemplation of ideal Beauty (246–247). The same imagery of flying upwards we meet in the mys­ teries: it represents the way back into life, i.e. the rebirth of the initiand.61 On a gold leaf from Thurii (before 350 B.C.) for example, the dead soul says: “I flew out of the circle of hard grief and pain” (kukloË dÉ §j°ptan barupeny°ow érgal°oio), which surely reflects a mys­ tic formula.62 In a mystic passage of Sophocles’ Aias the shuddering desire of the chorus is connected with a joyful flight upwards.63 The same mystic path from anxiety to relief, from death to a new life, from caverns towards the height of the birds is described by the cho­ rus in Euripides’ Hippolytus.64 It is therefore significant that a famous initiation ritual on Delos was called geranos, “dance of the cranes flying upwards,” because it repeats Theseus’ Cretan adventure in the labyrinth and goes back to Cretan-Minoan mysteries.65 A similar mystery cult is reflected by the story of Daedalus’ flight out of the labyrinth on selfmade wings.66 In Plato’s Phaedrus the image of flying upwards is combined with the image of the chariot race. So, the allegory of the soul as char­ ioteer with a pair of winged horses forms the heart of the so-called myth of the soul (246a–257d). Plato has borrowed this image from the mysteries also: the toil and contest of the charioteers and their horses, which are unable to see the supra-celestial (248ab), belong to the traditional concept of mystic initiation as a chariot race or more generally as a contest (ég≈n).67 This is particularly confirmed by Plutarch’s accounts of the sufferings of the mystic initiands,68 but

61

See Kerényi 1966a, 258f.; Seaford 1994a, 285. A 1.5 Zuntz. See Burkert 1977, 439f.; Seaford 1994a, 285 n. 70; Riedweg 1998, 380ff. 63 Sophocles Aias 693 (see text, above). 64 Euripides Hippolytus 732ff. See Kerényi 1966a, 257f. 65 Plutarch Thes. 21. See H. Kern 1995, 51ff. 66 See Kerényi 1966a, 258 and 1966b, 285. 67 See Thomson 1957, 130f. and 1966, 2:154f.; Seaford 1994a, 279f. See also the chariot ride in the mystic proem of Parmenides (see Burkert 1969) and in shamanism (see Hoppál 1994, 31). 68 See Plutarch fr. 178 Sandbach; De prof. virt. 81d–e; De facie in orbe lun. 943c–d. 62

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         187 also by Aeschylus and Sophocles:69 in a mystic ode of the Choephori, which precedes the killings, the chorus describes Orestes as a horse in a chariot race, and the desired outcome is related to the veiling and seeing of a bright light in the mysteries.70 The allegory culminates in the mystic picture of the procession of souls, led by the gods, to the rim of heaven (246eff.). This “proces­ sion” (pore¤a, 256d6) follows the example of the “procession” (pore¤a) of the initiands, led by the mystagôgoi, to Eleusis.71 The “plain of truth” (tÚ élhye¤aw ped¤on, 248b6) or “meadow” (leim≈n, 248c1), by which the plumage of the soul “is nourished” (tr°fetai, 248c2; cf. 246e2), recalls the “Rarian Plain” (tÚ ÑRãrion ped¤on) or “meadow” (leim≈n) in Eleusis as destination of the initiates,72 who appear as “nurslings” (yrepto¤) of the two goddesses.73 The aim of the procession is the contemplation of the Ideas, espe­ cially of the Idea of Beauty. Plato describes this contemplation as mystic “vision” (§popte¤a) or cultic “experience” (pãyow): Beauty could be seen then in brightness, when with the blessed cho­ rus we enjoyed a blessed sight and vision, we following Zeus and the others following each their respective gods, and were initiated into the mysteries, which may be called the most blessed ones. These myster­ ies we celebrated as mystai and epoptai, perfect ourselves and unaffected by the evils that awaited us in future, by looking at perfect, simple, unmoved and blessed appearances in pure light, pure ourselves and not yet entombed in what we carry around and call body . . . (kãllow d¢ tÒtÄ ∑n fide›n lamprÒn, ˜te sÁn eÈda¤moni xor“ makar¤an ˆcin te ka‹ y°an, •pÒmenoi metå m¢n DiÚw ≤me›w, êlloi d¢ metÄ êllou ye«n, e‰dÒn te ka‹ §teloËnto t«n telet«n ∂n y°miw l°gein makarivtãthn, ∂n »rgiãzomen ılÒklhroi m¢n aÈto‹ ˆntew ka‹ épaye›w kak«n ˜sa ≤mçw §n Íst°rƒ xrÒnƒ Íp°menen, ıloklhra d¢ ka‹ èplç ka‹ ètrem∞ ka‹ eÈda¤mona fãsmata muoÊmeno¤ te ka‹ §popteÊontew §n aÈgª kayarò, kayaro‹ ˆntew ka‹ ésÆmantoi toÊtou ˘ nËn dØ s«ma perif°rontew Ùnomãzomen . . ., 250b5–c6).

69 70

See Thomson 1957, 131 with n. 72. Aeschylus Choephori 794–811. See Thomson 1966, 2:168–171; Seaford 1994a,

279. 71

See LSCG, Suppl. 15.23–28; Riedweg 1987, 56–60. See Aristophanes Frogs 340–353, 372–376; Plutarch fr. 178.11 Sandbach; Burkert 1972b, 321f. 73 See O. Kern, “Mysterien (mustÆria) I–VI,” RE 16.2, 1239; Richardson 1974, 317 (YreptÒw); and esp. Kleinknecht 1937, 56 n. 1, on the use of the verb “to nur­ ture” (tr°fein) in mystery terminology. 72

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The terms muoÊmenoi and §popteÊontew (250c4) clearly refer to the mysteries of Eleusis:74 they reflect the two grades of initiates, the mys­ tai, who took part for the first time, and the epoptai, “spectators,” who were present for the second time at least.75 The same can be said of the dancing chorus, especially since dancing was very impor­ tant in the Eleusinian mysteries: one could betray the mysteries by “dancing them out” (§jorxe›syai).76 But most important is the repeated emphasis of “seeing”: §popte¤a, “seeing,” was the highest degree of initiation in Eleusis. The impressive brightness of light and the pro­ nouncing of happiness (the makarismÒw) belonged to this epoptic vision as well.77 Thus true love consists in the recollection of the mystic epopteia of Beauty: the lover recreates the ritual experience of the mysteries. This experience cannot be told, and is comprehensible only for those who are already initiated. Socrates therefore ends his religious-liturgical “hymn” (muyikÒn tina Ïmnon, 265c1) by saying: “This may be presented to memory, for the sake of which it has now been told in more detail, in longing for the former experience” (taËta m¢n oÔn mnÆm˙ kexar¤syv, diÉ ∂n pÒyƒ t«n tÒte nËn makrÒtera e‡rhtai, 250c7–8). Later we will hear, that the term mnêmê means the inner, direct memory, whereas hypomnêsis means the external, indirect reminder by means of marks and refers particularly to written logoi (275a2–6). Mnêmê, therefore, is predestined to the unspeakable. The epoptic experience, which stands in the center of the myth of the soul, must therefore be the basis of what follows as well. It forms the heart of the dialogue and is not only the key to loving (¶rvw), but also to speaking (lÒgow). This is confirmed by Socrates himself, who calls the palinode a “model” (parãdeigma, 262c10) for the second, theoretical part of the dialogue, which is inspired by the mystic cicadas (262d3–5).78 Accordingly, the quintessence of the fol­ lowing part is that only the one, “who knows the truth” (ı efid∆w tÚ élhy°w, 262d1), i.e. the initiate into the epoptic vision, can speak 74 See Hermias Alex. in Phaedrum 250c p. 178.25f. Couvr.; Riedweg 1987, 41; Burkert 1990, 78. 75 See Burkert 1972b, 292, 303f. and 1977, 429. 76 Tå mustÆria §jorxe›syai: Lucian Pisc. 33 and Salt. 15; Epictetus Phil. Diss. 3.21.16; Clement Al. Protr. 2.12.1 etc. See Kerényi 1962, 89; Burkert 1972b, 317f.; Riedweg 1987, 58 with n. 144. 77 See Riedweg 1987, 47–56; Richardson 1974, 310ff. 78 On the mystic-Orphic origin of the cicada-chorus, see text, below.

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         189 and write properly.79 This means that true rhetoric has a mystic foundation: it assumes the epopteia as unspeakable experience. In the mysteries the question about speech (lÒgow) and about writ­ ing (grãmma) was important, too. The mysteries themselves consisted of legÒmena, ritual sayings, contrasted with dr≈mena, ritual actions, and deiknÊmena, sacred objects that were revealed.80 In the center of initiation there was a flerÚw lÒgow, a holy speech, which could also appear in book form.81 Such books were used in mysteries very early and were partly public like the Homeric Hymn to Demeter or the Orphic writings. They had, like the Platonic dialogues, a protreptic and a hypomnematic side: rousing the interest of the uninitiated, they led them to the initiation,82 whereas for the initiates they served as remembrance.83 Both functions also appear for the Platonic writ­ ings, which according to the Phaedrus are “a means of reminding those who know the truth” (278a1).84 The actual initiation itself, however, made use of oral instruction, i.e. the individual “transmission” (parãdosiw) of the holy speech to already prepared people.85 This preference of orality, which makes the exclusion of the unsuited possible, is the main idea of the “cri­ tique of writing.”86 Orally uttered knowledge was kept from the unini­ tiated: it was secret (épÒrrhton), i.e., not to be spoken out, since great reverence (s°baw) prevented the initiates from revealing it by words openly (l°gein, §kl°gein, §kf°rein etc.).87 The same reverence (s°baw) forbids the philosophos in the Seventh Letter from revealing (§kbãllein) the greatest things.88

79 See esp. Phaedrus 259e1–262c4 (cf. Heitsch 1993, 69, 126, where the passage is entitled: “Grundbedingung der Rhetorik: Kenntnis der Wahrheit”), 277b5f. 80 See Richardson 1974, 302, 305. 81 See Burkert 1990, 59ff. 82 See Parker 1991, 6: the Hymn “was addressing potential initiates.” 83 See Motte 1995, 39 and Foley 1994, 65 to the hypomnematic function of the Hymn, which derives from a hieros logos of the Eleusinian mysteries. 84 See also Phaedrus 275a, d, 276d. On the protreptic character of the dialogues, see Gaiser 1959, and the testimony of Aristotle’s pupil Dicaearchus in Philodemus’ text: proetr°cato (sc. ı Plãtvn) m¢n går épe¤rouw …w efipe›n §pÉ aÈtØn (sc. tØn filosof¤an) diå t∞w énagraf∞w t«n lÒgvn (Acad. Ind. Herc. col. 1.12–15; cf. col. U 34–36). 85 See Burkert 1972b, 303; Giebel 1993, 30f. 86 See esp. Phaedrus 276a–b, e, 278a. 87 See Homeric Hymn to Demeter 479: m°ga gãr ti ye«n s°baw fisxãnei aÈdÆn and Richardson 1974, 310. On l°gein, see above n. 4; on §kl°gein, see Sopater Rh. 8.110ff. W. (quoting the law); on §kf°rein, see Diogenes Laertius 2.101 etc. 88 Cf. 344d7–9 about Dionysius II: had he understood anything of the greatest

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But at the same time it was impossible to give mystical knowl­ edge away, because it was unspeakable (êrrhton):89 in the famous fragment of Aristotle we read that “the initiands do not have to learn anything, but have to experience something and have to be brought into a special state, only after becoming suitable of course” (toÁw teloum°nouw oÈ maye›n ti de›n, éllå paye›n ka‹ diatey∞nai, dhlonÒti genom°nouw §pithde¤ouw), “and this suitability,” the commentator adds, “has nothing to do with logos” (ka‹ ≤ §pithdeiÒthw d¢ êlogow).90 So, learning by logos is taken for granted in the mysteries, but culmi­ nates in an unspeakable experience (pãyow), which is identical with the highest stage of initiation, the bright epopteia.91 In the same way Platonic dialectic culminates in something unutterable (êrrhton), which Plato describes in the self-testimonies as experience (pãyow) or bright insight (noËw).92 Every spoken word is therefore always referred to pure “seeing.” Only from this epoptic experience does the logos receive its significance, namely as suggestion of the unspeakable. The conclusion is that rhetoric is only preliminary in the myster­ ies. We can distinguish between three stages of initiation: 1. The grãmmata or writings, i.e. the well-known mystery myths (like the myths of Demeter and Persephone or the Orphic cosmology), which were published as books;93 2. the épÒrrhton, i.e. the secret mystery doctrine (like the tearing apart of Dionysus), which was only orally revealed to the mystai;94 3. the êrrhton, i.e. the unspeakable appear­ ance of the mystery goddess, which could only be seen or directly experienced.95 We find the same stages reflected in Plato’s philoso­ phy, which is divided into 1. the exoteric, public writings; 2. the esoteric principle-doctrine, which was only orally revealed to the

things, he would have respected them as Plato does: ımo¤vw går ín aÈtå §s°beto §mo‹ ka‹ oÈk ín aÈtå §tÒlmhsen efiw énarmost¤an ka‹ épr°peian §kbãllein. 89 See Burkert 1990, 16, 58. 90 Aristotle per‹ filosof¤aw fr. 15 Ross (= fr. 15 Rose), cited by Synesius Dion 8.48a. 91 See above n. 29 and n. 77. 92 See Seventh Letter 341c5–d1: =htÚn går oÈdam«w §stin …w êlla mayÆmata, éllÄ §k poll∞w sunous¤aw gignom°nhw per‹ tÚ prçgma aÈtÚ ka‹ toË suz∞n §ja¤fnhw, oÂon épÚ purÚw phdÆsantow §jafy¢n f«w, . . . and 344b7: . . . §j°lamce frÒnhsiw per‹ ßkaston ka‹ noËw . . . ; Phaedrus 252b1–3: toËto d¢ tÚ pãyow . . . ênyrvpoi m¢n ¶rvta Ùnomãzousin . . . and 255a3. 93 94 95

See Kerényi 1962, 39ff.; Burkert 1990, 61ff. See van den Burg 1939. See Kerényi 1962, 37ff.; Burkert 1977, 413f. and 1990, 16.

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         191 pupils of the Academy; 3. the unspeakable vision or experience of the good as unity.96 Thus, the unspeakable religious experience of the mysteries is not only the heart of erôs and of logos, but also the heart of the whole Platonic philosophy. Because it is the highest degree of loving and of speaking and so the highest degree of philo-sophia, it forms the center of the Phaedrus, determining the central myth of the soul. Although this myth is introduced as a “likeness” (246a5), which must be completed by “a divine and long analysis” (246a4–5), the descrip­ tion of the mystic vision is not to be understood as metaphorical or provisional. Since the vision itself is unspeakable, it can only be described in images, which suggest and aid remembrance.97 The frame of the dialogue confirms this. The conversation between Socrates and Phaedrus takes place at a “divine spot” (238c9–d1), exactly at a beautiful “halting-place” (katagvgÆ, 230b2), which reminds us of the so-called “stopping” of the mystery goddess Persephone (KÒrhw katagvgÆ).98 Quite near the stream, which is suitable for girls to be playing beside, it is said that Boreas seized Oreithyia (229b4–5), an allusion to the rape of Persephone by Hades, who was playing with her companions by Oceanus.99 Significant are also the “tall plane tree” (230b2–3) and “the shade of agnus” (230b3–4), both con­ nected with Demeter’s mystery feasts.100 The agnus is in full flower and makes the place fragrant (230b4–5). Under the plane tree flows the lovliest spring of coldest water (230b5–6). There are pleasant breezes (230c1–2), and the grass is thick and soft (230c3–5). Here Plato’s description seems to apply not so much to an earthly landscape, as to the next world of Orphic eschatology, the blessed place of the initiates. This becomes evident from a comparison with the pseudo-Platonic Axiochus and Aristophanes’ Frogs, but also with “Orphic” poems by Sappho, Alcaeus, Pindar and of course with real 96 On these three stages, cf. esp. Krämer 1959, 467 n. 173; Gaiser 1968, 5; Albert 1991, 191. 97 See generally Tecusan 1992. 98 See Diodorus Sic. 5.4.6; Burkert 1972b, 288 n. 25. On the Dionysiac Katagôgia, see Seaford 1981, 270; Merkelbach 1988, 75, 185. 99 See Homeric Hymn to Demeter 2ff., esp. 5. 100 Cf., e.g., the grove of plane trees in Lerna, where the mysteries of Demeter Prosymna and Dionysus (the ‘Lernaia’) were celebrated. On the connection of the plane tree with the mystery cult of the Cretan Zeus, cf. Böhme 1970, 482 n. 6. On the use of agnus during the mystery festival of the ‘Thesmophoria’, cf. Görgemanns 1993, 135.

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Orphic texts.101 All these documents reflect the same topography, which comes from Orphic mysteries: shady trees, cold springs, pure water, soft meadows, fragrant springflowers and mild breezes.102 Even the shrill, summery singing of the cicadas (t°ttigew) sitting in the tree (230c2–3) is of Orphic origin:103 it is resumed in the central inter­ lude (258e–259d), which separates the dialogue into a practical and a theoretical part. Thus, Orpheus’ mystery myth of the cicadas, which were men or priests in earlier times,104 is the connecting link of the two parts and reflects the mystic unity of the Phaedrus. This matches also the final mystic prayer to Pan and the other mystery gods, so that beginning, middle and end of the dialogue join in the realm of the mysteries.105 To sum up: Plato does not only use mystery terminology and mys­ tery images, but also refers to the genuine experience of the mys­ teries again and again. But there is more: he also presents the whole dialogue as a real mystery initiation. This is shown by the course of the dialogue: it begins with the walk (pore¤a, 227a2–3) of Phaedrus and Socrates. Phaedrus leads Socrates out of town (¶jv te¤xouw, 227a3). The repeated emphasis on “leading forth” (proãgein, 227c1, 228c1, 229a7, 229b3) and similar verbs (êgein, 230a7; jenage›n, 230c5. 7; periãgein, 230e1) recall the procession (pore¤a) from Athens to Eleusis, where the god Iacchus was led out of town106 and the mys­ tai were led by their mystagôgoi,107 who escorted the initiands up to the place of initiation.108 In the same way Socrates is escorted by 101 See [Plato] Axiochus 371cd; Aristophanes Frogs 444ff.; Sappho fr. 2 LP; Alcaeus fr. 319 and 115a LP; Pindar fr. 129–131a Sn. and Ol. 2.69ff.; Orph. H. 29 etc. 102 See Böhme 1970, 154ff., 174f., 183, 193. 103 See Böhme 1970, 148f. with reference to Sappho fr. 89 D. (= Alcaeus fr. 347b LP); Hesiod Works and Days 582ff.; Homer Iliad 3.151–52, which all follow Orphic tradition. 104 See Böhme 1970, 519 n. 9. 105 On the organic unity of a speech, which must have “a middle and extremi­ ties so composed as to suit each other and the whole work,” see Phaedrus 264c2–5. 106 The corresponding terms are prop°mpein, §jãgein etc. See Plutarch Alc. 34.3: §jelaÊnein tÚn ÖIakxon; Cam. 19.15: tÚn mustikÚn ÖIakxon §jãgousin; Phoc. 28: tÚn ÖIakxon §j êsteow ÉEleusinãde p°mpein; CIA 2.467, 471 and IG II2 1011.7: prop°mpein tÚn ÖIakxon; Aristophanes Frogs 404, 410, 416: ÖIakxe filoxoreutå sumprÒpemp° me and Schol. ad 399: ıdeÊousi . . . prop°mpontew tÚn DiÒnuson. For this purpose a spe­ cial priest, the Iacchagôgos, was appointed. On the Dionysiac mysteries, which were celebrated “outside of the town” (prÚ pÒlevw), see Merkelbach 1988, 15, 19. 107 See LSCG, Suppl. 15.23–28, esp. 27: [. . . ˜tan] d¢ êgvsi (sc. ofl mustagvgo¤) toÁw mÊstaw. 108 See LSCG, Suppl. 15.40f.

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         193 Phaedrus up to a temple of Achelous and the Nymphs on the bank of the river Ilissus near Agra.109 A relief found there (together with a dedication), which shows Achelous, the Nymphs, Hermes, Pan and the Eleusinian goddesses Demeter and Kore, makes us suppose that it was the Metroon of Agra (or at least a temple not far away from that),110 where the “Lesser Mysteries” were celebrated.111 These “Lesser Mysteries” mainly consisted in a “preparatory purification” (kayarmÒw).112 Sprinkling of water or even bathing in the waters of Ilissus formed part of the ceremonies as well as singing hymns.113 This explains why Socrates and Phaedrus moisten their feet by wading in the stream (229a4–5; cf. 230b7) and why Socrates calls his second speech a mythical hymn (265c1). Moreover, he intro­ duces his central palinode as “purification” (kayarmÒw, 243a4, cf. 243a3). During his first speech, which amounts to an abuse (kakhgor¤a, 243b5), he sits veiled (237a4, 243b7) and bare-footed (229a3), like the mystês during the preliminary initiation ritual called “enthrone­ ment” (yronismÒw).114 He is frightened (§kplag∞nai, 234d1), suffers an extraordinary experience (pãyow pepony°nai, 238c6) and feels disturbed and anxious (242c7–8), like the initiand before the divine vision.115 His logos, too, suffers a mystic death, before it reaches its aim (t°low, 241d3) and is saved.116 Socrates’ disgraceful and terrible speaking (deinÚw lÒgow, 242d4. 7), and the shame he feels (afisxÊnh, 237a5, 243b6), have a parallel in the “terrible things” (deinã)117 and the

109

See Phaedrus 229c, 230b. See Brisson 1989, 32; Motte 1995, 36 with n. 8. 111 See Burkert 1972b, 293 with n. 2.; Brisson 1989, 31; Motte 1995, 36. 112 See Schol. Aristophanes Plut. 845: Àsper prokãyarsiw ka‹ proãgneusiw; Julian Or. 5.173bc: prot°leia; Polyaenus 5.17.1: parå tÚn ÉIlissÒn, o tÚn kayarmÚn teloËsi to›w §lãttosi musthr¤oiw. See also Mylonas 1961, 239–243; Burkert 1972b, 293 with n. 3; Riedweg 1987, 8; Giebel 1993, 30f. 113 See Mylonas 1961, 241. 114 See Burkert 1972b, 294ff., with reference to images showing the initiation of Heracles. 115 See Burkert 1972b, 295f.; Riedweg 1987, 65 (generally 60–67). On the expres­ sion pãyow pepony°nai, cf. the address to a mystês on a gold leaf from Thurii about 350 B.C. (Zuntz A 4.3): xa›re pay∆n tÚ pãyhma tÚ dÉ oÎpv prÒsye §pepÒnyeiw. 116 See Phaedrus 241e8–242a1: ka‹ oÏtv dØ ı mËyow ˜ti pãsxein prosÆkei aÈt“, toËto pe¤setai. According to Heitsch 1993, 25 n. 14, Plato alludes here to the say­ ing ı mËyow §s≈yh ka‹ oÈk ép≈leto (Republic 621b8). On the telos of the mysteries, cf. Richardson 1974, 314; Seaford 1981, 261 n. 75; see also text, above. On death and salvation in the mysteries, cf. Apuleius Met. 11.21.7; Burkert 1990, 21–23; see also below n. 120. 117 Phaedrus 242d4–5 (cf. 242d7): deinÒn, Œ Fa›dre, deinÚn lÒgon aÈtÒw te §kÒmisaw 110

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“bad speech” (afisxrolog¤a) that preceded the mysteries and that were closely linked with the veiling of the mystês.118 The same is true of the stifling and burning heat (kaËma, 242a3; pn›gow, 279b4), which corresponds to the purification by fire in the Eleusinian mysteries: a priestess approached the veiled initiand with a burning torch.119 Next the purification itself takes place: Socrates uncovers his head (243b6) and is prepared to see the divine. As a sign of transition from disaster to salvation, Phaedrus encourages him to speak with the mystic exhortation to “take courage” (yãrrein, 243e3).120 Socrates turns to the boy (pa›w, 243e4) as the original mystês121 and summons him to listen (ékoÊein, 243e5), as the mystery priest summons his initiand,122 a role that is now actively adopted by Phaedrus himself (243e7–8). In the same way Orpheus addresses Musaeus in order to initiate him into the true theology: “Musaeus, son of the light-bringing moon goddess, listen (êkoue).”123 Socrates, too, calls his former speech explicitly “speech by Phaedrus, son of Pythocles, of Myrrinous” and introduces his following speech as “speech by Stesichorus, son of Euphemus, of Himera” (244a1–3). All these names, which can be etymologized easily, contain allusions to the current mystery initia­ tion: Pythocles, to the glory (kl°ow) of the initiate;124 Myrrinous, to

§m° te ±nãgkasaw efipe›n; cf. Euripides Bacchae 971: deinÚw sÁ deinÚw kép‹ de¤nÉ ¶rx˙ pãyh (Dionysus to Pentheus with reference to his mystical death). See also Plutarch fr. 178 Sandbach (on the mysteries in Eleusis): e‰ta prÚ toË t°louw aÈtoË tå deinå pãnta . . .; Euripides Bacchae 861; Plato Republic 365a3. 118 See esp. Homeric Hymn to Demeter 197–205 and Richardson 1974, 213ff.; Aristophanes Wasps 1362–63. Afisxrolog¤a, which was common in Demeter’s fes­ tivals (cf. Richardson 1974, 216), also occurred during the procession to Eleusis, when the initiands crossed the Athenian Cephissus: a man (or a woman) with veiled head sitting on the bridge abused those who were passing (cf. Hsch. s.v. gefur¤w). 119 See Burkert 1972b, 295 and the parody of the torch-purification in Aristophanes Thesmophoriazusae 236–248, where the word kãomai (240) occurs. On the symbolism of magical heat in initiation rituals, cf. Eliade 1988, 163–165. 120 See, e.g., the description of a mystery scene by Firmicus Mat. De err. 22, where the priest welcomes the rebirth of the god with: yarre›te, mÊstai, toË yeoË sesvsm°nou: / ¶stai går ≤m›n §k pÒnvn svthr¤a. See also R. Joly 1955. 121 Cf. the god Dionysus Zagreus as a reflection of the mystês: when he was seated on the throne by Zeus and was torn up by the Titans, he was a “young boy” (∑n Ö n, Orph. fr. 214, 207, 34 Kern etc.). n°ow ¶ti DiÒnusow and pa›w v 122 See Riedweg 1995, 50ff., esp. 57. 123 Orph. fr. 245.2–3 Kern. See also Empedocles DK 31 B 1. 124 See Euripides Bacchae 972; Aristophanes Clouds 459–60; Seaford 1981, 268 n. 149.

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         195 the myrtle wreath (murr¤nh) of the initiands;125 Stesichorus, to the importance of choral dance (xorÒw) at the climax of the mysteries;126 Himera, to the desire (·merow) of the initiands.127 Euphemus, which is particularly striking because it does not seem to be authentic, alludes to the following mystical hymn (cf. eÈfÆmvw, 265c1) and to silence (eÈfhm¤a) as a concomitant of the divine epiphany in mys­ tery ritual.128 In contrast to the beginning of the dialogue, the roles have changed now: Socrates appears as mystery priest or Hierophant, who initi­ ates Phaedrus into the true mysteries. At the end of the dialogue Phaedrus is presented as initiate.129 After the purifying, mystic heat has diminished (279b4–5), Socrates prays to Pan and the other mys­ tery gods and asks for mystic experience. His unusual form of invo­ cation (Œ f¤le Pãn, 279b8) is typical of initiates, who have become familiar with the god through the initiation ritual.130 With the adjec­ tive f¤low, “dear,” they address both their mystery deity, who has undergone the same sufferings as they themselves,131 and also the other initiated.132 This is reflected by the opening of the dialogue, which begins with Socrates’ address: Œ f¤le Fa›dre (227a1). Even the first sentence of the dialogue anticipates that Phaedrus will rank among the initiates. It is also confirmed by Phaedrus’ last remark (279c6–7), with which he joins Socrates’ prayer and with which he turns out to be a fellow mystês, alluding to the participants’ com­ munity (koinvn¤a) in the mysteries.133

125

See Giebel 1993, 36; Riedweg 1987, 126 n. 42. See Riedweg 1987, 58; see also above n. 76. 127 See v. 6 of the gold leaf A 1 Zuntz; IG II/III2 3639 (funeral epigram on a Hierophant). 128 See Aristophanes Frogs 354ff.; Richardson 1974, 307f. 129 It is probable that the fictional time of the dialogue is between 418 and 415 B.C., i.e. before Phaedrus was accused of parodying the Eleusinian mysteries (cf. Brisson 1989, 32 and 21). 130 See Homeric Hymn to Demeter 487, where it is said that the Eleusinian god­ desses “love” (f¤lvntai) the initiate. See also Eliade 1978, 276. 131 See, e.g., Theocritus 15.136 and 143 (in an Adonis hymn): Œ f¤lÉ ÖAdvni. 132 See Plato Seventh Letter, 333e2–4; Burkert 1990, 48 with n. 76 and 77. See also below n. 133. 133 See Diogenes Laertius 8.10 (according to Timaeus), who assigns the phrase “friends have all things in common” (koinå tå f¤lvn) to Pythagoras, the founder of a religious-philosophical mystery community; Plutarch Ad ux. 611d (ofl koinvnoËntew = the participants of the Dionysiac mysteries); Clement Al. Paed. 2.73.1–2; Merkelbach 1988, 132 n. 7: “Das Wort koinvn°v hat mystische Untertöne;” Burkert 1990, 47: 126

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But the initiation is not yet completed. The dialogue has shown that Phaedrus—and with him the reader—is only initiated into the preliminary “Lesser Mysteries.” The last word of the written text is therefore ‡vmen, “let us go” (279c8). With this closing sentence Socrates refers to the imminent “Greater Mysteries,” i.e. the oral discourses between teacher and pupil, which have been called the “unwritten doctrines.”134 But moreover, he also refers to the highest stage of ini­ tiation, the epopteia as unspeakable experience. Only by this epoptic “vision,” in which “Lesser” and “Greater Mysteries” culminate, does the initiation come to completion and reach its goal. Vision must therefore form the necessary conclusion, as was already suggested in the basic myth of the soul. It should be clear now, that Phaedrus is not only the title of the dialogue, but something more: namely, the central idea of the dia­ logue and even the heart of the whole Platonic philosophy. FaidrÒw, “radiant,” is a mystery term and characterizes the radiant light at the epopteia, the final stage of initiation.135

“koinon ist eine der üblichen Bezeichnungen solcher Organisationen” (sc. of mystery thiasoi ). 134 Aristotle Physics 4.2, 209b15. See Krämer 1959; Gaiser 1968; Szlezák 1985 and 1993 etc. 135 See Aristides Or. 22.2 Keil: . . . ˜stiw oÈ koinÒn ti t∞w g∞w t°menow tØn ÉEleus›na ≤ge›to, ka‹ pãntvn ˜sa ye›a ényr≈poiw taÈtÚn frikvd°statÒn te ka‹ faidrÒtaton ; On the radiant light at the epopteia, see Riedweg 1987, 48ff. and discussion above.

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COMMENTS ON ERLER AND SCHEFER Thomas M. Tuozzo

These two very rich papers can both be seen to deal with one of the most fundamental questions in Platonic philosophy: the nature of the ultimate goal of the philosophical enterprise and how it is to be attained. They approach this question from opposing sides: Michael Erler from the side of the discursive justifications that knowledge of philosophical principles provides, Christina Schefer from the side of the essentially non-discursive element in the knowledge of these prin­ ciples. As different as their approaches are, however, I shall suggest that they are in fact complementary, and that, taken together, they cast considerable light on this most difficult and important area of Plato’s thought. I turn first to Michael Erler’s paper. Erler begins by drawing atten­ tion to a particular literary motif in Plato: the recurring scenario of an interlocutor who has heard what is in some sense the correct view on a particular philosophical question, and yet who is unable to employ what he has heard fruitfully in philosophical discussion. This motif, “hearing the right thing, but missing the truth,” illus­ trates a certain weakness in the spoken word, which, Erler suggests, may surprise the reader who recalls Socrates’ defense of the superi­ ority of the spoken to the written word in the Phaedrus, as well as other expressions of confidence in the spoken word that Erler finds in the dialogues. Plato, however, does not simply illustrate how a reliance on the spoken word may lead us astray. He also illustrates, in the cases of the Eleatic Stranger and, of course, Socrates, how one might rightly make use of views one has heard. Furthermore, Erler points out that Plato also addresses the question of the correct use of the spoken word in certain explicitly methodological passages, namely, in the Meno and in the Seventh Letter. In thus providing a self-reflexive commentary on the proper and improper use of orally transmitted knowledge within works which themselves illustrate this proper and improper use, Plato proves to be an example of that inclusion of meta-poetic or “poetological” reflection within literature

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that characterizes, in different ways, both earlier Greek poets such as Pindar and the poetae docti of the Alexandrian period. What, then, are the proper and improper uses of views one has heard? The crucial point is that one must use these views philo­ sophically, and Erler seems to see two distinct ways of doing this. One way is that of critically examining the view in question, that is, attempting to “give an account” of it, and being ready to give such an account to others who might challenge the view in philo­ sophical discussion. This is what Socrates, for example, is able to do when Adimantus challenges him to back up his contention that women and children will be held in common by the guardians of Kallipolis. And this is what Charmides and Nicias are unable to do with formulae that most probably stem, in both cases, from Socrates himself. Another way, Erler suggests, is that illustrated by Timaeus: he accepts a view from “wise men” (parÉ éndr«n fron¤mvn, 30a1) and, apparently without subjecting it to critical examination, uses it as a foundation for an elaborate philosophical cosmology. As Erler realizes, the absence of critical examination would seem to make this procedure risky; Timaeus avoids disaster, Erler suggests, because of a natural affinity with the truth, an “inclinatio quaedam ad rectum.” Here I would like to offer a friendly supplement to Erler’s point. As he himself points out, this kinship with the truth is itself necessary for the successful critical examination of heard views; it seems strange to suppose that it would in some cases render that examination unnecessary. Perhaps it is better to suggest that Timaeus is in fact capable of producing a fuller account of the view he here assumes. This interpretation is perhaps supported by Timaeus’ admission at 48c2ff. that he will not be giving the ultimate principle or princi­ ples (archas) of all things “because it is difficult to make clear our views while following the present method of exposition” (katå tÚn parÒnta trÒpon t∞w diejÒdou). This suggests that, on another occa­ sion, and perhaps using the dialectical method of question and answer, Timaeus could indeed give an account of his present assumptions. If one fails adequately to defend something one has heard, it can be said to have eluded one’s grasp, to have flown away; adequately defending it, on the other hand, has the effect of “stabilizing” the doctrine. This notion of stabilizing leads Erler to the methodologi­ cal reflections of the Meno, and to the suggestion that akousmata, like other right opinions, need to be “bound by a reasoning-out of the cause.” Although the Meno itself does not apply this notion explic­

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itly to akousmata, Erler is surely right to say that right opinions picked up through hearing need to be treated in the same fashion as any others. The uncritical reliance on heard doctrine is parallel, Erler sug­ gests, to the uncritical reliance on the written word against which Socrates warns us in the Phaedrus. Erler’s general point here is clearly right, though it might be worthwhile to point out an important difference of emphasis between the discussions in the Meno and in the Phaedrus. While in the former Socrates is concerned with the danger of abandoning the correct view—perhaps when accosted by a smooth talker—if one has not worked out its justification, in the latter he is concerned with the danger that an authoritative written expression of a doctrine may make one feel that one has an under­ standing of the subject matter without having worked through and won that understanding on one’s own. These are, I think, somewhat different dangers. In particular, one’s inability to defend what one has got from a book need not make one doubt the book’s author­ ity; it may be all too tempting to think that the problem lies in one’s imperfect assimilation of what has been written, and that one needs simply to con the book again more carefully. This explains why the Meno emphasizes the instability of right opinion, while the Phaedrus emphasizes, not the instability of written texts, but their all too per­ sistent authoritative repetition of the same thing. We come now to the Seventh Letter, which, Erler suggests, poses a prima facie problem for the picture arrived at so far. Relying on the Meno, Erler has suggested that the deficiencies of both akousmata and written words can be overcome if those who have a natural affinity for the truth question the contents and seek to “tie them down” by reasoning out the cause. Erler does not tell us much about what this reasoning is like; but at one point he suggests, with reference to the Phaedo, that it involves figuring out how the truth in question “nec­ essarily follows from . . . initial premises.” These premises, Erler rightly suggests, would have to express the relevant essence(s), that is, Form(s). But the Seventh Letter tells us that the fundamental truth about “the highest and first principles of phusis” (344d4–5) is “not statable like other kinds of knowledge” (340c5–6). For all the cognitive tools at the philosopher’s disposal “tend to express the quality of each thing no less than its being, on account of the weakness of language” (diå tÚ t«n lÒgvn ésyen°w, 342e2–343a1). If there are no linguistically for­ mulable essential premises to serve as the starting points of the

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justification called for by akousmata and written doctrines, how can we ever use spoken or written words to attain the truth? To this Erler responds, naturally enough, that according to the Seventh Letter, prolonged dialectical discussion between a teacher and pupil, both of whom are endowed with the necessary moral affinity with the truth and the requisite intellectual ability, may result in the lighting of a self-nourishing intellectual fire that “overcomes” the weaknesses of the written and spoken word. Erler, perhaps wisely, does not hazard a closer explication of these famous passages, nor does he examine whether, and to what extent, this way of over­ coming the weakness of language requires a modification of his pic­ ture of the “stabilizing” of akousmata and written speeches. In particular, I think it would be useful to ask whether the light of wisdom (phronê­ sis) ignited in the soul of the learner consists purely in a particular cognitive stance towards certain unchanging linguistically-formulated premises, a stance which prevents those premises from being mis­ understood, or whether it consists in a cognitive relation towards a reality that cannot be fully expressed in linguistic form. There is, I think, evidence on both sides. The strongest evidence for the first position, that the ultimate principles are linguistically expressible, seems to me to be the claim in the Seventh Letter that the one who knows the first principles (ta prôta) has no need to write them down lest he forget them, “for they reside in the shortest things of all” (pãntvn går §n braxutãtoiw ke›tai, 344e2). This suggests that there are such definite principles, and the trick is in being able to use them rightly. On this view, there would be no need to modify the picture that Erler bases on the Meno and Phaedo. On the other hand, the Seventh Letter’s contention that the first principles are “in no way sayable as other kinds of knowledge are” (341c5–6), and that any use of language necessarily expresses a qual­ ity of a thing no less than its being, lends support to the notion that the phronêsis engendered in the soul involves a relationship to a real­ ity that cannot be formulated completely adequately in linguistic terms. It this is so, then the “self-nourishing” of this cognitive flame may involve the continual recasting of the first principles into evernew linguistic forms, each time presenting the essence of the beings in question, mingled in different ways with different qualities. Phronêsis would thus involve always being able to find the linguistic expres­ sion needed to make the light of truth shine in a particular context, whether of action or justification. If something like this is the case,

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then the proper treatment of akousmata and/or written views will not involve possessing a certain precise and unvarying argument from first principles justifying these views. Rather, it will involve being able to produce new and contextually appropriate justifications for them. The question whether Platonic first principles are linguistically expressible brings us to Christina Schefer’s paper. Schefer’s paper has a number of points of contact with Erler’s: Schefer, too, sees that the meta-theory of philosophical speech found at the end of the Phaedrus is itself illustrated and exemplified in the dialogue as a whole. Again like Erler, Schefer insists that for Plato the spoken word, no less than the written, suffers from certain deficiencies. Schefer’s prime concern is to argue that central to Plato’s conception of how these deficiencies can be overcome is the notion of an “unspeakable expe­ rience of the mysteries.” She argues, by adducing a wealth of par­ allels, that the critique of writing in the Phaedrus makes constant reference to the details and structure of religious initiation into the mysteries, in particular the mysteries of Demeter and Persephone at Eleusis. These parallels show, she suggests, that, just as initiation into the mysteries involved several stages where language played an impor­ tant role, in the form of hymns, obscene jokes (aischrologia), and holy stories (hieroi logoi ), but culminated in an “unspeakable” vision vouch­ safed by a sudden “radiant light,” so too philosophy for Plato involves several stages that involve language (elenctic purification, reading of written philosophical works, oral dialectical discussion between teacher and pupil), but must culminate in an “unspeakable” mystic experi­ ence that Schefer goes so far as to call “unphilosophical.” Having argued for this central claim, Schefer goes on to show, again by adducing numerous parallels, that the analyses of erôs and logos in the Phaedrus make mystic experience fundamental both to erotic expe­ rience and to meaningful speech. And lastly, Schefer interestingly argues that the conversation between Socrates and Phaedrus beside the Ilissus is itself clearly marked as parallel to the “lesser,” prepara­ tory Eleusinian mysteries that were apparently celebrated on that very spot. The wealth of parallels Schefer adduces is indeed impressive: though some of them are more convincing than others, in general she has made her case for the overwhelming presence of references to mystic initiation in the Phaedrus (and in Diotima’s speech in the Sym­ posium, as well). I would simply like to raise a couple of questions

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for further investigation. At several points in her paper Schefer insists that the parallels to the mystery initiations are no mere metaphor for Plato; he really means that philosophy is to culminate in an unspeakable mystic experience. I am not sure exactly what Schefer wishes to argue here. I am sure that Schefer does not mean to imply that Plato recommends that those seeking philosophical knowledge should literally undergo Eleusinian initiation rites (or those of Diony­ sus or Magna Mater or any other god). The vision of the Forms is not the same as the vision of the harvested ear of grain, however great the similarities. Furthermore, the author of the Seventh Letter explic­ itly remarks that the companionship that results from undergoing initiation, muein kai epopteuein, with others is vastly inferior to the friendship resulting from jointly pursuing philosophia (333e1–4). But if this is so, then Plato’s use of the language of the mysteries—of which muein kai epopteuein are among the most unambiguous—for the ultimate philosophical experience must be, fundamentally, metaphor­ ical. Then again, if by her rejection of talk of metaphor Schefer merely wishes to insist that Plato is absolutely serious about the cen­ tral role of a non-linguistic, sight-like moment in philosophical know­ ing, then I think her view has much to be said for it. The other question I would like to raise is whether there may not, in fact, be some role for the use of language in the philosopher’s mystic vision. It may well be that there was nothing said at the moment of revelation at Eleusis; but if the rites of Demeter are only an analogue to (not to say a metaphor for) the philosopher’s vision, they may differ on just this point. Indeed, in the Seventh Letter philosophic phronêsis is said to shine forth precisely for those who are “engaged in questions and answers without envy” (344b6). It is not inconsistent to hold both that the content of the philosopher’s vision cannot be fully captured in linguistic form and that that vision is attained and sustained only by the continuing activity of casting that content into linguistic form. Such activity, indeed, may be what Plato has in mind when he talks of the light which nourishes itself (341d1–2). To sum up: while Schefer in her paper emphasizes the essential nonlinguistic component in Plato’s account of philosophic knowing, Erler focuses, in his, on the equally necessary discursive element in it. Together, I suggest, they provide rich material for reflection on both aspects of Platonic philosophical knowledge.

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SIX PHILOSOPHERS ON PHILOSOPHICAL ESOTERICISM Thomas Alexander Szlezák

1. Wittgenstein Philosophical texts are not necessarily aimed at all readers, not even at all educated readers or all the intellectually curious.1 Ludwig Wittgenstein intended his Philosophical Remarks for a reading audience that would be differently defined. In an earlier version of the Introduc­ tion, dating from 1930, we read: This book is written for those who have a friendly relation to the spirit in which it is written. This spirit, I believe, is different from that of the great stream of European and American civilization . . . I write therefore just for friends who are scattered about in the corners of the world.2

The spirit of 20th-century European and American civilization was “alien and unsuited” to Wittgenstein (1977, 20). Those who live and think in tune with that spirit were and are not the audience addressed by his book. Wittgenstein has a clear conception of those for whom he is not writing: Whether I am understood or valued by the typical Western scholar does not concern me, since he does not understand the spirit in which I write.3

The author hardly assumed that the “typical Western scholar” was an ignoramus, or a person of low intelligence. Education and intel­ ligence are not the criteria according to which he makes this sharp 1 Translation from the German by A. N. Michelini. A German version is forth­ coming in the Zeitschrift für philosophische Forschung. 2 1977, 20–21: “Dieses Buch ist für diejenigen geschrieben, die dem Geist, in dem es geschrieben ist, freundlich gegenüberstehen. Dieser Geist ist, glaube ich, ein anderer als der des großen Stromes der europäischen und amerikanischen Zivilisa­ tion. [ ] Ich schreibe also eigentlich für Freunde, welche in Winkeln der Welt verstreut sind.” 3 1977, 21–22: “Ob ich von dem typischen westlichen Wissenschaftler verstanden oder geschätzt werde, ist mir gleichgültig, weil er den Geist, in dem ich schreibe, doch nicht versteht.”

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division between the (many) alien to his spirit and the (few) “friends” that he wishes to reach. Wittgenstein does not seem to know (all) these “friends,” given that they are “scattered about in the corners of the world.” The question therefore arises as to how one reaches these unknown “friends” and avoids the undesirable sympathizers with the spirit of Western civilization. Wittgenstein in fact has a clear conception of the means: If a book is written only for a few, this in itself indicates that only a few understand it. The book must automatically create a division be­ tween those who understand it and those who do not understand it . . . It makes no sense to say to somebody something that he does not understand, not even when one adds that he cannot understand it . . . If you want certain people not to enter a room, you must put on the door a lock to which they have no key. But it is senseless to speak of this to them, unless your aim is to make them admire the room from outside! It is more decent to attach to the door a lock that is noticed only by those who can open it, and not by the others.4

It is clear that, for Wittgenstein, the desire to exclude certain read­ ers is legitimate. He does not suggest that the author’s desire for exclusiveness for himself and his “friends” would be in some way unphilosophical or even unethical. It would indeed be senseless to say to an uncomprehending person “something that he does not understand.” Rather than voice misgivings over the intended exclu­ sion, Wittgenstein actually suggests a means by which the exclusion can be attained. He believes in the possibility of distinguishing between “friends” and alien spirits automatically, by means of the book itself. Changing from concrete to metaphorical terms, Wittgenstein advises the attaching of a “lock,” visible to one group and not to the other.

4

1977, 23: “. . . ist ein Buch nur für wenige geschrieben, so wird sich das eben dadurch zeigen, daß nur wenige es verstehen. Das Buch muß automatisch die Scheidung derer bewirken, die es verstehen, und die es nicht verstehen . . . Es hat keinen Sinn jemandem etwas zu sagen, was er nicht versteht, auch wenn man hinzusetzt, daß er es nicht verstehen kann . . . Willst Du nicht, daß gewisse Menschen in ein Zimmer gehen, so hänge ein Schloß vor, wozu sie keinen Schlüssel haben. Aber es ist sinnlos, darüber mit ihnen zu reden, außer Du willst doch, daß sie das Zimmer von außen bewundern! Anständigerweise, hänge ein Schloß vor die Türe, das nur denen auffällt, die es öffnen können, und den andern nicht.”

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By his choice of means for excluding those who lack understand­ ing Wittgenstein cannot refer to the characteristics of style that, since they are inherent in the form of his thought, mark an author’s writ­ ing without his conscious intent. The command to “attach a lock to the door” instead indicates that some conscious act must be per­ formed, especially since quite precise requirements are assigned to the “lock.” And the command must not refer to things that occur without effort, but to things that might otherwise remain undone. With his metaphor of the “lock” on the “door” of a “room,” Wittgenstein requires of the philosophical author that he accomplish his ( justified) desire to exclude certain readers through the conscious use of unspecified compositional techniques. Even though the exclusion of the alien reader is for Wittgenstein morally correct, the reasons for the exclusion are still subject to moral evaluation: it would be more “decent” (anständig) for the author to apply a “lock” that those locked out cannot discern. Wittgenstein refers to “decency” because he clearly believes that the only reason for speaking to the excluded about the “lock” (and what is locked up) would be a desire for admiration. The call for about “decent” silence over the fact of exclusion is therefore meant to avoid the danger of the moral error of vanity. It should be clear that, if there could be other, respectable reasons for speaking about the lock, Wittgenstein’s judgment that such speech is “indecent” would be immaterial. The attitude described above with reference to Wittgenstein will be referred to below as “esoteric.” It is defined by the following characteristics: — the conviction that certain insights can be grasped only by cer­ tain people, those dedicated to the same spirit as the author and thus valued as “friends” — the desire to exclude recipients other than the “friends” — the belief that the author has at his disposal ways and means of accomplishing this — the demand that the motivation for excluding certain recipi­ ents should be morally “decent.” If one were to have a different understanding of the various points that determine this attitude, that would result in a different form of esotericism. If one were to view them in a radically different way from Wittgenstein, that would lead to a different evaluation, and possibly to a complete rejection of esotericism.

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   2. Kant

Wittgenstein’s conception of esotericism is free from political overtones.5 This is not automatically the case: Immanuel Kant’s late work, “On a Newly Arisen Superior Tone in Philosophy,”6 shows that it has always been tempting to see philosophical esotericism in a political context. At the very beginning of the piece, Kant men­ tions the “Masons of former and recent times” as groups through which “the name of philosophy has come into demand.” These secret societies are “jealously” unwilling to reveal their secrets.7 In further development of his rejection of mystification (Schwärmerei ) in philos­ ophy, Kant directs a polemic against “Plato the letter writer,” whom he is, however, “unwilling to confuse” with “Plato the Academic”— an indication that he did not consider the Seventh Letter authentic. (1993, 62–63) Kant cites a contemporary explication of the passage (342a–e) in which the four means of knowing that are eventually to lead to Being (t«n ˆntvn ßkaston) are listed. He then mentions, con­ tinuing to cite the text, the claim to grasp conceptually “the object itself and its true being,” that is, what the Letter refers to as “the Fifth” (tÚ p°mpton, 343d2, e2). The last part of the citation and Kant’s commentary read as follows: “One can nevertheless not speak [of this essence,] at least not to the people; for one would immediately be convicted of ignorance; since every attempt of that kind would already be dangerous, partly because of the crude contempt to which these higher truths are exposed, partly <which is here only reasonable> because the soul may be strained into empty hopes and into vain delusions of knowing great secrets.” [Seventh Letter, 341e1–342a1] Who does not see here the mystagogue—the one who does not merely rave on his own but at the same time is a cultist; and, when he speaks to his disciples, in contrast to the people (among whom all uninitiated are to be counted), acts superior with his supposed philosophy!8

5 Aside, that is, from his remark (1977, 20) that the unsympathetic spirit of European and American civilization also includes “the Fascism and Socialism of our times.” But these phenomena of the 20th century have no direct connection to Wittgenstein’s problem of the division (Scheidung) between friends and outsiders. 6 Kant 1993; cf. German edition, 1912, 389–406. 7 1993, 51 = 1912, 389: “Der Name der Philosophie ist . . . in Nachfrage gekom­ men . . . Die Logen alter und neuer Zeiten sind Adepten eines Geheimnisses durch Tradition, von welchem sie uns mißgünstigerweise nichts aussagen wollen (philoso­ phus per initiationem).” 8 1993, 63 = 1912, 398. The words in brackets in the Plato quotation are an

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Kant’s words clearly indicate what seems wrong to him: “jealously,” the “Masons” hide their “secret” from us. The “mystagogue” at the same time is a “cultist”: he has political views and a conspiratorial mindset that allows him to dismiss the general public as “uniniti­ ated,” so that addressing this public is for him out of the question. Instead, he turns to his “initiates,” but only in order to “act superior with his supposed philosophy.” The attitude that Kant ascribes to the Seventh Letter is therefore, in modern language, an undemocratic one, hostile to enlightenment and averse to hard intellectual work. Kant does not analyze the Letter itself. He does not ask, for instance, what distinguishes the “initiates” (who correspond to Wittgenstein’s “friends”) from the “public,” whether the distinction is based only upon education and intelligence, or whether something else might be in question. Kant quickly disposes of the motivation for philo­ sophical reticence: jealousy and a conceit of superiority (vornehm tun) explain everything. Given such a brief exegesis—or rather, given such a lack of exegesis—it is not surprising that the attitude of the Letter is rejected wholesale; and, given the rejection, the text must be denied authenticity, since for Kant it is without any fault of his own that Plato has become “the father of all mystification in phi­ losophy.” (1993, 62) A great thinker simply cannot be a “cultist.” Kant’s rejection of the attitude of the Seventh Letter, even before this attitude has been compared to that of the dialogues, and the athetesis of the text that results from this rejection, anticipated later prejudices. But whether “cultishness” is an appropriate characteri­ zation of the author of the Seventh Letter must remain an open ques­ tion, given that Kant’s negative judgment was not supported by an analysis of the original text.

3. Schleiermacher In contrast, Friedrich Schleiermacher’s views on Platonic esotericism appear, at least at first glance, to be entirely without political over­ tones. But this first impression may be deceiving: it is possible that addition by Kant (“was hier das einzige Vernünftige ist”). Kant continues, “Wer sieht hier nicht den Mystagogen, der nicht bloß für sich schwärmt, sondern zu­ gleich Klubbist ist und, indem er zu seinen Adepten, im Gegensatz von dem Volke (worunter alle Uneingeweihete verstanden werden) spricht, mit seiner vorgeblichen Philosophie vornehm tut!”

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Schleiermacher has modestly concealed his political prejudices—or may they (qua prejudices) have been entirely unconscious? It is strik­ ing that Schleiermacher’s image of Plato corresponds throughout with the implicit program of Kant’s critique of the Seventh Letter. “Plato the letter writer” has caused dismay. Schleiermacher ignores the Seventh Letter : a damnatio memoriae is exercised against the so-called “cultist,” whom Kant did not want to confuse with “Plato the academic.” What was objectionable about the “cultist” was his unwill­ ingness to speak to the public: Schleiermacher creates a hermeneu­ tic of the dialogues according to which Plato “succeeds” in reaching his goal of communication, “almost with everyone.” (1973, 18) Whether it was Kant’s essay of 1796 that directly influenced Schleiermacher, or simply the general spirit of European culture around 1800 (which was evidently not so “alien and unsympathetic” to Schleiermacher as the spirit of the 20th century was to Wittgenstein), may be left open. It is, however, unmistakable that Schleiermacher offers a mod­ ern Plato, with whom the sensitive romantic person informed by the French revolution could easily identify.9 Schleiermacher opposed the views of W. G. Tennemann, who, on the basis of a close reading of the texts, had in general correctly interpreted Plato’s self-imposed limitations on writing and his view of the relation between oral and written communication.10 Schleiermacher objects that: These conceptions of exoteric and esoteric demand a critical sifting, in­ asmuch as they appear at different times with quite different meanings.11

Yet this “sifting” does nothing to clarify the conceptions involved: it remains fixed in superficial polemic12 and fails even to reach an accu­ rate reference to the motives proposed by Tennemann for Platonic esotericism.13 What is most curious, however, is that Schleiermacher attempts to cite Aristotle as evidence for the absence of an oral phi­ losophy for Plato, claiming that, where Aristotle refers to sources other than the dialogues, nothing new appears.

9

Nietzsche had pointed out, in a different context, that Schleiermacher had cre­ ated a Plato for his times; see discussion below. 10 See my essay, 1997c, 46–62. 11 1973, 10 = 1855, 11: “Denn jene Vorstellungen von einem esoterischen und exoterischen bedürfen einer kritischen Sichtung, indem sie zu verschiedenen Zeiten auch in ganz verschiedenen Bedeutungen vorkommen.” 12 See my discussion, 1985, 364–70. 13 See Szlezák, 1997c, 58.

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On the contrary, he [Aristotle] appeals in every instance in the most unconstrained and simple manner to the works open to ourselves, and even when, as is now and then the case, other lost writings or per­ haps oral instructions are quoted, these quotations do in no way con­ tain anything unheard of in the writings we possess, or completely different from them.14

In reality, Aristotle, in the Metaphysics, Physics, De Anima and else­ where, offers many important points that are “unheard of ” for the reader of the dialogues, such as Plato’s terms for his two ultimate principles, the One and the unlimited Dyad, in addition to the nature of their interaction (progressive limitation of the unlimited), the prop­ erties of the first products of intelligible “procreation,” not to men­ tion the ontological middle position of mathematical entities, and much more. Anyone who, like Schleiermacher, refuses to recognize the considerable additional information that we owe to these testimonies,15 creates the suspicion either that he is extremely biased or that he perhaps has never read the texts cited by Tennemann. Yet Schleiermacher’s insight into the unity of form and content in Plato is invaluable: For there [i.e. in the philosophy of Plato], if anywhere, form and con­ tent are inseparable, and no proposition is to be rightly understood, except in its own place, and with the combinations and limitations which Plato has assigned to it.16

This statement seems to suggest that Schleiermacher might next intend to work out for the Platonic dialogue, a morphology that would explicate form with reference to content, and that he might display and interpret the “limitations” (Begränzungen) that Plato added to many of his statements and conclusions. Tennemann had made a beginning in this, but Schleiermacher followed his lead only very

14 1973, 12 = 1855, 13: “Vielmehr beruft er [Aristoteles] sich überall ganz unbe­ fangen und einfach auf die uns vorliegenden Schriften, und wo auch hie und da andere verlorene oder vielleicht mündliche Belehrungen angeführt werden, da enthal­ ten diese Anführungen keineswegs etwas in unseren Schriften unerhörtes oder gänz­ lich von ihnen abweichendes.” 15 These are collected by Gaiser, 1968, 441–557. 16 1973, 14 = 1855, 14: “denn wenn irgendwo, so ist in ihr [Philosophie des Platon] Form und Inhalt unzertrennlich, und jeder Saz nur an seinem Orte und in den Verbindungen und Begränzungen, wie ihn Platon aufgestellt hat, recht zu verstehen.”

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hesitantly.17 In any case, he did not recognize that the “gaps” that Plato repeatedly and deliberately set at decisive turning points in his works are the most important example of Platonic “limitation” and that these places as a whole constitute an unmistakable reference to Plato’s doctrinal first principles.18 Instead of a morphology of the dialogues, Schleiermacher presents only a list of the “arts” of indirect communication, i.e. the com­ positional means by which Plato pursues his intention to bring the reader to conclusions that he deliberately does not express openly.19 This failure to state appropriate conclusions has the aim of inspir­ ing the reader to “an inward and self-originated creation of the thought in view.” (1973, 17) This objective is in fact nothing other than that of oral philosophizing, and Schleiermacher is aware of this. He openly states that, in his view, Plato wanted “to bring the still ignorant reader to a state of knowledge”—although Plato unam­ biguously denies this ability to written text in Phaedrus (275ab, 276c, 277e–278a)—and that it was Plato’s intent to make written instruc­ tion equivalent to spoken: So, notwithstanding these complaints, since Plato wrote so much from the period of his early manhood to that of his most advanced age, it is clear that he must have endeavored to make written instruction as like as possible to that better kind, and he must also have succeeded in that attempt.20

Schleiermacher’s assumed equivalence between written dialogue and oral philosophizing is derived from the above-mentioned “arts” or artistic techniques: These are by and large the arts by which Plato succeeds with almost everyone in either attaining to what he wishes, or, at least, avoiding what he fears.21

17

See Szlezák, 1997c, 58. On the “gaps” (Aussparungsstellen), see Szlezák, 1985, 303–345 and passim; and cf. 1999, 66–75. 19 Twice in his “Introduction,” Schleiermacher enumerates these “arts,” 1855, 15, 30. 20 1973, 16 = 1855, 15: “Da nun ungeachtet dieser Klagen Platon von der ersten Männlichkeit an bis in das späteste Alter so vieles geschrieben hat: so ist offenbar, er muss gesucht haben, auch die schriftliche Belehrung jener besseren so ähnlich zu machen als möglich, und es muss ihm damit auch gelungen sein.” 21 1973, 18 = 1855, 16. (German for this and the following citation appears in Note 23, below.) 18

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But, because the “arts” clearly do not arouse full insight in all, they create a division among readers: And thus this would be the only sense in which one could here speak of an esoteric and exoteric, namely as indicating only a state of the reader’s mind, according as he elevates himself or not to the condi­ tion of one truly sensible of the inward spirit . . . (1973, 18)

One notes that Schleiermacher has not succeeded in banishing from Platonic texts the esotericism that he so deplored. Instead, he has internalized it, installing it in the process of reception, making it a “property” (Beschaffenheit) of the reader. In the place of the Platonic intentional and personal selection of the suitable interlocutor22—a selection that, according to Plato, the book is specifically unable to achieve—Schleiermacher, in a typical modern spirit, substitutes pre­ cisely the automatic division of Wittgenstein, by which the book itself separates its readers into two classes. Schleiermacher’s position thus can correctly be described only as a “text-immanent” or “hermeneutic” esotericism. He does not ques­ tion “personal esotericism,” i.e. the direct and full communication of philosophical insights solely in oral speech: . . . Or, if it [i.e. the notion of the “esoteric”] is to be ascribed after all to Plato himself, one can only say that his immediate teaching alone was his esoteric activity (Handeln), whereas writing was only his exo­ teric activity. For in the former, certainly, after he was first sufficiently assured that his hearers had followed him as he desired, he could express his thoughts purely and completely . . .23

Thus, for Schleiermacher, “hermeneutic” and “personal” esoteri­ cism coexist, as it seems, peacefully together. But the “automatic”

22

Phaedrus 276e5–7: ˜tan tiw tª dialektikª t°xn˙ xr≈menow, lab∆n cuxØn prosÆkousan, futeÊ˙ te ka‹ spe¤r˙ metÉ §pistÆmhw lÒgouw. 23 1973, 18 = 1855, 16–17 (a connected passage): “Dieses ungefähr sind die Künste, durch welche es dem Platon fast mit Jedem gelingt, entweder das zu er­ reichen, was er wünscht, oder wenigstens das zu vermeiden, was er fürchtet. Und so wäre dieses die einzige Bedeutung, in welcher man hier von einem esoterischen und exoterischen reden könnte, so nämlich, dass dieses nur eine Beschaffenheit des Lesers anzeigte, je nachdem er sich zu einem wahren Hörer des Inneren erhebt oder nicht; oder soll es doch auf den Platon selbst bezogen werden, so kann man nur sagen, das unmittelbare Lehren sei allein sein esoterisches Handeln gewesen, das Schreiben aber nur sein exoterisches. Denn bei jenem konnte er allerdings, wenn er erst hinlänglich gewiss war, die Hörer seien ihm nach Wunsch gefolgt, auch seine Gedanken rein und vollständig aussprechen . . .”

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selection—never intended by Plato—of the appropriate recipient through writing tends to make “personal” esotericism superfluous. The assumption is that all, and specifically the most important, con­ cepts, by way of indirect communication, can be read between the lines. The result is a victory for the typical modern distaste for any limitation on philosophical communication.

4. Nietzsche Schleiermacher’s “text-immanent” esotericism became the dominant form of Platonic interpretation of the 19th and 20th centuries. Among anglophone scholars, it was particularly powerful, and it formed the basis for all the variations of Platonic exegesis, even though many interpreters are unaware of or are unwilling to acknowledge the his­ torical origin of their views.24 The single genuine alternative to this position, up to the present time, is that of the so-called “Tübingen school” (or “Tübingen-Milan School”), founded by Hans Joachim Krämer in his Arete bei Platon und Aristoteles (1959), continued by Konrad Gaiser in Platons ungeschriebene Lehre (1968 [1963]), and sup­ ported by G. Reale (1996 [1986]). Italy, however, has for some time not been the only area in which acceptance of this direction in research has been growing rapidly. Before Krämer’s advances, the most important opposition to the Schleiermacher-derived mainstream had been the positive evaluation of Aristotelian evidence for Plato’s unwritten philosophy, by interpreters such as L. Robin (1908), J. Stenzel (1924), H. Gomperz (1931), P. Wilpert (1949), C. J. de Vogel (1970), and D. Ross (1951). But long before these scholars, a philosopher and philologist of high standing had directed a radical critique at Schleiermacher’s Platonic hermeneutic. That Nietzsche’s arguments have remained almost unknown is not surprising: his lectures on Plato, delivered between 1871 and 1876, were first published only in 1913 with his philological works. They have since remained as good as unnoticed, to the detriment of our understanding of Plato.

24 I have collected (countering D. Frede [1995, 31], who wishes to downplay this influence) a few preliminary pieces of evidence of the enduring influence of Schleiermacher on American and English Platonic scholarship, 1997c, 61–62.

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With his usual relentlessness, Nietzsche points to the emperor’s new clothes: Schleiermacher’s “modern” Plato belongs to the 19th century, and is “possible only in a literary age.” It was a false inter­ pretation that led to this assessment; Schleiermacher mistook the role that Plato intended for writing, because he did not think of the exis­ tence of the Academy. The whole hypothesis [of Schleiermacher] stands in contradiction to the explanation in Phaedrus and is based on a false interpretation. Plato said that writings have their meaning only as an aide-mémoire for the knowledgeable. For this reason, the most perfect writing should imi­ tate the oral form of teaching, in order to recall for the knowledge­ able the way in which they acquired their knowledge. Writing should be “a treasury of aids to the memory for himself and his philosophi­ cal companions.” According to Schleiermacher, writing should be the second-best means of bringing the ignorant to knowledge. The whole corpus would then have a single common goal in teaching and educa­ tion. But, according to Plato, writing in no way functions to teach or educate, but only to remind those already educated and instructed. The meaning of the Phaedrus passage assumes the existence of the Academy; the writings are an aide-mémoire for the members of the Academy . . . Schleiermacher’s hypothesis is possible only in a literary era. While Tennemann recognizes in Plato the academic professor with a system, Schleiermacher sees in him the literary teacher, who has an ideal pub­ lic of readers and intends to educate them systematically, much as he addressed himself to an educated public in his Lectures on Religion.25

25 Translation by Michelini. Cf. 1913, 239–41: “ Die ganze Hypothese (sc. Schleiermachers) steht im Widerspruch zu der Erklärung im Phädrus und ist durch eine falsche Interpretation befürwortet. Plato sagt, nur für den Wissenden als Erinnerungsmittel habe die Schrift ihre Bedeutung. Deshalb solle die vollkommen­ ste Schrift die mündliche Form der Belehrung nachahmen: um also zu erinnern, wie der Wissende wissend geworden ist. «Ein Schatz von Erinnerungsmitteln für sich und seine philosophischen Genossen» soll die Schrift sein. Nach Schleiermacher soll sie das zweitbeste Mittel, den nicht Wissenden zum Wissen zu bringen, sein. Die Totalität habe also einen eigenen gemeinsamen Lehr- und Erziehungszweck. Aber nach Plato hat die Schrift überhaupt nicht einen Lehr- und Erziehungszweck, sondern nur einen Erinnerungszweck für den bereits Erzogenen und Belehrten. Die Erklärung der Phädrusstelle setzt die Existenz der Akademie voraus, die Schriften sind Erinnerungsmittel für die Mitglieder der Akademie. [. . .] Die Hypothese Schleiermachers ist nur in einem litterarischen Zeitalter möglich. Während Tennemann in Plato den akademischen Professor mit dem System erkennt, sieht Schleiermacher in ihm den litterarischen Lehrer, der ein ideales Publikum von Lesenden hat und diese methodisch erziehen will: etwa wie er sich in den Reden über die Religion an die Gebildeten wendet.”

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Nietzsche, a clear-sighted critic, does not fail to note that Schleier­ macher has made Plato into someone like himself, because he thinks unhistorically and in particular does not take account of the “exis­ tence of the Academy,” that is, of the historical reality of oral instruc­ tion. Completely a philologist, Nietzsche puts his finger on the weak point in Schleiermacher’s conception: the function that he assumes for writing, “to bring the unknowing to knowledge,” is “in contra­ diction” with the text. Without this assumption, the text-immanent conception of esotericism would have had no chance to replace Platonic “personal” esotericism in the consciousness of the exegetes. One might venture to say that, had arguments like Nietzsche’s been made public soon after the appearance of Schleiermacher’s Introduction, they would have hindered the triumphal progress of schleiermacher’s views.

5. Hegel Yet, in Schleiermacher’s lifetime, he received support from one of the most prominent philosophers of the time. Hegel began his attack on Tennemann by describing his concept of esotericism as simplis­ tic and superficial (einfältig . . . oberflächlich). Another difficulty would be this: to distinguish between esoteric and exoteric philosophy. Tennemann says: “Plato exercised the right, which is conceded to every thinker, of communicating only so much of his discoveries as he thought good, and of so doing only to those whom he credited with capacity to receive it. Aristotle, too, had an esoteric and an exoteric philosophy, but with this difference, that in his case the distinction was merely formal, while with Plato it was also mate­ rial.” [1799, 220] How simplistic! This would make it appear as if the philosopher kept possession of his thoughts in the same way as of his external goods: the philosophic Idea is, however, something utterly different, and instead of being possessed by, it possesses a man. When philosophers discourse on philosophic subjects, they of necessity follow the course of their ideas; they cannot keep them in their pockets; even if one does speak to some people outwardly (äusserlich), if the words have any meaning at all, they must contain the idea. It is easy enough to hand over an external possession, but the communication of ideas requires a certain skill; it is always something esoteric. Thus, of philoso­ phers we cannot possess only the exoteric. These are superficial notions.26 26

1983, 11–12. (Translation of this segment is based on this edition, originally

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It is strange to note that an author who lived in a time of censor­ ship would exclude on principle the notion that philosophers could “keep in their pockets.” One gets the impression that Hegel’s own metaphor of the “pocket,” a spatial metaphor, has impeded his thought: what could be the meaning of associating the “communi­ cating of ideas” (“Mitteilung der Idee”) with the “handing over of an external possession,” instead of the communication, for instance, of religious or political conspiratorial knowledge? That such com­ munication includes and must include the possibility of keeping some­ thing back, was certainly uncontroversial for Hegel. But, if those subjected to religious or political persecution are able to give delib­ erately incomplete accounts of their beliefs and objectives, why can­ not the philosopher do the same? Is the religious person to a lesser degree possessed by his ideas than the philosopher? Hegel’s dismissal of Tennemann’s concepts as “superficial” does not itself seem espe­ cially profound. The esotericism that Schleiermacher described as a “property of the reader,” is formulated by Hegel as follows: The esoteric is the speculative, which, even though written and printed, is yet, without being any secret, hidden from those who have not sufficient interest in it to exert themselves.27

The distinction between the competent and the ignorant recipient is here collapsed into the willingness or lack thereof to “exert oneself ” published in 1894. Passages not cited in this translation have been translated by Michelini.) 1971, 21–22: “Eine andere Schwierigkeit soll die sein: man unterschei­ det exoterische und esoterische Philosophie. Tennemann sagt (Bd. II, S. 220): ‘Platon bediente sich desselben Rechts, welches jedem Denker zusteht, von seinen Entdeckungen nur so viel, als er für gut fand, und denen mitzuteilen, welchen er Empfänglichkeit zutraute. Auch Aristoteles hatte eine esoterische und exoterische Philosophie, nur mit dem Unterschiede, daß bei diesem der Unterschied bloß formal, bei Platon hingegen auch zugleich material war.’ Wie einfältig! Das sieht aus, als sei der Philosoph im Besitz seiner Gedanken wie der äußerlichen Dinge. Die Gedanken sind aber ganz etwas anderes. Die philosophische Idee besitzt umgekehrt den Menschen. Wenn Philosophen sich über philosophische Gegenstände explizieren, so müssen sie sich nach ihren Ideen richten; sie können sie nicht in der Tasche behalten. Spricht man auch mit einigen äußerlich, so ist die Idee immer darin enthalten, wenn die Sache nur Inhalt hat. Zur Mitteilung, Übergabe einer äußerlichen Sache gehört nicht viel, aber zur Mitteilung der Idee gehört Geschicklichkeit. Sie bleibt immer etwas Esoterisches; man hat also nicht bloß das Exoterische der Philosophen. Das sind oberflächliche Vorstellungen.” 27 1983, 68 = 1971, 76–77: “Das Esoterische ist das Spekulative, das geschrieben und gedruckt ist und doch ein Verborgenes bleibt für die, die nicht das Interesse haben, sich anzustrengen.”

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(sich anzustrengen). Perhaps we may extrapolate from Hegel’s remarks that he means that effort and intelligence prepare one to grasp the “speculative.” But, if something more, and more particular, were required for the understanding of the speculative, Hegel should have stated it here. While, according to Schleiermacher, Plato reaches his goal with “almost everybody,” according to Hegel, one succeeds with anyone who possesses (intelligence and) diligence. Wittgenstein, by contrast, assigns more specific requirements for his “friends.” In contrast with Schleiermacher, Hegel does not consider the dia­ logue form of composition as ideal.28 His assertion that, “in his oral discourse he [Plato] proceeded also in a systematic way,”29 matches Schleiermacher’s conviction that Plato was in his oral teaching able to “express his thought in pure and complete form” (1973, 18). Hegel even goes a step farther, in that he ascribes to Plato himself com­ positions that were written in a systematic or “dogmatic” mode. In his hands, the illustrative example of the Lysis supplies formidable support for the view that the literary details, as well as the dramatic movement of a dialogue, are strongly relevant to the argumentation advanced by the characters within it.

In his polemic against Tennemann, Hegel makes the surprising admis­ sion that, “ even if one does speak to some people outwardly (äusser­ lich), if the words have any meaning at all, they must contain (enthalten) the idea.” There are, therefore, different types of speech after all, even for philosophers. One cannot resist asking further, who are the “some people” to whom Hegel could have spoken “outwardly”? What did this “outward speech” look like, and, above all, in what way was the idea still contained in it? Hegel not only omitted an explanation of his own case, he also failed to put these questions to Plato, whose attitude he wanted to make clear. This last at least we may attempt to retrieve; and here something truly amazing appears. In reality, Plato in the dramatic mimesis of his dialogues shows us the philoso­ pher time and again occupied in “speaking with some people out­ wardly (äusserlich)” and that in various ways. Hegel is to this extent right: the “idea” is indeed always contained in Plato’s discourse. But

28

See Szlezák, 1999b, 208–220, esp. 213. “In seinen mündlichen Reden verfuhr er auch systematisch,” 1971, 69; cf. 1983, 56. 29

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at this point the interesting question arises as to how and to what extent it is “contained.” When Socrates leads his interlocutor in a circle, although a solu­ tion lies readily at hand,30 then he evidently speaks with him “out­ wardly,” that is, he fails to make clear the inner kernel of the matter. For, that the aporiai of the early dialogues are no aporiai for the leader of the discussion, is a well-grounded and generally accepted view. Socrates in Republic explains that, although he does have a view on the essence (the t¤ §stin) of the Good, it would not be useful to pre­ sent it here and now, so that instead he wishes to present only an analogy for it (506e–f ), an analogy that must necessarily omit a great deal (509c5–10). In this case too, he is clearly speaking “outwardly,” without failing to make it clear that he could deal with this theme in a different manner. When the discussion leader in Laws, the anony­ mous “Athenian,” speaks to his uneducated Dorian friends in such a vague fashion about the political education of the future ruler that one might even doubt whether Plato still “defends” the theory of Ideas,31 the reason for this reticence is that even the last Platonic dialectician deliberately speaks about many things only “outwardly.” The dialogue Euthydemus is particularly enlightening: Socrates scat­ ters various fragments of teachings about recollection and the Ideas, as well as dialectical theory, fragments that cannot be understood from the course of the dialogue, while at the same time Socrates accuses his philosophically inept interlocutors of having at hand exten­ sive insights that they are stingily unwilling to bring out. The irony lies in the fact that Socrates accuses his interlocutors of what he himself is doing.32 In all these cases, the specifically Platonic content, the main idea, is kept in the “outward” mode of speaking by the current leader of the discussion, in such a way that it can be understood only by one who knows the other (Platonic) sources. In no case would it be pos­ sible to reconstruct what is intended from the words of the given passage. Schleiermacher’s text-immanent esotericism fails here, since these passages aim only to evoke reminiscence, not to bring the unknowledgeable to knowledge.

30 31 32

Euthyphro, 11b–c, 15b. See Szlezák, 1985, 112ff., 186f.

965c–d. On discussion of the Ideas in this dialogue, see Guthrie, 1978, 378–81.

See Szlezák, 1985, 49–65.

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Starting from Hegel’s remarks about “outward” speech, we have come to the very result that was denied by Hegel: the Platonic dialec­ tician can keep his ideas “in his pocket” very well indeed. He does it often, at the same time making it clear that this is what he is doing. This in fact is the significance of the “gaps” that Schleiermacher only half understood and that Hegel did not notice.33 This result is admittedly not surprising for those who are not ready to disregard certain features in Plato’s picture of philosophers and philosophical communication, simply because these features had become alien to the modern period and thus had been ignored or trivialized by the majority of interpreters. The following points are relevant to our theme: 1. The qualities that Plato requires from the philosophos include not only intellectual but also above all moral distinction (Republic 485b– 487a). Philosophy is a way of life and thus not ethically neutral, as is top performance in specialized academic disciplines. Philosophy requires a “turning around” of the whole soul (Republic 518c–d, 521c6). 2. Only the one who is inwardly “related to the matter” can reach understanding of the Forms.34 To win such knowledge takes up much time (metå xrÒnou polloË, 344b3),35 and the dawning of knowledge must be preceded by questioning “without resentment” and “kindly” refutation (Ep. 7, 344b5–6): the humane atmosphere is decisive for success. The partner in philosophical discourse must contribute his good will and be philos, a friend (Gorgias 487a3, e5). 3. Consequently, there are people whom the matter of philosophy “does not fit”.36 Since these represent the majority,37 the dialec­ tician must himself seek out the rare “suitable souls” and bring them into his discourse (˜tan tiw tª dialektikª t°xn˙ xr≈menow, lab∆n cuxØn prosÆkousan, Phaedrus 276e6).

33 On Schleiermacher’s and Hegel’s failure to treat these passages, see Szlezák 1997c, 58 and 1999b, 211f. 34 Seventh Letter 344a2–3: •n‹ d¢ lÒgƒ, tÚn mØ suggen∞ toË prãgmatow oÎtÉ ín eÈmãyeia poiÆsei°n pote oÎte mnÆmh—tØn érxØn går §n éllotr¤aiw ¶jesin oÈk §gg¤gnetai—Àste

ıpÒsoi t«n dika¤vn te ka‹ t«n êllvn ˜sa kalå mØ prosfue›w efisin ka‹ suggene›w. 35

Cf. the chronological sequence of philosophical studies, Republic 537bff.

36

oÈd¢n prosÆkei, Phaedrus 275e2. For the context, see Note 39, below.

37

See Republic 494a4 and above; Seventh Letter 343e3.

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4. Writing is not suited to “teach the truth adequately” (flkan«w télhy∞ didãjai, Phaedrus 276c9), since it can give no new answers to new questions, cannot defend itself against attack, and has not the understanding to speak and to be silent with those for whom silence or speech is appropriate.38 5. The philosopher will treat the highest objects of his knowledge, since they are divine in nature (Republic 500c9), with reverence (s°besyai); to profane them (§kbãllein) would be a grievous error (Seventh Letter 344d7–8). 6. The result of the above is that the philosopher will, if need be—that is, when the recipient lacks aptitude—keep silent. He, in contrast to the written text, is able to do this (§pistÆmvn l°gein te ka‹ sigçn prÚw oÓw de›, Phaedrus 276a6–7). 7. Even for suitable subjects, the required lengthy period of preparation cannot be skipped: this is demonstrated by the chronological plan for the education of philosophers in the Republic, which fore­ sees a long series of phases of education and testing before they can ascend to the peak of dialectic. There are things that, if shared too early, would reveal nothing of their meaning and that therefore should not be shared. Plato calls them aprorrhêta.39 This word is the true Platonic term for something esoteric that the philosopher will not put into writing, since writing simply cannot provide the necessary preparation: that preparation can only be provided by philosophical discourse. The two errors of modern opposition to esotericism are now evi­ dent: with Schleiermacher, some have believed that writing has the function and the ability to produce original insight, while according to Plato it should only remind of what is already known. In addi­ tion, some have thought that fitness for philosophy is solely a ques­ tion of intellectual achievement (cf. Hegel, above), but this assumption ignores Plato’s conception of philosophy as a way of life. 38 Phaedrus 275d4–e5: DeinÚn gãr pou, Œ Fa›dre, toËtÉ ®xei grafÆ, ka‹ …w élhy«w ˜moion zvgraf¤&. ka‹ går tå §ke¤nhw ¶kgona ßsthke m¢n …w z«nta, §ån dÉ én°r˙ ti, Ü w ti fronoËntaw aÈtoÁw semn«w pãnu sigò. taÈtÚn d¢ ka‹ ofl lÒgoi: dÒjaiw m¢n ín v l°gein, §ån d° ti ¶r˙ t«n legom°nvn boulÒmenow maye›n, ßn ti shma¤nei mÒnon taÈtÚn ée¤. ˜tan d¢ ëpaj grafª, kulinde›tai m¢n pantaxoË pçw lÒgow ımo¤vw parå to›w §pa˝ousin, …w dÉ aÎtvw parÉ oÂw oÈd¢n prosÆkei, ka‹ oÈk §p¤statai l°gein oÂw de› ge ka‹ mÆ. plhmmeloÊmenow d¢ ka‹ oÈk §n d¤k˙ loidorhye‹w toË patrÚw ée‹ de›tai bohyoË: aÈtÚw går oÎtÉ émÊnasyai oÎte bohy∞sai dunatÚw aÍt“. Cf. 276a6–7. 39 Laws 968e2–5: oÏtv dØ pãnta tå per‹ taËta épÒrrhta m¢n lexy°nta oÈk ín Ùry«w l°goito, éprÒrrhta d¢ diå tÚ mhd¢n prorrhy°nta dhloËn t«n legom°nvn.

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The two errors are connected: if, accepting Schleiermacher’s textimmanent esotericism, I assume a hermeneutic that sees as decisive the capacity of intelligent reading to supply what is not directly expressed, then I assume that any intelligent person is philosophi­ cally suitable, and have thus written off Platonic esotericism, which rests upon the personal selection (§klogÆ) of intellectually and morally suitable individuals and upon their personal instruction (didaxÆ). If one then, as Schleiermacher does, goes on to pay the merest lip ser­ vice to this esotericism, it makes no difference. If everything can be put into writing, even if only through the form of indirect commu­ nication, then there can be no more true aprorrhêta. Plato was as “alien and unsympathetic” to the spirit of the 4th century B.C.E. as Wittgenstein to that of the 20th. He too wrote for “friends,” for he too recognized that the essential insights required more than mere intelligence. But, unlike Wittgenstein (and Schleier­ macher), he did not believe in the “automatic” selection of readers through the book itself.40 And, unlike Hegel, he considered it possi­ ble to “hold back” ideas, and considered silence in some circum­ stances as obligatory. The fact that in the “gaps” Plato clearly states that there are more and more difficult things in philosophy—that he loudly proclaims the existence of a “lock on the door of a room” that the unprepared may not enter—this does not offend against Wittgenstein’s “decency,” since Plato does not speak so “outwardly” of his theory of first principles because he wishes to be admired, and not because he is “cultish”, but, first, out of respect for the matter itself and, second, because, just as Wittgenstein himself put it, “it makes no sense to say something to somebody that he does not understand.” At the same time, he intends that these “outward” ref­ erences to the innermost reaches of his philosophy should have a recruiting (protreptic) function. The search for the “suitable soul” thus became for him a prime task: the dialogues depict this in ever new variations. The suitable subjects are to be led through lengthy association (sunous¤a), through “living together” (suz∞n), to the goal of dialectic. The theory of the

40 If writing could achieve this, then it would also “be able to adequately teach the truth” (Phaedrus 276c9). But this naïve way of thought belongs to the modern era, not to Plato.

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principles,41 which entails the most prerequisites, requires the longest preparation and is a true aprorrhêton. It is this concern for matters that are not to be prematurely revealed that constitutes the difference between Platonic esotericism and modern anti-esotericism.

41

The object of this knowledge is that which is without preliminaries (Republic 511b6–7: . . . ·na m°xri toË énupoy°tou §p‹ tØn toË pantÚw érxØn fi≈n) Yet Plato never ceases to emphasize the number and difficulty of the preliminaries that must be completed before one reaches this goal.

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SUBTEXT AND SUBTERFUGE IN PLATO’S CRATYLUS Andrea Wilson Nightingale

The Cratylus is a curiously evasive dialogue: purporting to discuss names and, by extension, human speech, the text is often silent when we would most like it to speak. As the discussion probes the nature of language, the dialogue dramatizes the complexity of this issue. Consider the opening scene: Hermogenes tells Socrates that Cratylus refuses to reveal his own position on language, choosing instead to “ironize” (eirôneuetai ). Hermogenes then begs Socrates to “interpret the oracular speech (manteian) of Cratylus” and to share his own ideas on the subject of onomata (384a). Not surprisingly, Socrates refrains from asserting his own views, preferring to discuss and test the ideas of his interlocutors. What is surprising, however, is his willingness to “divine” and explicate the views of Cratylus; strangely, Socrates speaks for Cratylus rather than compelling him to speak for himself. Cratylus, on his part, opts for reticence and evasion, and manages to avoid giving any real explanation of his own position. I want to investi­ gate Cratylus’s peculiar brand of evasion, and to juxtapose it with Socrates’ refusal to state his own position. As I will suggest, each character exhibits a different kind of evasiveness; each occupies a different position as a name-using subject. Let me begin with a passage from Beckett’s novel Watt, which deals directly with many of the problems of language and naming that Plato addresses in the Cratylus. In this hilarious text, an unfor­ tunate man named Watt, after signing on as a servant in the house­ hold of a fellow named Mr. Knott, soon finds that names have come unhinged from their referents: For Watt now found himself in the midst of things which, if they con­ sented to be named, did so as it were with reluctance. And the state in which Watt found himself resisted formulation in a way no state had ever done, in which Watt had ever found himself, and Watt had found himself in a great many states, in his day. Looking at a pot, for example, or thinking of a pot, at one of Mr. Knott’s pots, it was in vain that Watt said ‘Pot, pot’. . . . For it was not a pot, the more he looked, the more he reflected. . . . it was not a pot at all. It

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   resembled a pot, it was almost a pot, but it was not a pot of which one could say, ‘Pot, pot,’ and be comforted. (Watt p. 81)

It is worth noting that Watt never sees or speaks with his master Mr. Knott, who is gradually revealed to be a sort of divine power that functions as a supreme negator. Watt, then, who has entered a world governed by the non-presence of a god named Knott (Not), finds himself in the predicational predicament described above. Interestingly, he soon discovers that this malady has affected not only the relation between words and things but his own identity as a human subject: Then, when [Watt] turned for reassurance to himself. . . . he made the distressing discovery that of himself too he could no longer affirm any­ thing that did not seem as false as if he had affirmed it of a stone. . . . As for himself, though he could no longer call it a man, as he had used to do, with the intuition that he was not talking nonsense, he could not imagine what else to call it, if not a man. (Watt pp. 82–3)

Watt’s predicament resembles that of an individual who subscribes to a radical form of Heracliteanism. For, if one takes this philo­ sophical position to its logical extreme, not only is the physical world characterized by continuous flux, but the human subject is equally lacking in stability or identity. As Socrates says at the end of the Cratylus in a brief discussion of radical Heracliteanism, “if knowledge is always changing, there will always be no knowledge, and by this account there will be neither anything which knows nor anything which is known” (oÎte tÚ gnvsÒmenon oÎte tÚ gnvsyhsÒmenon ín e‡h, 440b). Indeed, he adds, an adherent of this kind of Heracliteanism “condemns both himself and all things” (aÍtoË te ka‹ t«n ˆntvn katagign≈skein) to perpetual flux (440c). It is generally agreed that Cratylus was a radical Heraclitean, and we might expect to find him in a predicament similar to that of Watt. Certainly Cratylus exhibits an impressive reticence in Plato’s dialogue. But does this reticence derive from his commitment to a radically Heraclitean world? Aristotle tells us in an all-too-brief passage in the Metaphysics that Cratylus’s extreme form of Heracliteanism led him to believe that one ought not to speak at all, but rather to point with one’s finger (1010a7–15).1 At Metaphysics 987a32–b1, Aristotle ascribes to Cratylus 1 On the relation between the character in the Cratylus and the historical Cratylus, see Kirk 1951 and Allan 1954. Kirk argues that Aristotle’s references to Cratylus

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the thesis that “all perceptibles are always in flux and there is no knowledge (epistêmê ) of these things.” Proclus observes in his com­ mentary on the Cratylus (#14 Pasquali) that the brachylogia exhib­ ited by Cratylus in this dialogue is a response to the Heraclitean notion that the continuous flux of things precluded truthful predi­ cation. Is Plato’s Cratylus attempting to minimize his use of words in an effort to avoid false predication? Consider Socrates’ descrip­ tion of the Heraclitean discourse in Plato’s Theaetetus: These men are in motion . . . and their ability to remain steady in an argument or to answer and ask questions in turn in a peaceful fash­ ion amounts to less than nothing. Indeed, the phrase “nothing at all” actually exaggerates the presence of even the tiniest bit of repose in these men. But if you ask a question, they pull enigmatic little phrases out of their quivers and shoot these off, and if you seek to get an account of what has been said you will be struck with another novel turn of phrase. You will get nowhere with any of them, nor do they themselves with one another, but they are very careful not to allow anything to be settled either in their discourse or in their souls, believ­ ing, I think, that this would be something stationary. (179e–180b)

These references to the discourse of the “Heracliteans” are instruc­ tive; but they do not, I think, offer a sufficient account of Cratylus’s reticence in Plato’s Cratylus. For, at the same time as he endorses Heracliteanism, Cratylus subscribes to the thesis that all names are naturally correct.2 This latter thesis appears to acknowledge some stability in the nature of things—a relatively stable essence which is revealed by the correct name.3 So far from distrusting names, as Watt did, Cratylus practically divinizes them. Importantly, Cratylus also differs from Watt in assuming that he himself is a stable enough subject to identify and understand the truth. Note in particular are based on a reading of Plato’s dialogue rather than on independent authority. Allan contests this view, arguing that the radical Heraclitean described by Aristotle is at odds with Plato’s Cratylus; Allan resolves this conflict by suggesting that Plato depicts Cratylus as a youth, “before he has begun to reflect that the ‘true names’ must fluctuate together with the flux which they truly depict” (p. 284). Cf. Barney 1998, who claims that Plato’s Cratylus is a “practitioner of strong etymology” (p. 69) and only secondarily a Heraclitean. 2 On sophistic and philosophical theories of language in classical Greece, see Kerferd 1981 ch. 7. 3 This claim has led many scholars to infer that Plato is offering a preliminary version of the theory of Forms (see, e.g., Kahn 1973). Cf. Mackenzie 1986, who argues that this text is an attack on the theory of Forms, and is not a middle but a late dialogue.

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Cratylus’s confidence in the correctness of his own name (383b): he apparently knows himself to be truthfully represented by the name “Cratylus.” Indeed, instead of the playful provisionality that we might expect of a radical Heraclitean, Cratylus exhibits an obstinate dog­ matism about the natural correctness of names. He refuses to bol­ ster his claims by argument, hinting that he is privy to divine mysteries which he cannot divulge or discuss. In short, Cratylus behaves as if he possesses knowledge of the truth about names, thus identifying himself as the knower of a knowable truth. Cratylus’s adherence to this theory of names, then, is at odds with his radical Heracliteanism. His reticence is not merely a response to the problem of predica­ tion in the face of continuous flux. Cratylus, after all, is not only reticent but positively evasive: he appears to be concealing truth rather than acknowledging its impossibility. What is the nature of Cratylus’s evasiveness, and why does he refuse to articulate his views? Note that Cratylus never offers his own account of the “natural correctness of names.” Amazingly, Cratylus speaks only three words (in direct discourse) in the first 65 pages of an 85 page dialogue. It is Hermogenes who states Cratylus’s basic position: Cratylus, he claims, “says that there exists by nature for each real thing a natural correctness of its name” (383a). And Socrates responds, not by forcing Cratylus to explain this view, but by embarking on a sort of word-spree, which includes a lengthy explication of the thesis attributed to Cratylus. It is only after Socrates has set forth Cratylus’s putative thesis that Cratylus himself enters the dialogue. To get Cratylus to open his mouth, as it seems, Socrates must actually speak for him: he must loan a logos to Cratylus if there is to be any discussion at all. Let us turn to the passage where Cratylus first joins the conver­ sation. Since Cratylus’s claims have thus far been put in the mouth of Hermogenes and, subsequently, explicated by Socrates, the reader is eagerly waiting for him to take voice. From a dramatic point of view, one is reminded of the famous “Aeschylean silence,” in which the third actor stays mute until late in the play, when he or she bursts into speech and expresses some powerful insight. When Cratylus finally enters the dialogue, his silence has become palpable and prob­ lematic. What sort of language does he bring onto the scene? This dramatic moment occurs at the end of the etymological dis­ cussion, when Hermogenes, repeating his original claim that Cratylus refuses to speak clearly, challenges him yet again to set forth his own views (427d–e). First, Cratylus simply ignores the challenge, say­

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ing that it is difficult to handle this important topic in a short time (427e). When Socrates presses him, asking whether he will assume the role of teacher, Cratylus refuses, borrowing a phrase from Homer’s Iliad: “it occurs to me,” he tells Socrates, “to say to you what Achilles says to Ajax in the ‘prayer-scene’ (§n Lita›w): ‘Ajax, descendent of Zeus, son of Telamon, leader of your people, you seem to have said all things in accordance with my spirit.’” (428c) Although Cratylus appears to be indicating his agreement with all that Socrates has said, this response is in fact quite riddling. Consider, first of all, the passage in the Iliad conjured by Cratylus in this quote. This occurs at the end of the famous “embassy” in Book 9 (which Cratylus calls “The Prayer Scene”), in which Odysseus, Phoenix, and Ajax attempt to persuade Achilles to accept Agamemnon’s gifts and return to the battle. After Ajax has accused him of being hard-hearted, pitiless, and a poor friend, Achilles speaks the words quoted above. These lines sound quite conciliatory, but they are only the beginning of a speech in which Achilles emphatically rejects Ajax’s plea and nois­ ily reaffirms his anger and contempt. Thus, directly after saying to Ajax, “you seem to have said all things in accordance with my spirit,” Achilles speaks his mind: “but (éllã) my heart swells up in anger. . . .” (9.645–6), he says, and then proceeds to fulminate against Agamem­ non and his gifts. Achilles, then, is hardly registering his agreement with Ajax’s position. In the opening lines, Achilles may be affirming his friendship and respect for Ajax, but he immediately voices his vehement opposition to the proposals and pleas of Ajax and the other men. We may wonder, then, whether Cratylus is really signaling his agreement with Socrates’ utterances when he quotes these lines from Homer. Note, also, that Cratylus actually alters the second Homeric line when he turns to apply it to his own case. For, after quoting Achilles saying to Ajax that “you seem to have spoken in accor­ dance with my spirit” (moi katå yumÚn §e¤sv muyÆsasyai), Cratylus then says to Socrates: “you seem to have uttered oracles in accordance with my mind” (§mo¤ . . . fa¤n˙ katå noËn xrhsmƒde›n, 428c). Socrates’ discourse, then, is identified as oracular speech, which is very different from the famously straight talk of Ajax. If Cratylus is affirming any­ thing here, it is the discourse of divination itself—the utterance of obscure “truths” in an authoritative and, indeed, oracular voice. This seemingly simple utterance, then, is deeply ambiguous. For, first of all, Cratylus refuses to register his agreement in his own words, preferring to borrow a line from Homer which is in fact the

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prelude to an assertion of disagreement. Is Cratylus using this quote in order to slyly signal his rejection of Socrates’ version of correct names? Or is he perhaps setting an even more complex riddle—a riddle to which he alone knows the solution? Both of these inter­ pretations, I think, give Cratylus more credit than he deserves. In fact, Cratylus’s response is ambiguous because he is incapable of straight speech. It is noteworthy that Cratylus’s reliance on someone else’s words (in this case, Homer) is, itself, an act of evasion: even if Homer’s lines were more straightforward, they could never do a good job of saying what is on Cratylus’s mind. When Cratylus allows Homer and, more importantly, Socrates to do the talking for him, he relinquishes control of his own discourse. Cratylus’s words are borrowed but never really earned; by his failure to defend his own position, he shows that he is unable to speak for himself, let alone set meaningful riddles for others. Am I making too much of a single allusion to Homer?4 Before looking at the presence of Homer in the Cratylus, let me recall that this very same Homeric scene—the “Prayer Scene”—is discussed in great detail in the Hippias Minor. As we will see, Plato was well aware of the ambivalence of the discourse used in this scene. In addition, since Hippias’ discussion in this dialogue is representative of the use that he and other sophists made of Homer, it is clear that Plato was also dealing with a larger issue—that of the recourse to poetic author­ ities on the part of the sophists and “wise men” of the fifth and fourth centuries. In the Hippias Minor, Hippias claims that “Homer made Achilles the most excellent (ariston) of men, and Nestor the wisest, and Odysseus the wiliest” (364c). Hippias attempts to prove this by recourse to “The Prayer Scene” (§n Lita›w, 364e), proceed­ ing to quote Achilles’ famous statement to the “wily Odysseus” that he will speak what is on his mind, and say how things “will be accomplished,” since he hates like the gates of Hades the man who “hides one thing in his heart and says another” (Iliad 9.308–313). According to Hippias, Homer makes clear the “character” of each man in this passage, namely that Achilles is “truthful and simple” and Odysseus is “wily and false” (365b). After responding that “Homer, as it seems, thought that a truthful man was one person and a false

4 For a useful discussion of interpretations and appropriations of Homer by the presocratics and sophists, see Richardson 1975.

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man another,” Socrates goes on to ask Hippias: “And is this what you yourself think?” (365c). When Hippias agrees, Socrates says to him that they should therefore “let go of Homer, since it is impos­ sible to ask him what he was thinking when he composed these lines; but, since you are clearly taking up his cause, and you agree with the things which you say that Homer meant, you must answer for Homer and yourself in common” (365d). Here, Socrates insists that Hippias speak in his own voice rather than rely on the author­ ity of Homer. Socrates now proceeds to argue that only a wise man can tell both falsehoods and truths, since the ignorant man can do neither (except by accident). Returning to the “Prayer Scene” (370a–b), he points out that Achilles initially says to Odysseus that he will sail back to Phthia the next day (Iliad 9.357–363), a statement that Achilles had also made in the presence of the whole army (Iliad 1.169–171). Clearly, Socrates says, Achilles did not carry out these claims. Hippias responds by saying that Achilles acted “unwillingly” (akôn) since he was forced (anagkastheis) by the misfortune of the army to change his mind; Odysseus, by contrast, “willingly” (hekôn) and deliberately lies (370e). Socrates counters this by pointing out that Achilles actually contra­ dicts himself within the “Prayer Scene,” which takes place well before the army gets into severe trouble. Socrates now quotes Achilles’ state­ ment to Ajax, in which he claims that he will not return to war until Hector and his battalions have fought their way to his tent (371b–c, quoting Iliad 9.650–655). This, Socrates says, contradicts Achilles’ earlier claims and evinces a deliberate deceptive strategy on his part. Hippias disagrees, arguing that Achilles said these things because he was “persuaded by kindness” (371d–e). In Socrates’ read­ ing, Achilles is of one mind throughout the whole scene, but offers different stories to different people; in Hippias’ interpretation, Achilles changes his mind, either because of the losses sustained by the Greek army or because of a feeling of well-mindedness towards the ambas­ sadors, especially Ajax. Clearly, Plato gave a lot of thought to the “Prayer Scene” and used it in several contexts dealing with “willing” and “unwilling” statements of truth and falsehood. In addition, though Socrates’ “reading” of this scene is rather naive (and is clearly tailored to his principle that “no-one errs willingly”), the dialogue provides firm evidence that there is more than one way to read Achilles’ statements—that there is no single interpretation of his words. Finally,

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Socrates also calls into question the reliance on the authority of any speaker other than oneself. When Plato puts Homer’s lines into the mouth of Cratylus, then, he alerts the reader to attend to the poten­ tial ambiguity of discourse, as well as to the problem of what it means to make one’s words one’s own. Returning to the Cratylus, recall, for a moment, the statement that Hermogenes makes right before he challenges Cratylus to defend his own position: “Cratylus declares that there is such a thing as the correctness of names; but he does not say clearly what it is, so that I am unable to tell whether he speaks unclearly (asaphôs) on each occasion willingly or unwillingly” (427d). Note, first of all, the phrase “on each occasion” (hekastote). This indicates that Cratylus makes a practice of evasion, and is thus behaving in a characteristic fashion in our text. More important, however, is the question whether Cratylus is using this kind of discourse “willingly or unwillingly” (•k∆n µ êkvn). If he is doing this willingly, then he would no doubt be deliberately hiding—and, indeed, hoarding—his own knowledge of the facts. The notion of a willed evasion is in fact nicely explicated by Hermogenes at the very opening of the dialogue, when he says that Cratylus “alleges that he has in himself some knowledge about the issue which, if he chose to articulate it clearly (saphôs), would make me agree with him and say the very same things that he says” (384a). If this were true, then we would have a knowing Cratylus who could “choose” to discuss the issue clearly or unclearly: since he would possess the truth “in himself ” (§n •aut“), it would simply be a matter of mak­ ing it public. As Cratylus’s conversation with Socrates progresses, however, we begin to see that the opposite is the case—that Cratylus’s evasiveness and lack of clarity are “unwilling.” In short, he does not possess the knowledge that he claims to have. His evasion, then, must be based on an unwitting ignorance rather than knowledge. This kind of evasion is, in essence, a display of ignorance—an ignor­ ance which he cannot hide and is not even aware of. The exposure of the ignorance of a conceited interlocutor is a familiar move in Platonic dialogues. But we need to think further about the claim that Cratylus “unwillingly” speaks without clarity, since it will help us to understand the precise nature of his peculiar brand of evasiveness. First, if he speaks without clarity “unwillingly,” then Cratylus is not the master of his own words: he cannot opt for or against clarity, since his lack of authority and knowledge inevitably

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leads to ambiguity and evasion.5 What is more, his language seems in some way not to be “in himself.” The most obvious illustration of this notion is the fact that his views are put in the mouth of Socrates, who, in turn, ascribes them to Euthyphro. But note also that, even when Cratylus enters the dialogue, he tends to repeat the things that Hermogenes and Socrates have said earlier in the dia­ logue. For example, at 429a Cratylus says to Socrates that the crafts­ men of names are “as you said in the beginning, legislators.” At 434d, Cratylus again takes refuge in Socrates’ logos, saying: “this may be like the cases that you spoke of to Hermogenes, when you removed or added letters where that was necessary.” We hear another echo of Socrates at 435d, where Cratylus claims that the function of names is “to teach” (didaskein)—a point that Socrates made at the opening of the dialogue. To be sure, Cratylus does discuss his basic position at several points in his conversation with Socrates; but he is never willing to defend this with arguments, and we may wonder whether he is simply parroting the people who offered him these views to begin with (note Socrates’ claim at 428b that Cratylus has no doubt “learned these theories from others”). Insofar as Cratylus is unable to speak for himself, his discourse is not his own. Cratylus must parrot others because he does not pos­ sess the truth. Recall that, according to the position attributed to Cratylus, it is the names themselves (and especially the prôta onomata) which are said to “teach” and reveal truth. These names—rather than the people who use them—are identified as the real contain­ ers of truth. It is for this reason that, in spite of Socrates’ arguments to the contrary, Cratylus insists that the correctness of names is guar­ anteed by the fact that they were made by experts and perhaps even gods. To be sure, the truth told by the early names must be decoded; but the ultimate authority is located in the names themselves. It is hardly surprising, then, that Cratylus twice refuses to play the role of “teacher” (428b–c, 440d–e: I take it that Cratylus’s agreement to teach Socrates at a future date is a tacit refusal). Names are them­ selves the teachers; latter-day humans are interpreters and disciples. By adhering to this theory of the correctness of names, Cratylus is, as Socrates puts it at 440c, “putting himself and his soul under the

5

For a fuller discussion of Plato’s meditation on (and uses of ) borrowed or “alien” discourse, see Nightingale 1995, ch. 4 and passim.

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control of names.” As I have suggested, Cratylus is not really in control of his own discourse. He is thus forced either to remain silent or, if he does speak, to fall back on the authority of others. Cratylus clearly cannot defend the position that is ascribed to him. As a result, when confronted with Socrates’s criticisms, Cratylus takes refuge in dogmatism. As he says at 433c, “there is no use, Socrates, in fighting this out, since it doesn’t please me (oÈk ér°skei g° me) to say that a name which is incorrectly given is a name at all.” Again, at the end of the dialogue, Cratylus reaffirms his commitment to Heracliteanism even after acceding to many of Socrates’ claims to the contrary. When push comes to shove, Cratylus simply repeats his basic claim, whose truth is apparently guaranteed by a higher authority. Cratylus’s evasiveness, then, stems not from the willed reticence of a radical Heraclitean but rather from the unwilled weakness of a colonized subject. This notion of the colonized subject is beautifully dramatized in a very ironic passage in the dialogue. This occurs when Socrates claims that his utterances derive from Euthyphro the Prospaltian. Socrates has spent the entire morning with this sage individual, to whom he has “furnished [his] ears” (pare›xon tå Œta, 396d). According to Socrates, Euthyphro was himself “inspired,” and “he not only filled my ears (tå Œtã mou §mpl∞sai) with his divine wisdom but took possession of my soul” (396d). The claim that the discourse of Euthyphro—which does not even belong to Euthy­ phro himself—has taken over Socrates’ soul is deeply ironic. Here, Socrates indicates that he is using the logos of an inspired speaker as the basis of an explication of the oracular speech of Cratylus! It is clear that Socrates is not endorsing the discourse that he is bor­ rowing and reproducing. Indeed, Socrates says, after using Euthyphro’s wisdom for the day, “we must conjure it away tomorrow, and purify ourselves” (épodiopomphsÒmeyã te aÈtØn ka‹ kayaroÊmeya, 396e3–4). This irony is lost on Cratylus. For when Cratylus finally enters the conversation and says that Socrates has “uttered oracles in accor­ dance with [his] mind,” he goes on to assert: “Socrates . . . you are either inspired by Euthyphro or else some other Muse has been dwelling within you for a long while without your realizing it” (êllh tiw MoËsa pãlai se §noËsa §lelÆyei, 428c6–8). In spite of Socrates’ ironic treatment of Euthyphro’s discourse, Cratylus claims that Socrates possesses some divine knowledge “within” him but doesn’t even know it! Here, he indicates that Socrates is unwittingly articulating a truth

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that resides “inside” him—that he is (accidentally as it seems) speak­ ing truths that he possesses (and are thus “his own”) unbeknownst to himself. Socrates’ response is telling: Cratylus, I myself have been for some time been amazed at my own wisdom (tØn §mautoË sof¤an) and I do not believe in it (épist«). I think that we should re-examine what I have been saying. For to be deceived by oneself is the worst of all things . . . since the deceiver never departs from the spot and is always present. (428d1–5).

Here, Socrates denies and debunks “his own wisdom” and insists on further discussion. In addition, he brings up the issue of self-knowledge and explicitly points to the damage that occurs when false dis­ course takes control of one’s “soul.” But why does Socrates borrow Euthyphro’s words to begin with? Why doesn’t he force Cratylus to articulate his own position? Socrates’ behavior here is bizarre, and goes beyond his customary irony. As I will suggest, in borrowing the words of Euthyphro, Socrates engages in a strategy which mimics and mocks Cratylus’ evasiveness—a strat­ egy which illuminates the dangers of borrowed words. A brief foray into the Phaedrus will help to bolster this point. At the opening of that dialogue, Phaedrus is apprehended by Socrates in the act of memorizing a speech written by Lysias. This is a clas­ sic case of borrowed discourse, and Socrates responds by setting forth a borrowed speech of his own. In fact, before, during and after his first speech on love, Socrates insists that he has been invaded by a disparate group of tongue-snatchers. Denying his own authorship of the speech, he attributes it to ancient wise men and women (235b), to Sappho, Anacreon, and some unnamed prose writers (235c), to the Muses (237a), and to the local nymphs (238d; 241e); as he says at 235cd, “I have been filled through the ears with alien streams, like a pitcher” (§j éllotri≈n . . . namãtvn diå t∞w éko∞w peplhr«sya¤ me d¤khn égge¤ou). Note how Socrates glosses these claims. Before Socrates’ first speech, Phaedrus asks: “where have you heard any­ thing better than this?” (235c1). “It is clear that I heard it from somebody,” Socrates responds; “I know that I didn’t invent it myself, since I am conscious of my own ignorance.” Socrates explicitly identifies his first speech, then, as alien (allotrios)—as a logos which he has heard and is now repeating. Later, Socrates refuses to finish the speech, rejecting the entire discourse as foolish and impious (242d). At this point, he says “I must now purify myself ” (§mo¤ . . .

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kayÆrasyai énãgkh, 243a2–3), which he proceeds to do by recant­ ing what he has said and offering a pious palinode. This text contains several striking parallels with the Cratylus. First, Socrates is dealing in both dialogues with an interlocutor who is not speaking in his own words but rather borrowing or relying on the discourse of others. Second, in both cases Socrates claims that he himself has been “filled up” (peplêrôsthai ) by someone else’s words, which have been poured into his ears. Finally, Socrates says in both dialogues that, after his binge on borrowed words, he will need to “purify” (kathairein) himself and make atonement. In contrast with the Phaedrus, however, Socrates does not proceed directly to the act of purification in the Cratylus; but he does claim that he will do this on the very next day. The dramatic and verbal parallels between these dialogues are striking. This parallelism offers strong evidence that Socrates opts for a strategy of mimicry and quiet mockery when confronted with a person who substitutes someone else’s logoi for his own. Or, to be more accurate, Plato makes Socrates use this strat­ egy: for the pedagogical point is directed towards the reader rather than the interlocutor. The Phaedrus, in fact, offers an explicit gloss on Plato’s pedagogi­ cal point. This is found in the famous conversation between the Egyptian deities, Theuth and Thamus. Consider Thamus’s pro­ nouncement upon the harmfulness of writing: [writing] will produce forgetfulness in the souls of its learners because they will neglect to practice their memory; indeed, on account of the faith they place in writing they will recall things by way of alien marks external to them (¶jvyen ÍpÉ éllotr¤vn tÊpvn) and not from within, themselves by themselves ( ¶ndoyen aÈtoÁw ÍfÉ aÍt«n, 275a2–5).

The “alien marks” (allotriôn tupôn) of writing referred to here clearly recall the “alien streams” (allotriôn namatôn) that Socrates said had filled his ears before the first speech: in both cases, a logos that is external to the individual occupies the human soul and substitutes for internal and autonomous thinking. As scholars have observed, Plato qualifies the distinction that he originally draws between the written and the spoken word in the Phaedrus.6 Socrates clearly indi­

6

See, e.g., Griswold 1986, 209 and Ferrari 1987, 208–12, as well as Erler, in this volume.

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cates at 277e–278a that spoken discourse which is delivered “for the sake of persuasion, without investigation or teaching” functions in the same pernicious way as the written word. This passage shows that the discussion of writing is being used to illustrate a phenom­ enon that is not confined to the written word, namely, the harm­ fulness that results from the reliance on any sort of “alien” and “external” discourse. In the Phaedrus, Socrates indicates that alien discourse damages our souls because it substitutes for internal thinking and the exer­ cise of memory. The ideas and words of others—whether written or spoken—occupy our souls from without, colonizing our very thoughts. The Cratylus dramatizes, but does not explicate, this phenomenon; by putting most of Cratylus’s words into the mouths of Hermogenes and Socrates, Plato illustrates the alien and external nature of Cratylus’s language. Let us compare, now, Cratylus’s discourse with that of Socrates. Certainly Socrates resembles Cratylus in his refusal to state his own position and in his recourse to the logos of others. But we are deal­ ing here with different kinds of evasion, and different kinds of bor­ rowing. As we have seen, Cratylus does not articulate his position because he is unable to speak for himself: he is “unwillingly” ambigu­ ous and evasive. Strictly speaking, the thesis about the correctness of names is not his position at all. In the character of Cratylus, we see a man with a peculiar kind of speech-impediment: as he shuttles back and forth between the silence required by radical Heracliteanism and the lip-service demanded by a dogmatic affirma­ tion of correct names, Cratylus ends up in a sort of discursive no-man’s land. What, then, of Socrates’ evasiveness? Can we say that his eva­ sions are deliberate and enacted “willingly”? Certainly Socrates’ dis­ course is infinitely more self-reflective than that of Cratylus. And he clearly exhibits an impressive control over his speech and his silences. But Socratic discourse in this and other dialogues is by no means simple. On the one hand, Socrates is keenly aware of the dangers of borrowed language and the reliance on external authorities; in fact, as I will argue, his own “borrowings” are deliberately used to make this very point. On the other hand, his use of irony and his disavowals of knowledge would suggest that not all of his evasions are enacted “willingly” if we use this term in Hermogenes’ sense

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(428d), viz., to indicate that he has possession of a knowledge that he is refusing to divulge.7 Let us look first at a key passage where Socrates himself borrows a line from Homer. In the midst of his lengthy etymological dis­ cussion of the names of the gods, Socrates says, “By the gods, let us leave off talking about the gods, for I am afraid to be discussing them. But ask me about any other [words], ‘so that you may see the quality of the horses’ of Euthyphro” (“ˆfra ‡dhai oÂoi” EÈyÊfronow “·ppoi,” 407d8–9). This line alludes to the Iliad 5.221–2, where Aeneas invites Pandarus to “see the quality of the Trojan horses.” At this juncture, Diomedes is decimating the Trojans. Aeneas enjoins Pandarus to mount his chariot so that, with the help of his divine horses, the two of them can attack and beat down Diomedes. These horses had, Aeneas explains, been given to Tros by Zeus, and then later stolen by Anchises, who bred from them six more horses, two of which he gave to Aeneas. Aeneas says that his pair are the “most excellent of horses beneath the sun and the dawn,” and claims that these horses will lead them to win great glory (265–273). As I would urge, when Socrates tells Hermogenes in Homeric diction that he must “see the quality of the horses of Euthyphro,” he is deliberately conjuring up a famous epic scene. In this scene from Iliad 5, Diomedes proceeds to kill Pandarus, knock Aeneas unconscious with a gigantic stone and, most importantly, steal away the peerless horses. Socrates’ ref­ erence to the “horses of Euthyphro,” then, is given added meaning by its epic subtext, in particular by the fact that the divine horses were stolen (by Anchises) to begin with and that their offspring, Aeneas’ pair, got away from their owner and into enemy hands. The “horses of Euthyphro,” we may infer, were not in his control, not really his own to begin with, and have now gotten away from their driver. In short, Socrates makes an ironic use of a Homeric scene: he borrows Homer’s discourse and refashions it to make a philosophical point. Here, he opts to use borrowed discourse rather than direct speech; to this extent, his language is evasive and not fully “his own.” But he exhibits a control over his (and Homer’s) language that Cratylus clearly lacks.

7 For some excellent discussions of Socratic and Platonic irony, see Griswold 1997 and Nehamas 1999, chs. 1–3 (who offers a persuasive critique of Vlastos’s analysis of Socratic irony [1991, ch. 1]).

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It is important to emphasize that Socrates is not calling upon Homer as an authority for his own position. Indeed his references to Homer are highly ironic. Consider the discussion at the begin­ ning of the passage that deals with the etymologies (390e). Here, Hermogenes asks Socrates to explain what he means by the “cor­ rectness of names,” and Socrates immediately answers by saying that he himself has no knowledge of this but is willing to join him in seeking out the truth (390e–391a). In response to the question of where to find this truth, Socrates first recommends that they learn from the sophists (391b–c). He then observes, wryly, that neither of them has the money to pay for this wisdom, and proceeds to sug­ gest that they must therefore “learn from Homer and the other poets” (391c–d). A good number of the etymologies are based on Homer’s poems, and Socrates refers at many points to what Homer “thought” (e.g. 392b, 392d, 393b). The very fact that he is discussing Homer’s “opinion about the correctness of names” (t∞w ÑOmÆrou dÒjhw per‹ Ùnomãtvn ÙryÒthtow, 393b3–4) indicates that he is not, in this passage, seeking the truth but playing an ironic game of turning to the “authorities,” a game which he undermines at numerous points.8 In the scene where he refers to Euthyphro’s “horses,” in fact, Socrates is appropriating a Homeric subtext for his own quite distinct pur­ poses. Indeed, the very message that he sends via his Homeric bor­ rowing is precisely that borrowed discourse is not “one’s own”—for Euthyphro’s horses, like those of Aeneas, come from an alien source and end up in alien hands. But are all of Socrates’ evasions deliberate and under control? There are, of course, many different kinds of evasion and/or silence: Szlezák has offered a detailed discussion of those of “secrecy” and “esotericism,” and to these one must add irony.9 I do not believe that Socrates is trying to withhold a “secret” truth in order to keep it in the hands of a few initiates, thus empowering a specific group. Nor do I think that he is utilizing an “esoteric” approach, i.e. with­ holding the truth because his interlocutors are unable to understand

8 Cf. the Protagoras, where Socrates says that it is pointless to analyse poetry because it is impossible to ask poets what they mean (347e). For some useful dis­ cussions of Plato’s treatment of poetic interpretation in the Protagoras, see Scodel 1986 and Szlezák 1999, 37–8. For more broad-ranging analyses of Plato’s uses of poetry, see Ferrari 1989 and Nightingale 1995. 9 Slezák 1999; 3, 114 and passim.

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it or treat it properly. For, among other things, this would mean that his repeated disavowals of knowledge are completely disingen­ uous (see, e.g. 384c, 391a, 428a, 439b). This leaves us in the realm of irony. Needless to say, I cannot do justice to the complexities of Socratic irony in this essay. But I would like to suggest that, if one grants that the disavowals of knowledge are at least partially true, then we must conclude that Socrates does not possess dogmas or full-blown doctrines about the ideas he is discussing. To that extent, he must either be silent or less-than-straight simply because he can­ not offer a direct and certain statement of truth. In short, he is not in full control of logos because he is still seeking for the truth; he has extraordinary powers of argumentation, but this does not mean that he can make doctrinal assertions of truth in his own voice (he is philosophos but not sophos). We need not, of course, deny that Socrates has views and opinions and that, at times, he refrains from assert­ ing these views in part because of the ignorance of his associates. But Socrates’ evasions in this text are grounded in a commitment to ongoing inquiry as well as in a rejection of the authority of others. Finally, as I have suggested, Socrates borrows words in order to mimic the inauthenticity of Cratylus’s (and Euthyphro’s) discourse. But Socrates goes beyond mere mimicry, since he uses Euthyphro’s logos as a starting-point for analysis and investigation; he borrows the words of Euthyphro in order to begin the process of finding his own. By juxtaposing Socrates’ borrowings with those of Cratylus, Plato reminds us that philosophic investigation produces a speaker who can both take and remake discourse. What, then, of the end of the dialogue? Here (439cff ), Socrates tells Cratylus to consider something “of which I often dream” (oneirôttô ). Although Socrates makes some telling points in this passage, his sug­ gestion that the ideas he discusses have the status of a dream, and his repeated claim that the truth of the matter is unclear (440c, 440d) remind us that he is not entering into dogmatic discourse. Although his recommendation that Cratylus should investigate these matters more fully is clearly sincere, Socrates remains noncommittal at the end of the dialogue. To be sure, his mention of absolute beauty and goodness contains a very brief gesture towards Plato’s discussions of the Forms in other dialogues, but it is important to emphasize that Socrates’ comments are directly aimed at Cratylus’s peculiar predica­ ment. In this closing passage, Socrates begins by asking whether there exists beauty or goodness “in itself ” which, he goes on to sug­

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gest, would be changeless and unitary and therefore the very oppo­ site of the “reality” posited by the Heracliteans. He claims that, in a Heraclitean world, there will be neither a knower nor a known (440b), thus raising the question whether radical Heracliteanism offers anything in the way of a self or subject. He then goes on to con­ clude that one should not “put oneself or one’s soul in the power of names and, trusting in names and name-makers, confidently affirm that one knows something (ti efidÒta), nor should one condemn one­ self and the things that exist on the grounds that there is nothing healthy in them, but that all things leak like a pot. . . .” (440c). Here, Socrates spells out the contradiction that lies at the core of Cratylus’s position: the conjunction of the confident claim to “knowledge” based on a faith in names and name-makers with the affirmation of a posi­ tion which “condemns” the self and reality by claiming that all things are in a state of radical and perpetual flux. How can Cratylus “know” the truth about the correctness of names when there is nothing to be known and, perhaps more importantly, no knower to speak of (or, rather, to do the speaking)? This brings us back to the question of the relation between Cratylus’s radical Heracliteanism and his dogmatic deference to naturally true names. Although these two positions appear to be at odds with one another, there is a certain way in which they might be fitted together. If radical Heracliteanism precludes any true predication, then it effectively robs its adherents of truthful speech and, indeed, of their very identity as speaking subjects. It may well be the need for a rel­ atively stable identity and a functional subjectivity that drives Cratylus towards divine name-makers and naturally correct words. By adopt­ ing this position, Cratylus can call himself “Cratylus” and find a place for himself in an inhospitable world of continuous flux. The drastic conditions of his Heracliteanism, I would venture, send Cratylus in search of an authority that will guarantee his personal identity. Whereas an ordinary Heraclitean seeks for a “common logos” (xunos logos) and finds himself in that commonality, a radical Heraclitean must turn to an alien logos whose authority will restore his selfhood. Interestingly, this same move is found in Beckett’s Watt. For, when Watt comes to realize that his service to Mr. Knott is endangering his very existence as a speaking subject, he goes in search of a truthtelling voice which will return him to his former self: [Watt] now found himself longing for a voice, for the voice of [his fellow servant] Erskine . . . to speak of the little world of Mr. Knott’s

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Like Cratylus, Watt is a character in search of an author, a man in need of a self. But, unlike Cratylus, Watt never finds the authorita­ tive voice he seeks, and thus continues to be negated by Mr. Knott.*

* I would like to thank Tony Long, Charles Griswold, Kathryn Morgan, and Rush Rehm for their incisive comments on earlier drafts of this essay. I am also grateful to Ann Michelini for her superb work on this volume.

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COMMENTS ON NIGHTINGALE AND SZLEZÁK G. R. F. Ferrari

These two papers represent what would seem to be opposite poles of Platonic interpretation. Andrea Nightingale’s account of the Cratylus is a good example of what Thomas Szlezák in his presentation crit­ icizes as “reading between the lines,” a modern approach to Platonic dialogue-form that he derives from the influence of Schleiermacher. Professor Nightingale’s Socrates—and presumably, though she does not make this explicit, her Plato also—is at least an undogmatic philosopher, even if not a completely aporetic philosopher. By con­ trast, both Professor Szlezák’s Socrates and his Plato are philoso­ phers who believe they possess knowledge, and who further believe that this knowledge must be held back from those who are not yet prepared, morally as well as intellectually, to receive it. So I thought it would be instructive to begin by comparing the account of the Cratylus that Szlezák gives in his book Platon und die Schriftlichkeit der Philosophie (1985) with the account that Nightingale has given us, to see whether, in practice, their ways of reading individual dialogues diverge as widely as their respective approaches would suggest. It turns out that, although the content of their Cratylus interpre­ tations certainly differs, there are important similarities in their man­ ner of reading the dialogue. Both are more interested in the dramatic theme of the work than in the issue discussed by its characters— whether naming is natural or conventional. Both locate this theme in a kind of inauthenticity displayed by Cratylus. For Nightingale, he illustrates how a radical Heraclitean is bound to succumb to the temptation to rely on alien voices; for Szlezák, he is the Heraclitean caricature of the esotericist, hinting at wondrous and convincing argu­ ments but not divulging them, arguments which—as the run of the dialogue makes clear—he has not in fact mastered. Both scholars make Cratylus the counterweight to Socrates, whom Socrates oddly resembles, whether by appealing to alien voices himself (Nightingale), or by alluding to a kind of wisdom that could resolve their prob­ lems but which remains unexplained (Szlezák). But the apparent resemblance is in fact the mark by which the reader of the dialogue

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recognizes Socrates’ superiority: whether it is that he borrows voices only as a first step rather than a permanent crutch (Nightingale), or that his type of esotericism is backed by genuine wisdom rather than vague pretensions (Szlezák). These correspondences between the two interpretations are not merely superficial; they stem from a common root. Nightingale refers to Cratylus’ Homeric quotation as a “clue” delivered by Plato to the reader, intended to elicit thought about what it means to make one’s words one’s own. Likewise, the pedagogical point of Socrates’ behav­ ior towards Cratylus is directed, she says, not at the interlocutor but at the reader. Szlezák tends to avoid talk of clues and of lessons for the reader, presumably because it smacks for him of the Wittgensteinian text that automatically divides those readers who have the key to its lock from those who do not. But let me quote from his book as he interprets the curious resemblance between Cratylus’ and Socrates’ appeals to a higher but esoteric authority: What does Plato mean by attributing the same action to both char­ acters? It seems we should feel that things are not in fact the same. We must see the dissimilar background that lies behind the similar tactic . . . (Was ist also die Absicht Platons, wenn er die beiden Gesprächspartner das Gleiche tun läßt? Wir sollen spüren, so scheint es, daß es doch nicht das Gleiche ist. Hinter der gleichen Táktik gilt es den ungleichen Hintergrund zu sehen . . . [1985, 217])

This does not strike me as differing in spirit from Nightingale’s approach. Both scholars are asking themselves what Plato is show­ ing us by staging the discussion as he did—making his characters say what they do, adopt the conversational strategies they do. And both scholars ask this as their principal question; it determines their account of the philosophic arguments put forward by the speakers within the fiction—not the other way round. This is what is dis­ tinctive about their shared approach. I hope it is clear that I do not put this claim forward as a criticism. But you may be thinking that, like a bad reader of the Cratylus, I am failing to see the dissimilar background that lies behind the similar interpretive tactic, and which makes all the difference not just to the content of our speakers’ interpretations of particular dia­ logues but to their understanding of Plato as a writer. Szlezák’s fun­ damental objection to Schleiermacher’s type of Plato-interpretation is this: Schleiermacher assumes that Plato wrote as he did—dramatically, allusively—in order to achieve through writing the closest

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equivalent to the selective instruction of kindred spirits that he prac­ ticed in the Academy, even if he recognized that writing fell short of what live interchange and companionship could accomplish. This assumption, however, not only falls foul of the critique of writing in the Phaedrus which denies to writing exactly the power of selection that Schleiermacher seeks to grant it, but more generally ignores the fact that no written text, no matter how sophisticated, can time its own reception and therefore refrain from divulging épÒrrhta until the moment is ripe. At most, to the extent that one dialogue sup­ plements another, we may think them capable of dictating the order in which they should be read; but this is not even close to a sub­ stitute for the long preparation required of the true philosopher. (So Szlezák.) I share Szlezák’s misgivings about the magical powers that Schleier­ macher attributed to Plato’s use of the dialogue form. Schleiermacher’s descriptions of what it is to interpret dialogue would more properly apply to the interpretation of literary fiction in general; and his idea that, if you aim to reproduce in writing the effect of live philosophic conversation, it is philosophic conversation that you must write, strikes me as fallacious. But I am less sure than Szlezák that this makes Schleiermacher the presiding genius of the modern approach to the dialogue form. Towards the end of his essay, Szlezák claims that, if we believe with Schleiermacher that the decisive moment of Platonic interpretation occurs when the intelligent reader fills out what the text does not directly express, then we are designating that intelli­ gent reader as suited to philosophy just by virtue of his intelligence, and in so doing we forget that for Plato many traits of personal character other than one’s intelligence were prerequisites to philo­ sophic enlightenment. But is that in fact what we would be doing? It seems to me that we could follow Schleiermacher in reading between the lines, with­ out following him in the belief that we are thereby putting ourselves on the path that leads to the Form of the Good—that is, designat­ ing ourselves, the intelligent readers, as suited to philosophy in Plato’s sense—and also without following him in the belief that Plato wrote dialogues with that aim in mind. Nightingale, for example, uncov­ ers from the Cratylus a pedagogical point for the reader about bor­ rowing others’ voices. This act does not compel her to accept that teaching for herself, nor is her interpretation incompatible with—in fact, it would fit rather well with—the belief that Plato wrote in

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order to be understood, not in order to bring about conversion and enlightenment. Finally, those of us who were educated according to the domi­ nant Anglo-American paradigm of recent decades, and who think of conferences such as the one that produced this volume as the result of a shift in that paradigm, a shift that has been maturing for many years now, might wonder how it is possible to speak, in the singular, as Szlezák does in his published writings, of “the modern theory of dialogue form”—whether or not we agree to put Schleiermacher in its vanguard. What theory of dialogue form do Vlastos and Kahn, say, have in common? For Szlezák, they and indeed all modern interpreters who do not follow the Tübingen model share the lib­ eral and therefore anachronistic conviction of which he makes Kant the spokesman: that a philosopher should communicate his thoughts freely, in a manner open to all who have the ability to follow them. Even those who read between the lines expect to find Plato’s thoughts lurking there. If he had a philosophic system, they too expect to find it in his writings. This way of grouping interpreters of Plato seems to me to elide a distinction that is equally important. It divides those who think of the dialogues as at least in part a grand structure, one dialogue sup­ plementing another either in a pedagogic sequence or as if jigsaw pieces in a single puzzle, from those who think of each dialogue as relatively independent explorations of issues that exercised Plato at the time of writing, and which never amounted in his mind to a fully elaborated system, even if some dialogues are more expository than others. In the former group, Szlezák would take his place not only alongside Kahn but also Friedrich Schleiermacher, whose thor­ oughly proleptic and pedagogic ordering of the dialogues has received less attention than other aspects of his approach. It was certainly noticed by George Grote, the great spokesman for the second group of interpreters, who objected to Schleiermacher’s making all roads in the dialogues converge on the Republic, where the darkness of the aporetic and preparatory dialogues was dispelled in a blaze of light (1888, 1:317ff.). Although Szlezák banishes the blaze of light beyond the boundaries of the dialogues altogether, he too puts the Republic at the pinnacle of a structure in which one dialogue supplements another. Grote’s visceral objection to any such interpretation, I believe, is that, if the dialogues cease to be genuine explorations, they cease to be genuine philosophy. This, rather than any illiberal or unde­

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mocratic quality, is what bothers him and others like him not only about proleptic interpretation but also about the idea that Plato held back unwritten doctrines. Interestingly, Hegel too voices something like this all-or-nothing position in the passages quoted by Szlekák. A philosopher cannot keep his ideas in his pocket; if what he com­ municates is philosophy at all, then it is philosophy completely. And where would Nightingale stand in this regard? Her account was more paraleptic or comparative than proleptic. She investigated a theme in the Cratylus alongside a fuller account of the same theme in the Phaedrus, but indicated no direction of flow from one dialogue to the other. I am not sure on what side of the division she would take her stand. Perhaps she would straddle it.

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THE MAN WITH NO NAME:

SOCRATES AND THE VISITOR FROM ELEA

Ruby Blondell

Something about the visitor from Elea in Plato’s Sophist and Statesman seems to inspire visions of the Wild West.1 He reminded Robert Brumbaugh of “the team of bounty-hunters hired . . . to gun down Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” (1976, 47). As such, Brumbaugh says, he deserves more attention. “ ‘Who are these guys?’ the Kid asks Cassidy, as the pursuit goes on” (id. n. 31). Brumbaugh is reflecting on the visitor’s role as a hunter of sophists. But in a different way, the visitor also evokes the Man with No Name of Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti westerns. Like Clint, the nameless visitor wanders into town, cleans up the joint, and, presumably, rides off at the end into the sunset. Like Brumbaugh, I find myself wondering, “Who is this guy?” The visitor makes his first appearance in Sophist, which, along with Statesman, he dominates both dramatically and philosophically. These two works are also linked to Theaetetus (see esp. Sophist 216a), with which, apart from the visitor, they share the same dramatis per­ sonae. As a result, these three works are often referred to as “Plato’s trilogy.” “Trilogy” is is not really the right word, since these dia­ logues were not, to the best of our knowledge, designed to compose a single internally cohesive work (like, for example, the Oresteia). But the three works do form a linked triad, connected by dramatic date, overlapping characters, and internal cross-references.2 Within this triad, however, there are marked stylistic and dramatic differences between Theaetetus on the one hand, and Sophist and Statesman on the other. The central conversation of Theaetetus is set in a determinate location—a gymnasium—on a highly significant date—the day that Socrates is to face the indictment of Meletus (210d). It is framed by references to Socrates’ death (142c, 210d),

1

On the translation of xenos as “visitor” see below, n. 11. For fuller discussion of this and other issues that are merely touched on in this paper see Blondell, Forthcoming. 2

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which accordingly casts its shadow over the work as a whole. The participants, in David Bostock’s words, “are deftly characterized, there are many touches of humour and a little by-play . . . and above all we have a genuine conversation” (1988, 12). In Sophist and Statesman, by contrast, there is no indicator at all of dramatic date or location beyond those already provided in Theaetetus. As for the characters, they are dull and lifeless compared to those of Theaetetus; and their conversation is scarcely a compelling representation of human inter­ action. The most noticeable dramatic change, however, is the dethron­ ing of Socrates, who stands by in silence while the bland and nameless visitor dominates both conversations. At the same time, the engag­ ing and varied interlocutors of Theaetetus—namely Theaetetus him­ self, and Theodorus, together with the imaginary Protagoras—are replaced by two colorless young men: Theaetetus again, and his friend young Socrates. Theodorus is still present, but like Socrates he now plays only a minor supporting role. This stylistic contrast is often seen in terms of a Platonic literary decline. Thus Bostock speaks of “a distinct falling off in Plato’s dra­ matic powers.”3 Campbell rather delightfully suggested that this was caused by Plato’s desire to address the problem of non-being, since “pure Eleaticism has no doubt a great effect in drying up the springs of imaginative expression” (1883, lvi). But the blandness of the char­ acters in Sophist and Statesman, as opposed to Theaetetus, and the cor­ responding indeterminacy of time and place, need not necessarily be viewed simply as dramatic weaknesses. Though not to the taste of many “literary” readers, these changes have their own implications, both literary and philosophical, some of which I shall be exploring in this paper. First of all, there is an unmistakable move towards the generic in the representation of both the dominant character and his interlocutors.4 The Socrates familiar to us from Plato’s works in general, and from Theaetetus in particular, is a unique and highly idiosyncratic figure who embodies the ideal philosopher in unparalleled form. In 3 1988, 12. So too, e.g., Rutherford 1995, 280. Most readers have shared this dim view of the literary merits of these two dialogues (cf. Lane 1998, 1–2), but some have rallied in their defense (cf. Campbell 1867, 1:xliii; Guthrie 1975–78, 124, 164; Benitez 1996, 27–8). 4 The phrase “dominant character” is adopted from Dickey 1996, 112. It is used in this paper to refer to Socrates or the visitor from Elea in Theaetetus and Sophist/ Statesman respectively.

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Theaetetus, he is marked as extraordinary both by his method of intel­ lectual midwifery (cf. esp. 149a), and by his famously ugly appear­ ance (cf. esp. 143e). The visitor, by contrast, is introduced in such a way as to suggest that the philosopher may be a generic type, not limited to or intrinsically bound up with the unique figure of Socrates. This suggestion is made in at least two ways. First, the simple fact of substitution, especially while Socrates himself remains present, sug­ gests that Socrates is no longer uniquely qualified for the practice of philosophy. Second, the visitor lacks not only personal individu­ ation through appearance, but even the distinction of a name. This namelessness is not some kind of dramatic convenience. If anything, it is the opposite. In ancient Greek it was customary to address men by name whenever possible. Even in the case of for­ eigners, it was only when a man’s name was unknown that was he addressed by the generic marker “visitor” (xenos).5 Moreover, to quote Dickey, “the use of address by name was so expected in certain sit­ uations that authors sometimes felt uncomfortable if they did not know the name of the person addressed” (1996, 44). It is therefore not surprising that the visitor’s namelessness generates a certain awk­ wardness when he first appears at the opening of Sophist. He is brought into the conversation in an oddly abrupt way. The other participants identify and discuss him in the third person, without greetings, introductions (which would require names), or explana­ tions as to what this person is doing in their company.6 He receives virtually no preliminary characterization, is not addressed directly in either dialogue until the philosophical question is raised (Sophist 217a11, Statesman 257b8), and does not speak until invited to answer that question (Sophist 217b, Statesman 257c). When the conversation is resumed in Statesman, Socrates’ initial play on naming and kinship draws attention once again to the visitor’s personal namelessness (Statesman 257d–258a).7 What is the effect of this bland anonymity? Naming is a pro­ foundly important cultural medium for bestowing identity. In real 5 See Dickey 1996, 43–50; on xenos, see 146–49. Women were a different mat­ ter (see further below). 6 On greetings and their function in establishing identity cf. Lateiner 1995, 65–7. 7 On “naming” and division cf. Lane 1998, 25–6 and passim. The “naming” sought by division is a naming of kinds, not individuals, but this too is relevant to the visitor, whose kind of identity (sophist, statesman, philosopher) is in question (cf. Sophist 216cd).

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life, to quote Lucile Charles, naming an infant is “a careful effort to match potentialities of an actor with qualities of a role, of a lively symbol he is publicly to portray. Naming a child is like casting him for the role he is to play in life” (1951, 34). Most ancient Greek names have a transparent semantic meaning which is often exploited by authors, including Plato.8 In these three dialogues, young Socrates’ name gives him a special affinity with the older Socrates, as the lat­ ter remarks (Statesman 257d–258a). In fiction, a name alone is enough to signify an identity and hence a minimal degree of characteriza­ tion, for example through the associations of race, social class, and gender. In the theatrical tradition, according to Marvin Carlson, even apparently generic names like Lady Sneerwell “always maintain a pretense of individuality,” whereas labels like The Father, The Son or (we may add) The Visitor, stress “the typical at the expense of the individual” (1990, 36). To be nameless is to be undifferentiated, and hence, in traditional Greek terms, unheroic.9 To be nameless, then, is to lack a determinate identity. It follows that to deny a literary character a name is to deny him or her the acknowledgment of an individual cultural identity within the uni­ verse of the work in question. We may compare the common dramatic—and Platonic—practice of leaving slaves and underlings unnamed, a practice that confirms their status as functionaries or members of a class, as opposed to individual persons.10 We may also compare the Athenian practice of referring to women in public only as the daughter or wife of their kurios (male guardian). This too indicates a functional identity, though with different implications re­ garding gender, status and decorum. The visitor from Elea is com­ parably identified in generic, functional terms. He is (a) “some kind of a xenos (xenos tis)” (b) an Elean by race or kind ( genos); (c) a “comrade” (hetairos) of the circle of Parmenides and Zeno; (d) “a most philo­ sophical man” (216a). His defining features, besides his unmarked masculinity and Greekness, are thus his non-Athenianness, his Eleatic intellectual associations, and his occupation as a philosopher. 8

See for example the pun on the name of Meletus at Apology 25bc. The Homeric hero proudly declares his name and lineage. Especially notable is Odysseus’ return from the unheroic appellation “No One” to his real name in Odyssey 9 (see Peradotto 1990, ch. 6 and cf. Lateiner 1995, 172–4). 10 Thus the slave in Meno is defined only by his status as a mathematically igno­ rant Greek-speaker (82b, 85e), and the slave in Theaetetus serves exclusively as a reader of the internal dialogue (143bc). 9

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The visitor’s labeling as a xenos or non-Athenian reinforces the lack of a determinate civic identity suggested by his namelessness. (The qualifying tis adds a further element of indeterminacy that is not strictly translatable.) A xenos is a visitor, stranger, friend, guest, host—a term that captures the visitor’s ambiguous status as both friend and outsider, in Athens but not of Athens.11 We are reminded several times of his outsider status, not just by the repeated address xene—which occurs a dozen times in each work—but by various con­ versational details (e.g. Statesman 294d). On the negative side, he lacks the defining features that situate most of Plato’s characters within the fabric of Athenian culture. Even non-Athenian named charac­ ters usually have a social status, civic identity and métier that are clarified in relation to Athenian social and intellectual life. The for­ eign Theodorus, for example, has a clear social role defined by his professional calling and personal Athenian connections (cf. esp. Theaetetus 143de). The Eleatic visitor, by contrast, seems entirely unengaged in Athenian life. As an outsider visiting Athens he both confirms the status of Athens as the center of the philosophical universe, and at the same time transcends any such intellectual parochialism. The visitor lacks not just Athenian ties, however, but all social and personal ties of the kind that embed an individual in a partic­ ular society at a particular time, especially the ties of family. This is linked to his namelessness, and to the dialogue’s concomitant lack of personal introductions and greetings. Naming entails family con­ nections, and “son of So-and-So” is one of the commonest Greek forms of identification and address. It is therefore hardly surprising that the nameless visitor’s only acknowledged human tie is a philo­ sophical one, to his intellectual “father” Parmenides. He shows enor­ mous respect for Parmenides. Nonetheless, he will “disobey” and even “assault” this “father” by criticizing his central views (Sophist 241d, 242a, 258c). In Greek cultural terms, to assault one’s father is the ultimate crime, used repeatedly as a symbol of social, ethical

11 Like Guthrie (1975–78, 122) I prefer “visitor” to the usual “stranger,” since (a) it captures this friendly yet liminal character more aptly; (b) it conveys the asymmetry of xenos, which is used only “by natives of the place in which it is spoken, to addressees who come from somewhere else” (Dickey 1996, 146); (c) it avoids the misleading resonances of the English “strange.” I leave the word uncapitalized in order to maintain its generic character as distinct from a proper name.

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and personal decline.12 The visitor’s lack of deference for his intel­ lectual “father” thus symbolizes a rejection of the power of the per­ sonal, embodied world to influence the force of argument, a rejection of the inevitable groundedness of philosophy in the particular. He is not even identified as a strict Parmenidean. His method, the method of division, is linked to Parmenidean concerns, but it is not distinc­ tively Eleatic. Rather, “Elea” itself stands for philosophy as such, or at least for philosophy as a precise, logically rigorous analytical practice.13 An affinity between Elea and philosophical argument per se is suggested by the pun on Elea and elenktikos (216b6).14 The visitor’s home, as well as his “lineage,” abstracts him from personal ties and commitments. This minimal and symbolic identity, along with the visitor’s name­ lessness, strongly suggests that he is fictional.15 Though this cannot be proven, it is a plausible enough hypothesis. Even if he is not fictional, however, his namelessness and minimal personality make him so for practical purposes. No one outside the most intimate of Platonic circles could possibly identify him as a “real” person with any confidence. We must therefore ask ourselves what Plato gains by introducing a fictitious, or effectively fictitious, character as the central player in these two dialogues. I suggest that fictionality frees Plato from the baggage of historicity, by detaching this character from the audience’s background knowledge of personages who were already familiar from historical sources, legend, gossip, or other texts—fictional or otherwise—by Plato himself and other writers. Most importantly, this strategy enables Plato to jettison the baggage of Socratic characterization, baggage that he himself had largely cre­ ated by making Socrates dominate so many of his dialogues. In other contexts (such as Aristophanic comedy or the modern novel) fictionality may be used as a licence for far-ranging imagina­ tion in the portrayal of character, and specifically for the creation of individuality through the concatenation of idiosyncratic elements. But Plato uses it to the opposite effect, that is, to eliminate the con­

12 Cf. Crito 50e–51c; Euthyphro 4e; Phaedo 113e–114a; Republic 465ab, 574bc; Hesiod Works and Days 185–89, 327–334; Aristophanes Clouds 1321–33. 13 Cf. Sedley 1995, 6. For Plato’s association of Socrates with the “Eleatic suc­ cession” see Mansfeld 1990b, 66. 14 Noted by Klein 1977, 7. 15 See e.g. Taylor 1960, 375.

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straints of concrete specificity, which underwrites individuality by embedding it in the “real” or historical world. Plato’s various treat­ ments of Socrates in other dialogues vividly illustrate the difficulty of embodying an ideal philosophical character in a concrete histor­ ical individual, and of using that single individual to explore a chang­ ing model of the philosopher. The nameless visitor’s putative fictionality aids Plato in the production of a generic philosophical figure lack­ ing any extraneous features of the “real” world. It is true that some of Plato’s named characters, attested elsewhere as “real,” may seem just as generic in personality (e.g. the characters in Timaeus). But despite their lack of individuality in Plato’s text, such persons did have historical identities more or less well known to his audience. These may be—and often are—pursued by the eager interpreter even when Plato gives us little more than a name to go on.16 The visitor’s combination of namelessness with putative fictionality adds a further dimension, by short-circuiting the search for personal iden­ tity outside the text, thus signalling that the search for an underly­ ing historical person is, in his case, not just difficult but meaningless. At the same time, the visitor’s namelessness encourages the con­ struction of a larger identity of a different kind—that of a generic ideal. The namelessness of Clint Eastwood’s character in the spaghetti Westerns contributes to his iconic status as a “Western” hero. Similarly, the visitor’s namelessness, by reinforcing his lack of civic or personal identity, helps him to function as a kind of blank slate onto which a generic model of the philosopher may be projected. Accordingly, he lacks any idiosyncratic details of character of the kind that might suggest departure from an ideal aesthetic or moral standard.17 In Rowe’s words, he is “a representative par excellence of philosophy.”18 That he functions this way is signalled at the outset, when Socrates suggests that he is a god—identifying him specifically with Zeus, god of strangers and supreme god of the Greek pantheon (Sophist 216ab).19 This understanding of the visitor’s role is supported by a clear allusion at the beginning of Sophist to the famous digression in the 16 Cf. e.g. the scholarly attempts to identify which Critias is the Critias of Critias (Brisson 1998, 27–9). 17 Cf. H. Joly 1992, 90–91. 18 Rowe 1995a, 11; cf. also Szlezák 1997b, 93–6. 19 Socrates’ use of such exalted language is often plainly ironic (e.g. Euthydemus 273e–274a, Republic 331e). But he also repeatedly voices a powerful, and very seri­ ous, association of philosophy with divinity.

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middle of Theaetetus, in which Socrates expatiates on the ideal philoso­ pher who strives to detach himself from the mundane concerns of human life and become “like god” (Theaetetus 172c–177b). This digres­ sion is echoed in the way that the visitor, in contrast to the rest of the company, is described, qua “real” philosopher, as wandering around “looking down from on high at life below” (Sophist 216cd).20 There are other echoes of the philosopher of the digression in the visitor’s character, including a lack of interest in individual human beings as such (cf. Theaetetus 174b).21 All this makes it plausible to view this visiting philosopher, with his unrootedness and minimized human particularity, as an attempt to dramatize certain features of the philosophical ideal of Theaetetus. On a literal-minded reading, the ideal philosopher of Theaetetus’ digression can only be understood as dead, since his intellect has left his body and flown away from the material world.22 This makes him rather difficult to conceptualize (to put it mildly). Since he is in effect disembodied, he is not dramatically represented, or indeed rep­ resentable, by Plato. The visitor, on the other hand, is a dramatized character, and as such cannot entirely lack the normal determinants of human status and identity. Though no reference is made to his physicality or looks, we cannot envisage him without any body at all. Like the Homeric gods to whom Socrates likens him, such a person must adopt some kind of concrete human form in order to interact with others. He is thus forced to take on some specific human identity, such as sophist, statesman, or possibly lunatic (Sophist 216cd).23

20 Cf. Berger 1982, 400, Skemp 1987, 24. Detachment and “looking down” also suit the “friends of the Forms” who are characterized as “gods” in the “battle against the giants” (Sophist 246ab; cf. also Republic 500b); Dorter suggests a link between these “gods” and the “godlike” visitor (1994, 180). The god of the myth in Statesman also “looks down” upon a world apart (272e3–5, 273d5; cf. Campbell 1867, 2:63). 21 As Campbell observes, the nameless visitor names no one in his analysis (1867, 1:ii). 22 Cf. the notion of philosophy as “practising” for death by abstracting the soul as far as possible from the body and its concerns (Phaedo 67c–68c). 23 Friedländer emphasises the ironic coloring of this passage, adducing Socrates’ disapproval of divine shape-shifting in Republic 380c–383c (1969, 3:245–6; cf. also Benitez 1996, 34). But aside from the obvious fact that irony does not preclude serious meaning in Plato, Republic’s view of divinity cannot be safely read into this passage. Sallis argues more effectively that the Republic passage reinforces the impli­ cation that the philosopher is not really a shape-shifter, but one who seems to be so (1996, 460–61).

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This passage suggests that the philosopher per se—that is to say, the undisguised philosopher—is as unrepresentable as the ideal philoso­ pher of the digression. If he is to participate in human conversa­ tion, the god-like visitor’s intellect cannot depart from his body and fly into the heavens. There remains a tension, then, between the ideal of the philosopher and his particular human manifestation, even in a figure as generic and idealized as that of the nameless visitor. I turn now to look more closely at the relationship between the visitor and Socrates, whom he replaces as the dominant figure of these dialogues. As we have seen, Socrates in Plato generally, and in Theaetetus in particular, is represented as unique in appearance, behavior, and philosophical method. The introduction of the visitor poses an obvious challenge to this uniqueness. Any substitute for Socrates will compromise his uniqueness if he resembles him too closely. If, on the other hand, the substitute is significantly different from Socrates, this would suggest that despite Socrates’ uniqueness, others may also be capable of playing a dominant philosophical role, which would compromise Socrates’ uniqueness in a different way. Sophist and Statesman walk a line between these two options: the visitor is both importantly similar to, and at the same time impor­ tantly different from, the Socrates of Theaetetus and other Platonic dialogues. On the whole, the visitor develops and organizes features of Socrates’ earlier avatars, features that can be successfully gener­ alized. Along with Socrates’ snub nose and bulging eyes, and his specific historical and cultural identity, the visitor loses the intellec­ tual and personal peculiarities of his elenctic method, together with the characteristic evasiveness and irony that alienate so many Socratic interlocutors. At the same time, the visitor also appropriates and repositions central aspects of Socrates, situating them in a larger methodological picture where both their strengths and their limita­ tions can be recognized.24 The transposition of these Socratic qual­ ities onto the visitor suggests that the selected traits are deemed appropriate to the philosopher per se. Socrates is put in his place qua individual, historically determined human being, but reinstated in a manner that transcends such individuality. 24 Many scholars view him as becoming increasingly “Socratic” in the course of these two dialogues (see e.g. Dorter 1987, 106; Scodel 1987, 151; Rosen 1995, 8; Weiss 1995, 214–15, 217; Howland 1998a, 207–15, 224). But on any reading he remains significantly different from Socrates.

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The visitor’s character traits (such as they are) overlap substan­ tially with those of Socrates as he is portrayed in these three dia­ logues. Like Socrates in Theaetetus, he is philosophically “gentle”—i.e. friendly, cooperative, benevolent, and accommodating—and at the same time “courageous,” daring even to “attack” the awe-inspiring Parmenides. Like Socrates, he hesitates at the magnitude of his task.25 And like Socrates, he has a sense of “serious play.” There are many light and humorous touches in his discourse, ranging from the “amuse­ ment” of the myth (Statesman 268de) to the playfulness with which the method of division is applied.26 At the same time, he lacks the elenctic Socrates’ characteristic irony at the expense of himself and others as individuals.27 Rather his humor suggests, in Skemp’s words, “fun made of humanity as such” (1987, 67). The visitor’s intellectual profile also has many points of contact with Socrates. Like Socrates he has an exceptional—though not perfect—memory, and repeatedly invokes its importance.28 Like Socrates the midwife he is aware of his own ignorance (e.g. Sophist 249e, Statesman 291b). He retains a marked sense of aporia,29 or Socratic bewilderment, even positioning himself, in Socratic fashion, as one who aspires to learn from the sophist’s wisdom (Sophist 244a). Like the elenctic Socrates, he articulates the issue that faces him by ask­ ing “What is x?” (ti esti ),30 pursues it by trying to find a definition based on a single common factor, and responds to a list of exam­ ples from the interlocutor by emphasizing the need for such a fac­

25

Sophist 217b3, cf. 242ab; Statesman 287d7, 297cd, 306a5, e2. Cf. e.g. Statesman 266ab (with Skemp 1987, 139), and 266c, which recalls the critique of Protagoras in Theaetetus (cf. Campbell 1867, 2:33). As Campbell puts it, “The spirit of scientific method and that of satire interpenetrate . . . so that it can be hardly known which of them is made the vehicle of the other” (1867, 2:34). See further Campbell 1867, 1:v, 24–5, 2:xix; Friedländer 1969, 3:284–7; Guthrie 1975–78, 5:132; Rosen 1979, 65–7; Skemp 1987, 181; Scodel 1987, 18 and passim; McPherran 1993, 114. 27 There are a few hints of irony (cf. Sophist 232e with Campbell 1867, 1:67; 239b; 239e with Rosen 1983, 188; 244a). But it is worth comparing e.g. Sophist 243a with the obvious irony of Theaetetus 152c, 181b, and 210c, which express much the same sentiment (cf. also Laws 886c). 28 E.g. Sophist 231de, 264c, 265b, 266d, Statesman 268e, 284c, 285c, 286bcd, 293a, 294d, 300c, 306d. Rosen observes that his memory is faulty at Sophist 231d, where he accepts Theaetetus’ inaccurate recollection (1983, 142–3; cf. Sophist 224d), and Lane points out that he misremembers his own division at 223c (1998, 29). 29 Sophist 236e, 238a, 239c, 241b, 243b, 245de, 249d, 250e, 264c; cf. also 217a5–6. 30 Sophist 217b3, 218c1, c6–7. 26

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tor.31 He values intellectual consistency,32 but takes a relaxed atti­ tude towards terminology.33 All these are familiar features of Plato’s Socrates. The visitor’s mode of address towards other speakers also resem­ bles Socrates, as distinct from other named characters in Plato, in an intriguing fashion. Eleanor Dickey has shown that both he and the nameless Athenian visitor in Laws use forms of address very much as Socrates does when he is the dominant character, in contrast to Parmenides, a named individual, who serves as the dominant char­ acter in his eponymous dialogue (1996, 126; cf. 111–19). This not only reinforces the hypothesis of the visitor’s fictionality, but strength­ ens the suggestion that Plato has developed certain Socratic features into attributes of the philosopher per se. At first blush, a speaker’s preferred forms of address may seem philosophically insignificant. But in fact, Socrates’ particular way of addressing others, also adopted by the visitor, emphasizes two key Socratic attributes, both of which are strongly marked in Theaetetus—his friendliness and his dominance in argument. He standardly and repeatedly addresses people with what Dickey calls “friendship terms” ( philos, hetairos etc.); but, as she shows, this usage is associated with moments of victory in argument.34 Such forms of address are still “polite and friendly.” Indeed, “it is precisely because polite and friendly addresses are polite and friendly that they can demonstrate the speaker’s control of the situation” (1996, 121; cf. also 135). Socrates’ usage thus forges an intriguing linguistic and cultural bond between these two aspects of his philo­ sophical persona—his friendliness and his dominance. It reinforces his emphasis on cooperative argument by suggesting, among other things, that philosophical authority may be dominant in a friendly rather than an agonistic fashion. It therefore makes sense that this feature of Socratic language, though at first sight idiosyncratic, should be retained as an attribute of the philosopher per se, and should accompany other, more obviously generalizable, “Socratic” aspects of the visitor.

31

Sophist 232a, 240a; cf. Theaetetus 146cd. Sophist 236e, 238d, 241e; Statesman 281d, 292cd, 305a; cf. Sophist 230b, 283b. 33 Sophist 225c, 226d, 267d; Statesman 260e, 261e, 275d, 302d; cf. Theaetetus 166b, 177de, 184c. 34 1996, 107–27. On friendliness and social dominance, cf. also Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 1167b17–1168a27. 32

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The most important resemblance between Socrates and the visi­ tor is closely linked to this dominance in argument. That is their shared philosophical creativity. Even in Theaetetus, with its elenctic structure, Socrates displays a vivid philosophical imagination, both in his long speeches (the midwife speech, the defense of Protagoras, and the digression), and in his striking use of imagery (the midwife, the birdcage, the block of wax). The Eleatic visitor likewise evinces an exuberant imagination in the range of his examples and images. And his myth in Statesman further supplements the analytical method of division with imaginative speculation of a kind that recalls the mythic creativity often displayed by Plato’s Socrates. At the same time, there are significant differences between the vis­ itor and Socrates in the way they exercise this intellectual imagina­ tion. For one thing, the visitor does not deprecate his own use of long speeches or hedge his positive exposition with disclaimers and reluctance, as Socrates standardly does.35 In Theaetetus, in particular, Socrates generates numerous ideas, but uses the midwife metaphor to repudiate his role as the source of the arguments under discus­ sion (161b). The visitor, by contrast, speaks for himself and takes full responsibility for his own ideas. Nor does he hesitate to assert definite opinions. From the start of each dialogue he leads strongly and assertively (Sophist 219a, Statesman 258b). In contrast to Socrates’ exploratory manner of proceeding, the visitor often speaks as if he knows what he is looking for and where the argument is heading. It is true that he echoes Socrates in his initial embarrassment at giv­ ing an expository discourse (Sophist 217d), and later suggests that his myth is disproportionately long (Statesman 277ab). But unlike Socrates, he ends up defending both these practices in principle: the exposi­ tory mode of discourse is necessary for the material in question (Sophist 217e), and length per se turns out to be unobjectionable (States­ man 286b–287a). Qua Socrates-substitute, then, the visitor serves to unmask certain aspects of the allegedly “infertile” Socrates, and indeed of Plato himself, by representing a method implicitly present (though officially denied) in Plato’s own use of dramatic form elsewhere. Myth and example have obvious Socratic connections. The method of division, by contrast, may look (and be) very different from the 35 Contrast e.g. Gorgias 505e–506c, Phaedrus 236c–237a, Republic 450ab. Only occa­ sionally does the visitor say things like “at least in my opinion” (Statesman 272c8–d1, 277a5, 291c9).

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elenchus, but it too has antecedents in the methods of Plato’s Socrates (cf. Phaedrus 265c–266b). The visitor acknowledges this by implicitly linking elenchus and division as two forms of separation or “cleans­ ing” (Sophist 226b–230e).36 He also echoes the language of the Socratic elenchus (cf. esp. Sophist 241e, 242b), acknowledges its value for “cleansing the soul” (Sophist 227c–231b), and critiques young Socrates in elenctic fashion.37 He even seems to have benefited personally from some such “cleansing” in the past, when his own youthful con­ fidence was replaced by aporia (Sophist 243b). Division also continues the elenctic Socrates’ concerns by offering a way of using the data of the human and material world. The visitor follows the notorious Socratic practice of accumulating examples (often of practical skills or technai ), subsuming it under a more comprehensive method, one that articulates our place in the world through the systematic inter­ relationship of innumerable skills. All aspects of the visitor’s philosophical method thus have links to Plato’s Socrates. But he develops some of them far beyond Socrates, and takes a broader view of the various methods and their distinc­ tive contributions, placing particular emphasis on the appropriate­ ness of different methods in different circumstances. Thus he posits the method of question and answer as one mode of discourse among several, each of which may be used in appropriate circumstances (Sophist 217c–e); he favors long or short discourses depending on the context (Statesman 286b–287a); he adapts his explanations to the present circumstances (Statesman 262c); he explains that the peda­ gogical use of visual or verbal images is relative both to the nature of the object and to the skills of the inquirer (Statesman 277a–c, 285e–286a); he does not claim that his is the only valid pedagogi­ cal method, asserting rather that everyone present will participate in educating Theaetetus, each presumably in his own fashion (Sophist 234e). The visitor thus weaves various elements of Plato’s various Socrateses into a larger scheme in which each such element takes its place, to be used as the situation demands. The subsuming of these elements into a larger picture posits “Socrates” as something to investigate

36 See Sayre 1969, 223–38; Guthrie 1975–78, 5:130–36; Berger 1982, 401; Morgan 1993, 94–5; Dorter 1994, 131. 37 See Gill 1995, 293.

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rather than to accept uncritically. This applies to Socrates’ ideas as well as his methods. For example, the visitor revisits the well-known Socratic issue of the unity of the virtues, but without identifying it as a particularly Socratic concern.38 Similarly, the “friends of the Forms” whom he critiques (Sophist 248a) obviously include the Socrates of Plato’s Phaedo and Republic; yet Socrates is not mentioned, and the “friends of the Forms” may not be confined to him.39 Plato thereby invites us not so much to criticize or reject Socrates in himself, as to situate his various attributes among a range of ideas and meth­ ods that are more or less valuable depending on the context and circumstances. By incorporating and criticizing the methods of Plato’s various Socrateses, the visitor who is willing to assault “father” Parmenides becomes a vehicle for Plato’s resistance to his own intel­ lectual “father.” Perhaps most significantly, the visitor brings out some of the lim­ itations of the distinctively Socratic method of elenchus. His discus­ sion of elenctic “cleansing” manifestly alludes to Socrates, but without tying the method exclusively to him. To begin with, the method is quite startlingly designated as a kind of sophistry (albeit a “noble” one).40 The visitor makes no mention of this “sophist’s” risk of arous­ ing hostility, emphasizing instead the enjoyment of the bystanders and the educational effectiveness of the method (Sophist 230c), nei­ ther of which is unproblematically true of the Socratic elenchus as ordinarily represented by Plato. The most notable difference from Socratic practice, however, is that on the visitor’s account, the pre­ liminary “cleansing” of the elenchus is to be followed by the provi­ sion of positive teaching (Sophist 230cd).41 This brings out one of the main problems of the elenchus as practised by Plato’s Socrates: its limitations as a method of discovering substantive ideas. The visitor’s analysis tacitly acknowledges that the elenchus per se is inade­

38 It is not in fact possible to identify it clearly as such (see Rowe 1995a, 239–40). For discussion of the unity of the virtues by other Socratics besides Plato see Kahn 1996, 13–14. For elements of this view in popular thought see Irwin 1998, 37–47. 39 Attempts to pin them down more specifically are inconclusive (cf. Campbell 1867, 1:125–6; Diès 1955, 293–7; Dorter 1994, 146–7; Brown 1998b, 194–5). 40 On the meaning of the word “noble” ( gennaios) in this context see Grote 1888, 219; Nehamas 1998, 220 n. 73. 41 Cf. e.g. Robinson 1953, 18–19; Kerferd 1954, 89; Sayre 1969, 152, 180–82; Howland 1998a, 203–4. Note, however, that this does correspond to the elenchus as represented in Theaetetus (Diès 1955, 272).

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quate for this purpose, and must be supplemented by positive teach­ ing, to be discovered and communicated by a different method. This combination of clear allusion to the elenctic Socrates with elements detaching that allusion from his specific representations in Plato gen­ erates an indeterminacy that enables the visitor’s critique of the elenchus to incorporate Socrates without being confined to him. The visitor’s account of the elenchus both values it highly, and at the same time makes it just one in a range of possible methods, each of which should be used in its proper place. Like the visitor, then, Plato is critical of his intellectual “father,” but continues to take him very seriously, and incorporates him into the discourse without killing him. In dramatic terms, this incorpo­ ration is signified by the continuing presence of Socrates in a sub­ ordinate role, combined with a remarkable absence of references, in these two dialogues, to his trial and death. I differ here from the many critics—such as Friedländer (1969, vol. 3), Klein (1977) and Rosen (1983)—who have seen the dramatic date of these works as the key to their interpretation. Despite their dramatic date on the eve of his trial (a date that is derived exclusively from Theaetetus), Socrates’ very minor role, together with the lack of emphasis on the specifics of the trial, suggests to me that on the contrary, Plato is shifting his gaze away from the life and death of the man with which so many of his works seem preoccupied to the point of obsession. To be sure, Socratic concerns remain vitally important, but the con­ text in which Plato now locates them is no longer dominated by Socrates’ personal story. Rather, Socrates has become one intellec­ tual figure among many, one whose activities have special value, but who is at the same time open both to intellectual criticism and to repositioning in a larger intellectual and political framework. Philosophy is now greater than Socrates. For the dramatic strategy by which Plato suggests this we may compare Aeschylus’ treatment of Clytem­ nestra in the Oresteia. After dominating Agamemnon, she reappears in the subsequent plays of the trilogy in increasingly attenuated form. But the issues she embodies—issues surrounding gender, reproduc­ tion, and power—remain central all the way through the trilogy, to the very end of Eumenides. Analogously, in Sophist and Statesman the person of Socrates is no longer the locus of Platonic anxiety; but the larger issues he embodies live on to be explored by others. To assert that these dialogues lack explicit dramatic reference to the trial and death of Socrates is not to deny that they touch on

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important related issues, or that they evoke the trial in less direct ways. Each of the two dialogues contains one particularly striking and substantial instance of such indirect reference. In both cases, however, these allusions to Socrates’ life and death serve to locate him within a larger context. In Sophist, this passage is the famous discussion of the “noble” sophist, which, as we have seen, alludes to Plato’s elenctic Socrates, without tying it specifically to him. In Statesman, the most unmistakable allusion to Socrates’ trial and death occurs in the visitor’s satire of Athenian democracy. In this imagi­ nary scenario, anyone who defies the law by seeking the truth and trying to be clever/wise (sophizomenos) should be called an inquirer into lofty matters (meteôrologos) and a prattling (adoleschês) sophist, and should be indicted and executed for corrupting the young and encour­ aging law-breaking and independence (or “self-rule”), since no one should be wiser than the law (Statesman 299bc). The allusion to the charges against Socrates is clear,42 its precise import and tone less so. The death of Socrates is—presumably—to be regarded as a bad thing. But a little later the visitor will declare that democracy, in comparison with other forms of government, is intrinsically weak and unable to do anything major (mega) for good or for evil (Statesman 303ab). This rather startlingly implies that from the visitor’s perspective Socrates’ upcoming death will not be a major evil—in contrast, one may suppose, to the mass-murders of tyranny, like those perpetrated by the Thirty Tyrants in Plato’s youth.43 It also implies that his philosophical achievement, made possible by the democracy in which he throve, was not a great good.44 If this seems incredible, we must remember two things: first, that the elenctic Socrates as portrayed by Plato nearly always fails to convert his inter­

42 See e.g. Campbell 1867, 2:153; Skemp 1987, 23; Klein 1977, 188–90; Miller 1980, 96–9; Rowe 1995a, 229; Lane 1995, 284–5; Howland 1998a, 275–6. Cf. also the closely similar language in Republic’s ship of state analogy (488e). 43 According to Ath. Pol. 35.4, fifteen hundred were killed by the Thirty. For the contrast between great (public) and small (private) achievements, cf. Republic 497a; Statesman 273c; Isocrates, Antidosis 84–5; Ober 1998, 237. Note that in Republic, the transition from justice writ large to justice writ small (368c–369a), i.e. from the state to the individual, coincides with the transition from the elenctic to the constructive Socrates (for this terminology see Blondell, 2002, 10–11). 44 The visitor, qua dramatic character, is of course unaware of Socrates’ upcom­ ing death. But he certainly knows of Socrates in life. Note also that even in Republic, where Socrates is the main speaker, tyranny is deemed worse than democracy.

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locutors to his way of thinking and living; and second, that any good he does accomplish is, by its very nature, on a small scale, directed more or less effectively to just one person at a time, in contrast to the large-scale work of the ideal ruler, or indeed the large-scale aims of Plato himself, qua writer, political theorist, and founder of the Academy.45 The visitor’s taxonomy of human political life thus decen­ ters Socrates’ life as well as his death. It would be tasteless, to say the least, to convey this within a dramatic framework of overt ref­ erences to the circumstances of his trial and execution. This displacement of Socrates enables Plato to suggest that the successful practice of philosophy transcends any one individual model— a transcendence we have already seen embodied in the person of the nameless, characterless visitor. I would develop this point fur­ ther by arguing that Plato’s Socrateses collectively represent his con­ tinuing efforts to grapple with the problems surrounding human individuality and its transcendence. As a result, Socrates is not just a specific unique individual, but actually comes to stand for such indi­ viduality, both personally and philosophically. This particular figure, as dramatized by Plato throughout the corpus, literally embodies indi­ viduality in mind, physique, personality, mode of inquiry and ped­ agogy. To displace him is therefore to reject the centrality of human idiosyncrasy to a proper understanding of the world, and to assert the value of a generic philosophical ideal that is not bound up with Socratic uniqueness but may be instantiated by various persons, such as the anonymous visitors from Elea and Athens. I suggest, then, that the marginalization of Socrates in these dia­ logues conveys, at least in part, the idea that Socrates is no longer enough. By this I do not merely mean that Plato has given up on the possibility of adapting Socrates to his changing purposes, or that there are limits to his “plasticity.”46 His Socrates proves so adapt­ able in so many ways throughout the Platonic corpus that this by

45 Cf. Rowe 1984, 27–8; Nehamas 1986, 315–16. Some have seen Socrates him­ self as standing for the true statesman in Statesman, as at Gorgias 521d (e.g. Rowe 1995a, 10, 179, 229). But this is difficult to square with the individuality of Socrates’ methods (cf. Statesman 295ab), his characteristic assertions of ignorance, and the visitor’s claim that the true statesman would be welcomed if he appeared (301d). 46 This is argued in detail by Long 1998. But in my view his argument does not escape the danger of circularity. Cf. also Stenzel 1940, 3–4.

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itself is not a sufficient explanation. Rather the point concerns unique­ ness per se. For Plato to re-use “Socrates” once again as the main speaker—no matter how he was characterized—would continue to suggest that he, and only he, is an adequate spokesman for philosophy. Even the blandest representation of this same character cannot be used as a vehicle to transcend his own uniqueness, since he carries with him the baggage of his other avatars. The very name “Socrates” is inseparable from the snub-nosed, bare-footed Athenian gadfly. If Plato wants to express a more generous—and ultimately more optimistic—view of the philosophic nature, he must escape the tyranny of his own creation. And this can only be done by silenc­ ing Socrates. The nameless visitor, by contrast, can function as a clean slate, whose views may be assessed exclusively on their intel­ lectual merits. What matters about him is not just his differences from Socrates, but the fact that he is not Socrates. But if Socrates is philosophically and dramatically unnecessary, and in some ways even a liability, why does Plato retain him at all in Sophist and Statesman, even in such a minor role? His place in these dialogues is comparable to that of the silent bystanders often present in dialogues that he himself dominates. In many such works, the other speakers are also reduced to silence by Socrates and his methods. In Republic, for example, Thrasymachus is silenced in a way that is compared to the taming of a wild animal.47 I suggest that in Sophist and Statesman Plato has analogously “tamed” his Socrates, and that this is what his silent supporting role in these dialogues betokens. That is, one purpose of retaining Socrates is to show his tacit approval of the visitor and what he stands for,48 including Plato’s decision to broaden the range of dominant speakers beyond Socrates himself. It thus gives a “Socratic” endorsement to a move away from Socratic dominance: by means of this Socrates’ complicity, all pre­ vious Socrateses are coopted. This takes on added significance in the light of the theme of philosophical paternity. Plato “assaults” his father-figure, Socrates, not just on an intellectual level, by critiquing and incorporating his ideas, but on a dramatic level, by reducing him to a walk-on part.

47 Republic 358b; cf. 336b, 336d, 341c, 354a. For the elenchus as a form of “tam­ ing” cf. also Theaetetus 210c, Sophist 230bc. 48 Cf. e.g. Bruns 1896, 282; Wengert 1988, 8–9.

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If I am right, then these “undramatic” late dialogues, with their minimal characterization, are more philosophically optimistic than many more richly characterized dialogues where Socrates remains firmly in control. For they demonstrate that there is still life after Socrates. At the same time, the continuing presence of any Socrates, no matter how anemic, indicates that he is not to be understood as superseded. By allowing us a range of philosophical choices the vis­ itor frees us from Socrates, as Plato has freed himself. But he also frees us to continue attempting to be some version of Socrates if we so choose. Socrates lives on, but embedded in a larger picture. He is also reinstated in a more subtle way. For if we emulate the core of philosophically desirable qualities embodied in the visitor, we will be “imitating” Socrates himself, in so far as these qualities are abstracted from his earlier avatars. We may imitate him selectively (as the visitor does, thanks to Plato), without trying to be exactly like him, either philosophically or personally. By losing Socrates’ partic­ ular identity, the visitor encourages us to imitate philosophical essen­ tials as opposed to superficial idiosyncrasies.49 This means that there may also be life after Socrates for Socrates. I have been arguing that Plato uses these two dialogues in part to put the idiosyncratic Socrates of many other dialogues squarely in his place. But as always, that Socrates has the last laugh. Not only do the “Socratic” dialogues continue to receive the most atten­ tion to this day, but the figure of Socrates continues to overshadow interpretation even of these two dialogues in which he plays virtu­ ally no role. The tyranny exerted by this cumulative Socrates is man­ ifest in the interpretive literature on Sophist and Statesman. Most of the commentators who make these works revolve around the trial and death of Socrates are primarily concerned with Socrates as he appears in other Platonic dialogues, not these ones. It is this that allows them to read large symbolic meanings into his silent and barely characterized presence in Sophist and Statesman.50 This focus may

49 That we should do this is the central argument of Nehamas 1998. But the qua­ lities he views as essentially Socratic are very different from those of the visitor. 50 If the death of Socrates is of overwhelming importance for understanding these dialogues, the lack of any reference to that event can only be construed as weak dramaturgy on Plato’s part. For example, when Sallis says that this is “what is most important to recall” at Sophist 254b (1996, 510), we may legitimately ask why, in that case, Plato does nothing at that moment to make us recall it (contrast e.g. Phaedo 63b and even Philebus 52e).

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be in part a reaction of desperation to the fact that there is so lit­ tle to be said about the visitor, a rush to fill the vacuum of his namelessness. But whatever its cause, to continue to insist on Socrates’ overwhelming personal importance, in defiance of the dramatic evi­ dence, is to refuse Plato the licence to declare independence from his philosophical father.

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METAPHYSICS AND INDIVIDUAL SOULS IN THE PHAEDO Allan Silverman

The Phaedo is unparalleled among the dialogues in its marriage of literary and philosophical quality. Moving effortlessly between drama and doctrine, it is at once an eulogy to Socrates and his way of life, an exhortation to all to face death with dignity and courage, and, I think, the dialogue in which Plato stakes his claim to be the true heir of Socrates. Indeed, it is his most compelling work because Plato harnesses all aspects of the dialogue form to defend a benefit to which we all, as Simmias notes (63cd), have a common claim, the immortality of the individual soul. My aim in this paper is to explore how Plato’s commitment to “proving” the immortality of the individual soul might have influenced the development of one of the Phaedo’s most famous philosophical theses, the “Hypothesis” of Forms at 99dff. Readers of every stripe rightly assume that Plato wants to prove the immortality of the indi­ vidual soul, since no one of the assembled, or any reader, can derive solace from the prospect that something not identical to himself sur­ vives death. Accordingly Socrates emphatically begins his defense by proclaiming that. “. . . I (§g∆ gãr) shall enter the presence, first of other gods both wise and good . . .” (63b5–7). Regardless of what other motives Plato might have had for developing the Hypothesis, Socrates says that if he is granted the premiss that there are Forms, he hopes “to reveal the nature of the cause (aitia) from them and to discover that the soul is immortal” (100b7–9). The Hypothesis shows how we are to think, in general, about the nature of coming to be and perishing. Having adumbrated his doctrine of unchang­ ing Forms that are (what each, respectively, is) and transient par­ ticulars that partake of the Forms, Socrates then argues specifically that soul is not the sort of thing to perish. If Plato’s proof is to succeed, he must then (1) individuate souls and (2) show that such souls are immortal and indestructible. Whether his argument proves that soul is immortal is a matter of great debate. Fortunately, I will not enter this debate, except perhaps on the margin. Rather, my

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special concern will be with the much less discussed question, how the Hypothesis shows that the individual soul, Socrates’ soul, Cebes’ soul, and your soul, is immortal. I will suggest that the Hypothesis of Forms, their nature, their relations to each other, and their relation to particulars is best under­ stood when viewed in light of this goal of showing that the indi­ vidual soul is immortal. Or to put it differently, I want to claim that if we stay focused on the dialogue’s goal of proving the immortality of the individual soul, we gain insight into 1) the hypothetical charac­ ter of the Hypothesis of Forms, including what the higher logoi might be; 2) the nature of Forms, especially their status as auta kath hauta onta; 3) the nature of the relation between particulars and Forms that Plato rather tentatively labels “participation”; and relatedly 4) the nature and status of the forms-in-us, what I will call “form­ copies.” Together these four points comprise the issue of what imma­ nence or inherence is in the Phaedo. Many have argued that Forms, in this dialogue, are immanent.1 Equally many others have contended that what is immanent is a form-copy, e.g., the large-in-Simmias.2 At issue is whether there is an intermediary involved in the participation relation between Forms and ordinary material particulars. Correlatively, at stake is the sta­ tus of the particular and its potential to individuate what is present to it, whether that be, for instance, the large-in-Socrates or the Large Itself. I will argue that the need to prove the immortality of an indi­ vidual soul, as opposed to the Form of Soul or a generic world-soul, augurs that form-copies are to be included in the ontological census of the Phaedo. Correlatively, I will argue that just as the material particular is a wholly contingent entity with no power to individu­ ate a soul that is present to it, so too, material particulars cannot individuate the form-copies that are present to them. In short, the need to prove the immortality of the individual soul results in an ontology in which form-copies are the property analogues of indi­ vidual souls. I will argue that in order for a soul to be individual and immor­ tal, it must be a primitive element in Plato’s ontology, an individ­ ual being, i.e. an on with an essence. This peculiar status as an 1

See especially Fine 1986. See Vlastos, 1969, and most recently Devereux 1994. See also Code (unpub­ lished paper). 2

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individual on provides the raison d’etre to include form-copies in an ontological census of the Phaedo. Its status as a being that somehow bears both accidental and necessary properties forces Plato to recon­ sider in what sense a Form, another auto kath hauto being, can be just its essence, i.e., monoeides, and in what sense it can be other things. And its status as somehow present to a body and bringing to it properties gives Plato reason to hesitate over the participation relation. “Argue” here is too strong a term, for not only is the Hypothesis a second sailing, whatever that means, but Socrates pointedly notes that he will not tackle the precise nature of the participation rela­ tion (100d) nor defend the Hypothesis by examining the higher logoi (101d–e). At best, then, he provides an adumbration of the meta­ physical principles at work in the Phaedo. In my conclusion, there­ fore, I will propose an analysis of what the notions of form-copy, individual soul, and Form might amount to, consistent with the Hypothesis of Forms. It is important to keep in mind the hypothetical nature of the final argument, not merely because it bears directly on the inter­ pretation of the relation between the immortality of the individual soul and the metaphysics of 99dff. This hypothetical tone also con­ tributes to the rhetorical force of the Phaedo itself. The arguments of the Phaedo feed into one another. The final argument is the culmi­ nation of the previous ones, the place where, if anywhere, the promis­ sory notes drawn earlier in the discussion are cashed. And yet Plato pointedly has Simmias express some doubt, apistia, about what has been said, and then has Socrates remind his listeners that the ini­ tial hypothesis remains to be considered “adequately” (107b4–9). Even Socrates, it seems, is not totally convinced by what he has said, since he begins his last exhortation to care for the soul with the conditional “If the soul is immortal . . .” (107c2ff.). This final hes­ itation reminds the reader of the undercurrent of uncertainty that permeates both the arguments of the dialogue and the framing ele­ ments: the unspecified questioner who thinks that the cyclical and final arguments conflict (103a); Socrates’ refusal to consider a chal­ lenge to the hypothesis itself (101); his admission that what he offers is a second sailing (99c8–d2); his warning about the ill affects of misology (89c11–d3); his reasons for taking up poetry 60d–61b; Crito’s inability, despite what he has heard that day (and previously), to buy into Socrates’ argument (115c–e); and, in the frame, Phaedo’s

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uncertainty about whether Socrates is faring well in Hades (58e–59a). By casting the final argument and, in effect, the whole of the dis­ cussion as hypothetical, Plato renders Socrates, and himself, more human. Plato and Socrates would like to know, as would we, that we, in the guise of our souls, will survive what is called “death.” At the end of the day then, they seem like us, not quite completely convinced of something we want desperately to know to be true. I take all these reservations to be genuine. Doubtless Plato would not want to expand upon the Hypothesis of Forms at the expense of honoring Socrates, and doubtless he wants to reinforce the Socratic notion that philosophy is a continuing conversation. I also think that Plato planned to return to the critical Hypothesis in other works. But, more importantly for my purposes here, I want also to insist, or if you prefer assume, that we take seriously the idea that at this stage of his development Plato has yet to work out an account of the first principles of the Hypothesis, in no small part because defend­ ing the immortality of the individual soul results in some of the more bewildering aspects of the Hypothesis of Forms.

Individual Souls, Forms and Form-Copies The Phaedo aims to convince us that we should care about our souls and that the best way to care for the soul is to live philosophically. Surely Plato did not think that caring for one’s soul was appropri­ ate only if the soul was immortal. But if he could prove that the individual never dies, then he would have shown us that our great­ est fear, death, is unwarranted, and hence, Plato argues, that we should worry about how we live our lives here, since that will dic­ tate or at least influence one’s later life. Nonetheless, many of the arguments and doctrines of the Phaedo pose problems for any con­ ception of personal survival. It is difficult to reconcile reincarnation and transmigration with any form of personal survival. More dis­ turbing, I think, are the problems posed for personal immortality by the Theory of Forms, the doctrine on which Plato relies most heav­ ily throughout the Phaedo. That the Doctrine of Forms and the nature of the soul are inti­ mately related is not new to the final argument. Socrates opens his defense (63e–69e) with the claim that the (philosophical) soul seek­

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ing truth wishes to be separate from the body. The human body, and everything material, is condemned as the source of confusion and falsehood. The soul achieves its desire when, disdaining the physical/sensible world, it regains knowledge of the Forms, the ultimate truth-bearers or truth-makers. We find in this passage for the first time in the dialogues the cru­ cial terminology of being “auto kath hauto,” or rather autê kath hautê— “itself by itself.” The auto kath hauto epithet applies initially to a soul when it is separated from a body and implies that the soul can be what it is when it is by itself, that is apart from the body. The epithet is then assigned to a function of the soul, logismos or rea­ soning, and finally to the objects of the soul’s reasoning, the Forms. Plato then expands the import of the notion: the soul is an auto kath hauto entity even when it is incarcerated. The expanded sense of the epithet is that the soul, and a Form, is whatever it is in its own right or in virtue of itself. Thus by the end of the opening argument we find that being auto kath hauto implies that a soul, and a Form, is what it is in virtue of itself, regardless of whether it is or is not separated from material particulars. These opening remarks also intimate that for something to be auto kath hauto need not entail that it has or is exactly one property. When separated from the body and most truly what it is, a soul is endowed with a special power, namely reasoning (70ab). The soul, prior to its initial incarceration, in and of itself studies the Forms. Thus each soul in this situation knows exactly the same things. When incarcerated, on the other hand, the soul acquires and gains prop­ erties. For instance, souls can be just or unjust, fearful or not, and desirous of different things. Here one soul will differ from another. (Because souls differ when incarcerated, Plato and Socrates must adopt different strategies to persuade members of the audience to eschew the bodily and pursue philosophy, or, failing that, use different approaches to encourage them to believe in the soul’s immortality, e.g., Pythagorean or Orphic myths.) Thus a soul, in and of itself, has the capacity to become something complex, in that it has the capacity to conjoin with a body. It appears then that at least with respect to the soul, an auto kath hauto item can in some sense be complex. Plato at this juncture does not develop the idea that an autê kath hautê entity can itself possess or be another autê kath hautê aspect, but the prospect is there. Thus one’s first brush with the

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doctrine of Forms and the language with which Plato develops it foreshadows crucial aspects of the Final argument.3 At the conclusion of the Affinity argument (78b4–84b8), Simmias and Cebes author objections to Socrates’ defense. Simmias’ is han­ dled in relatively short order (91c6–95a3).4 A response to Cebes’ counter-example of the cloak that eventually wears out, however, requires “a thorough inquiry into the whole question of the reason for coming-to-be and passing away” (95e1–96a1). Socrates’ autobi­ ography follows with its well-known attack on physical causes and its pregnant wish for a truly complete teleological account. Unable to find it himself or learn it from another, Socrates offers to make a display, epideixis, of his infamous “second sailing.” This method consists of hypothesizing on each occasion the theory that he judges strongest, putting down as true whatever things seem to him in accord5 with it and putting down as not true whatever do not. Suspecting that Cebes and the rest are still at sea, he expands upon these initial remarks: the class of reasons that he is dealing with is that of the much bruited entities, the Forms, such as the Beautiful itself, the Good and Just themselves, and the rest. Hypothesizing that these Forms are something, he hopes to display the aitian and prove that the soul is immortal. What follows next according to the Hypothesis (tå •j∞w §ke¤noiw) is that “if anything is beautiful besides the beautiful itself, it is beau­ tiful for no other reason at all than that it participates in the Beautiful; and the same goes for everything” (100c4–6). On this basis Socrates famously dismisses all those “wise reasons” for something’s being beautiful, such as a color or a shape. He clings instead to the simple-minded aitia, that nothing else makes something beautiful except the beautiful itself “whether by its presence or communion or what­ ever the manner and nature of the relation may be, as I don’t go so far as to affirm that” (100d4–7). In the next page Socrates repeats 3 The doctrines of Forms and the immortality of the soul are linked elsewhere in the Phaedo prior to the final argument, most notably in the Argument from Recollection and the Affinity argument. Plato emphasizes that his account of the soul is somehow dependent on the doctrine of Forms. But this is, I think, a puz­ zling claim. From the metaphysical perspective, it seems that Forms and soul are logically and ontologically independent. 4 I do not mean to diminish Simmias’ appeal to harmonia. In its evolutionary guises, it is a perennial contender as an account of psychic phenomena. 5 The meaning of this notion is desperately difficult to make out. See Gallop 1975 on 100a3–9, pp. 178–81.

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the simple-minded explanation for twoness and everything else. Concluding the first phase of the argument, he proclaims his readi­ ness to cling to the safety of the Hypothesis. Were one to lay hold of it, he allows that he would not meet the challenge until he had examined its consequences. Only after he had examined them for consistency or inconsistency with the initial Hypothesis would he give an account of that Hypothesis itself, positing another above it, whichever seemed to be the best, until he came to something ade­ quate (101d4–8). The grammar and the meaning of these last remarks are unclear. It is difficult to imagine what logos could be above the Hypothesis of Forms. Many have looked to the teleological account hinted at in the autobiography, and thence to the form of the Good in the Republic or the construction of the cosmos in the Timaeus. While such an effort might be required in the fullness of philosophical time, there is a more immediate alternative. Extending the insight of Rowe and others,6 I think that what is “above” the Hypothesis of Forms are various specifications of the ontological relations employed in the metaphysical account of Forms, particulars, souls, and anything else that figures in Plato’s special ontology. In the language of the tra­ dition, what is “above” the special ontology of Forms are not spe­ cial entities from which the Forms themselves are derived, but the general ontological framework of which they are a crucial part. That is to say, we would start from the initial hypothesis that there are Forms and its first “derivative” that particulars are what they are by partaking of Forms. We note that Socrates leaves open the question of what the participation relation amounts to, as well as the peculiar way of being that is enjoyed by Forms. Let us say that the peculiar way of being enjoyed by Forms is Being and that enjoyed by particulars is Partaking. Then we might ask whether Being is best viewed as self-characterization (with Vlastos 1954), as Identity (with Cherniss and Allen 1965a), or as superlativization, i.e., the notion that a Form is the perfect exemplar of a property which particulars have in some approximate fashion (Malcolm 1991).7 We could then consider the consequences each of these higher

6

See Rowe, 1993a, ad loc., 1993b, and Code (unpublished paper). There are numerous others who maintain each of these positions, and many positions in between. 7

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hypotheses generates for the relations of Forms to one another, for whether Forms are appropriately simple or complex, and so on. On the side of particulars, we can then view Socrates’ remarks about the participation relation as inviting us to hypothesize alternative accounts of that relation and to investigate the consequences these alternatives might have for particulars and Forms. For instance, we can wonder whether it is possible for a particular both to Partake of certain forms and to Be others. And last but not least, we would have to consider how the Hypothesis of Forms and its first “deriv­ ative” comports with soul and its nature and abilities. To provide and examine the higher logoi is not then to give a second-order expla­ nation of how Forms explain the generation and corruption of par­ ticulars. It is rather to display an ontological framework in which Forms, other entities, and the primitive relations of Being and Partaking are defined and function. To this task I will turn in my conclusion. We might then on this line of reasoning expect from the remaining stages of the argument a reasonably neutral depiction of some of the work done by the Forms and the relations of Being and Partaking pursuant to a proof of the soul’s immortality. I think that in the ensuing pages Plato starts in on this task. Plato next attempts to make more precise the manner in which Forms can explain facts about the largeness and smallness of par­ ticulars. The key thesis concerns opposite Forms and subjects which partake of these Forms. The Forms of Largeness and Smallness are said to be not willing to be large and small at the same time, whereas the subject-particulars can be so. At 102d–e, in his effort to delin­ eate these differences, Socrates introduces an apparently additional player in the account, the forms-in-us. Like the Forms themselves, the largeness-in-Simmias and the smallness-in-Socrates do not per­ mit of becoming small or large respectively. These opposite formsin-us must, at the approach of their respective opposites, either get out of the way or perish. The status of these forms-in-us has been the subject of important debate over whether Platonic Forms are immanent or transcendent. Those who would deny that there are form-copies treat talk of them as just the shadow cast by the participation relation itself. All there is, according to their account, are the Forms partaken of and the subjects which partake of Forms. When Socrates partakes of Largeness, we can then speak of “the-large-in-Socrates.” When he ceases to

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partake, we can then say that the large Socrates perishes, since obvi­ ously Forms do not perish.8 To their detractors, the very notion of a form-copy is problem­ atic in at least two ways. First, if form-copies are responsible for the characteristics of the particular whose copies they are, then we seem to violate the safe explanation, which assigns that responsibility to the Forms themselves. Second, a form-copy seems a doubly depen­ dent entity. On the one hand, it is supposed to be an instance of a Form. How then is it related to a Form? If it, like the particular to which it is present, partakes of its Form, this augurs an endless regress of partakings. If it, like the Form of which it is an instance, Is the Form, this portends the collapse of the Form and form-copies. For instance, if a Form is identical with its essence, and if the form-copy is also identical with that same essence, then by the transitivity of identity form-copy and Form would turn out to be identical.9 At a minimum, critics are right to demand a detailed ontological account of the status of form-copies and Forms. On the other hand, the dependence of form-copies on particu­ lars is perhaps even more problematic. If particulars are nothing in their own right, that is, if a particular is whatever it is in virtue of partaking in a Form, then once we admit form-copies, a particular turns out to be a collection or bundle of property-instances. But how then are form-copies to be individuated? For if the beautiful-in-Helen differs from the beautiful-in-Achilles because it is in Helen while the latter is in Achilles, then we should be able to independently iden­ tify Helen and Achilles. But each of them is nothing more than their bundled form-copies. Thus we find ourselves in the circle of identi­ fying a form-copy on the basis of the particular whose copy it is, and in turn identifying the particular in terms of the form-copies which comprise them. Rejecting form-copies, however, is not without difficulties. Texts indicate a difference between the form-copies and both the particulars

8 The case against form-copies is also carried by a textual argument. The dia­ logues, according to the opponents, never explicitly mention form-copies and nowhere else in the metaphysics of Plato is appeal made to them. This requires that we dis­ count or explain away passages in the Parmenides and Timaeus. But if they are deployed in the Phaedo, it matters little whether they are utilized elsewhere. 9 See Cherniss 1965, Allen 1965a, Vlastos 1981, Nehamas 1979, and Silverman 1990.

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and the Forms themselves, especially those where the properties-inparticulars are said to have the power to withdraw or perish. Since no Form can perish, defenders of form-copies deny that the properties-in-particulars could be Forms. What must perish are formcopies. Moreover, the notion that Plato’s are immanent Forms flies in the face of everything we have learned at our father’s knee about Platonic Forms, our father here being Aristotle. Platonic Forms are transcendent, Aristotelian Forms are immanent. How could a Form be an auto kath hauto or a separated on, if it is in many particulars? If the Doctrine of Forms is a hypothesis all of whose implications Plato is not yet prepared to work out, both the possibility that formcopies are what are in particulars and the possibility that Forms are immanent would be alternative ways of conceiving of the participa­ tion relation. The difficulties rehearsed above would then point to the areas in which we might find consequences not in accord with the initial hypothesis. To chose between these alternatives requires more information, some of which will be found in the remaining stages of the final argument. The rest will have to be derived from a rational reconstruction of the principles governing the metaphysics of the final argument. Let us see then what we can find. Form-copies, opposite Forms, and participation are introduced as part of the account of the clever aitia. The nature of the clever aitia and the very items of which they are causes are much disputed. There are three distinct, though related, areas of controversy. The first concerns the status of the items which bear the opposites. Some passages suggest that there are Forms of Fire, Snow and Man. Others indicate that only material particulars are under consideration. With or without Forms, it is difficult to explain in what sense being human or being fire is predicated of Socrates or my campfire: if Simmias is essentially human, then it seems to follow that Simmias would be an auto kath hauto on. Since Plato refrains from granting this status to any of these items, I infer that particulars such as Simmias are accidentally everything they are.10 That is, they are partakers or par­ ticipants, for they can in fact lose any of their properties. A second difficulty concerns the relationship between the proper­ ties for which there are Forms. In the Affinity Argument and else­ where in the Phaedo, a Form is said to be monoeidetic or simple: 10 This is a controversial assumption, the proper defense of which would require at least another paper. See Silverman 1992a.

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each Form would then be exactly and only the very property it is, however we are to account for that “is.” Beauty is what it is to be beautiful, and it is nothing else. With the development of the clever aitia, Plato now seems to countenance Forms that have more than one property; the Three is what it is to be three and it is also, and necessarily, odd. If there is a Form of Fire, it is what it is to be Fire and it is also, and necessarily, hot. The third difficulty is in understanding the notion that a Form brings with it another Form, and does so in a way that is consis­ tent with the simple aitia (and with Socrates’ criticisms of the causes of the physicalists). According to the simple aitia, Illness and Illness alone is responsible for my sickness. According to the clever aitia, it seems that fever is also responsible. Now the intuition that a Form brings with it another Form, or excludes a second, is best supported by logical or conceptual considerations. If what affects the particu­ lar is a form-copy, it is hard to conceive of how a form-copy of three could also be a form-copy of odd. Form-copies are unit-properties par excellence: the beauty-in-Helen is beautiful and nothing else; the three-in-my-trio just three. Thus if we are to take seriously the notion of “bringing along,” we must assume that a form-copy of oddness always and necessarily accompanies the form-copy of Threeness. The justification for such a claim would be that as a matter of con­ ceptual analysis The Three Itself and the Odd Itself are appropri­ ately related.11 Form-copies would then remain simple properties, inheriting the moniker “monoeidetic” from the now “polyeidetic” Forms. Particulars, too, of course turn out to be complex, though contingently complex, entities. Why did Plato complicate his picture of simple Forms and depen­ dent particulars? There are familiar responses to this query: “He was honestly perplexed about foundational principles such as self-predication and non-identity”; “His theory was in a developmental stage, with the all the problems to which the Parmenides and the works of the critical period draw our attention”; “He was, for reasons he chooses not to make explicit, keeping things back from the reader.” I think that none of these will do. Though I am sympathetic to the

11 The same analysis would, of course, be appropriate were we to conclude that it is the Forms themselves, as opposed to the form-copies, that are responsible for the properties of the particulars.

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notion that the doctrine of Forms is in its infancy, I think his ratio­ nale can be traced back to the soul and Plato’s desire to prove that individual souls are immortal. The last phase of the final argument applies to the soul the dis­ tinctions adumbrated in the clever aitia analysis. The opposite prop­ erties are Aliveness and Deathness—excuse the barbarisms. Plato aims to show that Aliveness brings with it Imperishability. Note that the very structure and number of Forms is different from that found in the clever aitia. There we had a Form or occupier, Fire, that brought with it an opposite, Heat. Here we have one of two oppo­ sites, Life, that brings with it a third property, Imperishability. The complications are compounded as soon as we introduce the soul and try to locate it in analogy with the clever aitia: is a soul an occu­ pier or what is occupied? Some align the soul with the particular bit of fire. Here both the soul and the fire are said to be essentially Hot and Alive, respectively. (Proponents of this view deny that there is a Form of Fire or a Form of Soul.) The problem then is to say what it is that is fiery and alive. In the case of fire, let it be a log that is aflame and hot. The particular fire then is individuated by the log which happens to be on fire and hence is hot. What about the soul? The analog would be for the particular soul to be indi­ viduated by a body which happens to be alive. But it does not seem proper that the body individuate the soul or that it be the proper bearer of the properties that soul, when present to a body, brings with it. For while Fire brings fire and heat to the log, as long as the log is aflame, we can not say that soul brings life and imperisha­ bility to the body, as long as it is alive. Moreover, I do not think that the body can individuate the soul. First, since the soul is an auto kath hauto entity capable of being what it is when separated from the body, it cannot depend on the body for its being. The thrust of the opening remarks was to condemn the body and render it depen­ dent on soul. Second, if the body accounts for the individuation of the soul, one must treat the soul as a Form or universal or deny that it is what it is in its own right, i.e., an auto kath hauto entity. But neither of these seem suitable for Plato’s purposes. If there is a Form of Soul, then particular souls would have to partake of it. Certainly bodies do not. Many have thought that in the final argument the soul is a sub­ stance. While the Phaedo itself offers no detailed account of what a substance is, we can safely claim that a necessary condition for being

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a substance is possession of an ousia or essence. If soul is a sub­ stance, then we should ask whether it is general in the same fash­ ion as the Forms, which are the only substances universally accepted in the Phaedo, or whether it is somehow like the particulars such as Simmias, items which some think also qualify as substances. If soul is a Form, then Plato would seem to be abandoning the goal of the dialogue. But the very presence of the final argument suggests that soul is not a Form; for given that all Forms are immortal, he would not need the elaborate argument of the last pages to prove its immor­ tality. Since no one thinks that Plato wants to prove that the Form of Soul is immortal, the logic of the dialogue dictates that at the end of the day Plato admits into his ontology an individual sub­ stance, that is an individual endowed with an essence. Because it is an individual, a soul is unlike a Form. Because it is essentially what it is, a soul is unlike a particular. While I think that this is a step in the right direction, it is too quick. What would it be for some­ thing to be at once both individual and essentially what it is, an item moreover that is capable of withdrawing from what it is pre­ sent to? If there is an analog to an individual soul, it is a form-copy. The military metaphor of “withdraw or perish,” initially applied to formcopies, seems obviously designed with the individual soul in mind. Since a soul cannot perish, if the Final Argument is successful, it must withdraw. If there are form-copies, they too must accept one of these alternatives. Most of their defenders have thought that formcopies must perish, either because they seem inherently tied to their particulars, or because the argument at 106e–107c seems to imply that they do perish. I think that neither of these reasons is com­ pelling. Form-copies, like souls, withdraw. The crucial similarities between form-copies and souls concern their individuality and way of being. A form-copy is, I claimed, exactly one thing: the beautiful-in-Helen is beautiful and just beau­ tiful. So too, I am assuming, the soul is an individual in that it is exactly one thing, its essence or what it is to be soul. They differ, however, in that the soul is other things besides what it is, namely Alive and Imperishable. Were the sheer number of properties the criterion for individuality, then souls would not qualify as individu­ als. But it is not the criterion. What makes Forms, form-copies and souls individuals is their relation to their ousia: they are all auto kath hauto beings. They are what they are in virtue of themselves; and,

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with respect to what they are, their respective essences, each is an individual. In the case of the form-copy, I maintained that it is related to its essence in the same manner as the Form of which it is a copy is related to that same essence: Beauty Itself Is beautiful and so too Is the beautiful-in-Helen. I have called this way of being had by Forms “Being.” So form-copies, like Forms, are Be-ers. I suggest that the same is true of souls. Either in virtue of being related to the Form of Soul, or simply in virtue of their place in Platonic metaphysics, the final argument indicates that a soul is also essen­ tially what it is, its essence. In virtue of that relation, souls are also Be-ers. If we can stipulate that to Be an essence is to be a sub­ stance, it follows that souls, form-copies and Forms are all substances for Plato. Given that souls, at the outset of the Phaedo, were declared to be auto kath hauto onta, that they are like Forms with respect to Being should come as no surprise. The metaphysical status of the formcopy is another matter. But since they are grouped with Forms and against particulars in their need not to admit opposite Forms, and since like the Form and unlike the particular they are called by the onoma of the Form and not its eponym, there is reason to admit them into Plato’s ontology with the rank of substance. All the more so because a form-copy derives its single quality or property from the Form of which it is a copy, not from the particular to which it is temporarily attached. On the contrary, the particular acquires its character from the form-copy which is present to it in virtue of its partaking in the appropriate Form. The same is true of soul: the individual soul either derives its nature from the Form of Soul, if there is one, or it is simply assumed to be its essence. The body to which it is present does not cause it to be the way it is, though, in virtue of its being present to a body, a body—or a person—comes to have certain properties. Notice here that the notion of “present to” is somewhat different in the case of form-copies and souls. The former are had by particulars in virtue of partaking in Forms; but bodies do not come to have souls in that fashion. Here again we can see reasons why Plato should hesitate to be precise about the participation relation. If there are a variety of participation relations, and if both formcopies and souls are essentially what they are, i.e., are auta kath hauta onta, then there is no metaphysical reason to proscribe form-copies from withdrawing from particulars. On the contrary, since possess­

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ing an ousia is, for Plato, the superlative way of being, it is no more likely that a form-copy can perish than it is for a Form or a soul to perish. Each can be what it is apart from those particulars. Scholars have hesitated to allow that form-copies withdraw because they have difficulty of conceiving how a form-copy can be individuated apart from the particular whose copy it is. But then there should be equal difficulty in conceiving of Socrates’ soul separate from his body. While we may find this hard, Plato did not. Our difficulties, I think, are due to a bias towards the material particular. But in the Phaedo, the bodily is so eviscerated that it cannot, I think, serve either as a substance or even as a principle of individuation. Perhaps this den­ igration is part and parcel of the rhetorical strategy; or perhaps Plato, unlike Socrates, has metaphysical contempt for matter.12 But if the ordinary particular is nothing but a bundle of properties, or formcopies, then just as the soul-in-Socrates withdraws and remains what it is, a soul, while Socrates’ body dies, so too the beautiful-in-Helen withdraws, when approached by an opposite, and remains what it is. As when Helen loses her soul something departs, so too when she loses her beauty it is possible that something departs. The loss of her beauty then need not be the literal perishing of the formcopy, but its absence where before it was present. Let me touch quickly on the argument at 105e–106c7. Plato offers a series of counterfactuals about the withdrawal and perishing of fire, snow, three, hot, cold and the odd. It is unclear from the lan­ guage of the counterfactuals when or whether we are talking about a particular trio or bit of fire or snow, or whether we are talking about form-copies, e.g., the three-in-my-trio, or the-heat-in-my-fire. Plato initially seems to be talking about particular bits of fire with­ drawing were the Cold to approach. If it is particulars under dis­ cussion, then we cannot derive implications about the status of form-copies (though of course the passage then could be cited to show that there are no form-copies in the Phaedo).13 On the other

12 In the Timaeus, Plato will develop an elaborate metaphysical account accord­ ing to which what we call “a particular” is a region of the receptacle where a col­ lection of mimêmata enter and exit. Since the receptacle is ultimately characterless, and since any collection of form-copies, i.e., mimêmata, can exit a region of the receptacle, Platonic particulars turn out to be nothing in their own right. See Silverman, 1992b and Frede 1988. 13 So Code (unpublished paper) and Fine 1986.

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hand, it seems to me that sometimes the language suggests that Plato is alluding to form-copies, especially at 106b7–9. But if we are licensed to draw any conclusions about form-copies, we should not rush to the conclusion that they perish. The form of the argument is “were the fire-in-the-log imperishable (in the same way as the soul), then it would have to withdraw at the approach of its opposite. But the fire-in-the log is not imperishable (in the same way as the soul.)” From the denial of this antecedent we can draw no conclusions. And even from the rhetorical follow-up at 106b7ff. we can conclude at best that it does not have to withdraw, i.e., it may perish. But then again it may withdraw. Finally, the counterfactual need not carry any implications about the actual status of form-copies: they may in fact be, like the soul, imperishable.

A Provisional Account of Being and Partaking I want to try to sketch a more precise theory of Being and Partaking in light of the nature of the individual soul. Its archai are three theses: 1) There are individual souls and they are essentially whatever they are; and, in virtue of what they essentially are, they are nec­ essarily other things. 2) There are two primitive ways of being in the Phaedo, Being and Partaking. Forms Are. Particulars partake. 3) Plato is offering an incomplete account of his metaphysics. We readers of the Phaedo can only speculate as to how his hypotheses are to be extended, defended, or rejected. Let me begin with the second thesis. Broadly speaking, I regard Partaking as a characterizing relation and Being as a logicizing rela­ tion: by “logicizing” I mean to indicate that 1) it always and only connects, if you will, essence to whatever possesses an essence; 2) it is not the same as identity; and 3) it is a non-characterizing rela­ tion. Perhaps the easiest handle on these notions is provided by con­ sideration of the notorious self-predication claims, e.g., Beauty is Beautiful. Such a claim predicates of Beauty the ousia of Beauty, the “whatever it is to be beautiful.”14 It may follow that Beauty and the

14

See Nehamas 1979.

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essence of beauty are identical, but the self-predication statement does not express this. Nor does it characterize Beauty as a beauti­ ful object, nor hence as something superlatively beautiful. It is pos­ sible to construct a Greek sentence that does assert this, but the Greek here would be metechein or metalambanein, etc., not einai. Conversely, whenever an ousia is predicated of something, it is predicated via Being, not partaking. Partaking, on the other hand, signifies char­ acterization. Thus any particular, by partaking in Beauty, is or becomes a beautiful object in the ordinary sense of being qualified or characterized by beauty. The ontological priority of Forms over particulars is captured by the notion, formulated in the first “deriv­ ative” from the Hypothesis of Forms, that a particular is, e.g., beau­ tiful in virtue of having something that Is (einai ) beautiful. Given these two distinctive ways of Being, let us consider some of the metaphysical issues raised by the account of the Clever Aitia. There is much debate about the range of Forms in the Phaedo, stem­ ming in part from the remark that Simmias is not tall in virtue of being Simmias, and in part from the kind of opposite properties found at 99dff. I think that the opposite properties are selected because of Plato’s project: to prove that soul is immortal, he needs to secure the opposition of Life and Death and thence Life’s rela­ tion to Imperishability. Moreover, to restrict the range of Forms to compresent opposite properties ignores the central idea of the sec­ ond sailing, that the Doctrine of Forms will provide an account of coming-to-be and passing away in general. Many who limit Forms also claim that the expression “Simmias’ being Simmias” (102c1–2) amounts to the essential predication of an essence of Simmias, and hence deny that Simmias partakes in Humanity Itself. But if par­ ticulars have essences in the same way that Forms have essences, then it becomes problematic to say why there can be no knowledge of the sensible world, as well as why the sensible world deserves to be denigrated so violently in comparison to Forms. Since on my account of the Hypothesis in the Phaedo, particulars participate and only participate, I do not think that we should take the “one off ” remark about Simmias’ being Simmias as indicating that with respect to some properties, particulars, like Forms, Are what they are. When we turn to consider the role of Forms in the account of the clever aitia, matters are more complicated. In light of the Affinity Argument, it seems that no Form could be related to another Form: a Form cannot be monoeides and complex. Complexity is the mark

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of the particular. On the other hand, nothing in the Hypothesis of Forms precludes a Form from being or having a property other than its essence. Moreover, there can be little doubt that one of the con­ sequences developed in the clever aitia is to allow Forms to be the very thing each is and to be other things besides. Regardless of whether we accept that there are Forms of Fire and Snow, there are some Forms, Three and Life to name two, that clearly are related to other Forms, the Odd and Imperishability, respectively.15 Given the relation between Forms, we need to distinguish how a Form is related to its ousia from how it is related to properties which, while always found with a given Form, are not the same as its ousia. To capture the notion that a Form is an auto kath hauto on, I have said that a Form is related to its essence or ousia via Being. To capture the notion that it is monoeides, I want now to stipulate that there is exactly one ousia so predicated of a Form. It follows that if anything else is predicated of the Form, say the Form of Oddness of the Three Itself, then it is not predicated via Being. Hence, if there are only two ontological relations, it appears that Forms would have to partake and thus be characterized by the properties which are nec­ essary accompaniments of their respective essences. The Form of Three has and has necessarily Oddness, because what it Is, its Essence, is what it is to be Three. The doctrine of Forms must be considered a hypothesis in part because Plato has not worked out these relations between Being, Partaking and Forms in the Phaedo.16 But when we focus on the final argument of the Phaedo, we can see why Plato may have been pres­ sured to expand the powers of Forms to include being complex or being related to other properties via (necessary) having/partaking. With an eye to the final proof for Immortality, it would not do to leave soul capable of being simply and solely what it is, namely a soul. Into the proof must come at least the Form of Life and the property of Imperishability. The individual soul must in fact be

15 The relations of Forms to one another is a principal part of the metaphysical explorations of the late dialogues. I think that the Meno, the Euthyphro, and the debates over the Unity of Virtue suggest that Plato had earlier considered how Forms were related to one another. 16 In my view, Plato abandons the sort of relations between properties developed in the Phaedo, though he retains the relation between Forms for other special Forms, including Beauty.

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characterized by these properties (see below). Hence if Forms are to provide the conditions that will enable the proof to go through, they too must (be thought to) have the properties to which they are nec­ essarily related. On my account, an ordinary material particular has a form-copy which Is what it is. Partaking, therefore, is a mediated relation and does not directly connect an ordinary particular and a Form. A material particular is a bundle of form-copies. The Form then need not be immanent, since another essentially endowed item is able to provide the grounds for the characterization of the material partic­ ular that is marked by partaking. But if the form and the form-copy both enjoy the same way of being related to the same essence, how do they differ? By allowing Forms to have properties, Plato can dis­ tinguish the Form from the form-copy. Form-copies are not com­ plex; that is, a form-copy is a true logical individual, something incapable of bearing more than one property. The property that such an entity must bear is the essence of the Form of which it is a copy. A form-copy is essentially what it is; and what it Is, is exactly and only its essence. Intuitively, the difference is clear within the Phaedo: form-copies are logically simple and immanent whereas Forms are not.17 Given the picture, nothing prohibits a form-copy from departing or perishing. Finally, the soul. I think it is fair to say that Plato just assumes that there are souls, and assumes that souls are individuals. I think that the peculiar effort of Plato’s in the Phaedo was to try to place the individual soul within his metaphysical picture so as to prove its immortality and thereby provide the philosopher and non-philosopher with a compelling reason to care for how one lives one’s life. As Plato himself indicates, the task is not completed within the Phaedo. Still, we can see from the Hypothesis presented that there two kinds of projects that must be undertaken. One is the ontological task, to specify the nature of the soul, to settle whether or how a Form can partake of another Form, and finally to detail the material nature of the particular. The second is the task of the moral psychologist, to define the various capacities so as to embrace both the differences in human lives and the unity of our goal, namely the good life. 17 Note that insofar as Form and essence are identical, the separation of Form from particular still holds. On the other hand, it will turn out that Form is not separable from form-copies, since the essence will be predicated of both of them.

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These capacities, taken in conjunction, will also differentiate the soul from other things, but not necessarily from other souls, or at least human souls. Indeed, not distinguishing our souls from one another is important to Plato’s ethics and his account of the cosmos, how­ ever much it complicates his goal of persuading us to care for our souls. The dialogues of the middle and late periods are designed to com­ plete these tasks. The metaphysical inquiries of the Parmenides, Sophist and Timaeus flesh out the metaphysics of the Phaedo. While Plato, I would argue, does not abandon the principal tenets of the Phaedo, he develops an account of Forms that requires them to partake selec­ tively of a special kind of Form, the “megista genê.” The Timaeus, in its turn, offers an elaborate account of material particulars that, while lending them stability, denies them any essential properties. It falls to the Republic, Phaedrus and Philebus to detail the nature of the soul and develop the moral psychology. In so far as a soul is a self-mover, an individual soul is essentially alive and is an auto kath hauto being, capable of separate existence from the body with which it associates. Souls are primitive individual substances, immortal and imperishable. They are primitive substances because they have an ousia. They are primitive individuals because Plato did not believe that one could account for particularity or individuality wholly in terms of general notions. While the metaphysics of soul is important, it is a means to an end. The Phaedo is an eulogy, and its hypothetical proof of immor­ tality is designed to persuade us that Socrates is still alive. But the real proof of his continued existence are the great ethical dialogues of the Republic and especially the Philebus, where Plato returns us to Socrates’ real concern, the care of the soul.

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COMMENTS ON BLONDELL AND SILVERMAN Daniel Devereux

Although Ruby Blondell and Allan Silverman discuss two of Plato’s most “metaphysical” dialogues, their approaches to the Phaedo and Sophist differ dramatically. Silverman gives us what might be called an uncompromisingly “analytic” discussion of the metaphysics of the Phaedo, while Blondell focuses on literary aspects of the Sophist; in particular, on Plato’s treatment of the Eleatic Stranger. Both dis­ cussions are extremely interesting and rewarding in their different ways, but they present a daunting challenge to a commentator seek­ ing to discover unifying themes or unexpected connections between the two. One is reminded of Protagoras’ response to Socrates’ attempt to convince him of the similarity between piety and justice: “Well, justice resembles piety in a way, since in fact anything resembles anything else in some way or other” (Protagoras 331d1–3). I will not try to show how even opposites resemble each other in a way; I think the valuable lesson that comes from reading the two papers together is that we come to see that both approaches are necessary for a full understanding of a Platonic dialogue. My comments on Blondell’s fascinating paper will focus on two themes: (a) the relationship between the Stranger and Plato’s Socrates, and (b) the relationship between Plato himself and the Stranger. On the whole, I am in agreement with the connections Blondell draws between the figure of Socrates and Plato’s portrayal of the Stranger. But I disagree with one important claim that she makes about their similarity. She says that one way in which the Stranger is like Socrates is in being aware of his own ignorance, and that “he retains a marked sense of aporia.” But it seems to me that the Stranger is not por­ trayed as being in aporia. The search for a definition of the sophist ends, not in aporia, but with the confident claim that they have dis­ covered and explained the nature of the sophist. Moreover, Theodorus’ report of their previous conversation (at 217b) appears to indicate that the Stranger possessed knowledge of the nature of the sophist prior to his discussion with Theaetetus; his “search” is in effect a way of leading Theaetetus and the others to an understanding that

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he already possesses. If he already knows what the result of the “search” is going to be, it looks as if the various parts of the search are “choreographed” by him. As Blondell says, he “often speaks as if he knows what he is looking for, and where the argument is head­ ing.” It is also worth noting that at 268bc it is implied that the philosopher is one who has knowledge: the “very philosophical” Stranger seems to be portrayed, not as one who is in ignorance of the subject discussed, but rather as one who has a mastery of it. As Blondell points out, it seems clear that the Stranger’s discus­ sion of elenctic “cleansing” is an allusion to Socrates’ use of elenc­ tic argument; the cleansing aspect or function is given particular emphasis in the Apology, where Socrates interprets the oracle as com­ manding him to show others how limited their knowledge actually is. It is therefore quite startling, as Blondell notes, that Plato has the Stranger characterize the practitioner of elenctic cleansing as a sophist, albeit a “noble” one. Given the distinction at the beginning of the dialogue between sophist, statesman, and philosopher (216c–217a), the Stranger is claiming that Socrates, as a practitioner of elenctic cleansing, belongs with the sophists rather than with the philosophers. Of course, if Plato’s view in the Sophist is that the philosopher is one who possesses knowledge, and if Socrates does not possess knowl­ edge, then we can see why Socrates does not belong in the class of philosophers. But why should he be classed as a sophist? This is puzzling, and one cannot help but wonder what Plato has in mind. As Blondell does not pursue this issue, I would like to make some suggestions which may or may not be in harmony with her view of the Sophist’s treatment of Socrates. Let us consider for a moment how Socrates as a practitioner of elenctic cleansing is similar to and different from the sophists. One thing that the practitioner of elenctic cleansing has in common with the sophist is that they both conduct discussions in which they lead their interlocutors to contradict themselves (see 268b). Another sim­ ilarity has to do with the importance of virtue in their activities. Each of the first three accounts of the sophist includes some refer­ ence to a profession to teach virtue (223a, 224cd). Socrates denies that he is a teacher of virtue, and questions whether it is teachable; but one of his main activities, by his own report in the Apology, is to encourage his fellow Athenians to examine their lives, and to prize virtue and virtuous action above all other things. And insofar as the practitioner of elenctic cleansing removes the conceit of wisdom, he

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brings about moral improvement in his interlocutor (230c9–d1). So the project of fostering virtue through discussion is central to Socrates’ mission, and this at least resembles the sophists’ claim to teach virtue through discussions with their students. Again, Socrates, like the sophists, focuses his attention on the young and seeks to gain a cer­ tain control over them (see 222a–223b). And it is true of both the sophists and of Socrates that, while lacking knowledge, they appear to others to be wise because of their ability to lead their interlocu­ tors to contradict themselves; the difference is that the sophists want others to believe that they are wise while Socrates sincerely denies that he is wise. These similarities and contrasts between Socrates and various wellknown sophists might suggest to us that Socrates in effect “defined” himself and his activities in relation to the sophists and their activ­ ities, rather than, e.g., in relation to a thinker like Parmenides. He saw himself as a rival of the sophists, seeking to have an influence on his fellow citizens, especially on the young, and through them to have an impact on the political life of the community. From Plato’s vantage point at the time of writing the Sophist, it may well have seemed to him that Socrates, perhaps—paradoxically—because of his fierce opposition to the sophists and their influence, had more in common with them than with a philosopher like the Eleatic Stranger. As Blondell notes, elenctic cleansing is viewed by the Stranger as the proper preliminary to “the provision of positive teaching.” In his discussion with Theaetetus, the Stranger does not need to do any elenctic cleansing: Theaetetus is not portrayed as someone whose inflated view of his own knowledge gets in the way of “any teach­ ings offered to him” (230c). If we ask, “What is the result for Theaetetus of his discussion with the Stranger?” a plausible answer would be: if he has understood the various parts of the Stranger’s discussion, as he seems to have done, he has absorbed a “teaching” about the nature of a sophist. If the Stranger is meant to be a sort of paradigm of a philosopher, as Blondell suggests, then we are invited to conclude that a philosopher is one who, through posses­ sion of dialectic, can acquire knowledge of such things as sophistry, statesmanship, and philosophy, and can transmit this knowledge to those who have been properly prepared to learn. Perhaps we should say that, as Plato sees it in the Sophist, Socrates had more in common with the sophists than with a philosopher (as rep­ resented by the Eleatic Stranger) rather than say that he was a sophist.

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For, according to the final definition, a sophist is among other things a false pretender to knowledge; and this is certainly not true of Socrates. Presumably the final definition gives us the definitive account of the sophist, and we are to view the earlier definitions as prelim­ inary accounts which capture various salient characteristics of indi­ viduals who were considered to be sophists but which do not reveal what is essential to the breed. If certain individuals fit one of the earlier definitions but not the final definition, we might say that they are not sophists in the strict sense but in a looser sense may be called sophists because of their resemblance to the real thing. This, it seems to me, is what Plato is suggesting about Socrates: he was not a sophist in the strict sense, but those who considered him a sophist were not completely mistaken. Socrates resembled sophists in various important respects, and resembled them more than he resem­ bled Plato’s conception of a philosopher—i.e. Plato’s conception at the time of writing the Sophist. What about the relationship (b) between the Stranger and Plato himself ? I find myself persuaded by Blondell’s suggestions that Plato intended the Stranger to be seen as both a paradigmatic and a “generic” philosopher. In thinking about her suggestions, it occurred to me that there might be even more to the idea that the Stranger is supposed to represent a “generic” philosopher. Let us first notice an interesting difference between the way dialectic and philosophy are understood in the Republic and the Sophist/Statesman, and the pos­ sibility that this might be relevant to Blondell’s suggestion that the Stranger is supposed to represent a sort of “generic” philosopher. At the end of Book 5 of the Republic, the philosopher is defined by his relationship to separately existing Forms; and the objects of “dialectic”—the special knowledge of the philosopher—are separately exist­ ing Forms. From the perspective of the Sophist, we might say that in the Republic one cannot be a dialectician and philosopher unless one is a “Friend of the Forms,” one who accepts the existence of separately existing Forms (248a4ff.). The Stranger seems to have a more expansive view of dialectic and philosophy. He pretty clearly distinguishes himself from the Friends of the Forms. The core of dialectic for him is the ability to divide things according to classes or kinds, and this ability is a defining condition of the philosopher (253b–e). If they are to be proper objects of knowledge, these kinds must have fixed essences (249b12–d4); but the Stranger says noth­ ing, as far as I can see, that implies that these kinds must exist sep­

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arately from their participants in the “world of becoming.” The Stranger adopts a neutral stance vis-à-vis the contentious issue of the separate existence of Forms: both those who believe in separate Forms and those who reject them may qualify as dialecticians and philosophers; what is required is acceptance of the view that the kinds or Forms investigated by dialectic have fixed, permanent essences. This neutral stance of the Stranger regarding the ontological status of Forms adds another dimension to Blondell’s notion that the Stranger represents a sort of generic philosopher: his conception of philosophy and dialectic makes room for philosophers with quite different meta­ physical views. I believe that what I have suggested so far has a fairly solid basis in the Sophist and Republic; what follows is admittedly more specula­ tive. Followers of G. E. L. Owen would argue that the Sophist shows that Plato gave up his belief in the separate existence of Forms (“Paradeigmatism”) as a result of the arguments in the first part of the Parmenides. It is true that the Timaeus endorses the separate exist­ ence of Forms, but Owen (1965) argued that it should be consid­ ered a “middle” rather than a “late” dialogue. Owen’s arguments for an earlier dating of the Timaeus have not gained many adher­ ents: most scholars are either skeptical of the distinction between middle and late dialogues or they regard the Timaeus as clearly belong­ ing to the group of dialogues written in the last period of Plato’s life. I think Aristotle’s treatment of Platonic doctrines provides some support for the view that Plato continued to maintain the separate existence of Forms even in the last period of his life. Aristotle crit­ icizes views which only appear in the “late” dialogues (e.g. the view that genera are ontologically prior to species), and thus seems to show an awareness of developments in Plato’s views between the middle and late dialogues. But he does not give any indication that Plato gave up the doctrine of the separate existence of Forms—he seems to treat it as a view which Plato continued to hold to the end. If this is true, then we might say that Plato was a “friend of the Forms” even when he wrote the Sophist. He presumably agreed with the Stranger’s criticisms of certain aspects of the theory of Forms, but he continued to maintain the separate existence of Forms. It is commonly supposed that at least some of the objections to sepa­ rately existing Forms in the first part of the Parmenides were formu­ lated by other members of the Academy, some perhaps by the young Aristotle. Within the Academy, in other words, there were quite

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divergent views about the kind of existence possessed by Forms. This might suggest that the idea of a “generic” philosopher, and an asso­ ciated conception of dialectic, had a relevance for Plato that was closer to home, i.e. it was connected to the actual situation in the Academy at the time the Sophist and Statesman were written. On the one hand, the Stranger represents Plato’s more expansive view that both the defenders and the opponents of the separate existence of Forms may be considered philosophers and dialecticians; and on the other, the Stranger’s conception of dialectic suggests that coopera­ tive inquiry (within the Academy) is possible even for philosophers with quite different metaphysical commitments. The Stranger, as “generic” philosopher, represents the common ground between Plato and those in the Academy (e.g., Aristotle?) who rejected separate Forms. On a more general level, we might say that the Stranger represents a view of the philosopher quite different from what we find in the Republic —namely, that the proper account of a philoso­ pher should be as broad as possible, focusing on the minimal onto­ logical commitments required for dialectic. This expanded conception of what the Stranger is intended to represent is, I believe, in har­ mony with Blondell’s fruitful suggestion of the “generic” philosopher. Turning now to Allan Silverman’s very interesting paper, I will offer a few brief comments on his account of the “ontology” of the Phaedo. By “ontology” here I mean an inventory of the different sorts of things that may be said to exist. According to Silverman, Plato recognizes four different types of entities in the Phaedo: Forms, the perceptible “particulars” that partake of them, “form-copies,” and souls. Many would argue that Plato does not regard form-copies as a distinct type of entity in the Phaedo, but I agree with Silverman that he does. The theme of the Phaedo, the question of the immor­ tality of the soul, provides an obvious rationale for a consideration of the different sort of entities there are: it will be important to deter­ mine what sort of entity the soul is, and how it is similar to and different from other sorts of entities. Silverman makes the intriguing suggestion that it is Plato’s desire to prove the immortality of the soul that leads him to include form-copies as a distinct type of entity in the Phaedo. I want to consider this suggestion towards the end of this response, but first I would like to discuss his views concerning the four types of entities and how they are similar to and different from each other.

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Let us begin with Forms. (i) Forms, according to Silverman, are eternal essences. What Plato means by the “Form, ‘Beauty,’” for example, is the essence “what it is to be beautiful,” and this is a separately existing entity—independent of the many beautiful things that partake of it. Forms have properties: e.g. the Form “Beauty” is immutable and imperishable; but none of the properties possessed by Forms are “accidental”: all of their properties are necessary and belong to them in virtue of what they are. The fact that Forms have properties apparently means that they partake of other Forms, but the relationships between Forms are not discussed or considered in the Phaedo or in any of the so-called “middle” dialogues. (ii) The familiar participants in Forms are what Silverman calls “material particulars,” perceptible objects which are seen as the bearers of properties. He holds that the properties of material particulars are all accidental—there are no essential properties of particulars. In fact, such entities are nothing more than “bundles” of properties. (iii) The properties that are in particulars are not Forms but “form-copies.” Socrates distinguishes between, e.g., the largeness in us and Largeness itself; and Silverman thinks—and I agree—that this is a distinction between two types of entities. The largeness in us is a sort of “copy” of Largeness itself, and hence a “form-copy.” Form-copies, accord­ ing to Silverman, are like Forms in being essences; but they are different in that they are “logically simple”: they do not partake of other Forms in the way that Forms do. (iv) Finally, of course, there are souls. Souls are like Forms and form-copies in being “essentially what they are,” but they are different in that they have some of their properties accidentally. Souls are individuals, like form-copies but unlike Forms (since Forms are predicable of more than one thing, while form-copies and souls are not). Souls are also like Forms and form-copies in being imperishable. This brief summary is incomplete in various respects; but it is sufficient for my immediate purpose: to raise some questions about form-copies, and then about souls. Silverman claims that form-copies are “logically simple,” and by this he apparently means that they have no properties beyond the property that they are—the largeness in Simmias is “what it is to be large” and nothing else. But Silverman also argues in favor of the view that form-copies are imperishable; doesn’t this mean that they have the property of being imperish­ able? It seems that there are a number of properties that form-copies

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possess, in addition to what they essentially are—e.g., spatio-temporal location, perceptibility (in the case of the heat in the fire), etc. If this is right, then form-copies must have the same kind of com­ plexity that Forms have. Another question concerns the imperishability of form-copies. The claim that form-copies do not perish—that instead of perishing they “withdraw” at the approach of their opposite—is usually made by those who argue that form-copies should not be regarded as distinct from Forms. The thought is that the largeness in Simmias is not a distinct entity from the Form Largeness, but is simply the Form as present in Simmias. However, if the largeness in Simmias is some­ thing that can perish, then it seems that it must be distinct from the Form, since the Form itself cannot perish. And thus those who have argued that form-copies are distinct entities have tried to show that they are regarded as perishable: their perishability is the chief rea­ son for holding that they are distinct entities. So if we agree with Silverman’s claim that form-copies are imperishable, we seem to lose our basis for holding that they are distinct from Forms. I am not sure that I see why Silverman thinks that form-copies are imperish­ able; and if we agree with him that they are imperishable, what is the basis for holding that they are distinct from Forms? I think it becomes clear that Socrates regards form-copies as per­ ishable towards the end of the final argument for immortality. After pointing out that the largeness in us will never admit its opposite, smallness, he explains that there is another class of things with a similar property. Fire and snow are not themselves opposites, but they possess one member of a pair of opposites and exclude the other. Fire is always hot, and at the approach of cold it must either withdraw or perish (103d5–12). Things like fire and snow may be called “carriers” of opposites. Whenever one of these carriers “takes possession of ” a thing, the thing acquires both the character of the carrier and that of the opposite carried by the carrier; e.g., if fire “takes possession of ” a log in the fireplace, the log becomes both fiery and hot (104c11–d3). Souls, according to Socrates, are carriers of life; and, when a soul takes possession of a body, that body becomes both ensouled and alive (105c8–d4). As a carrier of life, the soul must either withdraw or perish at the approach of death; it cannot admit death and remain what it is. Hence the soul is “deathless” (athanaton) or immortal (105e6). But, interestingly enough, Socrates is not satisfied with this conclusion. He says that, even if it

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is true that the soul does not admit death, that does not necessar­ ily mean that it is imperishable. Only if the opposite carried by a carrier is imperishable will the carrier itself be imperishable—e.g., if the heat carried by fire were imperishable, then whenever anything cold approached fire, it would never perish or be quenched but would go away unscathed (105e10–106a10). Thus a condition is given for showing that the soul is imperishable: if the life carried by a soul is imperishable, then the soul itself is imperishable. Now, according to Socrates’ reasoning, since fires do perish, it fol­ lows that the heat carried by fire must be perishable—if it were not, the fire could never be quenched. Socrates assumes that most of the opposites carried by such things as fire, snow, etc., are perishable— even the opposites “odd” and “even,” as the following passage indi­ cates. If the deathless [the opposite of death] is also imperishable, it will be impossible for the soul to perish at the approach of death. For, as our argument has shown, it will not admit death and be in the state of having died, just as three, we said, will not be even, and the odd will not be even, and as fire, and the heat in the fire will not be cold. “But,” someone might say, “supposing, as we agreed before, that the odd cannot become even at the approach of the even—what’s to prevent it from perishing and being replaced by the even?” Now we cannot reply by saying that it does not perish, for the odd is not imperish­ able. If that were conceded to us (i.e., that the odd is imperishable), we could easily argue that when the even approaches, the odd and three go away; and we could argue in the same way in regard to fire and heat and the rest, could we not? (106b2–c7)

The opposites referred to by Socrates—the hot, the cold, the odd, the even—all of these are perishable. And since these form-copies are perishable, they must be distinct from Forms. We may also infer from the same passage that form-copies depend on the things they are in for their existence. A few lines above the passage just quoted, Socrates says: And in the same way, I imagine, if the “uncold” [i.e., the hot] were imperishable, whenever anything cold approached fire, it would never perish or be quenched, but would go away unscathed. (106a8–10)

The heat in a particular fire will perish when the fire is put out: the heat cannot go on existing after the fire has been put out. Thus form-copies like the heat in the fire and the largeness in Simmias depend on their possessors for their existence. The form largeness,

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on the other hand, is in no way affected by what happens to Simmias. If form-copies depend on their possessors for their existence, it seems that what individuates one form-copy from another is the particular thing to which it belongs. I’ve argued that form-copies are perishable, that they depend on their possessors for their existence, and that they are individuated by their possessors. Each of these three characteristics distinguishes form-copies not only from Forms but also from souls. Souls are not perishable; they do not depend on the bodies to which they belong for their existence; and they are not individuated by the bodies to which they belong. It seems that the similarities between souls and form-copies are not as extensive as Silverman claims. Socrates’ argu­ ment suggests that the closest analogues to souls are not form-copies but such things as fire and snow—“carriers” of opposites which cause other things to have the opposites they carry. Just as the fire in the stove causes the stove to be hot, so the soul causes the body to be alive. Fire and snow belong the class of “material particulars,” but it is not the case that all of their properties are accidental: Socrates seems to claim that heat and cold belong to fire and snow essentially—it is part of what it is to be a fire to be hot. If so, we have reason to doubt Silverman’s claim that material particulars as such have only accidental properties. Silverman suggests that it is Plato’s desire to prove the immortal­ ity of the soul that leads him to include form-copies in his ontology in the Phaedo. I am not sure I understand the reasoning behind this suggestion. Perhaps the idea is that the final argument depends cru­ cially on a distinction between form-copies and Forms. If this could be shown, I think it would be a very interesting and important point. But perhaps this is not what Silverman had in mind. But even if it could be shown that form-copies (or tropes) have an indispensable role in the final argument for immortality, I think it would be hasty to infer that this is what led Plato to posit the existence of formcopies. He may have had other reasons, reasons quite independent of the requirements of the final argument. One such concern might be related to the unity of a Form. Parmenides’ first arguments against Forms in the Parmenides proceed on the assumption that Forms are in their participants. He argues that if Forms are in their partici­ pants, then either the whole Form is in each participant or only a part of the Form is in each. If a part is in each, then it turns out that Forms will be divisible into parts that are spatially separated

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from each other; and Socrates agrees that this would compromise the unity of a Form. If the whole Form is in each participant, this would mean that the Form, as Parmenides puts it, “being one and the same would be in many separate individuals and would thus be separate from itself ” (131b3–5): once again, the unity of the Form would be compromised. So a Form cannot be a “one in many.” If we consider this argument in relation to the distinction between Forms and form-copies, we can see that the distinction in effect defuses the argument. Forms in the Phaedo are not in their participants—they are not a “one in many.” Their unity is not compro­ mised by being separated from themselves or by being split up into spatially separate parts. Form-copies are in participants in Forms, but they are not a “one in many” either: since there are distinct form-copies for each participant in a Form, they are not separated from themselves nor are they split up into spatially separate parts. One can thus see how a concern for the unity of a Form might have led Plato to make the distinction between Forms and formcopies that we find in the Phaedo. But Silverman may be right: it may well be that what led Plato to posit the existence of form-copies was his desire to prove the immortality of the soul. This intriguing suggestion deserves further elaboration.

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ON THE PHILOSOPHICAL AUTONOMY OF A PLATONIC

DIALOGUE: THE CASE OF RECOLLECTION Charles H. Kahn

I want to discuss a problem concerning the relationship between lit­ erary and philosophical interpretations of a Platonic dialogue.1 I intend to show that a literary interpretation is both necessary and insufficient for a philosophical understanding. The problem I want to discuss is posed by a very striking literary feature: namely, the absence of cross-reference between dialogues. Let us call this feature the formal autonomy of the individual dialogue. The problem posed is: what are the implications of this formal autonomy for a philo­ sophical interpretation? I want to deny the popular inference from formal autonomy to philosophical independence. It has often been remarked that (in the case of all the dialogues traditionally labeled “early” and “middle,” as well as some dialogues in the “late” group) each work is, from a literary point of view, com­ plete in itself. The exceptions are, of course, the Sophist-Statesman and the Timaeus-Critias, which are composed as parts of a larger enter­ prise. But these two sets of dialogues clearly mark a new departure in Plato’s late work, when he was experimenting with something like the trilogy form. The earlier dialogues are all composed like sepa­ rate dramas. The interlocutors frequently refer to previous conver­ sations, but these conversations are not recorded in any Platonic dialogue. Not only are there no references back and forth between the dialogues. Even when the subject matter of two works is closely connected, and one discussion builds upon a predecessor, the inter­ locutors are entirely different, so there is no question of formal con­ tinuity. Thus the Protagoras ends with the question “Is virtue teachable?” and concludes that, in order to answer this question, we must first know what virtue is. The Meno begins with the same question and 1 When this essay was delivered as a Taft Lecture in Cincinnati in November 1999, it was entitled “On the Limits of a Literary-dramatic Interpretation of Plato’s Dialogues.” But the negative slant of that title now seems to me somewhat mis­ leading.

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the very same response; but Meno himself was not present at the other conversation, so there is no literary continuity. Perhaps the closest any dialogue before the Sophist comes to referring to a pre­ decessor is the passage in the Phaedo which introduces the topic of Recollection (73ab), where the mention of a geometric diagram as a reminder makes every reader think of the Meno. But even this pas­ sage is so deliberately imprecise that it does not take the form of a literal reference to the corresponding passage in the Meno.2 And of course Socrates’ interlocutor in the Phaedo, Cebes, cannot be refer­ ring to a conversation in which he was not present. Interpreters have often assumed that literary autonomy also guar­ antees philosophical autonomy, as if each dialogue were to be taken as expressing Plato’s complete view at the moment of writing. An assumption of this sort seems to underlie the traditional develop­ mental approach which implies that Plato changes his mind from dialogue to dialogue, and that we can plot the changes by inter­ preting each dialogue separately. However, the assumption of philo­ sophical autonomy need not be tied to any developmental hypothesis. Autonomy might be invoked simply as a principle of sound philo­ logical method: every text deserves to be interpreted first of all in its own terms. Just as the plays of Sophocles or Euripides must first be interpreted one by one, so also for the dialogues of Plato. I want to endorse this principle as a starting-point for interpret­ ing the dialogues, and at the same time insist that it is only a starting-point. There is certainly something correct and important in this “atomistic” approach to the dialogues. The philosophic content of a Platonic work is often tailored to the dramatic occasion or to the character and level of understanding of the interlocutors. Hence a difference between the doctrinal content of two dialogues may often be accounted for by a difference between the occasion and the cast of participants. For example, the discussion of the soul in the Symposium is very different from that in the Phaedo, and this difference has even led some commentators to ask whether Plato was still committed to the immortality of the soul when he composed the Symposium. But this discrepancy becomes intelligible as soon as we take account of the fact that the Symposium represents an elegant dinner party cele­

2 Similarly imprecise and deliberately incomplete is the reference back to the Republic at the beginning of the Timaeus.

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brating Agathon’s victory, while the Phaedo depicts Socrates’ last con­ versation with his most intimate associates. It is not necessary to sup­ pose that, when Plato composed the Symposium, he had momentarily abandoned the doctrine of immortality, simply because Socrates does not expound it in his speech on love. On the contrary, it is Plato’s unwavering commitment to the immortality of the soul in his other works that permits us to understand the hint at Symposium 208b2–4: “It is by this device (namely, by reproduction and by always leav­ ing behind something new in place of the old) that what is mortal shares in immortality, both the body and everything else; but what is immortal shares in immortality in another way (éyãnaton d¢ êll˙ <éyanas¤aw met°xei>).” This last clause allows for the immortality of the soul as expounded in other dialogues. But it is only considera­ tion of those other texts, and nothing in the Symposium itself, which reveals this meaning for these words. The principle of philosophical autonomy, strictly applied, would oblige us to interpret this clause as referring only to the immortality of the gods. Notice that the con­ trary principle, the assumption of philosophical consistency between dialogues, is more than a principle of charity here: it gives a deeper meaning to these words, which would otherwise be a mere repeti­ tion of the remark a few lines earlier that the divine (to theion) is pre­ served by being forever the same in every respect (208a8–9).3 What this example shows, I suggest, is that the formal autonomy of the individual dialogue is a hermeneutic tool that cuts in both directions. On the one hand, it is the specific dramatic setting of the Symposium that helps us to understand why the concept of immor­ tality is treated differently in this dialogue. But it would seriously mislead us if we were to interpret this difference as implying philo­ sophical autonomy and doctrinal independence. The psychology of the Symposium is not philosophically separable from the rest of Plato’s work; it can be adequately understood only if it is read in the con­ text provided by the psychological theory of other dialogues. A sim­ ilar but more obvious point could be made concerning the allegory 3 That athanaton at Symposium 208b4 refers to the soul as well as to the gods is confirmed by the parallel between body and soul in the flux passage at 207e 1–2, and by the pointed omission of soul in the summary of this account of mortal par­ ticipation in immortality for “both body and everything else” (208b3). For the dis­ cretion of the Symposium on this point, and more generally for the division of labor between the Symposium and the Phaedo, see Kahn 1996, 341–45, with note 20, p. 345.

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of the soul in the Phaedrus myth. The relationship between the char­ ioteer and the two horses might perhaps be understood without ref­ erence to the tripartite psychology of the Republic, but it is certainly more fully understood on the basis of this reference. I want now to apply this lesson to the doctrine of Recollection, as we find it in three Platonic dialogues. This will permit me to profit from, and also take issue with, an important discussion of Recollection in a recent book by Dominic Scott (1995). The doctrine of Recollection plays an important role in the Meno, Phaedo and Phaedrus, but the version presented is different in each case. Furthermore, the doctrine is absent from the Republic, and it never reappears explicitly in any later dialogue. (I believe there are echoes of Recollection in the Statesman and Timaeus, but no explicit development of the doctrine there.4) So a full account of Recollection in Plato must explain its absence as well as its presence. But my concern here will be with the three dialogues in which it is present. I first briefly summarize the account of Recollection in these three dialogues (Meno, Phaedo and Phaedrus), then present Dominic Scott’s interpretation, and see how it fits or does not fit in each dialogue. In the Meno, Recollection is introduced in response to the paradox of inquiry as proposed by Meno: inquiry is impossible, says Meno, since you cannot look for what you do not know, and furthermore you would not recognize it even if you found it. It is in responding to this paradox that Socrates introduces Recollection as a justification of our looking for something unknown, on the grounds that the soul already knows whatever it is looking for and only needs to be reminded. Recollection is then illustrated by the geometry lesson with a slave boy, who is led by a series of skillful questions to a correct belief about how to double the area of a square. Towards the end of the Meno, Recollection is mentioned again, as marking the dis­ tinction between true belief and knowledge: true beliefs are useful as long as they last, but they tend to run away. They need to be tied down by the bond of “reasoning about the cause or explana­

4 See the suggestion at Statesman 277d2–4 that we know all things “as in a dream,” but require philosophical analysis in order to turn our dream into waking knowl­ edge (278e10–11). (Compare the dream simile at Meno 85c9 and 86a7.) At Timaeus 41e1–2, “mounting the souls (in stars) as in chariots” recalls the celestial cavalcade of the Phaedrus, and the announcement of the laws of destiny to the bodiless souls reads like a continuation of the Phaedrus myth.

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tion” (aitias logismos); “and this,” says Socrates, “is recollection (98a1–5).” So in the Meno Recollection begins with the achievement of correct opinion and ends with the stability of knowledge based on an explanation. In the Meno the immortality of the soul is presupposed: Recollection is invoked to justify the effort of inquiry. In the Phaedo, on the other hand, the issue is not inquiry but the fate of the soul after death; and the direction of inference is reversed: Recollection is introduced in order to prove immortality. Furthermore, in the Meno the Forms are never mentioned, whereas in the Phaedo the existence of intelli­ gible, incorporeal Forms is taken for granted from the very begin­ ning of the discussion (65d). The existence of Forms is “the hypothesis worthy of acceptance” on which the doctrine of Recollection is based (92d6–7). Recollection is thus presented in the Phaedo as a kind of corollary to the theory of Forms. The conclusion to the argument from Recollection is that the being of our soul before birth and incarnation is similar to, and necessarily linked with, the being of the Forms: “the necessity for both is the same, and the argument has successfully come to this conclusion, that just as these [Forms] exist, even so must our soul exist before we are born” (76d7–77a5; echoed at 92d7–9). We will consider the details of this argument in a moment, in connection with Dominic Scott’s interpretation. Turning now to the Phaedrus, we see that the function of Recollection here is entirely different. It is introduced neither to explain learning and justify inquiry, as in the Meno, nor to establish the immortality of the soul, as in the Phaedo. In the Phaedrus immortality is again presupposed, or rather argued for in advance (Phaedrus 245c5–246a1). The chief function of Recollection here is to account for the meta­ physical significance of erotic passion, as a divine madness given to us for our greatest benefit (245b7–c1). For it is the prenatal vision of the Form of Beauty that is recalled in the thrill of falling in love, and it is the bliss of this transcendent experience that accounts for the power of erotic attachments. But although this connection with love is the central function served by Recollection in the Phaedrus, the doctrine is actually introduced in a much more general context: in order to explain why the disembodied soul can never be incar­ nate in a human body unless it has had the prenatal vision of the Forms. This experience of previous contact with the Forms is argued for in the Phaedo and somehow implied in the Meno, but only the Phaedrus actually gives us an account of this experience.

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As my brief survey makes clear, Recollection appears in very different guise in these three dialogues, and it is not easy to formu­ late the doctrine in a statement that applies to all three. Perhaps the best we can do is this: “What is usually called learning is really rec­ ollection of knowledge gained by the soul in a previous existence.” This formula fits the Meno and Phaedo, although learning is under­ stood quite differently in each case. But in the Phaedrus it is not learning so much as falling in love that Recollection is called upon to explain. Furthermore, the Meno does not specify what is recol­ lected; to learn that the object of Recollection is the Forms, we must turn to the Phaedo and Phaedrus. And as I have mentioned, neither the Meno nor the Phaedo tells us anything about the pre-existent state of the soul in which the recollected knowledge was acquired. Some previous cognitive experience is obviously required by the doctrine in both the Meno and the Phaedo, but it is described in neither one. In this respect the account of Recollection given in the other two dialogues is incomplete, waiting to be supplemented by the myth of the Phaedrus.5 Clearly, there is no single Platonic doctrine of Recollection in the sense of a fully formulated theory. What we have instead is a small family of overlapping, partial sketches of a more or less unified con­ ception of the cognitive resources of the soul derived from prenatal experience. To the extent that there is a unified conception here, it is nowhere stated as such. What is presented in each case is a ver­ sion adapted to the needs and aims of that particular dialogue. If we believed that the formal autonomy of the three dialogues guar­ anteed their philosophical autonomy, we would have to recognize three theories of Recollection and not one. I want to argue, on the contrary, that we have a single theory but three incomplete formu­ lations, formulations that require one another for an adequate under­ standing. Dominic Scott agrees that there is a single theory of Recollection underlying these three versions. But his interpretation of this theory gives a surprisingly restricted account of the nature and scope of Recollection. Scott contrasts what he calls the Kantian view of Recollection, that reference to the Forms is required for concept­

5 I assume that the Phaedrus is the latest of the three dialogues, since it is the only one belonging to stylistic Group II. The relative order of Meno and Phaedo is given by the quasi-backward reference in the Phaedo.

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formation and ordinary human learning, with his own view that Recollection begins only at higher levels of learning, is limited to relatively few people, and, in the Phaedo at least, is limited to philoso­ phers who can acknowledge the distinction between intelligible Forms and sensible particulars. Since Scott’s view is carefully argued and based upon a close reading of the texts, it has to be taken very seri­ ously. Furthermore, his claim that Recollection is limited to philoso­ phers in the Phaedo certainly looks plausible, since the argument there seems to rely upon the judgment that sensible equals “fall short” of Equality itself. But it is hard to see how the ontological discrepancy between Forms and particulars could be recognized by anyone who was not familiar with Plato’s theory of Forms. Some element in Scott’s thesis must therefore be correct. However, I will argue that he cannot be right to claim that Recollection in Plato is ever limited to philosophers, or to any form of higher learn­ ing. The distinction on which Scott insists, between ordinary human rationality and the deeper insight of philosophers, is certainly an important contrast for Plato in other contexts. It is the main point in the allegory of the Cave in Republic 7, where the soul must be drastically turned away from shadowy objects of ordinary cognition and directed to the vision of true reality. But such a sharp contrast is not drawn in the contexts where Recollection is presented. And it is no accident that in the Republic, where Plato does emphasize this radical discrepancy between ordinary cognition and the intel­ lectual “conversion” of philosophers, the doctrine of Recollection is nowhere to be seen. For, I suggest, when Plato first formulated his doctrine of Recollection, he did not have Scott’s distinction in mind. Or rather, since we cannot read Plato’s mind, let us say that the doctrine of Recollection is not designed to take account of that dis­ tinction. On the contrary, Recollection is presented as an explana­ tion of human rationality in general, and hence of the possibility of access to the Forms. Platonic Recollection is broader than what Scott calls the Kantian interpretation, and it is never restricted to philoso­ phers. Or so I shall argue. The case in favor of this broader view is clearest in the intro­ duction of Recollection in the Phaedrus, where we are told that no soul can enter a human body unless it has enjoyed the prenatal vision of the Forms: For a human being must comprehend what is said in reference to a form (katÉ e‰dow legÒmenon), proceeding from many sense perceptions

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 .  to a unity gathered together by reason (logismos). This is recollection of those things which our soul once saw when it was travelling together with a god. (249b6–c3)

Here Plato says explicitly what I believe is implied in the Phaedo as well: that all human conceptual understanding and all rational dis­ course involves a reference to the metaphysical Forms, even if only the Platonic philosopher is fully aware of this reference.6 The priv­ ilege of the philosopher is precisely the reflexive privilege of explicit attention to this universal dependence of human speech and cogni­ tion on the Forms. Only the philosopher knows what Plato will tell us in the Sophist and Parmenides: that without the Forms there would be no rational discourse, no logos and no dialegesthai. (Parmenides 135b–c, Sophist 259e5–6.) Only the philosopher is aware of this because, as the Phaedrus goes on to say in the passage just cited, the philosopher “is always connected in memory, as far as possible, to those beings by connection to which the gods are divine” (249c5–6). The philoso­ pher is, as it were, an expert in Recollection, whereas most people are amateurs. In terms of the theory of love in the Phaedrus, the philosopher is the paradigm lover, because he is continually reviv­ ing the prenatal connection with the Forms that only occasionally explodes in the erotic experience of the ordinary lover. Here again we can see that Plato’s theory of Recollection was not fully stated until we get to the Phaedrus. For this text shows us that although Recollection was not designed from the start to take account of the distinction between ordinary rationality and the special insight of the philosopher, it can do so when necessary. And in that case it applies equally to both. Recollection applies in different ways to the philosopher of the Phaedo and to the uneducated slave of the Meno, but it is Recollection in the same sense, and with the same metaphysical structure. For all humans must be able to understand a language and able to gather their sense perceptions together into the conceptual unities of rational cognition. But this is precisely what is called recollection in the passage just quoted, on the grounds that this rational capacity is derived from the prenatal cognition of the Forms. So all human beings must recollect to some extent. (And all human beings who fall in love will be recollecting in another way.)

6 Scott’s attempt to interpret this Phaedrus passage otherwise is ingenious but unconvincing (1995, 75–80).

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But it is only philosophers who can do so on a professional basis, so to speak. Philosophers are the only lovers who understand what falling in love is about, since they are the only ones to preserve a clear memory of the prenatal vision. Once we comprehend the doctrine as fully stated in the Phaedrus, we can see how the less complete versions in the Meno and Phaedo are not entirely coherent, precisely because they are less complete. This is most obviously the case for the Meno, where the theory of Forms is not even mentioned, and hence the specifically Platonic conception of philosophical insight cannot be brought into play. On the one hand, the choice of an uneducated slave boy for the demon­ stration shows that Plato wants to call attention to cognitive resources that depend on no privilege of birth or education but on the specific nature of the human soul. What is demonstrated, however, is not a case of basic learning, such as concept formation or learning a lan­ guage. Scott is quite right to point out that all this is presupposed by the geometry lesson. What is displayed in the lesson is the power of ordinary rationality, the rationality of the normal human soul, to discard its false opinions and recognize the truth when properly con­ fronted with it.7 This potentiality is only partially realized in the geometry lesson. If it were more fully realized, and tied down by “reasoning concerning the cause,” it could become full-blown knowl­ edge of geometry and even (though the Meno does not say so) philo­ sophical knowledge of the Forms. The same continuity between ordinary rationality and full philo­ sophical knowledge is implicit in the Phaedo, although again the dis­ tinction is not clearly drawn. As Scott recognizes (1995, 69), the argument from Recollection is supposed to establish the immortal­ ity (or at least the pre-existence) of human souls generally, and not merely the souls of philosophers. At the same time, Scott correctly points out that only Platonic philosophers make the explicit com­ parison on which the argument seems to depend. That is, no one is in a position to judge that equal sticks and stones are defectively equal unless, like Simmias at Phaedo 74b–e, they first accept the

7

I am here close to agreement with Gregory Vlastos’ conclusion that “What Plato means by ‘Recollection’ in the Meno is any enlargement of our knowledge which results from the perception of logical relationships” (1995, 157; emphasis in the original.) But I would construe “the perception of logical relationships” more broadly than Vlastos does.

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existence of the Forms and then recognize the ontological discrep­ ancy between Forms and their sensible instances. Hence Scott seems right to claim that, insofar as the argument from Recollection depends upon this explicit comparison, the argument should apply only to philosophers. So let us grant, for the moment, that Recollection is proved only for philosophers, if it is proved at all. But it does not fol­ low that Recollection is claimed only for philosophers. This particu­ lar proof is far from satisfactory in any case. What counts is the conclusion, which connects the transcendence of the soul with the transcendence of the Forms: “Necessarily, just as these Forms exist, just so must our soul exist even before we were born” (76e2–4, echoed by Simmias at 76e9 and again at 92d7). Thus the whole point of the argument from Recollection is to establish the transcendental sta­ tus of the soul by its cognitive connection with the transcendental being of the Forms. Although only philosophers actually reflect upon the discrepancy between Forms and sensibles, any human being might do so, if properly led.8 The fundamental importance of this claim of a necessary con­ nection between the being of the Forms and the pre-existence of the soul is indicated by the fact that this claim is twice asserted and later reasserted (76e2–4, 77a1–2, 92d8–e1). But the argument from Recollection which supports this conclusion is problematic, to say the least. As Scott admits, there will inevitably be some slippage between the “we” at the beginning of the argument, which applies to those who, like Simmias, have benefited from Platonic philoso­ phy and are therefore able judge the defective equality of sensible sticks and stones, and the “we” in the conclusion of the argument, which refers to those whose souls must have existed before their human birth (76c11). For the latter “we” are all of us. If all human souls are to be immortal, all human souls must pre-exist. Scott grants that the conclusion of this argument must apply to all human souls. How then can the premisses apply only to philoso­ phers? Scott’s solution is to propose that the argument depends upon a “tacit generalization” from a small inductive base (1995, 70): the argument proves Recollection only for philosophers, and infers pre­ existence for humans generally. Hence “recollection is an activity 8 And the argument with the philodoxoi, the lovers of opinion at the end of Republic 5, is designed precisely to bring a non-philosopher to a recognition of this discrepancy.

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confined to a few people only; most people, though they do indeed have the knowledge latently, do not manifest it” (1995, 71). Scott’s solution is needlessly paradoxical, given the exercise with the slave boy in the Meno and the categorical claim of Recollection for all human souls in the Phaedrus. It is more natural to assume that Recollection in the Phaedo is also intended to apply to all humans and not only to philosophers. For unless Recollection applies to all of us, this argument gives no reason to suppose that all souls must pre-exist. Suppose for a moment that Scott is right to claim that, insofar as the argument from Recollection is valid at all, it is valid only for philosophers. Even if this were so, it would not follow that the doctrine of Recollection was intended to apply only to philoso­ phers. We may well have a defective argument, but one that claims to establish Recollection quite generally. I believe that this is in fact the correct reading of the argument in Phaedo 74a–77a. This argument oscillates between two different premisses: between the claim (emphasized by Scott) that only Platonic philosophers can recognize the ontological deficiency of equal sticks and stones, and the broader claim that all human beings interpret their sense per­ ceptions by referring them to the corresponding Forms, whether they know it or not (as in the “Kantian” passage I have quoted from the Phaedrus). In the text of the Phaedo, it is this automatic reference to the Forms that must constitute Recollection: it is the perception of equal sticks that directly recalls to us the concept of Equality. Thus all of us, and not only philosophers, employ the concept of Equality in judging that the sticks are equal. In perceptual judgment of length we all recollect, by referring the perception of equal sticks to the corresponding Form. Noticing that the sticks are not equal in every respect, and thus becoming aware of their ontological deficiency, is an additional step, not required for Recollection itself.9 If only philo­ sophers can take this additional step, it does not follow that only philosophers can recollect. Non-philosophers also recollect, because they are reminded of Forms in every act of conceptual thought, and in every act of perceptual judgment that involves a concept such as equality. But only philosophers reflect upon the similarity between Form and sensibles, and hence only they explicitly recognize that the latter “fall short.”

9

Scott’s analysis of the argument does not take account of prospaschein at 74a6:

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Hence we see that if the “we” of the argument from Recollection begins by being restricted to philosophers who, like Simmias, will agree that “there is an Equal itself ” and “we know what it is” (74a12, b2), the reference of the “we” is gradually widened as the argument progresses. It is not only philosophers who can say “when we were born we could immediately see and hear and possess the other senses” (75b10–11). Here the “we” applies to all human beings; and simi­ larly in the broader claim at 75e: “if by making use of sense per­ ceptions on these matters we recover the knowledge that we once had earlier, won’t what we call learning be recovering knowledge that is our own (oikeia)? And won’t it be right to call this recollect­ ing?” (75e2–7). There is no reason to restrict either of these claims to philosophers. And when Socrates speaks about “our souls exist­ ing and acquiring knowledge before they were in human form” (76c11–12), he can scarcely have in mind only Platonic philosophers. Equally general, I suggest, is the “we” in the final conclusion: “We refer all sensory input (tå §k t«n afisyÆsevn pãnta)” to the Forms (76d9–e1). Recollecting, then, by referring all sense perceptions to Forms, is a universal human activity that is carried out by those who are innocent of any metaphysical theory. This interpretation of the argument makes the doctrine of Re­ collection in the Phaedo compatible with the teaching of the Phaedrus, that all human beings must have some Recollection of a prenatal vision of the Forms. The Meno is necessarily less determinate on this question, since there is no mention there of the Forms and no hint of the content of prenatal cognition. We are simply told that the soul “has seen and learned all things” (81c6–7, d1) and “the truth of beings (ta onta) is forever present in our soul” (86b1–2). Nor are we told what is actually being recollected in the geometry lesson. What the slave boy exhibits is referred to both as “true opinions” (85c7) and also as latent or potential “knowledge” (epistêmê 85d6–9). This distinction is clarified toward the end of the dialogue: true opin­ ions become, or are replaced by knowledge, when they are stabi-

“when someone is reminded of something on the basis of similarity (épÚ t«n ımo¤vn), isn’t it necessary for them to have this additional experience (tÒde prospãsxein), to notice whether or not it falls short of that of which they are reminded?” So the reminding is completed before this additional step of noticing the discrepancy—the step which, in the case of similarity between sticks and Form, only the philosophers can take.

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lized and “tied down” by the bond of a rational explanation (aitias logismos). “And this, we agreed, was recollection” (98a5). Thus Recollection in the Meno is said to occur all along the way, from the first discarding of false beliefs (82e12–13, 84a4) to the full attainment of explanatory knowledge. It is this whole process of learn­ ing that is called Recollection. But what sort of Recollection is actu­ ally being illustrated in the geometry lesson? It cannot be the revival of just this precise bit of latent knowledge, the doubling of the square, since the actual construction of the diagonal is not elicited from the boy at all, but simply given to him by Socrates (at 84e4–85a1). That is why many readers have felt that the experiment is fraudulent. Commentators will no doubt differ on this point, but I think Leibniz was right to conclude that Plato chose such a deep mathe­ matical example (involving the Pythagorean theorem and incom­ mensurable magnitudes) in order to show “that our soul knows all this virtually, and only needs attention to know truths, and conse­ quently that it has at least the ideas on which these truths depend” (Discourse on Metaphysics 26). It is these ideas or basic concepts under­ lying geometric proof that are “recollected” by the boy. What is innate in his human soul that permits the boy not only to follow Socrates’ argument, but to recognize the falsity of the wrong answers and the truth of the correct solution, is his possession of the basic concepts of equality, greater and lesser, twice and double, and the number concepts required for counting and addition. These are, in Leibniz’s words, “the ideas on which these truths depend”; and it is these ideas which are forever present in our soul. On this reading of the Meno, it is the capacity for rational thought that makes Recollection possible; and Recollection means activating these innate capacities in order to achieve at least true opinions and, in more favorable cases, full scientific understanding. The slave boy is far from grasping the Pythagorean Theorem or the incommensu­ rability between the diagonal and the side of the square. But he is drawing on the same intellectual resources which, under other cir­ cumstances, might permit him to master the relevant proofs in Euclid. On this reading, there is nothing in the Meno’s account of Re­ collection to distinguish between the cognitive resources that make ordinary learning possible and those that would be used in the higher stretches of dialectic. It is true that the geometry lesson presupposes, and does not illustrate, ordinary concept-formation and the mastery of language. But it is precisely these capacities that are called into

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play by the geometry exercise, and that are in principle available for philosophic training. On Plato’s account we are all, like the slave boy, potential philosophers. Just how Plato will identify these human cognitive resources is what we find out when we read the passages in the Phaedo on rec­ ollecting Equality, Greater, Lesser, and the other a priori concepts. I suggest that this section of the Phaedo should be taken as Plato’s own commentary on the geometry lesson in the Meno. That is why the discussion of Recollection in the Phaedo is introduced by the unparalleled backwards reference to the corresponding passage in the Meno. In this and in several other respects, for example in tak­ ing for granted the method of hypothesis (100a3ff., b5ff., 101d2, d7, etc.), the Phaedo announces itself as the doctrinal sequel to the Meno.10 And as I have suggested, the choice in the Phaedo of the Equal itself as the focus for the doctrine of Recollection (at 74c1–2), followed soon by the Greater and the Less (at 75c9), is designed to allude to the geometric example of Recollection in the Meno.11 I conclude that we have learned a great deal from the discussion with Dominic Scott, even if we have not been convinced by his the­ sis. Above all, we have learned that the obscurities and omissions in each version of Recollection can be clarified and completed by read­ ing the three dialogues together. Their literary autonomy does not signify their philosophical autonomy. On the contrary, the philo­ sophical significance of Recollection in each one of these dialogues cannot be adequately understood in isolation from the other two. That is what I hope to have shown. I would claim more. The philo­ sophical significance of Recollection itself cannot be fully understood in isolation from Plato’s psychology and epistemology in the other dialogues, or from the role of the Forms in Plato’s theory of lan­ guage. Plato’s philosophy must ultimately be understood as a unified whole. But that is more than I have tried to demonstrate here.

Thus the three Forms mentioned in the first generalization of the doctrine of Forms at Phaedo 65d12–13 are identical with those given as examples of a unified eidos at Meno 72d6. (As I have acknowledged elsewhere, I owe this observation to David Sedley.) 11 Later echoes of the Meno geometry lesson in the context of the theory of Forms are not limited to the Phaedo. In the description of the Divided Line at the end of Republic 6, mathematicians are said to be thinking about the Square itself and the Diagonal itself, even when they draw the corresponding visible diagrams (510d6–8). 10

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THE RHETORIC OF PHILOSOPHY: SOCRATES’ SWAN-SONG David Gallop

Plato’s writings, although they are usually referred to collectively as “dialogues,” and although some element of conversation occurs in all of them, are actually couched in a complex mixture of different modes and styles. The mixture varies both from one dialogue to another and within individual works. Since their intellectual content often seems to be disguised beneath an elegant literary facade, their expos­ itors have sometimes sought to penetrate the facade by stripping off those features which have seemed extraneous to their argumentation. Their arguments have then been subjected to logical exegesis and scrutiny, often by being structured in propositional chains, wherein du­ bious premisses or inferences can be identified, analyzed, and criticized. This approach is justified, if philosophy is thought of simply as the articulation of true conclusions validly inferred from true pre­ misses. Not only is that mode of philosophizing often illustrated in the dialogues themselves, but it is also advocated as a goal for a dis­ cipline which aspires to scientific knowledge, modeled upon mathe­ matics. Yet we might recall Aristotle’s remark (Nicomachean Ethics, 1094b23–27) that it is the mark of an educated man to demand the degree of precision appropriate to a given subject-matter, and there­ fore not to expect demonstrative proofs from a rhetorician, any more than to be content with merely persuasive reasoning in mathemat­ ics. Plato, as a writer, more often reminds us of a rhetorician than of a mathematician. Hence, when the utmost deductive rigor has been achieved in expounding him, the result is not uncommonly a nexus of bleak-sounding propositions, which somehow miss the spirit of his text, however faithful they may be to its letter. This impres­ sion is reinforced, in our age of acronyms and stenograms, by the practice of abbreviating philosophical arguments or theses with let­ ters, such as “TMA” and many more recent ones.1

1 For a too-little-heeded critique of such “stenograms” in Platonic exegesis, see Ryle 1976, 78–83.

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Why is there such a striking disparity between the manner of Plato’s writings and the manner of those who write about him? The trouble is partly that the nuances of informal conversation, even in passages which contain reasoned argument, cannot be captured within the constraints of deductive logic. There is therefore a tension between Plato’s use of conversational style and our craving, as philosophers, for logically ordered exegesis. This craving is more readily assuaged by justifying true propositions which have already been established than by engaging in the quest for them. Yet it is this latter process that is often depicted in Plato’s works,2 not only in the so-called “aporetic” dialogues, but in those which arrive at conclusions. Above all, as has been well observed, “the dialogues display the conflict and interaction of minds and beliefs, not a logical procession of con­ nected truths.”3 This observation seems to me to hold true for many (though not all) dialogues, and to account for our frequent sense of disappointment with contemporary writing about Plato. I therefore wish to illustrate it from one incomparable work, which exemplifies it pre-eminently. The proofs of immortality in the Phaedo aspire to intellectual rigor, and yet often—perhaps nowadays almost always— they fail to persuade their readers. The Phaedo does not, indeed, deal explicitly with rhetoric. It is, however, greatly concerned with “persuasion.”4 I would therefore like to revisit the dialogue, and to explore its distinctive rhetoric. What is it trying to persuade us of ? How does it seek to persuade us? And does it deserve to succeed? Let me start from one of the most poignant moments in the work, Socrates’ comparison of himself with the swans of Apollo (84e–85a). The distinctive song of the dying swan is a traditional motif, first found in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (1444f ), and frequently recurring in later literature. In the version most familiar to us, the swan sings only when it is on the point of death.5 Are these beautiful birds bid­ ding a sorrowful farewell to life? Or are they, rather, as Socrates

2 See, especially, Apology 20e–23b, Meno 84a–d, 86b–d, Symposium 204a–c, Phaedo 68a–c, Phaedrus 278d, Theaetetus 155c–d. 3 O’Brien 1967, 10. 4 Dorter 1982, 8, has noted more than 50 occurrences of peithô and pistis in the Phaedo. These words and their cognates occur with almost equal frequency in the Phaedo, Gorgias, and Phaedrus, and more frequently in these three works than in any others except the Apology and the Crito. 5 This version of the legend occurs, for example, in Orlando Gibbons’ well-known madrigal, “The Silver Swan.”

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claims, joyfully welcoming their death? The true answer appears to be “Neither.”6 In the legend of the swan that remains silent until death, there seems to be a conflation of two different species: the mute swan, which never sings at all, either while living or dying; and the whooper swan, which makes a loud, aggressive call in life, but has also been heard to emit a distinctive “wailing, flute-like sound” just before it expires. The Greeks did not distinguish between these species, and were probably less familiar with mute swans than we are. Plato’s version of the legend recognizes song during life as well as at death, and may therefore have originated from the calls of the whooper swan. Socrates may be correct in doubting (85a5–9) that any bird sings when it is in distress. The distinctive dying sound of a whooper swan is due to the unusual, convoluted shape of its trachea, and the expi­ ration of air from its collapsing lungs. It is not, properly speaking, a “song” at all, and thus betokens no particular attitude towards death. Fortunately, however, scientific facts do not detract from a poetic image. Socrates’ point is that birds who are sacred to Apollo foresee that death will be a blessing to them. The belief that their song is a lament is merely a projection of the human fear of death. Socrates, who is also a servant of Apollo, foresees that death will prove a blessing, for he too will be reunited with his master. Here, as throughout the dialogue, he displays unfaltering trust in a per­ sonal god. His service to that god, in the Phaedo as in the Apology, is the practice of philosophy. Thus, by showing him passionately phi­ losophizing in his final hour, our dialogue does indeed represent his “swan-song.” But what are we to make of the song? If the argumentation of the Phaedo contains question-begging premises, circular reasoning, and equivocal conclusions, what is its net value in the search for truth about the human soul, or about life after death? A recent editor has posed the question bluntly: “how can bad philosophy make great literature?”7 This question, I shall later suggest, assumes a narrower understanding of “philosophy” than the one Plato had developed under the influence of his master. Given a broader conception of 6 For information about swans I rely upon the concise and well documented study by Arnott 1977. 7 Rowe 1993a, 2, reporting a consensus among modern philosophical critics of the Phaedo.

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philosophy, we might turn the question around, and ask how great literature can make good philosophy, and inspire it in its readers. How can literary form, by endowing philosophical argument with an appropriate “rhetoric,” enable it to achieve its goals? We speak of the proofs of “immortality.” But “immortality” in what sense? The Phaedo has made Socrates “immortal” in one famil­ iar sense, because he lives forever in the imaginations of Plato’s read­ ers, and his inquiries still stimulate their thinking. In that sense it could safely be said that Plato immortalized Socrates, whereas Diogenes Laertius or Xenophon did not. In that sense, however, Plato also immortalized the otherwise unknown Callicles, whose ideas influenced Nietzsche. In that sense too James Boswell immortalized Dr. Johnson, and Conan Doyle immortalized the fictitious Sherlock Holmes. Socrates, as fictionalized by Plato, may remain a powerful force in our lives; but, unless the Phaedo proves him (and other philosophers) immortal in some stronger sense than that, it still poses a problem. Did Plato base a belief in personal immortality upon arguments that any freshman can learn to pick apart? Was he practicing metaphysics, as famously described by F. H. Bradley (1899, xiv), “the finding of bad reasons for what we believe upon instinct?” Or did he believe neither in the arguments nor in their purported conclusion? In which case, what did he think he was doing when he wrote this dialogue? Solutions which are plausible for other dialogues seem not to apply to this one. It is sometimes supposed that Plato makes Socrates argue poorly, in order to capture his readers’ attention, sharpen their wits, and challenge them to do better. The ineptitude and superficiality of his interlocutors is deliberately exposed, so that positive lessons may be learned from their refutation. Or again, Socrates’ encoun­ ters with hostile speakers who do not share his basic assumptions are thought to illustrate the impossibility of persuading such speak­ ers by rational argument. For, as Socrates warns in the Crito (49d), there can be no common counsel between speakers who disagree upon fundamentals. Such explanations will work for dialogues like the Euthyphro, the Protagoras, the Euthydemus, the Gorgias, or Republic I, whose characters are muddled, vain, obtuse, fraudulent, cynical, stubborn, or other­ wise wrong-headed. But it does not suit the Phaedo, for obvious rea­ sons. Neither Simmias nor Cebes is portrayed in any such ways. Far from rejecting Socrates’ basic assumptions, they are perfectly willing to embrace them. They are earnest seekers after truth, eager to dis­

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cover it with Socrates’ help. Both of them raise cogent objections to which they want answers. The hour preceding Socrates’ death is the very last occasion on which it would be appropriate for him to prac­ tice logical trickery upon such friends, even from the motive of con­ soling them in their distress. He does, indeed, acknowledge that motive, and admits that he still likes to win an argument (91a–b). Yet sophistry surely has no place on death row. Logic-chopping is denounced in the Phaedo (90c, 101e). Plato can hardly have meant to show Socrates, on this occasion, committing the offenses for which he blames others. Deliberate fallacies would be wholly out of char­ acter for him, as he is portrayed throughout this work, a seeker after truth, anxious to avoid self-deception through wishful thinking, and to be refuted if he is wrong (91c). Then did Plato intend Socrates’ errors to be exposed, if not by his own companions, then by us, Plato’s readers? This too seems unsatisfactory. For if none of the proofs persuade us, the question of immortality remains unresolved; and we are set right back at the sceptical position from which the discussion begins (70a–b). Yet, con­ sidering the confident, affirmative note upon which it ends, it seems incredible that Plato intended to leave the issue unresolved in his readers’ minds. There is, to be sure, an age-old debate as to whether he was a dogmatist or a sceptic. According to one tradition, which still has numerous adherents, the dialogues merely inspire their read­ ers to ask philosophical questions, without recommending any specific answers. For the so-called “aporetic” dialogues such a view may be tenable, although I do not myself think that, even in those cases, we should despair of drawing “positive” conclusions. But in the case of the Phaedo, an interpretation which attributes no position to the author at all seems to me so implausible as to be untenable. A different approach to the problem is as follows. We can rescue the Phaedo’s arguments by, so speak, watering down their conclu­ sions. On the face of it, they purport to prove that “our souls,” i.e. the souls of individual persons, are immortal. But often “soul” ( psuchê ) occurs in the singular without the definite article. Perhaps, therefore, what is at issue is the survival not of the individual human soul, but of a collective soul, or a cosmic soul, or simply “soul stuff ” con­ ceived as immaterial force or energy, successively animating differ­ ent bits of corporeal matter, but without preserving the identity through time of a single person? Sophisticated readers have thought this a more defensible thesis than the survival of the individual soul.

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It is also more in keeping with the impersonal arguments for “soul” as a source of motion given in the Phaedrus and the Laws.8 Much ingenuity has gone into explanations of this type. But they do not seem satisfactory either. Even if it were clear that the proofs do, indeed, establish the immortality of “soul” in some such sense, that interpretation is hard to square with the tenor of the discussion as a whole. Every speaker is concerned with the fate of his own soul, and the objections of both interlocutors are addressed to that specific issue. Simmias’ plausible “attunement” theory would not have the force that it does unless it were intended to disprove personal survival. Even more clearly, individual survival is the target of Cebes’ objection. Socrates’ earlier arguments, says Cebes, leave it open to each individual to fear for his own soul (88b, cf. 95d). If Socrates does not address that issue in the sequel, then he is surely disin­ genuous when he finally claims to have done so (106e–107a). Philosophers who are still more sophisticated approach the dia­ logue in a very different spirit. For them, the question of immor­ tality is not the true focus of the work at all. Its philosophical interest lies in such matters as the theory of forms, the doctrine of recol­ lection, rational explanation, hypothesis, accidental and essential pred­ ication, the logic of relations, or certain problems in mathematical theory. The Phaedo’s original contributions to these topics are inde­ pendent of the wider argument in which they are embedded. There­ fore it is more fruitful to concentrate on such themes than on the issue that is made the occasion to discuss them. Perhaps it is even a little naive, and unworthy of a true philosopher, to worry about one’s personal fate in the next world.9 So the question of immor­ tality merely provides a convenient and popular framework for different issues that can be more profitably debated. This approach, though it may serve when we are exploring specific problems within the dialogue, is unsatisfying when we consider the Phaedo as a whole. The work belongs, after all, to a long tradition of ancient speculation about the nature of the soul and its ability to exist apart from the body.10 Since the question of personal immor­

8

See, e.g., Archer-Hind 1883, 21–6 and Dorter 1982, 43–4, 157–8. At Republic 330d–e, it is the aged Cephalus who frets about whether stories of the afterlife may not, after all, turn out to be true; and he is certainly no philosopher. 10 Aristotle reviews this tradition in de Anima I. He also discusses the “attune­ ment” theory at length, though without explicit reference to the Phaedo. 9

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tality appears to be the core issue in the Phaedo, and was consistently taken to be so in antiquity, it seems high-handed to ignore it, sim­ ply because it looms less large in our own discussions. But if so, our problem persists. How can the Phaedo, given its flawed arguments, provide a persuasive case for personal immortal­ ity? And if it fails to persuade, then how can Socrates’ confidence in face of death be justified? Can the dialogue realize its hope of exorcizing the “bogey-man” (77e)? Can it genuinely allay the terror of death that lurks within us? To address these questions, I shall first explore the relationship between the much-maligned proofs, and then return later to the dialogue’s “rhetoric.” The proofs of the Phaedo are not a series of discrete arguments, inserted “woodenly into a dramatic framework.”11 Rather, they are successive phases in a dialectical conflict between opposed positions. This conflict is, in fact, deliberately established as a counterpart to conflict in ordinary drama. Thus the turning-point, marked by inter­ ludes before and after Simmias and Cebes have presented their dev­ astating objections, functions somewhat like an Aristotelian “reversal of fortune” ( peripeteia).12 Unexpectedly, Socrates’ logos has fallen into discredit (88d), and we wait in suspense to see whether its fortunes will recover. By the end of the conversation, they have done so, and the quick-witted Cebes declares himself convinced. But Simmias is still cautious, and Socrates approves of his caution. He warns that the “initial hypotheses,” should be examined more carefully, before anyone can claim such certainty as is humanly attainable (107b). This signals where further work is required. The “initial hypothe­ ses” are usually taken to be, or at least to include, the theory of forms, which provides premises for three out of the four main proofs. But no less important is that other “twin pillar” of Platonism, the idea that humans consist of a material body and an immaterial soul (79b). This notion is nowhere defended, even though one important and popular rival, the “attunement” theory of the soul, is refuted. Yet for modern readers especially, soul-body dualism creates an obsta­ cle to the purported enterprise of the Phaedo. Our somewhat archaic word “soul,” laden with centuries of Christian teaching, virtually means that which survives the body. “Post mortem” existence is given

11 12

Rowe 1993a, 2. Cf. Gallop 1975, 103.

Rowe 1993a, 1, 200.

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in our very concept of it, somewhat as it is given in our concept of a ghost. But does there exist anything for which the word “soul” stands? If not, a discussion of its “immortality” cannot even get off the ground. The question of its survival seems fatally begged by the terms in which it is posed. I suggest that Plato highlighted this difficulty by the complex way in which he structured the discussion. Superficially, dualism looks like an unargued presupposition. But on a deeper level, it is a truth which we are meant to recover for ourselves. We can see this by looking closely at the relationships amongst the various arguments. First comes the so-called “cyclical” argument. Socrates argues that just as the dead are generated from the living, so the living are gen­ erated from the dead, and their souls must therefore exist in Hades following a previous incarnation. The argument seems patently and blatantly question-begging. It will work only if we understand the subject of generation to be “the soul” rather than the embodied liv­ ing creature. A child conceived on Tuesday was not yet alive on Monday, let alone dead, and therefore we cannot conclude that prior to conception it existed in Hades. On the contrary, before concep­ tion it did not exist at all. Existence prior to conception follows only if we assume that the bearer of the predicate “was generated” is not the child, but “the soul” which becomes incarnate in, or is “born into,” its body. Yet that assumption takes for granted exactly what has to be proved.13 Plato signals that this argument fails to prove that our souls will survive our own deaths. Simmias and Cebes are both dissatisfied with it, and both say later that they reject “some” of the preceding arguments but not others (91e). The ones they reject obviously include the “affinity” argument, which their own objections have just under­ mined, and at least one other. And since they both accept the re­ collection argument without reserve, the cyclical argument must be the other one that they reject.14 Early in the cyclical argument Socrates says that, if living people are not born only from the dead, “some other argument would be needed” (70d). And in fact “some other argument” will eventually be supplied. The need for “another argument” is reiterated later 13

See Gallop 1975, 105–6, and 1982, 207–22, esp. 216. See Gallop 1982, 217–20. The point is noted also by Rowe 1993a, 217–8 on 91e4. 14

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(88d), when Echecrates, sharing the dismay of Socrates’ interlocu­ tors, says that he very much needs “some other argument” to restore his faith, “as if from the start.” Socrates’ attempt to combine the cyclical and recollection arguments (77c–d) has failed, because the attunement theory of the soul has demolished it. The combination of those two arguments was flawed “from the start.” On the other hand the recollection argument never loses its appeal for either inter­ locutor. Cebes reaffirms his acceptance of it before he enters his own objection (87a), and both speakers take the same view when forced to choose between it and the attunement theory (92a). The upshot is that the recollection argument is to be accepted, but the cyclical one rejected. That is how Socrates summarizes the position just before launching into his response to Cebes (95c). The soul may have existed before birth, and known and done all kinds of things, but it may still fail to survive its present body. Plato meant, then, to advocate dualism, initially, by way of the recollection argu­ ment. The cyclical argument on the other hand, needs to be scrapped and replaced. It is, in effect, superseded by the final argument. For that argument shows that the genesis of living things can be explained only by positing an agent that exists forever, and is indestructible by its very nature. So, just as the recollection argument displays the soul as the true subject of cognition, capable of apprehending the forms, so the final argument displays the soul as the true subject of life, which animates individual living creatures. That, in broad outline, is the dialectical movement of thought at the core of the Phaedo. But at a crucial turning-point, there is an ellipsis which still calls for explanation. What exactly is wrong with Cebes’ image of the weaver and his cloaks (87b–88b)? As a model for the relation of soul to body, it is highly suggestive; and yet, unlike the “attunement” theory, it is nowhere directly refuted. Many pages later (105d), Socrates abruptly introduces an undefended premiss, that soul “brings life” to the body. Yet the difference, if any, between this premiss and Cebes’ weaver model is nowhere explained. This should still puzzle us. If we can fathom Plato’s intentions on this issue, perhaps we shall better understand the dualistic hypothesis underpinning the whole discussion. What follows is an attempt to do so. A weaver has fabric which he fashions into a certain shape. He and his fabric exist as separate items before the cloak is made, and the “making” consists in his arranging that fabric in the required

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pattern. But when living creatures are generated there is no pre­ existent material corresponding to the weaver’s fabric. There are simply the parents of the new creature, contributing sperm and ovum, from whose conjunction there develops a new member of their species. Cebes’ “weaver” soul does not, presumably, conjoin sperm and ovum, for that is achieved through the mechanism of intercourse.15 Rather, the soul causes the ovum, once fertilized, to develop and grow in the distinctive way that it does. It is thought of as sustaining the body’s vital functions, repairing and replacing its tissues16 as these become successively worn out. In this sense, the soul “weaves” a whole series of bodies, as the weaver makes himself a whole series of cloaks.17 But, Cebes argues (87e, cf. 91d), the irreversible changes which beset the body at death suggest that its soul must have perished. Cebes’ model breaks down because it tries to apply an image from the making of artefacts to living things, and fails to recognize cru­ cial differences between them. The genesis of living things, unlike that of artefacts, raises deep conceptual problems inherent in the notions of life, growth, perception, memory, thought, knowledge, intelligence—all those capacities for spontaneous motion, change, and consciousness, which distinguish living things, especially human ones, from inanimate, man-made objects such as cloaks. These conceptual problems go back to Parmenides. Socrates says (96c, 99e) that he had given up natural science, presumably because he recognized it as irrelevant to their solution. Scientists, far from solving these prob­ lems, pay no attention to them, although if they were truly insolu­ ble, science itself would be put out of business, as would Socrates’ own enterprise of human moral improvement. I cannot enter into them at all deeply here, but will merely pick up a few hints which Socrates drops during his “intellectual life-story” (96a–100a). At one point (96e–97a) he questions the idea that one and one make two, and wonders which of the “ones” has “become two.” Mere juxtaposition of two items conceived of as distinct cannot explain

15 With modern biotechnology, we might think of Cebes’ “weaver” as a scientist conjoining sperm and ovum in a test-tube. But Cebes himself could obviously not have thought of the soul as “making” the body in any such way. 16 The English “tissue”, deriving from Latin texere “to weave”, embodies the same idea. 17 The notion of continuous bodily renewal is closely paralleled at Symposium 207d.

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how they “become two,” for surely they were two already. If they were two, then they must remain two, wherever located in space. By the same token, we might ask how two distinct items, such as sperm and ovum, could ever become one. Which of them becomes one, or do they both become one? How does either of them become what it was not? The fusion of two items into a single “one,” through reproduction, and the growth of a child to adulthood (96c–d), are fraught with such conundrums. That is why they call for a “thor­ ough investigation” (96a1) of generation or coming-into-being, of per­ ishing or ceasing-to-exist, of acquiring or losing an attribute. Implicitly, it is suggested, these riddles can be solved by positing “the soul” as an enduring subject. It is the soul which exists at all times, and respects the Parmenidean interdict against speaking or thinking of the non-existent. Embodied living creatures can come to be and per­ ish, can acquire and lose attributes. But the soul functions as a meta­ physical constant, a sort of “amphibian,” at home with the unchanging forms, yet also capable of penetrating and affecting the flux of cor­ poreal matter. Conceptual problems arise, likewise, with respect to the percep­ tual and intellectual powers of living things. These powers cannot be explained merely in terms of the bodily conditions necessary for their exercise. Socrates does not, of course, deny the necessity of those conditions. Bodily organs are as necessary for perceptual aware­ ness as are eating and drinking for nourishment and growth. But those organs cannot be regarded as the true bearers of such pre­ dicates as “sees,” “hears,” “smells,” “remembers,” “judges” or “knows.” Material stuff such as blood or air or fire cannot be that which thinks. Nor can the brain be that which perceives or remembers, however necessary brain processes may be in order for us to per­ ceive or remember anything at all. The same holds for decisions and actions. Anaxagoras is famously ridiculed for ascribing all things to “intelligence,” but then invoking mere bodily organs, conditions, and processes to account for them. Socrates’ bones and sinews are not the true explanation for his sit­ ting where he is, but merely necessary conditions for the true rea­ son to take effect. The point is made with sly irony, when Socrates says that, had he not decided to remain in jail, “these bones and sinews would long since have been off to Megara or Boeotia, impelled by their judgment of what was best” (99a). Bones and sinews cannot, of course, literally make any “judgment” of what is best,

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because they are not the type of item to which “judgments” can be attributed at all. Rather, it is a moral decision, made by a conscious intelligence, that keeps Socrates’ bones where they are, in his prison cell.18 Cebes’ model fails, then, because it cannot explain the distinctive modes of generation, growth, consciousness, and thought, which char­ acterize living human beings. His “weaver” soul does not provide an adequate subject for vital functions, perceptual experience, mem­ ory, or intelligent judgment. For a weaver does not impart his own powers to the fabric upon which he works. The defects of the weaver model point us towards a subject which is not only distinct from the bodily organs and their constituent materials, but which can trans­ mit its own powers to the matter it informs, and which is therefore also able to live and think independently of the body, “alone by itself.” This “transcendent” subject is later sharply contrasted with the body. When Crito asks Socrates, “How are we to bury ‘you’?,” he is admonished for misusing language (115c–e). Socrates is not to be identified with his corpse, which will be interred or cremated. Arguments for such a subject are adumbrated elsewhere in Plato.19 But how far will they take us in exorcizing the Phaedo’s bogey, the fear of death? Many readers, like Crito, remain stolidly unmoved by them. The bogey will simply not be “charmed away” by postulat­ ing a metaphysical subject which animates our bodies and exercises our powers of perception, judgment, and decision. In the first place, such arguments leave it unclear exactly which functions of the embod­ ied human person will be retained by the discarnate soul after death. We cannot therefore form any clear conception of its experience in the afterlife. But more important is the following difficulty. It is extremely hard to sustain belief in a transcendent soul and to feel its relevance to questions of life and death. With intellectual labor, we may be able to reconstruct a philosophical defense of it. Yet emotionally it leaves us as unconvinced as Crito. To be genuinely “persuaded” that death is not to be feared, and to cease from fear­ ing it, we need a different sort of spell. That is why the dialogue

18

In this wry allusion to Socrates’ proposed escape, we are shown the crucial role of “intelligence” (nous) in solving moral problems. Its activity is, of course, illus­ trated in the Crito. 19 Theaetetus 184b–186e. See also Alcibiades I 129b–131e, although that work is widely regarded as spurious.

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must appeal to us on a different level. Hence, as Charles Kahn has observed (1996, 331), “it is the noble courage and argumentative mastery of Socrates in the face of death that give credibility to the transcendental conception of the soul, and its grounding in the real­ ity of the Forms.” This insight seems to me entirely correct, and I shall try to build upon it in what follows. Can we ever really be dissuaded from the fear of death by philo­ sophical argument?20 Can our feelings be altered by proving the fear to be an irrational one? Or is the fear an inescapable, and perhaps even an indispensable, element in our make-up? There is at least some reason to think so. Consider the following incident from a totally different context, recorded in Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson.21 When we were alone, [writes Boswell] I introduced the subject of death, and endeavoured to maintain that the fear of it might be got over. I told [ Johnson] that David Hume said to me he was no more uneasy to think he should not be after his life, than that he had not been before he began to exist. JOHNSON: Sir, if he really thinks so, his perceptions are disturbed; he is mad: if he does not think so, he lies. He may tell you he holds his finger in the flame of a candle without feeling pain; would you believe him? When he dies, he at least gives up all he has. BOSWELL: Foote, Sir, told me that when he was very ill, he was not afraid to die. JOHNSON: It is not true, Sir. Hold a pistol to Foote’s breast, or to Hume’s breast, and threaten to kill them, and you’ll see how they behave.

Boswell then asked Johnson whether we might not fortify our minds for the approach of death. To this Johnson, visibly upset, replied, “No, Sir, let it alone. It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives. The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so short a time.” When Boswell tried to continue the conversation, Johnson became enraged, and his biographer went home in distress. “I seemed to myself,” he writes ruefully, “like the man who had put his head into the lion’s mouth a great many times with perfect safety, but at last had it bit off.”

20 What follows partly overlaps with Gallop 2001. With permission from the orga­ nizers of the Cincinnati conference, some material appears in published versions of both papers. 21 Recorded for October 26, 1769. The passage is discussed by Redford 1999, 89–90.

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The exchange between Boswell and Johnson points to real psy­ chological differences on this question. Some there may be, like Hume, who are not distressed by the thought of their future non­ existence, and who can therefore genuinely face death without ter­ ror. They realize that they will, in Johnson’s words, “give up all that they have”; but this no more troubles them than the reflection that they were nothing at all before they were born. Indeed, philosophers have sometimes sought to dispel the fear of death by denying rather than affirming our existence after death, and by comparing it with our non-existence before birth. Death is not to be feared, because no posthumous subject will exist to be the bearer of any predicate or attribute whatever. That was, of course, precisely the gospel of the atomists, Epicurus and Lucretius. But even Lucretius, the devout Epicurean, grants that there may persist a deep-seated belief that burial or cremation, or other treat­ ment undergone by our bodily remains, will be a cause of suffering. He allows that such a belief may be held even by some who pro­ fess to accept Epicurean doctrine.22 Philosophical argument has not genuinely conquered their primitive superstitions. Most people’s feel­ ings about death are, indeed, if not as vehement as Dr. Johnson’s, at least more complex than Hume’s. Even if as adults we need not dwell much upon the thought of our own death, there is, as Cebes says (77e), a child within us for whom annihilation remains a ter­ ror. We may adopt an attitude of dispassionate serenity when con­ sidering the subject in the ambience of an academic conference. It is less easy to do so when we are dealing with death in “real life,” whether facing our own or that of others. Plato therefore shows a deeper insight than Epicurus in treating the subject as he does. To make Socrates reflect upon the concept of death in the hour of his own death is not only a testament to his courage, but also consti­ tutes Plato’s most successful dramatic achievement. The Phaedo connects human concern about death with the expe­ rience of bereavement (68a, 116a, 117c–d), and surely rightly. Our abhorrence of death stems as much from our concern for those we love as from fear for ourselves. The stronger our attachment to others, the greater our fear of losing them, and the pain of grief in

22 De RN iii.870–93. The similarity between this passage and Phaedo 115c–e is striking. I owe the point to Myles Burnyeat.

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such loss. We seek consolation in the hope that death may not be the end of their existence or of ours, so that we may somehow be reunited with them. Hence Socrates can use our love of other human beings as a metaphor for the soul’s love of truth and wisdom, and thus for explaining why the true philosopher should welcome death. In the same vein, the intense feelings for Socrates expressed by his friends color the discussion from beginning to end.23 It therefore seems to me mistaken to over-emphasize its intellectual aspects at the expense of its emotional ones. A strongly intellectualist reading of the Phaedo is offered by Martha Nussbaum in her brilliant and influential book, The Fragility of Goodness. She views the intellectual appeal of Platonic drama as paramount, contrasting it with the emotional response appropriate to tragedy. She characterizes the Platonic use of dialogue as “theater; but the­ ater purged and purified of theater’s characteristic appeal to power­ ful emotion, a pure crystalline theater of the intellect” (133). There are, of course, [she writes] Platonic dialogues in which some­ thing humanly moving is taking place: the Crito and Phaedo are obvi­ ous cases. In these dialogues the initial reaction of certain interlocutors is to feel grief or pity . . . But the dialogue [sc. the Phaedo] explicitly teaches that these are immature and unhelpful responses. Xanthippe weeps and is escorted out of the room (60a). Socrates reproves Apollodorus for his womanish tears (117d); we are supposed to apply his reprimand to ourselves. Phaedo repeatedly insists that he felt no pity (58e, 59a); nor should we. Socrates leads the interlocutors on from the personal to the general, from the emotional to the intellectual; so the dialogue leads us on. The action of the Phaedo is not the death of Socrates; it is the committed pursuit of truth about the soul. In it Socrates shows us how to rise above tragedy to inquiry. Sir Richard Livingstone, editing an English version of the Phaedo, printed the argu­ ments in smaller type “so that they can be either read or omitted.” This is an exact reversal of Plato’s intentions (1986, 131).

Nussbaum’s view of the Phaedo seems to me hardly less misguided than Livingstone’s. Would Plato’s “intentions” be fulfilled if the nar­ rative and dramatic passages of the work were printed in smaller type, so that they could be either read or omitted? That would make for serious printing problems, because argument is everywhere inter­ 23 Within the dialectical core of the dialogue, awareness of Socrates’ impending end is stressed at 70c, 76b, 78a, 84d, 89b–c, 91a–c, 98e, 107a. Cf. also 116a, where Phaedo says that the whole company felt as if they were being deprived of a “father”.

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laced with dramatic incident and poetic flights of fancy. Socrates’ verbs “tell tales” or “speculate” (61e, 70b) are carefully chosen to suit the fusion of myth with logic that pervades his arguments. Nor should we forget his composition of verses in obedience to an order from the god, to “make art (mousikê ) and practice it.” A poet, he reflects “should make tales (muthoi ) rather than discourses (logoi )” (61b); and this reflects Plato’s own poetic practice. Above all, the dialectical portions of the work, divorced from their dramatic con­ text, would fail to engage our interest. It is precisely because we too feel pity or fear for Socrates in his final hour that we care about what will happen to his soul. Our interest in the general question of immortality arises, just as it does in real life, from our concern with an individual we have come to know and to care for. Our intellectual curiosity is piqued by an emotional stimulus. “The action of the Phaedo,” writes Nussbaum, “is not the death of Socrates but the committed pursuit of truth about the soul.” But Plato deliberately links these two things together. Phaedo is expressly asked to tell both “what was said” and “what was done” (58c).24 To contrast Socrates’ death with pursuit of truth about the soul is a false dichotomy. For it is precisely by examining the latter issue in the con­ text of the former that Plato enlists his readers in the search for truth. Nussbaum tells us that just as Phaedo felt no pity, neither should we, and that such responses as weeping are “immature and unhelp­ ful.” That sounds curiously inhuman. What Socrates reproves in Xanthippe and in his friends, is not so much the feeling of grief as its unchecked, public expression, which—as the final breakdown of Apollodorus shows (117d5–6)—is highly contagious. Phaedo says that it was not pity he felt, appropriate to the death of an intimate friend, but a strange mingling of pleasure and pain, a volatile state, alter­ nating between tears and laughter, which was shared throughout the conversation by everyone present. He too finally breaks down along with everyone else. He was, then, on an emotional roller-coaster, in which surges of grief were eventually, at Socrates’ admonition, brought under control. He recognizes at last (117c8–d1) that his grief is, at bottom, self-centered: he weeps, not for Socrates, but for his own misfortune in losing him. He has come to realize that death is not an evil for Socrates, but only for himself. In his grief, he has pro­

24

As noted in Gallop 1975, 75. Cf. also Friedländer 1969, 35.

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jected his own sense of loss onto Socrates, and has wrongly sup­ posed that what is an evil for him is also an evil for his friend. He had made the same mistake as those who misinterpret the song of the dying swan (85a). None of this, however, implies that when we read the Phaedo, weeping is an “immature” response. Just as, in a real bereavement, we need to feel the measure of our loss, so in fiction, some counterpart to grief may be an appropriate response to death, even if muted by aesthetic distance. Socrates actually com­ mends his jailer for shedding tears on his behalf (116d). Such feel­ ings have often been attested by readers of the dialogue, even after frequent re-reading. To share them is not to betray a state of arrested development, but to prove that the Phaedo can still have its intended impact. Indeed, if we have become so desensitized by professional study that we cease to be moved by its final page, then so much the worse for us. Support for this view of the Phaedo can be found, I believe, in Aristotle’s treatment of tragedy in the Poetics. The dialogue is not, of course, a tragedy, as Aristotle defines that genre. It is cast in nar­ rative form, written entirely in prose, and devoid of choral lyric. Plato takes care to distance the Phaedo from ordinary tragedy by making Socrates mimic the high-flown diction of a tragic hero just before taking himself off to the bath (115a). Socrates is, moreover, too flawless a character to function as the type of protagonist pre­ ferred by Aristotle. The Phaedo contains no error or misapprehension (hamartia) in its central figure. Its protagonist is not at all “like our­ selves.” Nor is Aristotle’s predilection for an unhappy ending satisfied, for, in an obvious sense, the work may be said to end happily. Nevertheless, there is one crucial link between our dialogue and Aristotle’s conception of tragedy. It concerns the much debated issue of what tragedy accomplishes, according to Aristotle, when he says that it achieves “by means of pity and fear the katharsis from such emotions.”25 This notorious clause is best read as a pointed allusion to the Phaedo. For with the definite article, “the” katharsis, Aristotle refers, without need of further explanation, to that very freeing of 25 Poetics 1449b27–28. For the interpretation of katharsis adopted here, see Gallop 1999, 86–90, following Sparshott 1983, 22–3. Aristotle’s genitive plural, tôn toioutôn pathêmatôn, is better read as a separative genitive than as an objective one. It is not the emotions that are purged or purified, but the soul that is purged (as we say in English) of them, i.e. liberated from them. Cf. Phaedo 67c, where the intellect (dianoia) is said to have been “in a manner” purified.

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the soul from bondage to the emotions of which Socrates had spo­ ken in the Phaedo (69b8–c2): “. . . truth to tell, temperance, justice, and bravery may in fact be a kind of purification (katharsis tis) [sc. of the soul] from all such things (tôn toioutôn pantôn),” i.e. from “plea­ sures, fears and all else of that sort” (69b4–5). Paradoxically, Aristotle means to suggest, the pity and fear aroused by tragic drama do not, as Plato claims in the Republic, nourish and strengthen those emo­ tions, but are the very means by which we may be liberated from their power. An allusion to the Phaedo would explain the otherwise puzzling fact that the term katharsis is introduced suddenly by Aristotle, and explained nowhere else in the extant Poetics. Either the allusion would readily have been picked up by Aristotle’s audience, or he could have enlarged upon it in the lecture-room. In either case, he is refer­ ring to the well-known katharsis “from such emotions” that Socrates had praised in the Phaedo. If that interpretation is correct, Aristotle is claiming for tragedy precisely the benefit which the Platonic Socrates had claimed for philosophy, and in closely similar words. By allud­ ing to the Phaedo in his definition of tragedy, Aristotle implicitly treats it as a work in the same line of business. It frees the soul from enslavement to the emotions, especially to the fear of death, by evok­ ing them, allowing them full play, and then showing, through the noble demeanor and conduct of Socrates, how they may be subor­ dinated to reason. This does not mean having no emotions at all, but feeling emotions that are appropriate to their object. Fear of one’s own death, and pity or grief for another’s, are inappropriate if death can be shown to be not an evil but a good. Which is exactly what the arguments have purported to show. If this connection between Aristotelian katharsis and the Phaedo is accepted, we should recognize its implications. Aristotle is usually, and I think rightly, taken to be tacitly responding in the Poetics to Plato’s attack upon the tragedians. He is doing so, in my view, by pointing out that tragedy can have exactly the beneficial effect upon its viewer or reader which Plato had intended the Phaedo to achieve— an emotional impact which both stimulates and is stimulated by rational reflection. But if that is true, then the impact in question was most certainly not the stifling of the emotions, or the damning up of emotional response. For Aristotle quite obviously did not regard that as desirable. Proper emotional responses are, for him, the essence of good character, and failure to feel them correctly is a sign of

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flawed character (Nicomachean Ethics, 1104b3–9, 1106b16–24). Obviously, he would not have defended tragedy on the ground that it achieves an emotional condition of which he disapproved. He could not, therefore, have defended it by defining its impact in the Phaedo’s terms, if he had read the dialogue as advocating emotional repres­ sion. In his view, at least, the Phaedo illustrates exactly the same para­ dox as does ordinary tragedy. It uses the emotions of pity and fear to produce a psychological state in which those same emotions can be better brought under control of reason, a state in which things are feared only if they are genuine evils. Emotional arousal is thus, paradoxically, a means to emotional serenity. An Aristotelian view of the Phaedo seems to me not only to be plausible in itself, but to illustrate the futility of trying to separate intellectual from emotional responses to a work of literary art. If we accept this view, then we need not hold back our tears. For what the work depicts is not a repression of pity and fear, but a state in which they are acknowledged, wrestled with, and finally vanquished. The work does not show us, as Nussbaum says, “how to rise above tragedy to inquiry.” Rather, the inquiry has itself transformed the stuff of tragedy into drama of a higher order. The emotions of pity and fear have been transmuted into a confident, and even joyful, acceptance of Socrates’ end.26 Plato has inverted the traditional Homeric treatment of Hades as a region of gloom and darkness.27 The work is designed to produce in its readers a sense of death’s ultimate insignificance. It elicits a full awareness of our mortality, and yet a serene acceptance of it, an attitude that is “philosophical” in the popular sense of that word.28 The conversation has thus restored the company—and by extension its readers—to a state of spiritual health, for which “we owe a cock to Asclepius.”29

26 The serenity of Socrates’ end is conveyed, as Gill 1973, 25–28, has shown, by marked restraint in the narration of physical detail. As Rowe 1993a, 295, points out, ephaptomenos at 117e6 must mean “laying hold of ”, not simply “feeling.” The executioner is “holding Socrates down” to guard against convulsions. But the nar­ rator does not expressly say so. 27 See Gallop 1982, 210–11. 28 It is possible to be deeply moved by expressions of a religious attitude that one does not share. One may also find consolation in them without commitment to the faith which underlies them. Such, perhaps, is the experience of many read­ ers of the Phaedo. 29 For this interpretation of Socrates’ last words, see Crooks 1998, 122–3. A

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But then what of those dubious “proofs” of immortality? How has “great literature” redeemed them? It has done so, not (of course) by turning bad arguments into good ones, but by depicting Socrates himself as the exemplar of rationality. For it shows his trust, above all, in rational argument, and his capacity to be guided emotionally by its outcome. And here the discussion of misologia, which occurs at the very heart of the dialogue, is of crucial significance. Socrates personifies his own argument, and his handling of arguments in live discussion is a vindication of his rationalism. It is no accident that trust in arguments is compared with trust in persons. For Plato’s own trust in argument and his rejection of misologia was presumably derived from his personal trust in Socrates. Is all this a surrender to the work’s rhetorical power, a betrayal of reason in favor of faith? Only if we assume a dichotomy between faith and reason, which the Phaedo implicitly rejects. For the faith depicted here is faith in reason itself. Plato’s Socrates exemplifies reli­ gious rationalism, a confidence in the intellect as an instrument whose veracity is guaranteed by its divine nature.30 The pursuit of truth by rational argument, stringent ethical practice, and trust in God, all converge in the Socratic way of life. That is what “philosophy” in the Phaedo means. As Charles Kahn has said (1996, 358–9), its last­ ing achievement was to create “a rational religion for the educated classes of antiquity, . . . a spiritual gospel for the educated aristocracy.” This conception of philosophy, which is broader than that of our own academies, is conveyed by the dialogue’s rhetoric. It is con­ veyed, above all, by its central figure, who sings—like the swans of Apollo—“more fully and more sweetly than ever before.”

different interpretation, though brilliantly advocated by Most (1993), is less suited to the view of the dialogue put forward above. 30 For some further remarks on this, see Gallop 1997, xxiii. The resemblance of the Platonic Socrates to Descartes is striking, as noted in Gallop 1975, 169.

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TOPIC INDEX [Names of ancient figures appear in bold, when they are referred to as charac­ ters in Platonic texts.] Academy 6, 17, 40, 42, 126, 190–91, 213–14, 243, 263, 291–92 Achelous 193 Achilles 227ff. Adeimantus 60, 99–151 passim, 198 Adonis 90, 177 Aeschines of Sphettus 48 Aeschylus 184, 187, 226, 261, 314 Agathon 95, 106 agriculture 89–90, 177–78 Ajax 227ff. akousmata 155–173 passim, 198–201 Alcaeus 191 Alcibiades 35, 49, 57, 95–96 Anacreon 233 analytic philosophy 7, 12, 13, 252, 258, 287 anamnêsis (see recollection) Anaxagoras 323 Antisthenes 48 Anytus 96 Aphthonius 128, 131 Apollo 315 Apollodorus 95–96, 327, 328 aporia (see also dialogues, aporetic) 217, 256, 259 aporrhêton 189–90, 243 aprorrhêton 219ff. arrhêton 190 Aristodemus 95–96, 105 Aristophanes 45ff., 176, 181–82, 252 Aristotle 6, 61, 126, 190, 208–09, 212, 291 Metaphysics 209, 224–25 Nicomachean Ethics 19, 28ff., 69, 313 Rhetoric 19, 22, 125, 138, 149, 179 Poetics 153, 329ff. Athens, civic life of 45–46, 54, 63–64, 84, 251 biography 45ff.

blame, in literature (see praise)

Callicles 87, 316

Callimachus 9, 153 Charmides 63 Charmides 59, 101 Choirilus 173 cicadas 192 Cicero 125ff. cleansing (see “purification”) competition in Greek cultures 18–19, 36, 45, 55–56 courage, definition of 157–58 craft analogy (see “technê ”) Cratylus 223–40 passim Clitophon (Cleitophon) 87, 95 Ctesippus 18, 20, 51 Critias 63 Critias 160–71 passim Critias, son of Dropidas 60 Crito 51, 101, 269, 324 Daedalus 165, 186 daimôn 43 deliberative oratory 136f. Delos 186 Demeter 177–76, 183, 191 Democritus [Democrates?] 171 deuteros plous 129, 269, 272, 283 diaeresis 252, 258–59 dialogues, Platonic see also “Platonic dialogues,

individual”

aporetic vs. dogmatic aspects of 13,

57–58, 73, 238, 241, 258–59, 269–70, 304, 317 athletics in 16, 37 characterization in 248–49, 252 chronology of, see developmental cultural importance of 1–2, 99 developmental approaches to 4, 13, 277–78, 291–92 dialectic 90, 92, 127, 147, 166, 169ff., 176, 190, 198, 201, 217ff. 289ff., 306, 311, 319, 321 dramatic dates of 261

dramatic/literary texts, as 44,

96–97, 107–08, 116–17, 151,

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 

252ff., 265–66, 300–301, 313, 327–28 education of philosopher (and see Republic) 218–9 fallacious arguments 101, 114ff., 316ff. Forms (and see Phaedo) 12–13, 52–53, 202, 218, 238, 243, 260, 267–86 passim, 290–97, 304–20 gods, religion 62, 160, 166, 175–96 passim, 201–02 imagery 77–98 passim, 99–121 passim, 178, 191, 202, 258 intertextual connection vs. autonomy 4–5, 299–312 passim metaphor, use of 8, 10, 63, 106, 108, 113, 124, 154, 158, 165, 167, 171, 178, 191, 204, 215, 258, 279, 327 metaphysics 52, 53, 267–86

passim, 287, 291, 292, 306,

316

philosophers, selection of (and see Republic”) 161–62, 169–70, 218 poets and poetry 55–56, 139, 140, 149, 153–54, 172 political ideology (and see Republic) 62ff., 207, 208, 262 problem of writing (and see Phaedrus, Republic) 57ff., 117–21, 147–48, 154ff., 168, 219, 235, 243 prologues 15ff., 44 protreptic (“turn” to philosophy) 11, 49ff., 55, 64, 81–82, 85, 218, 220 radical views 45, 53ff. recollection, theory of 86, 166–67, 185, 189, 217, 302–12, 318, 320–21 rhetoric, Platonic (see also main index) 2, 7ff., 10, 95, 109, 113, 114, 117, 141, 143, 173, 175ff., 184, 188ff., 269, 281, 282, 313 and passim self-referential quality 3, 153, 173 silence, secrecy, evasiveness 179, 189–90, 195, 203–221 passim, 226, 234ff., 241ff. vision, ultimate 169, 175–95 passim, 202 Diogenes Laertius 316 Dionysius II 168 division, method of, see “diaeresis” doxa, see “opinion”

drômena 176, 189 encomium, see “praise” eirôneia (see “Socrates, irony”) Eleaticism 11, 172, 248, 252 Eleatic Stranger, see Stranger elenchus, elenctic method 51, 104, 157–58, 201, 256ff., 288–89 Eleusis 182, 187–88, 194 Epicurus 326 epideictic oratory 125, 127, 128ff., 133–34, 142 epistêmê 92, 165, 225, 310 epopteia, of mysteries 178, 182, 184, 187–90, 196 eristic 18 erôs 22–36 passim, 39, 43, 55, 62, 80, 184ff., 188, 191 erastês, paidika 23ff., 31ff esotericism 237–38, 203–21 passim eudaimonia 181 euprepeia 175 Euripides 45, 47, 184, 186, 300 Euthyphro, Prospaltian 232, 236 fifth century, as viewed from fourth 61, 64 forensic oratory 134ff. form-copies 267–86 passim Glaucon 80ff., 99–121 passim, 123–43 passim Gorgias 114, 149 Gyges, tale of 130 hearsay (as inauthentic discourse) 157ff. and passim, 233–39 passim Hellenistic poets 153–54, 198 Heracliteanism 224ff., 235, 239, 241 Hermes 37–43, 177, 183, 193 Hermaia, festival of 37, 43 Hermogenes 223, 226, 230–31, 235, 237 Herodotus 45, 130, 176 Hesiod 9, 134, 135, 153 Himerius 176 Hippias 51, 96, 228–29 Hippothales 18, 20, 23ff., 33–34, 37, 43, 68 Homer, Homeric epic 1, 9, 47, 100, 134, 135, 153, 227ff., 236–37, 254, 331 Homeric Hymns 40, 123–24, 182ff. hypothesis see Plato, Phaedo

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  ideal philosopher (see also “Socrates” 254–55 intermediate (neither good nor bad) 30ff., 41, 73 Ion 101, 102, 107, 114 Isocrates 5–6, 50, 171, 173 kalos k’agathos 59–60 katharsis (see purification) Laches 156–71 passim legomena 176 logistikon 116 logos hieros 189 individuality, as valid expression of 115, 226, 234 linguistic expression, language 168, 178, 181 logical account 110, 159 reasoned argument, philosophical explanation 43, 56, 158–59, 190, 193, 239, 306, 319 verbal vs. written expression 78, 88–89, 92–94, 114, 118, 147, 178 Lucretius 326 Lysias 46, 63, 138, 149, 181–82, 233 Lysis 15–44 passim Meletus 83, 247 Menexenus 18ff., 25–32, 37, 43, 68 mimesis 3, 99–121 passim, 216 misologia 332 mnêmê vs. hypomnêsis 188 modern view of Plato 2, 99, 203, 208, 211–12, 213, 219, 318–19 Muse 182, 232–33 muthologia (see also Plato, Phaedrus, Republic 80, 180, 328 mystês, mystagôgos 179, 184, 192, 194, 195 mysteries, cult of 175–96 passim Mysteries, Lesser and Greater 181, 193, 196 near-Eastern societies, ancient 55 Nicias 157–58 oikeion 31ff. opinion (doxa) 94, 124–25, 158, 163, 165ff., 169, 198–99, 302–03, 307, 310–11 oral-traditional culture 100, 119–20, 173

355

oral communication (see also “logos”) 95ff., 155–73 passim, 175–96 passim, 200ff., 235 Orestes 187 Orphic texts/myths 189ff., 194, 271 paidia (play—See Phaedrus) painting (zôgraphia) 107ff. Panaetius 126–27 parakousmata (parakouein) 164, 170 pathos 187ff., 190, 193 Parmenides 11, 52, 150, 163, 251–52, 260, 289 Pericles 156 peripeteia 319 Persephone 183, 191 Phaedo 18 Phaedo 269–70, 327ff. pharmakon (remedy) 105, 116–17, 148 Philetas 153 philia (friendship) 16–36, 41, 43, 218 competition in 16–22

in dialogues 56, 257

reciprocity of 21–43

Phaedrus 88, 105, 173, 175, 181, 182, 191–96, 201, 233 philosophia 2, 9, 52, 55, 61, 74, 191, 202, 218 philosophy, development of as a discipline 1–2 phronêsis 200 Pindar 173, 191 Plato authorial persona 58ff., 63–65

family 59–60, 63

Platonic dialogues, individual (for general topics, see “dialogues”) Alcibiades I 87 Apology 2, 50, 57, 62, 69, 84, 96, 116, 120, 288, 315

[Axiochus] 191

Charmides 3, 12, 17, 25–26, 44,

120, 159–60 [Clitophon] 87, 117 Cratylus 9, 109, 223–40 passim Critias 154 Crito 2, 316 Euthydemus 3, 9, 17–18, 26, 50ff., 60, 158, 165, 217, 317 Euthyphro 77, 83ff., 96–97, 157, 317 Gorgias 4–5, 34–35, 51, 57, 74, 87, 149, 218, 317

Hippias Minor 3, 5, 228–29

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 

Ion 54, 100–01, 107, 114, 116 Laches 12, 44, 156ff. Laws 217, 257, 318 Lysis 15–44 passim, 217 Meno 12, 158, 165ff., 197ff., 302–03, 306–07, 310–11 Parmenides 156, 286, 291, 306 Phaedo hypothetic method 267–70, 276, 284

literary quality 315

memorial to Socrates 270,

286, 326ff.

persuasion 314ff.

philosopher 57, 305ff.

recollection (see “dialogues”)

soul, proving immortality of

270–71, 278ff., 285–86, 296, 297, 318–24 passim swan analogy 314–15, 332 theory of Forms 162, 267–86 passim, 292–97, 303ff., 307ff., 312, 318, 319, 321, 323, 325 Phaedrus education 91–94, 97–98, 112, 114, 218–19

erôs (see main index)

horticultural imagery 89–94,

97–98, 147, 177–78 mysteries, allusions to 175–196 passim, 201–02 myth 185–92 paidia (play) 59, 89, 90–91, 181ff. prayer 183–84, 195 recollection (see main index) rhetoric (See main index and “Dialogues, Platonic” ) 149, 175 soul, nature of 92, 186–87, 286, 303, 318 writing, problem of 57ff., 85–94, 118–19, 156, 164–65, 175ff., 180ff., 190, 196, 234–35 Philebus 286 Protagoras 3, 87, 156, 287, 316 Republic authoritarian politics in 54, 63ff., 82, 109ff. “City of Pigs” 102–03 Cave, allegory of 2, 57, 146, 305 division of goods 124–25, 142 education of guardians 79–82, 111ff., 116, 169, 218

Er, myth of 140, 149, 150

Forms in 217, 290–91

horticultural imagery 78–82, 145ff. justice 63, 102–03, 123–43 passim, 160 mimesis 99–121 passim persuasive rhetoric 123–43 passim, 149–50 philosopher, philosopher-king 79ff., 103, 110, 112–13, 131–32, 145–46 poets and poetry 54, 56, 114ff., 119, 133–34, 136–37, 139, 149, 151, 154 problem of writing 3, 114–15, 118–21, 151 soul 103, 116, 286, 302 visual art 107ff., 120, 130 Second Letter 98 Seventh Letter 53, 155–56, 165, 167ff., 189, 197, 199–200, 206ff., 219 Sophist 147, 161, 163, 247–65 passim, 286, 288ff., 306 Statesman 11, 58, 64, 154, 247–63 passim Symposium 26, 43, 49, 72, 73, 105–06, 176, 185, 300–01 Theaetetus 83ff., 96, 97, 147, 150, 154, 156, 158–59, 225, 247–48, 254–55, 258, 289 Timaeus 154, 160ff., 198, 286 Plutarch 180 poetae docti, see Hellenistic poets, social position of 55ff. Polemarchus 114 Polus 51, 96, 101, 149 post-modernism 99 praise and blame in literature 24, 33–34, 47, 127–43 passim “presocratic” philosophy 45 Proclus 225 proleptic view of dialogues 245 prooimion 123–24 Protagoras 51 prôton philon 30ff. purification (katharsis, “cleansing”) 63, 185, 193–94, 201, 232, 234, 259, 288, 329ff. Pyrilampes 60 Pythagoreans 171, 271, 311 rhetoric, conventional Greek (see also “Platonic dialogues”) 9, 48, 51, 123–43 passim, 149, 156, 175

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  Rhetorica ad Alexandrum 129 Romantic period 208 Sappho 191, 233 Satyrus, see Euripides, biography of second sailing (see deuteros plous) Simmias (and Cebes) 267, 269, 272, 283, 294, 307, 308, 310, 316–26 passim Socrates (as historical figure) 45ff., 65 Socrates appearance 47–48, 255, 264 aporetic technique 52–53, 256ff. benefactor 69 courage 325, 331–32 charm, personal 56–57, 95, 327, 328 comic figure 46–47, 50–51 death/martyrdom 47–48, 61–62, 64, 261ff., 313–31 passim deviant or eccentric figure 45, 49–50, 57, 248–49, 255, 263–64 dialogic technique 50ff., 68–69, 74–75, 84, 104ff., 223, 232–38, 2456ff., 288–89, 332 effectiveness as teacher 51–52, 95–96

erotic expertise 25ff., 34–35

faith in reason, logos 62, 332

humor 51–52, 256

ideal/paradigm philosopher/

intellectual 57, 162, 248, 253, 329, 332 ignorance, claim of 48ff., 73, 87, 223 233ff., 256, 258–59 irony 5, 6, 11, 34, 49, 62, 57ff., 111–12, 118, 217, 232ff., 237–38, 255–56, 323 politeness, gentleness 49, 64, 256–57 religious faith 62, 315, 332 sophistic aspects 57–58, 61, 260, 262, 288ff. tragic aspects 47–48, 61–62, 329

357

Socratic dialogue, genre of 5, 9, 48, 153–54 Solon 55, 60 Sophists 61, 77, 83, 153, 163–64, 168, 172, 228, 237, 254, 256, 288–90 Sophocles 184, 186, 300 sôphrosynê 180 Stesichorus 194–95 Stoicism, see division of goods Stranger (or Visitor), Eleatic 147, 161, 163ff., 247–66 passim suzên (living together) 220 suggeneia (see, “dialogues, philosophers, training of ” and Plato, Republic) technê (art, craft) 86, 108, 259 thought, as internal dialogue 90–91, 147 Theaetetus 158, 161, 163 Theodorus 251 Theon of Smyrna 176–77 Theseus 186 Thamus-Ammon 85–86, 177 Theuth 86, 177 Thirty, the (Thirty Tyrants) 63, 262 Thrasymachus 57, 104, 114, 116, 124–28, 141–42, 264, 316 Thucydides 45 timiôtera 59, 166, 179 Timaeus 160, 198 tragedy, tragic drama 47–48, 62–63, 96, 108–09, 115–16, 119, 153, 329–31 Tübingen school 6, 13, 244 Xanthippe 327, 328 Xenophon 5, 46, 48–49, 50, 77, 127, 316 xenos 249, 251–52 Zeno of Elea 52–53, 250 Zeus 177, 253

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MODERN REFERENCES References (in text) to modern figures.

(References to authors by their commentators have been omitted.)

Adkins, A. 68 Annas, J. 101 Arnim, H. v. 16 Ausland, H. 9 Beckett, S. 223–24, 239–40 Blank, D. 69 Blondell, R. 11 Bostock, D. 248 Boswell, J. 316 Bourdieu, P. 54–55 Bowra, C. 173 Bradley, F. 316 Brumbaugh, R. 247 Burkert, W. 39–40 Campbell, L. 248 Carlson, M. 250 Charles, L. 250 Derrida, Jacques 7, 57–58, 70 de Vogel, C. 212 Dickey, E. 249, 257 Dittmar, H. 5 Doyle, C. 316 Dugas, L. 35 Eastwood, C. 247, 253 Else, G. 107 Erler, M. 8, 9 Farness, J. 10 Frede, M. 145 Friedländer, P. 261 Gadamer, H.-G. 145 Gaiser, K. 212 Giannantoni, G. 5 Gigon, O. 5, 47 Goldschmidt, V. 74 Gonzalez, F. 4, 8, 10 Gomperz, H. 145 Grote, G. 244–45 Guthrie, W. 67

Haden, J. 16, 38–39 Hadot, P. 74 Hegel, G. 11, 214ff., 218, 245 Howland, J. 10 Hume, D. 325–26 Jaeger, W. 77 Johnson, S. 316 Kahn, C. 5, 53, 145, 244, 325, 332 Kant, I. 206–07, 304–05 Keuls, E. 10, 107, 148 Klein, J. 145, 261 Koller, H. 107 Krämer, H.-J. 212 Kraut, R. 69 Leibnitz, Y. Y. 311 Livingstone, R. 327 Lombardo, S. 29–30 Michelini, A. 9 Montaigne 19 Montuori, M. 47 Nietzsche, F. 15, 36, 212ff., 316 Nightingale, A. 5, 8, 9, 11, 69, 70, 155 Nussbaum, M. 327ff. O’Connor, D. 69 Owen, G. 291 Pfeiffer, R. 153 Pohlenz, M. 16 Popper, K. 62, 65 Reale, G. 212 Robin, L. 212 Rowe, C. 253 Rosen, S. 261 Ross, D. 212 Sallis, J. 145 Sayre, K. 145 Schefer, C. 8, 9

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Schleiermacher, F. 11, 207–214, 216, 218ff., 242ff. Schmalzriedt, E. 41 Scott, D. 302–12 Skemp, J. 256 Smith, P. 69 Strauss, Leo 6–7 Stenzel, J. 212 Szlezák, T. 6, 9, 11, 237

Usener, S. 155 Vlastos, G. 35, 244, 273 Westermayer, A. 23, 40–41 Wilpert, P. 212 Wittgenstein, L. 11, 203ff., 220 Wolf, U. 40–41 Zanker, P. 46–47

Teloh, H. 69, 70 Tenneman, W. 208, 213ff.

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