Plato's Invisible Cities: Discourse and Power in the Republic

PLATO’S INVISIBLE CITIES

PLATO’S INVISIBLE CITIES Discourse and Power in the Republic

Adi Ophir

London

First published in Great Britain 1991 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2002. © 1991 Adi Ophir All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Ophir, Adi Plato’s invisible cities: discourse and power in the Republic. 1. Utopias. Plato. Republic I. Title 321.07 ISBN 0-203-00734-4 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-33393-4 (Adobe eReader Format) ISBN 0-415-03596-1 (Print Edition)

to Miti who shared all the troubles and the joy

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments Introduction

ix 1

1

GREEK, ALL TOO GREEK

10

2

THE PROBLEM OF JUSTICE RESTATED

46

3

THE IDEAL CITY

73

4

FROM DRAMA TO DISCOURSE

104

5

THE SPACE OF DISCOURSE

132

Notes Bibliography Index

168 195 203

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The first version of this book was a doctoral thesis written at Boston University, under the supervision, encouragement and help of Professor Marx Wartofski, Professor Seyla Ben-Habib and Professor Donald Carne-Ross. I also profited from a fruitful dialogue with Professor Scott Austin, Professor James Schmidt and Professor Stephen Scully, then faculty members at Boston University. My original audience, however, was my colleague and friend, Professor Michael Kelley, who patiently accompanied me in that painful journey into the English language, and tirelessly helped with editorial as well as philosophical suggestions. The present version of this book could not have been written without the moral and material support provided so generously by Professor Yehuda Elkana at the Van Leer Jerusalem Institute, and the Institute for the History and Philosophy of Science and Ideas at Tel Aviv University. Miss Tali Robovich helped during the final stages of preparing the manuscript. I am indebted to them all.

INTRODUCTION

The highest truth no longer resided in what the discourse was nor in what it did; it resided in what was said. A day came when truth was transferred from the ritualized, potent, and just act of enunciation to the enunciated itself, to its meaning, its form, its object, and its reference. A certain division was established between Hesiod and Plato, separating true discourse from the false; this was a new division, for, henceforth, true discourse was no longer linked with the exercise of power. The Sophist was hunted. (Michel Foucault, The Order of Discourse, 1981)

This is a book about civic space, philosophical discourse and political power. It is also a book about another book, a Platonic dialogue, perhaps the Platonic dialogue, Politea (Republic). It is a book about the space which that dialogue proposes, in vain, to transform, the space of the city, about another space which the dialogue actually constituted, the space of discourse, and about the illusion of an unbridgeable hiatus between the two which it fabricates, legitimizes and dissipates. This book is an attempt to understand the political act which the dialogue was at the time and place of its composition, and has been since, due to its inaugurating position and canonical place in the history of western metaphysics, epistemology, ethics and political philosophy. Within the Platonic corpus, the Republic occupies a very special position. It is one of the longest dialogues, second only to the Laws, it is one of the most influential in creating the image of the 'Platonic doctrines’, both written and, allegedly, unwritten; and it is one of the keystones in the emergence and development of western philosophy. It is also a text whose explicit subject-matter is justice, the presence of a rational principle in the order of power and in 1

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various planes of human interrelations; at the same time, it deals extensively, and from different perspectives, with a group of questions concerning the relations between philosophy and politics. Regarding this relation, the text moves between two extremes, which even today practical philosophy cannot escape: on the one hand, the idea – and the ideal possibility – of a philosopher-king, the ultimate merger of reason and power, discourse and practice; on the other hand, the complete divorce between philosophy and politics: the philosopher who minds his own business, is completely withdrawn from public life and remains immune to the contaminations of the political is presented as not only a possibility but a most desirable one, at least in the present state of affairs. These are some of the meta-political themes in the dialogue and they are well known; yet these are not only themes but concrete textual acts imbued with political meaning. Shifting attention from the dialogue’s themes to its textual strategies and the discursive formations, I am asking about the practical significance of presenting these themes in that time, in that manner, with those textual gestures. How 'thick’ was the discourse that invented the transparency of philosophical reflection' How politically committed was the text that made possible the aloof, well-respected philosopher' The Republic is not only a point of departure and a pole of constant returns for so many texts in metaphysics, ethics and social theory. The dialogue stands in a crucial junction in the history of discourse in general. It witnesses the emergence of 'true’ or 'serious’ discourse, i.e. a discourse in which claims to know are generated, and then examined according to their truth value alone, irrespective of other features of the discursive enunciations, and in which features of the pursuit of knowledge are opposed to all other forms of practice. The main point about the statements in a serious discourse, from a practical point of view at least, is that the truth claims they imply are thrown into a contextless space, removed from the original circumstances of their enunciation, thus making it possible for any speaker or practitioner of discourse to fill the vacant place of the original speaker. This may be self-evident for a modern agent of discourse, but it was not for Plato’s original audience. Recall, for example, how Socrates rebukes Phaedrus when the latter disbelieves the mythical account of the origin of writing as told by Socrates: – It is easy for you, Socrates, to make up tales from Egypt or anywhere else you fancy. 2

INTRODUCTION

– Oh, but the authorities of the temple of Zeus at Dodana, my friend, said that the first prophetic utterances came from an oak tree. In fact the people of those days, lacking the wisdom of young people, were content in their simplicity to listen to trees or rocks, provided these told the truth. For you, apparently, it makes a difference who the speaker is, and what country he came from; you don’t merely ask whether what he says is true or false. (Phd. 275b–c) To care for the source of a truth claim means to be aware of the speech or textual act as a type of social practice. Plato teaches his listeners and readers to care only for the truth or falsity of a truth claim and to disregard the authority behind it, be it a revered poet, a skillful Sophist, an awesome tyrant 'or any other wealthy man who believes himself to have great power’ (Rep. 335d). The inevitable consequence of this shift of attention was a constant attempt to conceal the teacher’s own authorial presence, to discard all textual strategies, i.e. rhetorics, used to constitute any authority other than that of the 'truth of the matter’, and to deny the cultural and political entanglements and commitments of the true discourse. The Republic is the result of an ingenious investment in building a transparent authority and an invisible political act. The dialogue is still an expression of philosophical writing highly aware of itself as a social practice embedded in politics; it is at the same time a work that sets the rules for philosophical writing as a practice that denies and conceals its own practicality. The Republic was a political act in the way it created a possibility for a discourse that understood itself as dissociated from the practical realm, immune to its requirements and constraints, and which could be translated back into practice only with the miraculous presence of a philosopherking. This is the main claim which I try to explicate and demonstrate in this work. Since Plato there has existed a view, still widely held, that takes philosophy to be a special kind of contemplation, a purely spiritual activity, which should stand in contradistinction to all other practices, from the mundane to the aesthetic, from the scientific to the political. Doing philosophy, according to this view, requires and presupposes the suspension, if not the elimination, of almost all other discursive and non-discursive practices; it is a steadfast struggle to separate 3

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theoria from praxis in order to become the impractical practice par excellence. Philosophical reflection is conceived as a mirroring in which the mirror itself is invisible, intentionally or unconsciously concealed. Consequently, philosophical writing has tended to blur all traces of the moment of mirroring and to deny anything which may betray the materiality of the mirror and the actual moment of duplication. The reflexive moment fails to make itself transparent; it also fails to recognize its own opacity. Since the mid-nineteenth century, since Marx and Nietzsche at least, one finds several forms of refusal to take philosophical discourse at its face value. Alongside those refusals, various attempts to transfer discourse into a legitimate domain of declared activity have emerged, the activity of the therapist or the critic for example. In such a new domain, the transcendental has been historicized, the transparency of reflection has been contaminated, and synoptic understanding, as the end of the philosophical search, has been dissipated into its rudimentary, localized segments. Yet, despite this growing awareness of the embodiment of discourse in the world of practice, most modern schools of philosophy seem not to have freed themselves from that ancient self-deception concerning the impracticality of their discourse. They (one may think here of phenomenology, analytic philosophy, hermeneutics, even of a variety of neo-Marxist positions) never stopped trying to conceal, in the final work, the traces of the ongoing activity which preceded it and the discursive practices which made it possible. They have not abandoned the attempt to declare the place philosophy holds among other activities in the general field of praxis to be as slim as ever. They still often imply that at least their own contemplative activity lies outside the noisy disorder of deeds and events, within a separate realm of its own, at least due to, and through, its very fine, very delicate, harmless results. It is not necessary to mention here those who, after Marx, Nietzsche and Freud, still wish to speak about 'pure descriptions’ and 'transcendental deductions’. It is sufficient to take, for example, analytic therapists, whose therapy seems effective only when applied to the day-dreams of their fellow philosophers, and whose analysis seems practical only in terms drawn from within their own discourse. Or one may think about critical philosophers who claim to launch a critique with a practical intent but rarely give any account of how exactly their intent is going to become practical, of how and to what extent it is practical as an 'intent’, as a motivating power behind their discourse. 4

INTRODUCTION

To examine the practicality of a Platonic dialogue is to examine the appearance of 'serious’ discourse and the emergence of philosophy as the archetype of all serious discourse to come. Parmenides still had to speak about truth and non-truth through the mouth of a goddess; Aristotle could already analyse the logical structure of propositions. The Sophists’ discourse was inextricably linked with the exercise of power in the polis; Protagoras and Gorgias claimed to teach wisdom and skill of a special sort, the wisdom and skill that made one a successful citizen, i.e. a talented speaker about public affairs at public gatherings. Aristotle, less than a century later, could already collect data about a variety of political systems, write a treatise about virtues and happiness in their political context and also outside it, and address these to an audience of 'professional’ thinkers who gathered in his school; he could write of the best city and at the same time teach the would-be emperor in a state that did not resemble any of those he recommended. Aristotle and the Sophists were clearly playing in different discursive fields, framed in different networks of knowledge/power relations, in which philosophical practice assumed different political meanings. Plato fought the Sophists and prepared the way for Aristotle; he was, no doubt, caught in the midst of the transition. Plato’s writing and activity, the dialogues, the more and less successful flirtations with men of power in various cities, the establishment of the Academy and the ongoing engagement in its intellectual activities, all should be understood in the context of that transition in the state of philosophical discourse and its link with the order of power in the Greek world. For Plato, the dissociation of philosophical discourse from the order of power, the differentiation of a serious from a non-serious discursive field, the overcoming of a will to power by a will to truth, all were ends to be pursued, not accomplished facts; he stood on the brink of the new discourse, not entirely within it. His links with the old discourse were still too strong not to play any part in his writings; the boundaries of the new one were not yet secured or clear-cut. One still needed to clear a ground for that statement whose subject might disappear without affecting its truth claim. One had to rebuke the Sophists and to confine rhetoric to its due place, i.e. the market place or the assembly, but not the space of serious discourse. Even as late as the Sophist, when the recently established Academy already provided the material and social space for serious discourse, the Sophist must have been arrested before the more important questions 5

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of being and non-being, knowledge and ignorance, could have been discussed. For the already converted, a will to power was repeatedly traced beyond false claims to know in order to destroy completely their efficacy. At the same time, for those still enchanted by the old ways of discourse, the speakers of those claims were stripped of their apparent power and presented in their true weakness in that other stage of wrestling that Plato builds in order to replace the political one, the stage of the Socratic conversations. Plato’s texts are not only key knots in the emerging system of discursive practices but a major force in the creation of that system. The Platonic dialogues are the clearest example, the most powerful perhaps, of a text that not only manifests discursive transformations and a reinstitutionalization of knowledge/power relations, but also takes an actual part in bringing those about. In almost every dialogue a struggle against the old discourse and for the new one is carried on. The Platonic dialogue brings to the surface of discourse what is so often forbidden – perhaps never again allowed – to appear there: the struggle to establish a new order within discourse, a strife for every discursive practice, the power invested in the process of establishing and maintaining discourse as a set of rules, differentiations and exclusions. In many dialogues, the text’s practicality is not a sideeffect, an epiphenomenon or a strange residue of the more serious effort to 'speak toward the truth’ but the text’s front line and its most penetrating organizing force. Only a tradition of reading in which the texts’ practicality is systematically concealed fails to recognize these features of the Platonic dialogues, and in this failure it is but another witness of their success, of its tremendous practical efficacy. For if, indeed, these texts played a key role in the discursive transition I am speaking about, their role was exactly this, to create the possibility of a discourse whose political dimension is hidden, or rendered completely transparent, and hence, again, invisible. The task of this book is to demonstrate and understand how precisely this role was played, at least in one crucial moment. The discursive shift is closely examined 'in the making’ in the special case of the Republic. In order to understand the Republic as a political act, the book places it against a background of a politico-discursive crisis that gave rise to the dialogue’s leading question, the question of justice. The crisis was discursive, for it touched upon the very contours of Greek man, i.e. it involved the discursive formations and practices in and through which Greek man was separated from the gods 6

INTRODUCTION

above and beasts below, as well as from barbarians, women and slaves. The crisis was political, for it concerned the order of power in the Greek polis and its stability, and involved the main outlines of its organized civic space. In a just polis an organized civic space embodies and constrains a rational, justified order of power, in which man is protected from a catastrophic overstepping of his limits and can attain a harmonious, balanced soul. Recurrent acts of injustice, exemplified in the dialogue through the myth of Gyges, undermine the organization of civic space and lead to transgression of both spatial barriers and the contours of Greek man; they endanger the very link between the rational and the political. In the scope of one text Plato develops and examines two alternative solutions to this problem. The utopic solution is an attempt to transform civic space in order to secure a rational order of power and a balanced human existence. The escapist solution is an attempt to cut the link between an organized civic space and man’s secured contours, between citizenship in a polis on the one hand and human happiness and justice on the other, between the political and the rational. This solution means the internalization of politics and the sublimation of a will to power into the (metaphorical) space of discourse. The reformulation of the question of justice as an expression of the above dilemma and the reconstruction of its two solutions is based upon a reading of the dialogue, which is indebted in different ways to Derrida’s Plato’s Pharmacy (in Derrida 1981), to Foucault’s notion of discourse and his insights about power, space and visibility, and to the French school of classical anthropology and history (Vernant, Detienne, Vidal-Naquet, et al.). This reading consists of: a) a systematic and detailed reconstruction of the different layers of the text – the mythical, dramatic, utopic and discursive – with special attention to the spatial setting that each layer implies, refers to or constitutes; b) a juxtaposition of the different layers in terms of the relations among the different spatial settings. This interpretative analysis reveals that the two solutions do not gain equal status in the dialogue. The utopic solution is shown to be faulted from its very conception: the reformed civic space relies on an exercise of power that is not spatially embodied but rather exercised and distributed through the rationalization of civic time; this entails paradoxical, impossible or inhuman temporality and a city that exists outside history. That the utopic solution is doomed is only part of the dialogue’s plot. It must be considered together with a variety of 7

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writing techniques, e.g. the organization of the dramatic space and its gradual disappearance and the spatial metaphors that shift readers’ attention away from the actual state of affairs toward the time and place of discourse. Discourse is spatialized through a series of metaphors that accompany a chain of primary or guiding questions around which the whole dialogue is organized. The guiding questions, however, are not really answered in the dialogue, or only provisionally so; they are actually suspended, each in its turn, in favor of 'higher’ questions, which ultimately lead to the question of the good, at the dialogue’s center. But the answer to this question too is suspended, and the discussion of earlier suspended questions is resumed in a reverse order, thus creating an almost perfectly symmetrical structure, and a network of postponed questions that constitutes the philosophical conversation as a game whose arch-rule is suspension. In the meantime, as the spatialization of discourse proceeds and the utopic solution is abandoned, all values concerned with philosophical discourse and its opposition to political affairs have been inverted: to philosophize appears now as the most serious, most urgent and practical matter; politics, on the other hand, is a playful or, more often, dreadful and bloody waste of time. A hiatus is created between politics and philosophy; Greek man gains a new organized space in which to excel and maintain his balanced, harmonious existence, i.e. the organized space of discourse, displayed through a series of suspensions that must ultimately start with the suspension of the political. The traces of writing, which fabricate this seeming separation between theory and praxis, are ingeniously erased through Plato’s mastery of the art, laying a trap for readers who would willingly forget what Plato taught them: that it is writing which creates the space of philosophical discourse and fabricates it as a place for an 'ideal speech situation’, devoid of power’s effects and temptations, and immune to the political domain. The political act which the Republic is, and in which so many readers have complied throughout the ages, is to lay that trap and reproduce its spell through ongoing interpretative work that basically reaffirms the main rules of the game: the separation of the political and the philosophical, the practical and the theoretical, and the suspension of 'lower’, more mundane questions, for the sake of 'higher’, speculative ones. A deconstructive reading of the Republic, which this book is, is an anti-Platonic treatise that takes Plato seriously in order to help readers be liberated from his spell. 8

INTRODUCTION

Throughout the book references to the Republic are given in numbers only, indicating page numbers in the Stephanus edition. For other dialogues the common abbreviations are used. For English quotations I relied mainly on Bloom’s translation (Bloom 1968), but sometimes preferred Grube’s (Grube 1974), in which case the Stephanus page number is followed by the letter G. Unless otherwise specified, quotations from other Platonic dialogues are taken from E. Hamilton and H. Cairns, eds, The Collected Dialogues of Plato (Princeton, N.J., 1963). Greek quotations are from the Oxford edition edited by I. Burnet, Platonis Opera, Tomvs iv (Oxford, [1902] 1982).

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AN INVISIBLE GAZE Once upon a time, in the court of a rich and powerful kingdom, there lived a man who was a loyal bodyguard and close friend of the king. One day, so the story goes, the faithful servant was cordially ordered by his master to gaze at the queen while she undressed, in order to be fully convinced of her overwhelming beauty. He had to remain unseen, however; it was considered a deep disgrace in those regions for a man, let alone a woman, to be seen naked. With great reluctance the man obeyed the unusual order and watched as he was bidden, but clumsily he failed to remain unseen. The insulted queen forced him to choose between two options: to pay with his own life for his lèsemajesté; or to eliminate the treacherous husband and become the legitimate observer of the queen’s beautiful body. He quite reasonably chose the second way, and with the queen’s help he stabbed the king in his marriage-bed, in the very same place where the first offence had been committed. The lucky servant inherited the kingdom with its queen and reigned over it happily ever after. Five generations later his heir, the great emperor Croesus, was gravely punished for the ancient offence against the legitimate ruler of the land. Herodotus relates this tale about Gyges and the king of Lydia (I.8–14, 91). Glaucon, in the second book of the Republic, tells a story about 'one of Gyges’ ancestors’ (359e–360b).1 In Plato’s version, Gyges, or his ancestor, found a ring on a finger of a huge, naked corpse2 lying inside a hollow bronze horse that lay in a chasm created by an earthquake and a rainstorm. The ring had the power to make its wearer invisible. After Gyges accidentally discovered this power he used the ring to enter the palace where he slept with the queen, killed the king with her help, took over the kingdom and reigned 10

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happily over it ever after, a just man in the eyes of gods and men alike. Some modern philologists have tried to determine whether Plato’s is a stylized version of the tale told by Herodotus or an independent narrative about a different figure. Aside from the name Gyges and the fact that in both cases a servant usurps a kingdom and a queen with her help, at first sight the two stories seem to have little else in common.3 Moreover, all known ancient sources who retold or referred to Plato’s version4 took Gyges to be the hero of the story and did not refer to Herodotus. Deciding the philological issue at stake, or even settling the historical question (were there one or two Gyges') has no philosophical significance. Yet the structural similarity between the two versions may provide the key for a new understanding of the Republic in its entirety. With its help we can discern a structure that pervades and unifies the text as a whole, and endows the two main thrusts of the dialogue – the political and the philosophical – with their proper place and significance. When Glaucon tells the story of Gyges in the Republic, the role of the myth seems obvious, i.e. to illustrate the kind of argument required from Socrates. Let us believe, the brothers – Glaucon and Adeimantus – say, that justice is good in and of itself, and that it would still be good even without the rewards given to one who appears to be just and all the evils people inflict on one who appears to be unjust. It seems that the miraculous ring is a figurative, rather primitive, illustration of the notion of the 'in-itself’, which has later gained such an honorable place in philosophical discourse. A truly just man is one who possesses the ring and never abuses its power. The ring is a criterion for having a certain quality, justice, independently of the judgment of others. Already Cicero, who mentioned the myth of Gyges in a different context, understood it not as an imaginary situation but as a hypothetical one. According to Cicero, the story depicts a situation that is not logically impossible, and, while preserving all the elements relevant for the judgment of the just and the unjust, makes the case of justice as hard as possible (De officiis III.39). The naked body, the hollow bronze horse, the queen, all were considered, from Cicero onward, mere emblematic details, redundant from the point of view of serious philosophical discussion; the lesson of the story has become all important, the act and form of telling the story has usually been ignored.

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MYTHOS AND LOGOS Odd ornaments, however, should not be ignored; the acts that display them should be examined and the logic that governs them deciphered. Approaching a Platonic text with a clear-cut separation between ornaments and serious matters, myth and argument, is highly problematic. Such an analytic approach ignores the fact that the separation itself is, in part, the task and achievement of the Platonic dialogues, and hence cannot be presupposed or projected retrospectively as a fait accompli; rather, the process of its creation should be carefully reconstructed. Moreover, assuming that Plato has already isolated and overcome patterns of mythical thinking, the analytic approach blinds one to the extent to which Plato’s discourse is still pervaded by remnants of mythical discourse and is not free of their constraints. Indeed, when Plato wrote his first dialogues, Greek writers were already quite aware of a certain distinction between mythos and logos, which as late as the middle of the fifth century BC were still synonyms, referring to speech rather than to writing (Detienne 1986:92 ff.). There are numerous indications, in Plato and elsewhere, that story and argument are to be conceived as distinct discursive entities, though the exact relations between them is not always clear. Protagoras, for example, conversing with Socrates, supplements the story he tells about justice with a straightforward argument (Pr. 320c– 324d), but he bases his truth claim on both story and argument. The long exchange between Socrates and Protagoras about long and short speeches (Pr. 333e–339e), like other interludes in the early dialogues, is nothing but a Platonic attempt to legitimize the argument based on Socratic questioning as the sole form of 'truthful discourse’ (alethinos logos). Separating stories from arguments, Plato was actually striving to establish the rules of a new kind of discourse, which I prefer to call – taking an appropriate distance from Plato’s own terms – 'serious discourse,’ i.e. discourse motivated by a will to truth, dedicated to the production and examination of truth claims. The history of the distinction is a rather long and complicated one (Detienne 1986:92ff.) and I am not going to dwell upon it here, except to mention that even in the first decades of the fourth century BC the truth value or otherwise of mythos and its precise relation to logos were not yet settled matters. A generation earlier Herodotus hardly used mythos and still used logos in the sense of an account of both credible and incredible stories, with no clear differentiations between 12

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a realistic and a legendary frame of reference. Thucydides, on the other hand, is famous for his insistence on the truth and accuracy of his accounts, which he directly opposes to the fabulous (to muthodes) characteristic of the other type of stories. These stories may be charming but are uninformative and unilluminating regarding events that really took place (Thuc. 2.22.4; Vernant 1980:190–1; Detienne 1986: ch. 3). Thucydides represents a general attitude toward myth in Plato’s time that takes it as an anecdotal story, marvelous or amusing, but at any rate incredible, without even an implicit truth claim of its own. But clearly, and despite his attack on the poets, Plato is not part of this general attitude. The truth of an incredible story may be extracted through its allegorization (Vernant 1980:197–204) and a story which seems incredible is yet to be believed, as Socrates tries to convince his interlocutors in the Gorgias and the Phaedo (Detienne 1986: ch. 5). We have then two distinctions, both of which are familiar to Plato’s contemporaries, yet not unproblematic. Story is distinguished from argument, but the difference between the two forms in their value for serious discourse is not yet established or secured. Fabulous stories are distinguished from credible accounts, but the distinction is not based on a clear criterion, and one could always argue that a seemingly incredible story is after all true. And so, despite a growing suspicion toward myths (muthodes), they are still much in use, and in Plato perhaps more than in any other philosopher of the period. Myth continues to be that treasure of common wisdom and expression which intrigues imagination, and provides a moral lesson for the educated participants of serious discourse (Havelock 1963). Plato, moreover, seems to use it consciously in the service of serious discourse when the argument reaches its limits (for example, the three myths of judgments in the Gorgias, Phaedo and the Republic, or the myth about the principles governing the realm of becoming in the Timaeus). But when myth is incorporated into serious discourse, and even when seemingly governed by its logic, the effects cannot be entirely controlled. Or, more precisely, to straighten the matter historically, the separation between mythos and logos was neither complete nor abrupt, and in Plato’s time patterns of mythical thinking still governed discourse, even Platonic discourse, to a certain extent at least. When examining this presence of myth, in both its more latent and more overt forms, one cannot remain within the scope of the self-understanding of contemporaries, who could never become fully aware of the way in which they themselves were still arrested by the logic of myth. If one 13

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is willing to assume that Greek mythology is not different from mythologies in other cultures, one should be ready to discuss myth in Greek discourse in the late fifth and early fourth centuries BC in terms much different from those of the Greeks themselves.5 Serious discourse robbed myth of its truth claims but not of its logic; it could employ myth only to the extent that it shared myth’s main structures; it could see through myth, a moral lesson or an argument for which the story was an example, only to the extent that it was unable to see myth for what it was. The logic of myth, I assume, following the general structuralists’ claim, consists of certain regularities of oppositions and homologues of discursive units. These regularities pervade stories, which otherwise may differ widely in content, style, time and place. They create a structure for an indefinite number of variations that exemplify the same logic, the same relations between key categories of thought, the same way to categorize the world and to impose order on human experience, providing similar necessary differentiations for human conduct. They provided Greek discourse with a grid that served logos as a point of departure in its search for truth, a map of the terrain where it was able to move, of the questions it was allowed to ask, and of the answers it was able to provide. Even Aristotle, who more than others brought large parts of that grid to the surface of discourse hardly tried to problematize it but rather to give it its clearest formulation. In what follows I will argue that despite the (widely studied) fact that Plato ingeniously invented new myths, inverted old ones and used both for the sake of his arguments,6 there remains in his text a layer of discourse in which the logic of myth constrains the logic of the arguments. Once that layer is uncovered and those constraints are understood, the entire text may be deconstructed and the main ways of reading it unfolded. This deconstructive reading permits a reconstruction of the Republic as a unique, more or less unified series of textual acts, a discursive deed, a special nexus in the network of relations between discourse and praxis in Greek culture at the beginning of the fourth century BC. We will also be better able to understand the historical effects of the text, which have lasted well into the modern era and made possible its role in a series of interventions in various networks of relations between philosophy and politics.

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INVERSION A certain similarity between Herodotus’ and Plato’s versions of the myth of Gyges has not escaped the notice of modern scholars, but neither has received special consideration. A close look at the two tales reveals a striking similarity, not in details, but at the structural level, such that it is possible to tell both at once: The daily routine of a [well-known/insignificant] man, a servant to the king of Lydia, is broken by an unusual [order of the king/natural phenomenon]. Driven by a force he finds hard to resist, the man enters [a forbidden space in the king’s palace/ an enclosed space underground]. There he gazes at the naked body of [a woman/a dead man] whose [beauty/stature] surpasses [that of any other woman/that of a human body], and thereby transgresses [a sacred custom7/law of nature]. Soon after, the man is seen by [one who was not supposed to see him/nobody, if he wishes]. The [failure/power] to remain invisible leads the man, with the cooperation of the queen, to murder the king and take over the kingdom. [The man reigns for the rest of his life and dies peacefully; his crime is avenged five generations later. When told, the crime and its punishment are explicitly related to the Solonian conception of happiness./ Whether or not the man is happy, and whether or not he may suffer punishment for his crime are open questions to be dealt with in the rest of the text.] More schematically the common order may be presented thus:

Figure 1.1

That Plato and his audience were familiar with Herodotus’ story of Gyges or a version of it is highly probable. That Herodotus was familiar with the version Plato used is most unlikely (otherwise, the omission 15

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of such a marvelous story is inexplicable).8 Taken against the background of what is generally accepted about the two versions, their comparison makes it all the more probable that Plato manipulated a well-known myth, and, as he often did, incorporated it into his text for his own purposes. Plato replaced the societal context of the event that precedes the major action with a natural one. He created supernatural and artificially enclosed spaces (the chasm, the bronze horse) instead of social ones (the palace, the queen’s bedroom). In the inner space he replaced the nudity of a beautiful woman with the nakedness of a huge corpse. These are the more obvious contrasts; but between the two versions there is a series of less conspicuous oppositions that have to be explicated systematically. 1) Plato problematizes the unambiguous moral lesson of Herodotus’ story; the point where the historian’s narrative ends is a renewed point of departure for the Platonic discussion of justice and happiness. Throughout the story of Gyges and his descendants Herodotus illustrates the traditional concepts of divine justice (dike¯) and happiness, concepts of which he is fond and which he attributes here to Solon.9 Justice is basically retribution for wrongdoing. The scores are balanced by the gods, not in the span of one’s life but rather in the span of one’s dynasty. Croesus is punished for Gyges’ sin five generations after it was committed (Herodotus I.91). The moral agent is not the doer of the deed, a 'person’, but a family, a clan, sometimes a whole city. Punishment is assigned to a human group according to some divine calculation.10 On the other hand, the happiness, rewards and suffering of an individual seem to be wholly accidental, unrelated to his moral conduct, a destiny. Whether or not one is really happy – as Croesus learns, first from Solon and then from his own experience – can be determined only at death, when one’s complete biography is known. Gyges, who had murdered a king, gained power and wealth and a beautiful woman, and then died peacefully, was a happy man, according to the traditional conception. It is not only a vulgar Sophist like Thrasymachus whom Plato had to rebut, but also a strong tradition of thought about justice and happiness. The relation between justice and happiness advocated in that tradition undermined any claim for moral judgment in the social context prior to divine judgment. Divine judgment may be revealed to men only after one’s death. This consequence of the traditional view stood in direct opposition to the Socratic concern with the right way to live. Invoking Gyges’ name and fate as a 16

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challenge to Socrates right after the retreat of Thrasymachus (in the Republic’s first book), Plato makes it clear that even though the Sophist had been silenced it is not the traditional view that is going to be restored. 2) Plato strips the story of its historical context. The ambiguous phrase about one of Gyges’ ancestors merely obscures a possible historical reference; a high-ranking servant becomes an ordinary shepherd. The supernatural aspect of the events that led to Gyges’ ascent to power contrasts with the ‘historical’ scene, unusual as it may be, yet well placed within a known cultural milieu. In Plato’s version Gyges gained power in a miraculous way, not connected to human actions and modes of behavior. As Cicero made clear, Plato did not tell his story so that it would be believed or even imagined as a real possibility, but in order to construct a hypothetical situation. A supernatural event brought a man to a position of unnatural, unlimited power. He could never be charged with responsibility for his wrongdoing, so that retribution is impossible (human retribution, at least; later Adeimantus blocks the way for divine retribution as well; Rep. 363a ff.). If there is anything to justice, apart from those social sanctions and rewards that make the unjust way more painful than the just way, it is here, beyond the possibility of social surveillance, that it should be demonstrated. The social context is suspended in order to make room for 'the hypothetical case’, so as to bring the logic of the relation between power and its normative constraints to its ultimate extreme. If justice is good or beneficial (or both) in itself, even a Gyges would refrain from doing wrong. The supernatural displacement of a story that was probably well known (cf. phasin, they say; mythologousin, they tell (359c–d)), and that exemplifies the traditional conception of justice, creates a sort of 'thought experiment’ in which the idea of justice itself can be examined. 3) But the real contrast between the two stories lies in the inversion of the focal point of their common order. In Herodotus, a failure to remain unseen while invading an enclosed, forbidden space initiates a chain of events leading to a violent takeover of power. In Glaucon’s story, it is the capacity to remain invisible while invading enclosed spaces of all sorts that endows man with all the power he wishes to possess. The inversion of the conditions of visibility in the Platonic myth undermines the very idea of social surveillance that generates the chain of events in the earlier version. Herodotus’ Gyges failed to escape the gaze of the queen and was driven, against his will and better judgment, from one offence to another. When he gained the 17

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crown he was not without political opponents and had to compromise with them in order to remain in power (Herodotus I.13–14). The legendary Gyges, on the other hand, deliberately chooses his course of action and cunningly uses his invisibility to gain and maintain unlimited power. If there is something in Plato’s myth that cannot be reduced to a figurative illustration of a logical construct it lies here, in the inversion of the conditions of visibility. Let us examine them more closely. To be invisible means, first and foremost, to occupy a space 'for oneself’ without occupying it 'for others’. The man who can occupy space in this way can invade and control any space enclosed by and for others. Such a man does not exist in and for social space; for him social space is a set of constraints on the movements and actions of others. Spatial demarcations, both symbolic and material, have no hold over him. An invisible actor is a most dangerous element, one who threatens to deconstruct social space and dissipate its structure. It seems that both Herodotus and Plato were quite aware of this. In both versions the conditions of visibility are linked to detailed spatial descriptions. Both the failed and the successful attempts to remain invisible are preceded by a spatial narrative. Herodotus’ king tells Gyges: 'I will place you behind the open door of the chamber . . . when I enter . . . she will follow . . . there stands a chair close to the entrance . . . when she is moving from the chair towards the bed . . . her back is turned . . .’ (Herodotus I.9–10). In the Republic Plato is briefer, here as in general, yet still precise: 'A chasm opened at a place where he was pasturing . . . he went down . . . he saw . . . a hollow, bronze horse . . . it had windows . . . peeping in he saw there was a corpse inside . . .’ (359d). The historical Gyges had to take a certain position in a room which is described in detail. The legendary Gyges had crossed two enclosed spaces before he found the ring that made any space traversable for him. Later in the text, three such spaces are explicitly or implicitly mentioned as being open to anyone who possesses the ring: the economic, public space, demarcated by the agora; the family space, demarcated by the house; and the space of political power, symbolized by the prison. The man who wears the ring would have: 'license to take what he wanted from the market (ek t¯es agoras) without fear, and go into houses (eis tas oikias) and have intercourse with whomever he wanted, and to slay or release from bonds (ek desm¯ on) whomever he wanted’ (Rep. 360 b–c).

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Except for murder, all the other offences that a Gyges may commit with impunity involve a transgression of spatial barriers. The spatial language does not end with the mythical chasm; it continues into the polis and implies the organization of civic space as the most articulated expression of the legitimate order of power in the city. When the myth is explicated it becomes clear that a crime is an act that dissolves or threatens to dissolve the organization of the civic space of the polis. The extreme case of human power provides a supreme test for justice and unveils the organization of civic space in the Greek polis as the most fundamental aspect of the system of constraints imposed upon power by social compact. For Gyges, no demarcation of space has any effect. For other men, however, whose power is limited and who are not invisible to their neighbors and fellow citizens, such a demarcation establishes the possibility of common life, channels of beneficial interaction and a degree of security. In the absence of spatial barriers, hybris is rendered all-rewarding and sophrosyn¯e is rendered useless. Since one is immune to the gaze of others, one does not know aidos any more.11 A whole system of checks and balances, which integrates individuals into a community and makes common life in the city possible and bearable, is destroyed. Man is thrown back into an 'under-civilized’ state. His very humanity is called into question. Every society invests political power, social control and engineering, and cultural resources in the organization of its living space.12 Societies differ as to the forms and intensity of this investment (Hillier and Hanson 1984:18–22); the ancient Greek polis is known for both the complexity and the intensity of its spatial organization. The main public buildings – the temples, the agora, the magistracies, the assemblies, the theater, and the gymnasium – constituted an urban complex accessible more or less equally to every citizen, and to other inhabitants of the city according to the degree of freedom they were allowed. Ideally, if not always actually, this urban complex was the sole locus of political life. Politics – in the strict sense of the ability of the governed to participate in negotiation and struggle over the form of the regime that governs them (Finley 1983:50–53) – became possible in most Greek cities once most if not all its citizens shared similar access to the site of power struggle, the place where power was distributed and exercised, but also regulated and controlled. Power in the city was placed en mesoi, in the middle: authority and legitimation in all spheres of common life were drawn from actions taking place in that middle 19

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ground and according to the differentiations within it, which were never merely conceptual but always supported by and embedded in a certain arrangement of civic space. The basic norms of social interaction and integration were reflected in, if not based upon, certain fundamental spatial demarcations: the public vs. the private sphere; the rural vs. the urban; the maritime vs. the inland.13 These lines, material or conceptual but always quite real for the members of the community, signified and sometimes actually set limits on the legitimate exercise of power (as well as over social interactions in general), and concomitantly enabled the transgression of those limits. They were an outcome of a certain power game, expressed the current distribution of power and created the field for the ongoing power struggle. They constituted or expressed – which does not matter in this context – the permitted and the forbidden, the customary and the taboo, the licit and the rebellious, the beneficial and the harmful, and the secure and the dangerous, marked off by the walls, roads and gates of a city, and by the landmarks and border signs of the countryside. In a shared human space the organization of space turns the gaze of 'the other’ into an act of social surveillance and the transgression of norms into an act of invasion; it creates places to look from, places to watch, and places never to be seen, together with positions of 'professional’ observers and types of people to be regularly observed.14 Ancient societies differ from modern ones in the form, complexity and political significance of the way social surveillance is aided or constituted by the organization of civic space; but social control is always spatialized, to a certain extent at least, and in the Greek cities it was so to a rather large extent. It is this spatially anchored surveillance, Glaucon actually says, which makes justice or at least the lack of injustice beneficial, and injustice so costly. But Socrates, because he will defend justice as something good in and of itself, cannot presuppose a civic space that makes social surveillance possible; in fact, he cannot presuppose any form of spatial organization at all. Later in the dialogue, this lack of spatial organization will be one of the guiding principles for the construction of the ideal city (see p. 77). Glaucon, though he cannot imagine a human place without some kind of spatial organization, can imagine an individual for whom the inner organization of civic space does not exist. In the case of such an individual, a Gyges, justice should appear as good in itself, since no observable consequences of an action that might keep him from wrongdoing are available. The benefits of injustice seem unlimited for a Gyges; its disadvantages cannot be perceived at all (hence the same story serves as an extreme test case for the 20

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'consequential’ as well as the 'intrinsic’ value of justice; see pp. 61–2). Justice in itself is tested in a city whose social space has been dissipated, and for an all-powerful man who resembles a god. When Socrates later argues that even a Gyges is happy only when just, he will still be playing on the field structured by the myth that initiated the whole discussion: in the ideal city, he will argue, a Gyges would have no special advantage, for civic space is not a constitutive part of the order of power; in actual cities, only a lover of truth whose philosophical education made him indifferent to the gaze of others could be just. Two lines of argument are already hinted at here, and they are both linked to a certain spatial arrangement, on the one hand, and to a problematization of the human condition, on the other hand. One line pertains to the construction of the ideal city, the other to the organization of philosophical discourse; the two will be gradually unfolded in the rest of this book. LESS OR MORE THAN HUMAN That the dissipation of social space is linked to a transformation of the human condition is clearly hinted in the myth. A human being who can traverse any enclosed social space acts like a god among humans ('talla prattein en tois anthr¯ opois isotheon onta’ (Rep. 360c)). Gods are notorious for meddling in human affairs and manipulating them according to their own will, yet they are seldom seen and if seen, are usually disguised and rarely identified. (See, for example, the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, 2. 110–11.) The elimination of the consequences of an organized social space makes human beings into god-like figures, as far as human affairs go. In fact, this is the goal of every tyrant, or of the tyrant in every human being. Gyges is, indeed, the archetype of all tyrants. If a tyrant could gain the power of the ring he would effectively become more of a tyrant. The tyrant, as Thrasymachus describes him, is one who does not 'appropriate other people’s property little by little . . . but all at once’ (Rep. 344b). Yet for Socrates, and Plato, a tyrant who manages to exercise unrestricted power for his own advantage becomes more a beast than a god (e.g. 565d–e, 569d, 588–9). We may recall at this point that the story of Gyges, a story of a human transformation, started with a violent transformation in nature: 'There came to pass a great thunderstorm and an earthquake; the earth cracked and a chasm opened’ (359d). 21

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One is reminded here of another transformation of nature with disastrous consequences, the drowning of Atlantis: 'But at a later time there occurred portentous earthquakes and floods’ ‘(Tim. 25c)). Atlantis was inhabited by the offspring of a god – Poseidon – and a mortal woman – Cleito – the daughter of 'one of those men who came of the earth’ (Crit. 113a–d). Its people had a godly nature and their life was conducted according to divine laws, yet they were doomed to disappear together with their city and island when the divine part of their nature degenerated and the all-too-human part came to the fore (Crit. 120e–121b). Despite all the differences of context and significance, in both myths a transformation in nature accompanies the crossing of the line between the human and the divine. In both cases an unusual phenomenon correlates with the dissolution of civic space, so carefully described in the case of Atlantis (see pp. 78–9), and unmistakably alluded to in the case of Gyges. That the dissolution of civic space is a total disaster is not yet clear to the innocent reader of the Republic. But to an ear well attuned to the language of myth, Gyges’ happiness must have sounded precarious from the very beginning, as the prototypical tyrant overstepped the lines demarcating the human from the non-human. It is Socrates himself, according to one tradition at least (Hermippus via Diogenes Laërtius I. 33), who gave the demarcation its clearest expression when thanking fortune for three things: for being born a human being and not a beast, for being born a man and not a woman, and for being born a Greek and not a barbarian. If one considers this tradition a late one, we have Aristotle’s authentic expression of man’s demarcation: 'he who is unable to live in a society or has not need because he is sufficient for himself, must be either a beast or a god, he is no part of a state (polis)’ (Politics 1253a). The unlimited exercise of power, which does away with the legitimate organization of civic space, seems to threaten the very demarcation of Greek man, his differentiation from the superhuman 'above’ and the subhuman 'below’. A man like Gyges calls into question the basic rules of a dominant classificatory system through which man is conceived and described in Ancient Greek discourse. What I call here 'the demarcation of Greek man’ is a well-known and often-studied discursive formation manifested throughout Ancient Greek discourse in its different branches, from poetry to philosophy, from rhetorics to histories.15 In addition to the contrast with the gods above and the beasts below, Greek man is distinguished from the barbarian outside the civilized world, and from the woman and the 22

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slave within it. Mortality, of course, precedes all these lines and forges the most basic distinction. Even the heroes of the Homeric age and the athletes of Archaic poetry, who enjoy divine glory more than others, enjoy it for only a short period of time; they too are mortal. Other lesser lines are drawn as well, according to language and dialect, places of residence, occupation and degree of freedom in the city. Dietary rules constitute an important system of exclusion and differentiation, and are usually linked to clothing and family life.16 Presupposing this discursive formation without arguing for it any further here, I will try to show that the main lines of demarcation can be found in the Republic, and that these lines, far from being peculiar to this text, coincide with similar lines in other Greek texts, within and without the Platonic corpus. EXAMINING SOME CORPSES Discursive formations operate on the threshold of discourse. They are sets of rules that govern discursive practices as if from the outside, setting the limits and shaping the regularity of discursive practices, usually without being explicitly expressed in the discourse itself. Discursive formations are always reconstructed a posteriori, through the visible presence of discursive regularity. We are looking therefore for such discursive regularity, starting from the myth of Gyges, whose resources have not yet been exhausted. Some details in that myth which still seem to be mere ornaments may give us an initial clue. Why was the nudity of a beautiful woman replaced by a huge, naked corpse' The marvelous ring was found in an underground chasm, within a hollow horse, on the hand of a naked corpse larger than human stature (h¯ os fainesthai meiz¯ o e¯kat’ anthr¯ opon (Rep. 359d)). That the corpse was naked may be a reminiscence from the common version, but its unusual size is a uniquely Platonic touch. The corpse itself, however, is a common topos in our text. In order to understand the role the inhumanly large corpse plays in the myth of Gyges in particular, and in the context of the demarcation of man in general, we must examine closely some other corpses, so generously spread throughout the Republic.

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A corpse well preserved The first corpse to be examined is the last one mentioned in the text. It is a famous yet neglected corpse, that of Er, the man who descended into Hades and came back to life. Er was killed in a battle; his body lay in a field for ten days without decaying. One may assume that it was still well preserved two days later when it was lying on the funeral pyre, awaiting the burial process. At the last moment Er came back to life and told what he had seen 'there’ (614d). In this story, a soulless body does not suffer the natural decay of a dead organism, an unusual phenomenon indeed; its bodiless soul crosses the boundary between this world and the next and manages to come back. A soul that returns from the other world after witnessing its law and order, and is not forced to forget what it has seen there, is no longer all that human. Er’s resurrection seems to blur the demarcation between the human and the non-human; in fact, it underscores the set of oppositions that characterize it. The myth involves the opposition between here and yonder, between memory and oblivion and, by implication, between gods and man. Only gods and demigods can move freely between the two worlds. Only they or their messengers can tell what it is like over there. Here, as in other well-known loci of ancient literature where the two worlds meet, the crossing and recrossing of the bar is accompanied by a transformation in nature (Motte 1971:385– 95). We are already familiar with the language describing it in Er’s myth: 'There came a thunder and an earthquake, and they were suddenly carried away from there (bront¯en te kai seismon genesthai)’ (Rep. 621b G). The border line itself is invisible; in fact, it is not a line at all, since the two spaces, earth and Hades, are not contiguous.17 We have a vivid description of the 'yonder’ space, the meadow and the two pairs of openings (khasma; Motte 1971:18–19, 242–86) toward heaven and earth (Rep. 614d–e); we even have an account of that space’s external lines – the plain of Lethe (forgetfulness) and the river of Ameleta (carelessness) (621a). But in order to go from there to here, in order to make the leap between two spaces that do not normally meet, a supernatural transformation must occur. When a seemingly ordinary human being accomplishes this leap, his body does not deteriorate, and his soul does not forget (cf. Annas 1982). An extraordinary passage between non-contiguous spaces is linked to the blurring of the contours of man and to the presence of a corpse in an unusual condition. 24

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Some corpses, a sight for sore eyes Some corpses of men executed by the city authorities are lying in a field outside Athens (439e). The context is again that of a story, something Socrates heard (akousas ti), which, like the story (apologon) about Er (cf. Bloom 1968:471), and unlike 'what they say’ (phasin) about Gyges, is to be trusted (pisteu¯ o tout¯ oi). One Leontius18 observed these corpses while walking up from the Piraeus to Athens and could not resist the desire to examine them closely. There is a strange air to this little anecdote, which illustrates, with many concrete details, a point Socrates is trying to make in the midst of a rather abstract discussion. Socrates wants to draw an important distinction between two faculties of the soul, the element of desire (epithum¯etikon) and the element of spirit (thumos). The first, it is important to note, is also called alogiston, that which lacks reasoning capacity; the second, which has no reasoning power of its own, is later found to mediate between the cognitive and non-cognitive faculties in the soul (440e). The sight of corpses, out of all possible objects of desire, is picked by Socrates to demonstrate a struggle within the soul that indicates the existence of the two distinct non-cognitive faculties. Why a corpse and not a handsome boy or a golden treasure' Perhaps necrophilia plays here a role similar to that played by scratching and passive homosexuality in the Gorgias (494b–e). There, in the context of a debate about the validity of the hedonist’s argument, Socrates evokes such base desires in order to force even a Callicles to admit that the pleasure drawn from satisfying a need is not enough to justify every need-satisfying activity. The conclusion, of course, is that it is necessary to govern desire by an external power, not given to the logic of need satisfaction.19 But whereas in the Gorgias grotesque or shameful desires push hedonism to its limit and call for a valuejudgment based on considerations other than those related to needs and desires, in the Republic the situation is different. The disgusting need does not call for a value-judgment but suspends its very possibility, eliminating objects that the calculating faculty (logismos) may have an interest in acquiring or avoiding, thus confining the conflict in the soul to its non-reasoning part. The sight of a corpse causes both desire and disgust, but has nothing to do with the rational element in man; it can appeal only to that part man shares with the beast. The emphasis given in the story to vision and the spatial articulation of the visual field is also noteworthy. First, Leontius noticed the corpses from afar. The inner struggle is over the desire for and 25

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disgust at a closer look. Finally 'overpowered by his desire he opened his eyes wide, ran toward the corpses and said: 'Look you damned wretches, take your fill of the fair sight”’ (440a). Significantly enough, Leontius found the corpses along the north wall, outside the officially enclosed civic space.20 He saw bodies of men executed by the public executioner ('para toi demioi keimenois’ (439e)), literally, 'the one who belongs to the people’, meaning that the public executioner was common property like the space in which he operated. Yet the man who longed to examine the corpses showed no interest in the circumstances of the execution or the cause of the sacrilege; what mattered for him was the sight of death, not its cause or circumstances. This is quite unusual. That bodies are found outside the city’s wall is not surprising. It was the custom, at least in late Archaic and Classical Athens – both literature and archeology agree21 – to bury the dead outside the walls, in that non-civic space from which the city was strictly differentiated. The city thus asserts itself as the realm of life; its border is also the line of demarcation between the living and the dead. The spatial demarcation of civic from noncivic space is a crucial element in the demarcation of man. The city wall had a crucial role in the exclusion of the bestially subhuman from the human world, a role already evident in the Homeric corpus (Scully 1981). But the bodies in Leontius’ anecdote lie outside the city unburied; this should have been a highly disturbing phenomenon. An unburied body outside the boundary of the city still affects the civic space from which it has been excluded; as demonstrated by the episode of Hector’s burial in the Iliad (22.408–30), but above all by Sophocles’ Antigone, the presence of an unburied body is an event of unsettling political significance. At the same time it is an occasion for reaffirming the demarcating structure. The dead brother lies in the field like a beast and has been left to the mercy of animals (Antigone 230). His forbidden burial starts a chain of events that were doomed to happen due to the gods’ intervention in human affairs and the way they balance old scores. A forsaken corpse calls forth both animals and gods;22 while the body is torn by the former, the sinful city or political authority is torn by the latter. The political struggle is inflamed by unlimited desires; as the imminent disaster approaches, the place of humans between gods and beasts is once again articulated. In Leontius’ story the presence of the non-human is only hinted, when the angry man, overcome by his desire for the sight of corpses, calls his sinful eyes kakodaimones, evil demons (Rep. 440a). This hint, however, has no political import. 26

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Leontius’ indifference to the political significance of the obscene sight is telling. In order to make his point, drawing the distinction between two parts of the non-reasoning element of the soul, Socrates has to suspend reason and bring the irrational to the fore. At the same time civic space has to be excluded to allow a suspension of the political. Political power is bracketed in the story in the same way that the reasoning element is suspended. Outside the boundary of the city, an object that must have been politically loaded arouses excitement only because of its immediate sensual presence. A space is cleared for the interaction between a man’s eyes and the object of his sight. But the scene cannot be a quiet one. In order to enjoy the sight of the unburied corpse the man must inhibit both his political being (lack of interest at the sacrilege of an unburied corpse) and his anger (thumos). His anger, however, cannot be explained here unless its relation to the political sphere is understood. Thumos is a necessary element in the life of the city, without which there could be no warriors (Rep. 375b ff.) and no city could maintain its integrity. The story of Leontius shows thumos as a mediating element between reason and desire, a way to control the bestial and subject it to the reign of the divine in man. Reason by itself is not enough to channel desires toward a human existence; the power of thumos is required for this. Thumos belongs to the very contours of man; though man shares it with the animals it is also the condition for the possibility of overcoming the bestial in him. It is therefore not surprising that the city wall and unburied corpses thrown outside it illustrate the distinction between thumos and the other two parts of the soul. It is important to note that the demarcating formation operates on both layers of the text, that of arguments as well as that of myth, and affects a central theme, the constitution of the soul, which lies at the heart of the explicit philosophical discussion. Some lines in the demarcating formation Some corpses in the midst of a field between Athens and the Piraeus, when properly examined, were discovered to be the focal point of a structure of oppositions and correlations that may be presented as in Figure 1.2. There are demarcating lines here, but they are not unfolded through a comparison between what man is and is not, i.e. a god on the one hand, and a beast on the other. Rather, a line is drawn within man, 27

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Figure 1.2

between two elements in his soul, and outside him, between two kinds of spaces in which he lives. To be a man is to straddle the line, even though the part on one side is considerably inferior to that on the other; if man is deprived of either part he is no longer human. Man is necessarily an animal, and out of necessity he needs to travel outside civic space (for trade, hunting or war; Rep. 370–1 and p.74 of this book). Yet only through and within the city is he more than an animal. His share in the divine, his reasoning element, can be fully realized only within the realm of the polis. On the other hand, in a poorly organized city the beastly element prospers and the divinerational element deteriorates. We shall see ample examples of those correlations below. Another pair of closely related opposites is employed throughout the Republic on the layer of both myth and argument: the distinction between the wild or savage (agrios) and the civilized or tame (hemeros). It goes without saying that the civilized corresponds to the reasoning, and the wild to the beast-like element in man. Thus, with regard to proper and improper education in music and gymnastics, a distinction is made between 'savageness and hardness, on the one hand, and softness and tameness on the other’ (410d). This distinction pervades the entire passage in which the proper education of the guardians is finally established. It is employed again in a different context, but still in relation to proper education, when the oligarchic man is described (549a).23 In general, and despite the different ways of analysing the constitution of the soul (435a, 474 ff.), it is clear that the soul is divided between the two opposing forces, the tame and educated on the one hand, the wild and bestial on the other. The constant conflict between them is vividly described in relation to the tyrant’s soul (571c, 588c, 589c). In this context it is also made clear that the savage is the residue of the animal in man and the tame is his share in the divine. As the analogical organization of the text (between soul and city) may suggest, the same conflict appears in the city. When the turmoils of the real city are referred to, the mob is compared to dangerous, wild animals (493c, 496d); the Sophist is accused of 28

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not trying to tame the 'big animal’ and of being controlled by its whims (493b); the genuine philosopher, perhaps the only really civilized inhabitant of the city, is saved from the savages around him by some 'god’s dispensation’ (493a). In the same vein, it may be noted, both animals and gods are indifferent to the properly human civic space. In a democratic city where anarchy reigns, Socrates complains, 'horses and asses . . . have gotten the habit of making their way quite freely and solemnly, bumping into whomever they happen to meet on the roads’ (563c). Gods, on the other hand, whether invisible or disguised, are always beyond the reach of the 'civic gaze’. The outline given in Figure 1.2 may be elaborated as shown in Figure 1.3.

Figure 1.3

This conceptual scheme is not a specific feature of the Republic or of the Platonic corpus. For example, a slight transformation of the scheme yields the form of Aristotle’s analysis of the soul in the Nicomachean Ethics I.13 (see Figure 1.4).

Figure 1.4 Aristotelian demarcations

Anything human is an encounter with and a combination of the two opposing parts which, when taken alone, constitute the subhuman and superhuman. For the present discussion, the most important aspect of this formation is in the links between the divine, the tame, reason and civic space. But it is no less important to note that the violation of the demarcating lines is a dangerous act of subversion. In the myth of 29

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Gyges, as well as in the tale of Leontius and in the myth of the manwolf (to be discussed on p.34ff), Plato had only to reverse a recognized set of relations in order to signify an unusual political phenomenon by means of an unusual corpse, and to allude tacitly to an approaching political disaster. The peaceful scene of Gyges the shepherd is soon to be replaced by the upheavals of the tyrant’s life. The presence of the corpse not only disturbs some laws of nature (Gyges, Er), but almost always disturbs political reality as well. Fantasy of a heavenly civic space Let us take a quick look at another example, one in which the subversion of the discursive formation is thematized, developed and ridiculed in a comedy: Aristophanes’ Birds. The play is the story of a bold, fantastic attempt to blur some crucial lines in the demarcating structure. The dissolution of those lines creates a lot of fun, and at the same time provides an opportunity for a severe criticism of the deteriorating Athenian empire (Arrowsmith 1973). Only one impossible step is made in the play – two men fly like birds – but this step transforms the structure of the human condition; everything else is logically compatible with the new relations among the old components of the human situation placed in their new structure (McLeish 1980:67–71). Birds are animals that occupy a space beyond human reach; this same space is the one gods traverse in order to interfere with human affairs and enjoy human gifts. An ambitious man and his friend grow feathers and wings and learn to fly; they become birds without losing the rest of their human features. Once this lustful man can occupy the space between gods and humans he uses tremendous political skill (e.g. Birds 450–60) and persuades the birds (his name is Pisthetairos, 'the persuader’) to cooperate with him and take advantage of their strategic position. Free of the constraints of civic space he is able to control it without taking part in it, since he is able to influence the apolitical space upon which humans depend for their survival (Birds 572–80). At the same time he takes control of the channels of communication and exchange between men and gods; thus he gains an advantage over the latter who, in Aristophanes’ play seem to depend upon humans’ sacrifices no less than humans depend upon their good will. At the end of the play the man, who first became an animal, inherits the power of Olympian Zeus himself, usurping his kingdom together with his wife Hera. As in Gyges’ case, sexual desire 30

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(the play is loaded with its symbols: Arrowsmith 1973) and the will to power (which is explicitly referred to as 'erotic’ in the play (e.g. Birds 512)) are inseparable. Ultimate power is achieved once complete control over space is achieved; is there a more ultimate object of desire than the queen (of the gods) herself' In terms of Figure 1.2, Pisthetairos is a creature who combines features peculiar to an animal with powers reserved for a god. He manages to achieve these powers through his political skills, which help him persuade the birds to chase away any intruders from the new heavenly city, and also through an overwhelming erotic desire, which drives him as far as Hera’s bed and Zeus’ sceptre. The relation between Eros and the will to power was well known to the Greeks. Thucydides, for example, spoke about it in relation to Pericles a generation earlier (Thuc. 2.43.1, 3.45.5). In the Republic Plato speaks about Eros as a tyrant (329c, 573b, 574e, 575a, 577d), and about the tyrant as erotic (573d), or as 'Eros incarnate’, to use Leo Strauss’ expression. But Plato also distinguished between two kinds of Eros, and two kinds of desire for power, we may add. The correct Eros is the 'musical one’ (musik¯ os eran (403a) ). It belongs to a soul that has achieved a harmony among its elements. For Plato this means that it has tamed the beastly for the sake of the divine (591d; Arrowsmith 1973; Segal 1978; Winnington-Ingrahm 1980: ch. 6). But while the erotic desires of a tyrant find their satisfaction within an earthly city, and Pisthetairos builds an absurd city in heaven in order to satisfy his, Plato would satisfy the philosopher’s sublimated desires in the rational, all-too-rational city he established, 'in heaven, perhaps’ (Rep. 592b), but in a different kind of heaven, for sure. The philosopher, more of a god, less of a beast Pisthetairos is but another Gyges, one who can achieve unlimited power and any object of desire if he wishes, who becomes at once less and more than a man, who disappears from civic space in order to control it in its entirety. Somewhat surprisingly, we find the genuine philosopher holding the same position in the discursive formation as do Gyges and Pisthetairos. This becomes clear in the discussion of the immortality of the soul. The immortality of the soul undermines the most fundamental distinction between the human and the divine. But, according to Plato’s three myths about the world beyond, the immortality of the soul is a boon for only one type of human, who is endowed with a new type of 'hybris’, an unlimited desire for, and an 31

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unyielding search after, truth (Annas 1982). In the twilight zone between here and the beyond, a miraculous event may bring a disastrous or a saving transformation. The philosopher should wring out from his body and soul every drop of desire, channel it toward that which really is (e.g. Rep. 485c–e), and hope that a 'divine intervention’ ('teou moiran’ (493a)) will save his well-constituted soul from a corrupted, corrupting city (490–6). For he too may be transformed into a god-like creature and be transported to the isles of the blessed, becoming as much like a god ('homoioustai te¯oi’) as is possible for a human being (613b). Note that for both Pisthetairos and Gyges bodily transformation is a condition for escaping the dominion of civic space and gaining control over it. Body and civic space remain linked for the philosopher as well, though not in the same order. Freedom from bodily desires releases him from the city and enables him to work toward the final release from both body and city, i.e. toward his death (Phd. 63e et seq.). Desire may be sublimated, and the will to power may be channeled into a will to knowledge. But as long as these are confined to the present civic space and its inner organization, both new and old forms of desire remain subject to the power of something other than itself, something it cannot entirely overcome or consume. The city sets limits to both power and knowledge. Gyges and Pisthetairos exercise a will to power stripped of these limits, a drive to be on the other side of every boundary, to control the source of all boundaries. For such a drive, every configuration of power is an obstacle, a temporary limitation to be overcome eventually. Later we will see that a pure will to knowledge follows the same pattern of a movement that transcends all limitations toward the source of all differentiations, a movement for which the city as presently organized is a constant obstacle. In the present context, what we already know about the philosopher should make us suspicious. The philosopher must convince us – and he cannot – that his desire for knowledge is not another form of the will to power, that he is ready to leave behind his body and city not only because he cannot be the king, at least for now; that his divinification is really different from the 'divinification through crime’ of the tyrant, that his victory over nature is not rooted in a perverted eros, is not a kind of spiritual incest.24 As long as the philosopher is conceived within the same discursive formation as the tyrant, even if conceived as his counter-image, the lover of truth may only be switching positions with the lover of power without getting rid of tyranny, changing the weight of values without creating new ones. 32

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Obviously the stories in this analysis differ radically from each other; however, they do share the same discursive formation with its fixed contrasts and oppositions (soul and body, inside and outside civic space, gods and beasts, hybris and sophrosyn¯ e, memory and forgetfulness, life and death, and more) and homologies (civic space – reasoning, limitation of the body – barriers of civic space, eros – will to power; also others to be mentioned briefly: the barbarian and the slave, the slave and the woman). Within that formation of oppositions and homologies Greek man occupies a precarious intermediary position. If certain restraints are dropped, mainly those embedded in the organization of civic space, if desire oversteps its limits, or if a supernatural event happens, this position is endangered, for better or worse, as there are always two directions for a possible transformation, the beastly and the divine. Plato challenged this formation in more than one point, but nevertheless played within its general outline. In his myth of Er (as well as in the myth of the Phaedo and following an established tradition in Greek discourse) he turned death from the ultimate end of life into a transitory stage between lives. Yet that radical challenge to human mortality does not affect the structure of the movement possible when a transgression occurs. Death, which is not an end, by definition involves the crossing of a demarcating line, and therefore a transformation. Death is a metamorphic stage within the range of the two extremes offered by man’s contours. Within that range the opposition of tame and savage provides the key to the ultimate metamorphosis on the day of judgment: 'the unjust changing into savage ones, the just into tame ones, and there are all kinds of mixtures’ (Rep. 620d). Man may be transformed 'downward’, as happened to Orpheus, Ajax, Thamyris and Thersites in the myth,25 or he may get closer to the gods, as a genuine philosopher would surely do (619a–e). The divine nature of the true philosopher is more clearly articulated in two other contexts. In his attempt to make Socrates into a new type of hero (Ap. 41b; Rep. 341c, 337a, 426e; Crat. 411a–b; Phd. 89b–c),26 Plato maintains one important feature of the Homeric hero, his intimate link with the divine and immortal. In the Republic this affinity appears more ambiguously and is expressed more hesitantly than in the myths told in the Phaedo (114c) and the Gorgias (526c). But, it must be noted, it is expressed through arguments, not only in the mythic layer of discourse. Affinity to the gods appears in two similar passages, where again we must consider, though not actually confront, some corpses. There are two references to dying citizens of the ideal city, 33

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the courageous guardians (Rep. 468a–b) and the philosopher-rulers (540c). Both types are referred to as daemons and god-like (469a, 540c); their burial and memorial ceremonies should be conducted according to a word from the god, like ceremonies in honor of daemons (ibid.). For the finest products of the ideal city, death is a transition to a god-like state of being – or at least this is the image that the city should have of them. Even if premised outside the myth and demonstrated to be more than merely the public image of the philosopher, it is a transformation of human nature which is at stake. The task of the Republic, it will be argued below, is not to prove, by report from the other world, that such a transformation really occurs to philosophers, but to lay the ground for its possibility in this world.27 The taste of minced human flesh The tendency of the best son of the ideal city to move toward a divine state of being has its expected opposition in the tendency of the worst son of the real city, the tyrant, to move toward a bestial existence. Some of the allusions to the tyrant as beast have already been mentioned, but special attention should be given to a myth told in the context of the transition from democracy to tyranny. Our discussion is again perverted; but here necrophilia is replaced by cannibalism and human sacrifice. The single ruler of an anarchic democracy becomes a tyrant who first spills and 'tastes of kindred blood’ (Rep. 565e). The transition from popular leader to cruel despot resembles the transformation from human to beast, as the m¯ oh (to¯i muth¯ oi (565d), but also ton logon (565e)) about the man-wolf, given here as an explicit analogy, suggests. Plato condensed a known story, of which we have a few later and more detailed versions,28 into one sentence: 'A man who has tasted human flesh, a single piece of it cut up among the pieces of other sacrificial victims, must inevitably become a wolf’ (565e G). Much more than a metamorphosis of man into wolf is encapsulated in this one sentence and the interpretation that immediately follows it. But in order to understand this we must digress briefly to sources external to our text. When Pausanias, in the second century AD, recounts the myth, he adds the following remark: I, for my part, believe in the story . . . for the men of those days because of their righteousness (dikaiosyne¯) and piety were 34

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guests of the gods, eating at the same board; the good were openly honored by the gods, and sinners were openly visited by their wrath. Nay, in those days men were changed to gods. . . . So one might believe that Lycaeon was turned into a beast. (8. 2. 45). Six centuries after Plato, human metamorphosis is still related to man’s intermediary position between gods and beasts, and that position, in turn, is related to justice. Metamorphosis into a beast is a punishment for a most awful transgression, killing one’s own kin (as most versions have it), most often the king’s own son or grandson. When the victim is not a member of the murderer’s clan he appears as guest or hostage; thus the victim is related to the king by blood or by circumstances. The transgressor is the king himself or, as Plato and others put it, a participant in a common feast, whom later versions relate to the king. In all versions but Plato’s the story is explicitly related to the man at the center of the political order. Plato omits the context of the event, and for good reasons. In later versions the sin does not appear as a gratuitous act of violence, or as an arbitrary transgression of the most sacred dietary law. Indeed, it is always part of a ritual aimed at relieving a community of some grave danger, probably a drought. In some versions a flood is part of the punishment for the transgression; in all cases, the crops are facing impending destruction. The context may suggest a possible justification for the cannibalistic act; the transgression was ascribed to an innocent victim of the ritual in which tasting of human flesh out of the entrails of the sacrificial victims serves as a lottery, a means to decide who will vanish from among his fellow humans in order to save them from the wrath of gods. At the same time that context may suggest a further line in the demarcating structure. All versions, including Plato’s, place the event in Arcadia, where there was a precinct of Zeus Lykaios. The Arcadians were known in antiquity as acorn eaters in particular, and vegetarians in general (Herodotus I.66; Pausanias 8.1.6, 42.6). Eating human flesh, not mere killing, is considered that terrible transgression punished by vulpine metamorphosis. The contrast between the dietary habit and the dietary transgression is telling. Vegetarians refrained from eating meat as part of their worship of the gods; in the case of the Arcadians, one of these gods may have been the oak tree. The Arcadians’ dietary habits, their worship and their transgression, all point to a precivilized state of social existence, when men were closer to the gods, perhaps, but also to the beasts. 35

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Among the Orphics, on the other hand, vegetarianism was a form of opposition, both political and religious, to the official religion of the city (Detienne 1979:57ff.). The Orphics hoped to transcend the human polity and to re-enter a golden age, in which the barriers among men, animals and gods would be erased; they hoped to do so by going backward against the trend of civilization, by not spilling animals’ blood and eating only raw vegetables, like herbivorous animals. Other Dionysiacs expressed their opposition to the city by eating raw meat, like beasts (Plato’s Laws 782c; Detienne 1979:57ff.). The Arcadians, acorn eaters who collected grass and roots from the fields, were not in opposition to, but simply not yet part of, a civilized citystate (Pausanias 8.1.6). The line between raw and cooked food divides two stages of civilization not only according to modern anthropology, but also by the accounts of the Greeks themselves. Detienne (1979: chs 3 and 4), who records these accounts, shows that there was actually a tripartite division: from some myths concerning allelophagy (cannibalism) he reconstructs two consecutive stages of civilization parallel with two methods of cooking meat, first grilling (roasting on spits) and later boiling in water. The sacrificial ritual was usually performed according to that order: first the meat was roasted, then parts of it were seethed in water (see, for example, Ovid’s version of the sacrifice in the myth of the man-wolf (Metamorphoses I.228a)). Inverting the order expressed deep opposition to the official religion of the city; this is how the Dionysiacs used the myth of the slain Dionysos in which such an inversion took place; the slain child is first boiled and then roasted on the spits (Detienne 1979). This inversion and the distinction that underlies it are not just a peculiarity of a perverse cult. Plato expresses the same kind of opposition suggesting that the guardians should eat roasted rather than boiled meat (Rep. 404b–c). The more general line between raw and cooked food is also present in our text; cooked food is absent in the first version of 'the healthy city’ (372a–c) and only cooked vegetables (the acorn among them) are to be found in the second version of that city. Though echoed in no fewer than three loci in our text (372a–d, 404b–c, 565d), the line between raw and cooked food is not unequivocal in demarcating man from beasts. As Detienne puts it, 'bestiality begins with omophagy and ends with allelophagy’ (Detienne 1979:57). Among dietary rules, allelophagy provides the clearest line of demarcation. This wisdom is as old as Hesiod: 'Such is the law that the son of Kronos laid down for man: that fish, beasts and 36

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winged bird devoured each other since there exists not any justice among them’ (Works 267–8). Where there is no justice man has no political existence; androphagoi, as Herodotus calls them, neither observe justice nor are governed by any laws. They are 'Nomads . . . the language which they speak is peculiar to themselves’ (Herodotus IV.106). In Socrates’ version of the myth of the man-wolf, the tyrant transcends the human condition and becomes as savage as a beast even before his 'actual’ metamorphosis occurs. By placing the tyrant among cannibals (Rep. 571d, 619a), Socrates ranks him in the lowest grade ever occupied by man, where the transgression of the most basic dietary rule mounts a direct threat to the contours of Greek man in general and to the possibility of a human polity in particular. In most versions of the myth it is not human sacrifice but the tasting of human flesh which counts as transgression and causes the transgressor to become a wolf. Plato, too, keeps the sacrifice and the tasting separate.29 Here taste and mouth play the same role as vision and eyes in the stories of Gyges and Leontius; they are the agents of a sensual act whose object is a human corpse – minced and cooked in the present case; but note that so far there has been something unusual about all the corpses concerned. The interaction between the sense organ and the corpse indicates existing lines of demarcation and implies (Leontius) or actually brings about (Gyges, the manwolf) a transformation of the entire formation. The mouth does not symbolize the brute force that enables the tyrant to gain power and murder his kin, but political skill, especially persuasion. The new despot persuades a large crowd of people, enchants them by promises, and unjustly accuses men and brings them to trial (565e). Violence comes later, and only as a result of further political maneuvers (566b).30 All this occurs within a disintegrating civic space. In Athens, the public oath taken by jurors included a commitment not to allow 'the cancellation of private debts or the redistributing of land or houses belonging to the Athenian citizens’ (Finley 1983:109). The greatest threat to civic order was conceived to be a change either in the organization of civic space or in the economic status quo or in both. This threat is exactly what the tyrant represents in the passage following the man-wolf myth. At first he offers to redistribute land, i.e. reorganize civic space, and cancel debts. Later he expropriates civic space to his own advantage (Rep. 574d–e), expelling his enemies (565e), allocating land to his so-called friends (566e), purging the city of the prudent and the rich (576c), and liberating slaves (567e) while in fact enslaving the whole city (569b). Ironically, the tyrant, who 37

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becomes a slave to his own desires, is imprisoned in that chaotic and violent civic space that he himself helped to dissolve: 'Alone of all men in the city he cannot go anywhere abroad or see all the things other free men desire to see; but stuck in his house for the most part he lives like a woman’ (579b). This tyrant is of course not Gyges but his counterpart. Ready to transgress any spatial barrier and to disintegrate civic space in order to control it, he finds himself, like a woman, timidly confined to the space of his privacy, banned from both the common space of public affairs in the city and the political space outside it, and deprived of the pleasure derived from gazing on desired sights. Psychologically and 'ontologically’ the tyrant seems to become a beast; politically, however, he who wants to hold unlimited power in the city becomes less than a citizen, like a slave who cannot move freely in the civic space, being confined to the house like a woman. Indeed, the woman and the slave together with the barbarian (about whom see p. 39) complete the demarcation of Greek man. They partake in his savage element but not in his share of the divine, hence their place and free movement in civic space are restricted and limited. One should recall that in Classical Athens women could not enter the agora, that women, slaves and foreigners were excluded from the assembly, and that they were all restricted – though not in the same way – in their access to religious shrines.31 Plato’s community of women, described in the fifth book of the Republic, is no doubt a direct attack on the place women occupy in the Athenian civic space and consequently on their position in the demarcation of man. The case of the slave is notoriously different, the demarcating line remaining intact (434b, 496b–c; Vlastos 1968). With a little help from some sources external to our text, and a few references to different passages within it, but never too far from the myth originally in question, it has been possible to rearrange all the components of the man-wolf myth and its interpretation into their proper places in the demarcating formation. This structural interpretation has articulated that formation even more vividly. Civic space again appears to hold an intermediate position between the beastly and the divine, it is traversed by forces originating at the two opposing poles and it offers Greek man (and only a free citizen is a man in the full sense of the word) an opportunity to move within it toward each of the two extremes. And once again, something unusual about a human corpse represents both a violation of the contours of man and the dissolution of civic space. 38

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Barbarian corpses are not like ours This structural interpretation would not be complete without considering one more passage which contains an explicit discussion of the distinction between Greeks and barbarians. This passage, too, is decorated with unburied corpses. The context is a discussion of the rules of war among Greeks (stasis, to be distinguished from polemos). Corpses are mentioned as part of a criticism of habits of war among Greeks, yet without specifics and without the suspension of the interlude created by a myth or a tale. However, the spatial environment within which the corpses are found is described, as usual, in detail. Here Plato is concerned not with the inner organization of a civic space, but with that of a larger space, what may be called 'the Hellenic war-zone’. The custom of plundering soldiers’ corpses is censured and associated with the destruction and burning of the enemy fields and houses. Plato tries to create a war-zone in which violence would not change the existing territorial organization, the structure of civic space and the order of power which goes along with it. Only those few who are guilty of instigating the conflict should be punished, without the prevailing order of power being affected (471a– b). Respect for the dead enemy (no plundering of corpses, no denial of due burial, no exhibition of battle trophies) goes hand in hand with respect for the enemy’s freedom, property and land – but only if the enemy happens to be Greek. To leave a dead enemy unburied was, in general, 'perfectly all right’ (Connor 1971:51): Polynices, Antigone’s brother, was a relative, hence the outrage. Burial was conceived as an obligation, first and foremost toward the human nuclear group, the family, then toward the city as a whole (Kurtz and Boardman 1971:143 ff.), but only rarely toward a hostile city. What Plato tries to do in the above passage (471a–b) is to extend the scope of that crucial obligation, and of others likened to it, to include all of Hellas. At the same time, the barrier between Greek and non-Greek is raised higher.32 The passage in question implies that the living body of a barbarian captive is to be violated, the dead body of a barbarian soldier may be plundered, and the property and land of barbarians may be totally destroyed. The line demarcating the Greek from the barbarian is articulated in time of war in the attitude toward corpses, property and the organization of civic space. The passage manifests a lack of respect toward civic life (destruction of land and property) and toward the divine element among non-Greeks (prevention of burial, 39

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permission of plunder). The barbarian is only one step above the beast. He is on the same plane as the slave; his enslavement does not constitute any wrong. In fact, Plato thought, as Vlastos argues (Vlastos 1973a: 147–63, 1980), that barbarian countries should supply all the slaves required for the economy of the city, since the enslavement of Greeks must be ultimately abandoned. The enslavement of Greeks endangers the proper demarcation of the Greek from the non-Greek, the civilized from the savage; all Greeks should be entitled to the same share in civic space, rationality and the divine. The refusal to bury a Greek who dies in stasis, the plundering of his corpse or, if he remains alive, his enslavement, constitute a transgression of the demarcation of Greek man that was often the result of war among Greeks. The short discussion of stasis is exceptional in more than one respect. As part of a digression from the description of the status of women in the ideal city (466e–471c), it does not follow the arguments that precede it, nor does it lead to the argument that follows it; the 'third wave’ of arguments interrupts it abruptly (see below p. 141). It is one of those rare places, if not the only one in the Republic, where a real political space is mentioned, and criticism of a contemporary state of affairs is followed by a prescription, that may be applied immediately, even before the realization of the ideal city. The passage is one of the more 'prosaic’, colloquial and commonsensical to appear in the text. It employs most of the components unfolded in the structural interpretation of the mythical layer of the text already presented and it employs them in approximately the same order: civic and non-civic space; bodies and corpses; constraints on the use of power; the sphere of the divine within cities (temples and burial); and the tacit demarcation of Greek man. The narrative in this passage differs radically from that in the myths; the components of the discursive formation in this passage are not encapsulated within the condensed and rich language of a short tale, but are explicitly present in a straightforward argument, unfolded at its pace. The demarcating line is not exposed by a relatively opaque myth communicated without mediation; it is rather drawn step by step, limited to a specific topic and made an object for reflection. We have already observed a similar pattern in the context of at least three other arguments: those concerning the constitution of the soul (439d ff.); the god-like nature of philosophers (468a– 469a, 540c); and the lesson drawn from the man-wolf myth (565e– 566b). The language of argumentation does not transcend the 40

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discursive formation but continues to move within it even when reflecting critically on some of its lines. By challenging this or that line within it, it reaffirms the implied structure as a whole. On its layer of arguments and myth alike, the language of the text is governed by the same discursive formation. Myths and arguments, in the Republic and elsewhere in Greek literature, express different, distinct and partial moments of that formation, by which they are always restricted, as if from the outside, without being able to thematize it systematically or to problematize its implications. But nowhere is that formation more effective than in the language of myth, for myth is basically a discursive mechanism whose role is to reaffirm the governing discursive formation through its impossible figurative violation. In order to explicate this topic I shall return to my point of departure, the myth of Gyges. BLURRING DISTINCTIONS Herodotus used the story of Gyges as a historical exemplum of the Solonian notion of justice. According to Cicero’s reading, Plato used the tale as a hypothetical construction in which the logic of the situation was developed to its ultimate consequences. But neither the literal reading of the historian nor the metaphorical reading of the rhetorician captures or exhausts the place and role of this myth in the discourse of the Republic. In its true nature, the myth of Gyges is an utterance of a third type; neither literal nor metaphorical, neither referring to a segment of the extra-linguistic world nor constructing a world in and through language, the myth is a symbolic utterance that problematizes a certain region in which language intersects with a world. Following the work of the French anthropologist and linguist Dan Sperber, I take symbolic utterance to mean an utterance containing information about a segment of the world which conventional language cannot handle, and which therefore calls into question both the describing language and the world described through it (Sperber 1975). Such a problematic use of language may result from the fact that the domain of objects lacks a classificatory system, as is the case, for example, with smells, music or the emotional life of animals. Symbolic utterances may also result from a different linguistic phenomenon, the contradiction of the axiomatic principles of an existing classificatory system. This is the case with the myth of Gyges.33 Two general axioms are presupposed by any classificatory system: no classified item belongs to more than one species; no classified 41

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species belongs to more than one genus. Symbolic utterance can posit an entity as belonging to two different species at once. Thus, for example, about Jesus one can only speak symbolically. Jesus was both God and man; hence the name Jesus cannot refer to any entity in the world as it is described by common linguistic conventions; it is equally impossible to say that Jesus was like a god, or that he resembles a man. A symbolic utterance of this sort refers to something a conventional classificatory system cannot capture, and at the same time to the language that fails to refer; it draws attention precisely to those distinctions in the classificatory system that are blurred by the referred entity. It is an utterance not given to empirical examination or observation, let alone to unequivocal interpretation. On the contrary, the symbolic utterance makes possible and calls for its own interpretation precisely because it cannot refer to any single entity, and this interpretation can be given only by further symbolic utterances. A symbolic speech act is 'always already’ a link in an unending chain of interpretations, those which it interprets and those for which it is the interpretandum. Each symbolic interpretation is but another occasion for violating the demarcating lines in order to witness their efficacy, as well as an opportunity to give new meaning to the unusual entity or event which maintains its peculiar identity across the distinct boxes of the classificatory system. The myth of Gyges is a story of blurred distinctions and violated lines of demarcation. Gyges is an invisible voyeur. Already this impossible quality posits the man in two mutually exclusive boxes of the conventional classificatory system, the visible and the invisible. Due to the nature of his ring, Gyges may be both visible and invisible under the same spatial conditions. When invisible, he acts like a god among humans – another, more radical violation of the classificatory system, for Gyges seems both human and divine. No interpretation of the myth is credible that does not give an account of this moment of blurring of distinctions. That this is the thrust of the myth is underscored by the presence of an unusual corpse, a phenomenon that is systematically linked, as we have seen, in the Republic and elsewhere, to a moment of conceptual blurring, to a blurring of spatial distinctions, and to disastrous, or redeeming, consequences. This moment of blurring, the violation of basic demarcating lines in the myth, is precisely what calls for a process of interpretation, by the dialogue’s interlocutors as well as by its subsequent readers, that would reaffirm the violated discursive formation. The moment of transgression illuminates the transgressed boundary.34 The myth of 42

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Gyges problematizes a conventional concept of justice by reducing the social condition for its realization to its absurd consequences. But at the same time, the myth tacitly announces the limits of the field within which the entire discussion of justice can be conducted. The myth actually outlines a structure in a field of possibilities for the arguments about justice: the discursive formation that demarcates Greek man. THE DEMARCATION OF GREEK MAN AND HIS CIVIC SPACE The demarcating discursive formation is not specifically Platonic; Plato did not invent it nor did he simply try to argue for or against it. Rather, he had to operate within that structure since it was part of that discourse in which he learned to speak, to think, to philosophize. Plato did touch upon the nature of the opposition between man and gods (the philosopher, the immortality of the soul), and between man and beasts (the tyrant, the mob); and, joining others in a debate about the place of women in the polis, he tried to eliminate the demarcating line between man and woman. Against Antiphon, Hippias and Aeschylus, he established more firmly the opposition between the Greek and the non-Greek.35 But the very position of man between gods and beasts and his systematic demarcation from various 'others’ (barbarian, slave, woman) are never called into question. This is a set outside which even Aristotle would not be able to speak and write. The radical oppositions of man/god, man/beast are intricately woven into a whole network of oppositions and homologues, such as death/ life, savage/tame, memory/forgetfulness, civic/non-civic, erotic – tame – savage, forgetfulness – death – non-civic, or life – memory – civic. This network does not define or predicate objects such as 'man’, 'woman’, 'polis’, 'eros’, etc. Instead it rather opens up, but also delineates and confines, a field for a variety of possible discursive moves. Thus, for example, the whole nomos–physis debate is a theme allowed by the problematic distinction Greek/barbarian. Does the non-Greek stand in complete opposition to the Greek, hence being savage, non-civilized' If so, the laws of the Greek cities should be considered divine, for there is basically one set of these, the Greek laws. Or is the nonGreek different from the Greek only in certain respects, a difference he cannot be defined by' If so, his cities may also be civilized, his laws may also be valid, and hence laws in general must be man-made (Guthrie 1968: III, ch. 4; Kerferd 1981: ch. 10). 43

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At the center of this network we have discovered – not man, for he can be grasped only through his others, only by negating what he is not – but the organization of civic space. Man 'in-itself’ is a hole in the center of the web around which the lines of differentiations and correlations are woven. Man, as a key discursive unit, is missing from the center of the network woven around him, and the missing space is precisely the one in which actual men appear, i.e. civic space. One may try to find man’s 'essence’ in his political or rational being. But for the Greeks, before Plato and Aristotle at least, political being meant belonging to a polis, and this presupposes a clearly demarcated, articulated and organized civic space. As for rationality, even in that celebrated and exceptional passage (EN x.7) where Aristotle posits contemplation as the end of man, his perfection and happiness, and even when allowing the wise man an activity which seems more self-sufficient than all others, he must presuppose leisure, which, among mortals, only a polis may provide. In this passage Aristotle makes it clear that when man lives in accordance with reason (nous) he lives according to something which is not his but of his primordial other, the divine: such life [in accordance with contemplative reason, or of contemplation] would be too high for man, for it is not in so far as he is a man that he will live so, but as far as something divine is present in him. Yet: we must, so far as we can, make ourselves immortal, and strain every nerve to live in accordance with the best thing in us. . . . And this would seem actually to be each man, since it is the authoritative and best part of him . . . since reason more than anything else is man. (EN x.7; Ross 1951) And if one wants to follow Aristotle and speak about the uniquely human in Aristotelian language (i.e. about the essence of man, without involving the divine), one must withdraw from nous to phronesis, (i.e. to practical reason), falling back upon the city and, ultimately, upon its spatial demarcations and differentiations. The essence of man is the space where he lives; in and of himself man is a set of spatial differentiations that allows human coexistence.

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The differentiations of man from his 'others’ are differentiations in and of civic space. I have emphasized, mainly due to the unusual presence of corpses in the text, the external differentiations. But the inner differentiations, which we met apropos of the myths of Gyges and the man-wolf and of the description of the enslaved tyrant, are no less important; in fact, as far as the problem of justice goes, they should be even more strongly emphasized. From Hesiod (Works 267–8) through Protagoras (in Plato’s Protagoras 32ff.) to Aristotle (Politics 1235a), justice is the basis for political order and the social coexistence of man. It is the one unique skill that differentiates him from other animals and allows him to inhabit cities and organize his life there. But at the same time, it is the socio-political order that defines what is just, and the main principles of this order are embodied in the system of spatial differentiations within and of the city. Justice, as a human endowment, is the condition for the possibility of man’s demarcation, of the differentiations of the civic from the non-civic space, and of the savage from the tame. But the condition for the existence of justice as a human reality is a well-organized civic space, realized not only in walls and gates, but also in the citizens’ awareness and acceptance of those conceptual differentiations as if they were real, i.e. inscribed in space. Therefore, it is only natural that a thorough investigation of the problem of justice in the Republic involve both man’s demarcation and the organization of his civic space. In the next chapter I will try to restate the problem of justice in the Republic in terms of the above discursive formation, in which Greek man and his civic space coalesce.

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PROBLEMATIZATION The spatial connotation of the predicate 'just’ (dik¯e) in Greek discourse may be traced back to Anaximander. Following Vlastos (1947) and Kahn (1960), Vernant has shown how the cosmological conception of an ordered universe (kosmos), in which dik¯e predicated the relation between all existing things (DK 12.1), is a projection of a social order on to the universe as a whole (Vernant 1982a: ch. 5). Parmenides speaks obscurely about justice as a divine power, an agent of punishment and revenge, which holds the 'interchangeable keys’ to the 'great folding doors’ in the gates of the path of Night and Day. Once those gates are opened, 'a wide gaping space’ is revealed and then crossed on the way towards Being and Truth. Parmenides did not bring justice down to earth; still, he linked it to a certain arrangement of space that limits man’s access to Truth (DK 28.1). Speaking about the law, nomos, Heraclitus compares it to the city wall (DK 22.43): the people should fight for the law as if they were fighting to protect the wall. Finally, Antiphon, the Sophist, a contemporary of Socrates, introduces the other’s gaze as well as the spatial demarcations it requires and implies into the core of the discourse of justice. He said that a man 'can best conduct in harmony with justice, if, when in the company of witnesses, he upholds the edicts of nature’ (DK 87.44; Freeman 1983). Plato, it seems, does not deviate from this tradition of discourse in which justice and space are more or less systematically, though not reflectively linked. There is no thematization, let alone problematization of this link, even in Plato; it operates on the threshold of discourse, it exists as latent discursive formation. It is there as an unarticulated knowing-how: before any question is asked 46

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about justice, all interlocutors already know how to speak about it, and what they may expect from such a conversation. Articulating this knowledge for them, we may say that for all of them, Socrates and Thrasymachus alike, justice is both a mechanism of differentiation that sets Greek man apart from others, and an actual effect of that demarcation. This is also true for the links between justice and civic space. On the one hand, spatial differentiations, marked and assumed through conventions or actually embodied in the city architecture, are a condition for the possibility of justice. On the other hand, a just social order within the city is a necessary condition for the effective functioning of the inner organization of its civic space. Justice, for Plato, is a 'surface-concept’, an index of that discursive formation and of those discursive practices that demarcate Greek man and differentiate his civic space. This framework was gradually unfolding in the last chapter, and its index will be the topic of the present one. If justice is indeed an index of the demarcating formation, then to problematize it means to question the demarcation of man, or some line of his contours, and the organization of civic space, or some of its differentiations. I will argue in this chapter that different moves in the first and second books of the Republic that pose and reformulate questions of and about justice may be traced back to different discursive possibilities outlined and allowed by the demarcating formation. Moreover, the emergence of justice as a problem is a result of a growing tension between political reality and the available ways to reflect upon it. In other words, the chronic political crisis that characterized Athens since it started losing the Peloponnesian War, if not earlier, is not a sufficient background for the urgency of the problem of justice for Plato or for the radical nature of his solution. Political reality must have been conceived within the boundaries of the demarcating formation in order to be experienced as so outrageous. The political background has left traces in the dialogue, and I will try to show that these, too, once properly located, may be formulated in terms of the above discursive formation. The reformulation of the question of justice then leads to a clearcut distinction between two possible yet contrasting solutions, both of which Plato examines within the scope of the same text. When these two options are reformulated it will be possible to reconstruct the text’s practicality in terms of the political meaning of its main textual acts, the way they contradict or complement each other, and what they contribute to the larger context of discourse/practice relations within which they were taken. 47

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PLATONIC SOCRATES, HIS DEATH In the Republic’s background there lies a troubled polis, inflamed with political strife and moral corruption, a situation well echoed in the sharp contrast between the dramatic setting of the dialogue and what was known to the author and his audience by the time of the dialogue’s composition. Most probably, the dialogue takes place during the peace of Nicias (around 422 BC), a short period of calm and stability. By the time the composition of the dialogue, or at least of the first book, was complete, about thirty (Thesleff 1982:107–10) or forty (Guthrie 1975: IV, 437–9) years later, its original audience probably knew how it all ended. Almost all the actors of the drama in the first book were involved in the upheavals of Athenian democracy; some suffered grave injustice as a result. Socrates, Polemarchus and Niceratus were executed by the city; Cephalus’ wealth, a crucial point for the initiation of the question of justice (329e–330a), was expropriated by the city’s rulers after his death; Niceratus and Polemarchus were killed for their money.1 The civic strife that divided Athens at the close of the fifth century is implied also by the presence of men from both parties, democrats (Cephalus’ sons and their companions) and oligarchs (Plato’s brothers; Socrates, who associates himself with the aristocratic youth). As Leo Strauss (1964:67–85) and, more accurately, Sparshott (1957) pointed out, Thrasymachus’ outrage against the way Socrates conducts the discussion of justice with Polemarchus must be understood against this background. The dramatic situation must be read not only for the scene which it portrays but also for the discrepancy between that scene and what a 'forward perspective’ would reveal about its original audience (Kahn 1986:7–9). One should assume a gap of about a generation between the date of composition and the dramatic date, and an even lesser gap between the former and the date of the calamities in which the drama’s main figures were involved. It then becomes clear that no one in the Athenian audience would have been surprised to hear justice defined and defended as the 'advantage of another’ in the house of Cephalus. Nothing less cynical could have justified the evil done to Cephalus’ family by a corrupt political regime. But as Sparshott suggests, it is not only that Plato distances himself from Socrates by giving Thrasymachus, a Sophist and a violent man (but not necessarily a villain), a partial legitimation. An extreme tension is built, and appropriately so, for the solution is going to be extremely radical. The dramatic tension is created through an interplay 48

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of three factors: the assumed background knowledge of the text’s original audience about the dialogue’s figures and circumstances; the calm pace of the conversation in a situation that should have been highly volatile; and a long-delayed violent outbreak, that of Thrasymachus. Thus the real drama of the city is vividly reenacted before the listener or the reader, except that the power struggle is transplanted into the realm of discourse. The city is in deep trouble and this fact cannot be disguised by an argument among friends who are 'play[ing] the fool and giving way to each other’ (Rep. 336c G). The city’s trouble is so deep that not only property, well-being and life are in constant danger, but the human condition itself is threatened. It is the humaneness in man which is at stake for Plato. At the core of the Platonic question of justice lies an existential and political dilemma: should the city be radically transformed or ultimately forsaken for the sake of man' The existing political order is unjust; about this point Socrates and Thrasymachus have no quarrel. The real disagreement between Thrasymachus and Socrates is not about the 'facts’, i.e. the poverty of justice and the prosperity of injustice in the present city. The disagreement is about how to interpret the facts, whether the bestial or the divine in man is what is actually flourishing in the unjust city. The happy tyrant in Thrasymachus’ speech is one who transgresses all barriers and rules in a civic space for his own immediate advantage, and whose desires know no limit, the horizon for their satisfaction being wide open (334a–b). There is much in this description to remind us of a superhuman power; in fact the closeness of the tyrant to the gods is claimed explicitly (344c); the brothers’ speeches amplify this impression (360c–362c) and later Socrates will use some of the terms from Thrasymachus’ speech in order to place the tyrant’s behavior in its appropriate place between the bestial and the divine (589a–591e). This clash of interpretations (is it a beast or human excellence that governs in tyranny') produces the overt question that runs through six out of the ten books of the Republic: exactly how happy (eudaim¯on, a word which itself indicates closeness to the gods) are the just and the unjust citizens, and who is happier' Later Glaucon emends Thrasymachus’ challenge. He calls upon Socrates to prove that justice is good in and of itself, as well as for its consequences (357–8). If this is proven to be the case then the happiness of the just and his advantage over the unjust would surely follow, in the same way that the healthy are assumed to be happier than the sick (445a). But even this question, which leads to the attempt to find whether 49

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justice is good in and of itself, is the surface movement of a much more radical quest for a remedy for the condition of man. Justice, according to Plato, is the name of that remedy2 (had Socrates failed and Thrasymachus won it would have been called injustice). But it is the disease that constitutes the real problem, i.e. the shaky demarcation of Greek man within the current political situation. Not everyone, of course, took the dangers the city poses to reason and man so seriously; but Plato is not an exception. A line of thought that calls to protect reason from all kinds of dangers emerging from civic life runs from Heraclitus through the Pythagoreans to Plato.3 But unlike the Orphics or the Pythagoreans, Plato could not have chosen religious opposition or political escapism. He was too much of a disciple and admirer of Socrates and knew too well the temptation of a will to power (of which we have the testimony of the Seventh Letter but also traces in the dialogues themselves)4 to give up his political being. In fact, it is exactly that exceptional encounter between an inhibited, yet still burning and all the more consuming will to power and the unlimited desire for truth that rendered the problem so urgent, so painful for Plato. ‘Just’ and ‘justice’ were mentioned in earlier dialogues (e.g. Hip. Min. 375d–376b; Gor. 483a–484c), but in none of the so-called Socratic dialogues is the question ‘what is justice'’ explicitly asked. This is no coincidence, for justice is not really a Socratic question but a peculiarly Platonic one.5 Socrates exemplifies the impossible combination between the rational and the political in the deteriorating, corrupt city. Socrates says about himself in the Gorgias (521d) that he is one of 'very few’ genuine statesmen in the city; this should be understood as pointing to that combination of the rational and the political which is so hard to achieve (cf. Gadamer 1980:4 ff.). Besides, Socrates was not one who was born to rule; he was a son of a sculptor, a man with no social distinction, a man who could easily give up his political aspirations, if he ever had any.6 Not so with Plato, a son of Ariston, 'godlike offspring of a famous man’ (Rep. 368a). Historical Socrates could have never experienced the tension between a will to power and a will to knowledge, that a man like Plato knew. Hence the urgency of the problem, hence the attempt to hold to edges of a widening rupture. Not everyone, indeed no one, could be a Socrates, and even if one could, it is with the Platonic Socrates, not the historical one, that we are dealing here. Whereas historical Socrates may represent the ideal link, now impossible, between the rational and the political in man, 50

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Platonic Socrates (of the early and middle dialogues, at least) is a personification of the discursive formation that demarcates Greek man, an embodiment of that formation as a whole. Note that he is a personification of the discursive formation itself, not of the man demarcated by it. Socrates personifies the impossible combination of the contraries within which man is made possible, in an age in which the tension between the homological elements of the discursive formation becomes a permanent crisis. He moves constantly along the contours of man, sometimes demonic, sometimes bestial, yet always a Greek man, an obedient citizen of the Athenian polis. He challenges man’s finitude, ridicules death and seems able to ignore entirely the troubles of his body (Symp. 219–21). Yet his body and his death are none the less a part of what he is, for others as well as for himself. He is ugly as Marsyas, the satyr, yet erotic as a Silenus; the music of his words is as exciting as that of the Sirens, his audience as aroused as the orgiastic Corybantes (Symp. 215–17, 221–2). He takes no voluntary part in the life of the city, but he never leaves it and always fulfills his duties, in public office and in battle. His teaching is said to be deadly poisonous, but also a spell that cures souls (Char. 176b) and a gadfly that arouses a whole city (Ap. 30c) to search for its good life. He often presents himself as forgetful (e.g. Pr. 334c), but he remembers tales from Egypt (Phdr. 273d) and Phoenicia (Rep. 414c) and can recite long passages from Homer (e.g. Pr. 340a ff.). He claims to be ignorant but his ignorance, which has become transparent, is the source of his intellectual power and of his disturbing presence, which always seems to vibrate throughout the political community. The climax of all these paradoxes is, of course, his death. The man who represents reason is judged by a legitimate body of jurors and executed by the legitimate authorities of the city. His death is the death the political inflicts on the rational in man; Socrates’ death is the moment in which the schism in man’s demarcation comes alive. This paradoxical figure, an absurdity (atopian) of words and deeds exemplified by a man who resembles no other man 'in our time or in the past’ (Symp. 221d), is exactly that 'hole’ in the discursive formation where man’s 'essence’ lies (cf. Derrida 1981:110–19). With Socrates’ death the opposition between the rational and the political is woven into the web of opposites and correlations that demarcates man. But, whereas all other opposites differentiate man from two contrary sides, this last one is a schism in the 'essence’ of man; it goes straight to the heart of the network and threatens the cohesive power of those delicate links that hold the contraries together 51

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and make man possible; it introduces a rupture between man and his civic space. After Socrates’ death, even historical Socrates – not only the paradoxical Platonic figure – is no longer possible. There can no longer be a Socrates, a man who genuinely integrates the rational and the political (in his own life and within the space of his city), without a radical change in either the political or the rational being of man, or in both. The problem of justice for a Platonic character who plays Socrates after Socrates’ death is that of finding a way to reconcile the rational and the political within the limits of a reformed civic space, or to redemarcate Greek man without it. I argue below that already at the initial stage, when the first arguments about justice are presented by Socrates’ interlocutors in the first and second books, the dilemma is tacitly present, the two options are implied and, in general, the entire discussion is a captive of the demarcating formation. MORE AND LESS TRANQUIL WAYS OF SPEAKING OF JUSTICE The conflict between reason and power was not always experienced so intensely, and it was not systematically thought of in relation to the concept of justice. In the dialogue this is exemplified mainly by the first two interlocutors. Old Cephalus, a metic, not a citizen, who probably did not take much part in Athenian politics, speaks about justice in terms of retribution. According to the man who was known more for his wealth than for his wisdom, the rich could more easily be just since they are more capable of giving back to man and gods what they owe (Rep. 330d–331c). Justice is thus a matter of proper debt redemption. A just man is one who follows a certain practical rule, and a rich man is able to abide by that rule better than a poor one. Socrates makes that rule into a hypothetical definition of justice. Justice as an abstract noun7 is first spoken of in the dialogue in terms of a rule, which is seemingly indifferent to the political regime or the psychological constitution of one’s soul. Polemarchus, the son of Cephalus and a man deeply involved in public life,8 provides another definition of justice and then amends it with Socrates’ help (332c), but he too still speaks out of the mouth of tradition. He relies on Simonides, the Archaic poet, but his rule, to help one’s friends and harm one’s enemies, is characteristic of the Homeric mentality as well (334b; Havelock 1978:189–92; Bloom 1968:316–25). Homeric heroes came to the rescue of their friends and retaliated against their enemies in a political space where rules of 52

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kinship determined the limits of one’s action, defined a transgression and called for punishment. Polemarchus’ rule for justice and the opposition philos/ekhtros that underlies his argument with Socrates echo an archaic world in which the clan (genos, philoi), not the polis, as a distinctly social and spatial unity, was still the basis and the main organizing principle of Greek political life (Scully 1981). Cephalus and his son represent in this context a common way of speaking about justice in terms that fall short of articulating, let alone problematizing, the demarcating structure itself. Thus, Plato’s point of departure in the Republic contrasts with the urgency later given to the discussion of justice. But the contrast is not only a dramatic technique. The 'common way’ of discussing justice as one of the virtues, without attaching to the concept more importance than that attached to courage for example, can be documented extensively. In order to situate Plato’s mode of speech about justice and to appreciate its uniqueness, let me examine briefly two examples: Herodotus and Aristotle. Herodotus mentions dikayosun¯e, as distinct from dik¯e, dikaios, etc., in a strictly political context (Immerwahr 1966:187 ff.) yet in a rather ambiguous manner. However, in both the abstract and the concrete form, justice appears in his text as a matter of making a fair judgment, of fixing a proper reaction to a preceding action, in short of determining the right retribution. The meaning of dik¯e as punishment (or penalty, or compensation) is hardly in need of mention here; we may only note how often is it employed by Herodotus.9 The retributive meaning of justice appears most clearly when it is divine, not human, justice. For the gods, justice means balancing offences and punishment, while the agents for suffering or reward may be different human entities, individuals, families, cities or nations. But, in fact, neither human nor divine justice really interested Herodotus, who described the rise and fall of the agents involved in exercising justice and injustice as an aspect of precarious human happiness. Justice, whether present or absent, is a rather marginal characteristic of human affairs, and is an unpredictable, uncontrollable feature of divine intervention in the world of man (Immerwahr 1966:21ff., 237). For Herodotus, justice still lies more in heaven than on earth; it has not intermingled with reason, and its political context has not yet been fully appreciated. Justice is still confined to an act or to an individual by virtue of his actions. It is irrelevant to intelligence, for many cunning and wise men appear to be unjust; and it may be a factor within a political system, but not something that is supposed to 53

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determine its nature (cf. the story of Deioces, the just despot (Herodotus I.97)). A century and a half later, it seems, the concept of justice has entered the center of political discourse, finding its finest expression in Aristotle. But this has to be asserted with some qualifications that expose an important similarity between Aristotle and Herodotus. Justice 'in the particular sense’ means, according to Aristotle, maintaining a certain equality by correcting inequalities in the distribution of those things shared among men in a political system, mainly power, money and goods (EN v.2–5). Equality defines justice but different types of equality are not comparable as to their justness.10 Equality and particular types of equality are for Aristotle predicates of a political system as a whole (EN iv. 1, 1121a 25–30), while justice in the particular sense is a predicate of a well-confined human interaction within it. Also, a single unjust act does not necessarily imply an unjust agent; only an accumulation of acts may justify a judgment about their agent (EN v.6). In the final analysis, even the important distinction between corrective and distributive justice (EN v.2–5) comes down to a distinction between two types of equality, and hence of proportion, arithmetic and geometric. In the first case, the legal concept of justice, all partners are considered equal and only the values involved in a particular exchange matter. In the second case, the civil or political concept of justice, the value of the exchange has to be coordinated in a geometric proportion with the merits of the partners involved. But all this is true for all regimes and cannot serve as a ground for a theoretical construction of a political regime or for its reform. In the Politics, Aristotle’s discussion of justice gives the demarcating discursive formation one of its clearest expressions: For man, when perfected, is the best of animals, but when separated from law and justice he is the worst of all, since armed injustice is the more dangerous, and he is equipped at birth with arms meant to be used by intelligence and virtue, which he may use for the worst ends. Wherefore, if he has no virtue he is the most unholy and the most savage of animals. But justice is the bond of men in states (poleis), for the administration of justice, which is the determination of what is just, is the principle of order in political society. (1253a 30)

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‘The principle of order’ is not justice as such but 'the determination of what is just’. In view of the various ways to determine what is just, mentioned in the Ethics, it is clear that the exact definition of justice is of secondary importance. The determination of what is just comes prior to the meaning of justice employed in a particular regime; it depends upon an existing socio-political order and this order itself cannot be judged as just or unjust. This notion of justice, which presupposes an organized political community and is directed toward the preservation of an existing political order, is what Aristotle calls in the Ethics 'justice in the partial sense’. But it is never an issue for Aristotle to show that 'justice in the full sense’ can create a hierarchy among the partial senses or that the partial and the full senses are commensurable at all, and he never bothered to clarify what is the nature of that equality upon which justice in the full sense rests. It is even implied in the passage quoted above that justice is indifferent to reason: when justice prevails, power is guided by virtue and intelligence, but injustice is linked to lack of virtue alone. Such issues could remain unthematized or carelessly dealt with, only if neither the very concept of the polis nor of Greek man were really at stake. There are many types of justice for Aristotle and many ways to define the term (EN v.1–2) and nothing terribly important seems to rely on these definitions. A particular aspect of human coexistence is involved in each case but never is it a question of the 'human condition’ as such. One generation after the composition of the Republic, the political situation is still (as always) on the verge of total disaster, yet reason is safe and fine. Man is still spoken of as a political being, and a rational one, too, yet human reason does not seem to depend on a rational civic space for its survival. The city is already on the decline, the Hellenic world, which for Plato was little more than a special war-zone but already for Isocrates and Demosthenes was an embryonic empire,11 becomes a new political reality, and the line between the barbarian and the Greek becomes a frontier of a world war. Nevertheless, Aristotle, a stranger in so many cities, still thinks that to belong to a polis is intrinsic to the human condition and necessary for human intelligence. But, and here lies the whole difference, to belong to a polis is a strictly ontological, not a discursive, matter, something to be accounted for in biological, psychological and sociological terms, not a constraint imposed on discourse by a never fully transparent structure. Reason can critically examine now its political embodiment (and this is precisely what Aristotle does in parts of the Ethics and the Politics)12 because the 55

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demarcation of man is no more endangered by the discourse that such an examination involved. Within this detached, 'scientific’ examination of man’s political being, the question of justice is one among many political questions. This detached, 'theoretical’ discussion of the human condition in general, and of the concept of justice in particular, was made possible by then because the demarcation of Greek man, which for Plato still required a harmony between the rational and the political within the space of the city, had already been transformed. It is one of the tasks of this work – let me add here in passing – to demonstrate the role of the Republic in bringing about that transformation. Herodotus, on the verge of the age of Greek rationalism, did not introduce justice into the center of his political discourse; Aristotle at the close of that age could already dissociate justice from the center of his political discourse and of his reflective activity in general. For neither is justice a discursive problem, not yet for Herodotus, no longer for Aristotle. The discursive field they are moving in is calm and its practices are secure. No discursive structure is going to collapse in their writing hands, no logos (a story for Herodotus, an argument for Aristotle) is going to blow up in their faces, to expose a shaky, fragmentary arrangement of 'things’ behind the play of their words. They both speak about justice among other concepts, and about just and unjust men among other types of men, with discursive tools ready at hand. Both of them face political crises and look for a remedy for the disastrous political conduct of the Greeks, but the crises they are facing are political only, i.e. are crises that can be contained within a discourse that accounts for them, renders them intelligible, explains their roots and looks for their solution. The case of Plato is different. When he speaks about justice the crisis is not only political but also discursive. That speaking about justice involves one in a discursive crisis does not mean that the question of justice cannot be asked or that different concepts of justice cannot be formulated. What I mean is that the constitution of the real, in this case the world of human affairs, is not only described, explained or prescribed by certain enunciations but that it is actually disturbed by them. As long as one sticks to the logos and follows the stronger argument, and this Sophist legacy is already an established discursive practice for Plato and his contemporaries,13 the discourse of justice is dangerous for it is constantly touching a sensitive nerve in the order of things. The order of things at stake here concerns the contours that demarcate man from the non-human and shape the 56

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different faces of his finitude. When the concept of justice is a metonymy of a whole discursive formation, not merely a concept within it, calling the concept into question and searching for it 'from the beginning’, as Socrates and his companions do, is a dangerous act. This radical questioning seems to be challenging some of the contours of man, threatening or tempting man with the transformation of his human condition. Thucydides and Aristophanes, Isocrates and the Sophists faced the same crisis, I believe, even if they did not always use the same metonym 'justice’ to capture it. They did so, however, without Plato’s penetration into and commitment to both the new logos conceived as serious discourse, and the old structures of myth, and without his mastery of both the modern scientific approach and the traditional, mythical view. Plato was a man of both worlds, if there ever was a complete rupture between the two, hence the intense articulation of a crisis in his text as well as the radical nature of his solutions. Indeed, the way the question of justice is posed anew in the second book of the Republic can be logically derived from the texture of the discursive crisis regarding the demarcation of man that Plato faced. THE ARGUMENTS FOR INJUSTICE In the first and second books of the Republic there are two radical attempts to defend injustice, Thrasymachus’ and Glaucon’s. They both presuppose an accord between the rational and the political. According to the Sophist, when injustice rules, the political is not at odds with the rational; the tyrant represents reason, not only political power – 'the ruler, insofar as he rules, does not err (me¯ hamartanein)’ (340d–341a). Glaucon, too, describes the tyrant as an example of wisdom; he 'acts like the skillful craftsmen (hoi deinoi de¯miourgoi)’, he knowingly distinguishes between what he can and cannot achieve and he is skillful in correcting his own mistakes. Using the art of speech he persuades before he resorts to the use of force (360e– 361b). The unjust types that Thrasymachus and Glaucon describe embody the harmony between the rational and the political. The archetypes of injustice presented at the opening of the dialogue seem also exemplars of human excellence and of human existence in accordance with the demarcation of Greek man. Both the Sophist and the young associate of Socrates disregard the implication of the fact that their ruler rules at the expense of the organization of civic space, which exists for everybody but the tyrant. 57

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This is how Plato prepares their defeat; this is why, no matter how strong their arguments, they are doomed to fail. Yet in the meantime the question is kept open: disintegration of civic space may yield either a god-like or a bestial existence and it remains for Socrates to show that in the tyrant’s case the bestial is indeed victorious. It becomes clear, however, that the question of justice, no matter how it is defined, involves both an accord between the rational and the political, and man’s position vis-à-vis the gods and the beasts. This is true even for Cephalus’ uncritical, casual mention of justice. Cephalus has freed himself of that despot Eros (329a–d), and is no longer in danger of the bestial. His age makes it possible for him to direct all his attention to the opposite pole, preparing himself for the moment of descending into the yonder world. This is not a case of overstepping one’s humanity and becoming a god-like creature; still an affinity to the gods is associated with justice and also with reason ('andri noun ekhonti’ (331b)); the latter directs the one who possesses wealth and lacks desires into a state of affairs called just. Thrasymachus and Glaucon make the most unjust look the happiest and closest to the gods, using their enormous political power according to the best practical wisdom available. In other words, they expropriate from justice what a moral person would like to associate with it and ascribe the expropriated to injustice. More than this, the two seem to maintain the harmony within the discursive structure (correlation between reason and the organization of the civic space, the position of man vis-à-vis the gods); they also seem to present a theoretical model in which the ideal is constructed on the basis of typical, recognized tendencies of political reality. Glaucon calls Socrates to prove that justice is good and injustice harmful even in the case in which the most just appears to be wholly unjust and vice versa. The question who will get closer to the gods has thus been opened, but nothing has been changed regarding the discursive formation within which the arguments move. Only moral reality has divided itself into essence and appearance, which are related to each other as an object and its mirror-image. If the tyrant whom Glaucon describes is happier, it only means that appearance replaces essence in the place designed for justice in that structure. By separating essence and appearance Glaucon wants to deprive the just of everything others may give him for being just, and transfer it to the unjust. Suppose the unjust person is found to be happier. Justice would still be the ground out of which the unjust despot grows, since everyone must know how the just looks and how to react toward what looks just. It 58

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also means that civic life would be stable, since everybody believes justice to rule; one man would have all the cunning in the city, the rest would all share ignorance or deception; one man would be a god in appearance or a beast in essence, the rest would remain human all the same, as ignorance and blindness are all-too-human features. If, on the other hand, essence prevails over appearance, it would mean that there is something in being just which neither the gaze of gods nor the acts of men can take away from the just man. This thing, it should be plain by now, is a kind of 'discursive authenticity’, human existence well within the discursive contours of man. It is important to note at this point that both Thrasymachus and Glaucon can go so far in what they give to the tyrant only when presupposing either – what they would call – a just society or – what they would consider – a genuinely just person within an unjust society; in both cases a widespread agreement about the meaning of being just is presupposed. Thrasymachus’ tyrant, for one, would be powerless were his city an unjust community in his sense of justice, for otherwise who would serve the 'interest of the stronger’' Only when the whole community is organized so as to serve his desires can the tyrant be a happy man indeed, and not that miserable, suspicious and scared person, a prisoner of his own power, whom Socrates later describes. As for Glaucon’s tyrant, ex hypothesi he appears to be just and gains all the reputation and rewards given to the just, according and due to the conventions in Glaucon’s society. The radical defense of injustice presupposes justice as an appearance (in Gyges’ case) or as a reality (in Thrasymachus’ case, and in the case of Glaucon’s genuinely just man), and always as a notion that everyone knows how to use. Speaking about injustice, the interlocutors understand it not only as the logical opposite of injustice, but as complementary to it, confined, as we can see now, to a certain discursive field and constrained by the demarcating formation. The discourse about justice is determined within that field in such a way that it always posits man between beasts and gods, correlates the rational and the political, presupposes an organized civic space, and concentrates on the possibility of transgression within it. I showed above (pp. 43–5) how these discursive constraints invited, so to speak, Plato’s dilemma, how it made possible the initial task of the Republic, and how it shaped the formulation of the main questions posed on the dialogue’s surface. We can see now in more detail how the brothers’ speeches in which those questions assume their final form are constrained by the same structure. 59

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ON TWO TYPES OF HAPPINESS The interchangeability of justice and injustice within the discursive formation has one crucial consequence: true happiness can be achieved only within a civic space in which justice prevails. The link between justice and happiness underlies all arguments about justice. But, as Thrasymachus forcefully claims and Glaucon proposes hypothetically, it may still be the case that justice brings happiness to a singularly unjust person within a just community. The really disturbing question is, therefore, 'Who is happier'’ But it is also necessary to know what justice is in order to give an answer. The existence of justice and the achievement of happiness are not called into question but presupposed. After all, is not this precisely Socrates’ strategy when he constructs a city from the beginning in order to search for justice in it, and later finds it 'rolling around at our feet from the beginning’ (432d) and defines it in terms that echo Cephalus’ definition of justice as formulated for him by Socrates very early in the text (331d)' The construction of 'the city in speech’ seems, in this respect, an explication of a common knowledge within a sophisticated metaphysical framework. But what about happiness' Do we know what it means' Nobody questions the concept of happiness in the dialogue but the arguments themselves rotate around two possible interpretations. Since these are not made explicit we need some amount of speculation; we do not have to go too far, however, and the attempt is worth while. Happiness may be ascribed to him who has gained or has the power to gain whatever he wishes. This is mainly what Thrasymachus and Glaucon seem to mean when they are talking about the unjust tyrant. Let me call it the empirical concept of happiness, happinesse. But, as the word eudaimonia indicates, happiness may also be ascribed, and was, indeed, often ascribed to him who fared well due to the gods, or in their eyes, and at any rate through a certain relationship with them (cf. EN 1099b). The happy man, we may add in our jargon, is one who fits happily into the demarcating formation, secure on one side from the beasts, and welcome on the side of the gods. Let me call this the discursive concept of happiness, happinessd. 'To be loved or blessed (makar) by the gods’ could have been used differently from 'to be happy’ in more earthly respects, e.g. to have access to desired objects, and especially to more of these (happinesse). The traditional view that happiness can be judged only upon one’s death aimed, so it seems, 60

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to reconcile a momentary happinesse with a disastrous end, which might indicate that one was not blessed after all. Plato or his contemporaries could say that the tyrant is a beast or that the philosopher is divine, but they were probably less free to articulate explicitly the distinction between the two types of happiness in relation to man’s demarcation. For such a distinction to be made explicitly, the demarcating formation had to be thematized and the picture of reality it captured or shaped had to be grasped in its entirety; a distance had to grow between words and things. This hardly occurred even with Aristotle (though the interpretation of his relevant texts may be elegantly stretched in this direction).14 Yet the above distinction is not one I impose upon Plato’s text arbitrarily. I believe that this distinction is present, even if disguised, in Plato’s text, that it is operative in a crucial manner, and that unrecognized as it is, it has led interpreters into a confusion regarding a distinction of a wholly different sort, i.e. between 'deontological’ and 'consequential’ moral arguments in the dialogue.15 If 'justice’ is indeed a metonym for a discursive formation, only a 'discursive happiness’ could have solved the initial dilemma of justice, for it is a discursive crisis (concerning the contours of man’s demarcation) that one faces here, not just a political one. This means also, and most importantly, that arguments for the happinesse of the just are not only improbable but a priori insufficient as well. At the same time, only an empirical happiness would have silenced angry Thrasymachus, who did not represent the Sophists, in this respect at least, but the actual, suspicious, power-hungry politician (see above p. 48 and below p. 107ff.). Plato had to move in two complementary directions implied by the hidden distinction. In order to silence the Sophist, Socrates would widen the realm of human experience to include the after-world; in order to overcome the discursive problem, Socrates would have to show that justice is 'good in itself’. Here lies the rationale for the famous tripartite division between types of good drawn by Glaucon in the beginning of the second book of the Republic (357b–d). Glaucon distinguishes between things that are good in themselves only (i.e. without any good consequences), things good both in themselves and in their consequences, and those that are good for their consequences only. The things spoken of in this context, as indicated by Glaucon’s examples, are either practices (e.g. medical therapy, gymnastics), or states of mind (e.g. seeing) and body (health). Justice, which may be interpreted as both something to be practiced and a state 61

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of mind (though we know that it means more than this for Plato), is claimed to fall into the second category. Some modern interpreters were quick to identify the justification for justice by an argument about with a deontological argument for its goodness 'in-itself’ justice. If justice is good in itself, it has been assumed, it resembles a Kantian good will that is good no matter what, i.e. no matter what the consequences of exercising that will (e.g. Prichard 1968:119 ff.). In the same manner, the justification for justice on the basis of its good consequences has been identified as a version of a utilitarian moral argument.16 If Glaucon asks Socrates to prove that justice is good both for itself and for its consequences, and Socrates accepts the challenge, the arguments Plato proposes have to be contradictory, it was inferred. In order to save Plato the embarrassment, and to save him from either the deontologist or the utilitarian interpreter, either one of the two categories was interpreted as something Plato did not 'really mean’.17 But there is no contradiction here, only hasty, anachronistic interpretations. The main source of confusion has been, I believe, the expression 'in itself’ (357b)) which immediately brings to mind Kantian associations. But what does Glaucon mean when he speaks about things as good in themselves' What, in particular, could be the 'in-itself goodness’ of justice' Let us look at the other examples Glaucon cites for the first category of good. Thinking (phronein), seeing (horan) and being healthy are also suggested, without an argument, as examples of things good both in themselves and for their consequences. What is good about those things in themselves' A close reading of the passage reveals that it is precisely the pleasure derived from these states of mind or body while they are being experienced or practiced. But there is a good reason for distinguishing between the enjoyment and the usefulness of such activities or states of body and mind. While usefulness presupposes the Form of the Good and leads one from the useful means to the supposedly good end, enjoyment needs neither the Form of the Good nor anything else in order to be experienced as 'good’. This 'good’ is simply pleasure experienced through action,18 which the Form of the Good is clearly not (509a); it (this 'good’) is not the reason for which the action was taken. I assume that when Glaucon speaks about three types of good, 'eidos agathou’, he employs both eidos and agathon in their colloquial sense without meaning either 'Forms’ or 'the Good’. One should remember here that we are not looking for what Plato meant to say when he put these words in Glaucon’s mouth, but rather 62

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for what Glaucon could have meant when he said what Plato made him say. The intrinsic value that Glaucon gives so easily to health or sight, and seems to establish for justice, is therefore nothing else but the pleasure accompanying the activity or state of seeing, being healthy, or being just and acting justly, regardless of any consequences. Pleasure is good (in the colloquial sense of the word), yet it does not require the Form of the Good either as an end or as a ground. Once we free ourselves from the famous distinction, so inadequate for Plato, between 'deontological’ and 'consequential’ moral justifications, the 'intrinsic value’ of things appears in this context intrinsic indeed, yet deprived of moral value; i.e. it appears as pleasure. All the examples Glaucon uses point to the same conclusion. In the first category of things good only in themselves, he mentions enjoyment and other harmless pleasures ('to khairein kai hai h¯edonai’) 'which leave no other effects other than the enjoyment (khairein) in having them’ (357b). In the third category, that of the useful things, Glaucon mentions only troublesome 'drudgery’ ('epipona’), tedious business from which no pleasure could be drawn. The distinction between the pleasure something causes when it is enduring and the benefits it brings when it is practiced is so evident in the text that one could only wonder how that other distinction of modern ethical theory was read into it.19 However, justice is different from all other things supposed to be good in some sense. It is not simply a state of mind (like thinking), it is not exercised through any particular faculty (like seeing) or skill. It will later turn out to be the proper constitution of the soul, hence analogous to health, the proper constitution of the body. But what kind of pleasure can be drawn from the proper constitution of the soul' And what kind of pleasure could Glaucon expect to find in justice before he knows what justice means' Like thought or sight, justice may be a means for achieving certain pleasures. This is disputed among the interlocutors, but it makes sense. The practice of justice may be troublesome yet also beneficial (358e); practicing justice may make one less miserable, if not happier. The happiness in question means less pain and more pleasure in the commonsensical meaning of those words, hence happinesse. To show that something is good for its consequences is to show that one is happiere as a result of practicing that thing. But to show that something is good in itself is to show that one is happiere when practicing or experiencing that thing, and the temporal language of the text (357b 7–8) witnesses this distinction. When justice in itself is in question it is not at all clear 63

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what kind of pleasure could be experienced when this thing is experienced or practiced. No identifiable pleasure is involved with the state of being just, at least not at the stage when Glaucon asks about justice in itself. Yet the whole distinction was asserted for the sake of justice. What then could Glaucon have in mind when speaking about the possible good of justice in itself, meaning, as we say, the pleasure accompanying the state of being just'20 I propose to settle this puzzle by taking the 'in-itself goodness of justice to mean that kind of happiness that involves no identifiable pleasure, yet is known as something everyone wishes to enjoy, i.e. happinessd. The distinction was introduced, I suggest, in order to allow justice to be a source of happiness that no observable pleasure available for a tyrant can refute, i.e. in order to allow justice to be the ground for the secure position of man in the demarcating structure. By implication, such a strategy would not allow one to base a defense of injustice on arguments 'from the facts’, i.e. from the actual state of affairs. This interpretation may be supported first by a close reading of the wording of the above passage. All kinds of good things were said to bring either enjoyment (khairein) and pleasure, benefit (¯ophlein) and wages (misth¯on), or both. But at the close of the passage Socrates singles out justice and says that it 'belongs in the finest kind, which the man who is going to be blessed (makari¯oi estethai) should like both for itself and for what comes out of it’ (358a).21 Makar may mean fortunate, prosperous or blessed, and all would fit into our context. But the word applies first and foremost to the gods, the immortal and blessed. The man called makar is compared to the immortals even more than the eudaim¯on, a word that does not appear in our passage. The word also applies to the dead (the islands of the blessed makar¯on n¯esoi), those beyond the reach of pain, and hence of observable pleasure. The just man is blessed not with ephemeral pleasure but with a well-secured position between beasts and gods, and as close as possible to the latter. Another supportive hint is given to this interpretation in the midst of the 'metaphysical digression’ (505a), when the notion of the good is introduced. The discussion of the good does not appear to be a necessary part of the proof of the goodness of justice or the advantage of being just. At least so much is clear to Glaucon who thinks that the mere definition of justice is enough to prove this and finds a further investigation of the matter to be ridiculous (444e–445a). Perhaps Glaucon, 'always most courageous in everything’ (357a), only lacks the patience and wit to understand that the story has not yet been completed. Still we may ask what is so 64

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plainly good about justice in itself, which Glaucon grasps once justice is properly described and defined' It is, I suggest again, the 'enjoyment’ of being happy, a state of affairs that goes with justice, as anyone who understands Socrates’ discourse about justice would surely agree. Only, it is not an actual state of affairs, at least not for us, but a state of 'discursive affairs’ where the rational and the political seem to be again compatible. The compatibility of the rational and the political has not been secured at the end of the fourth book. But could not Glaucon infer the happiness of the just from what was already said and agreed by then' What do the 'women’s drama’ of the fifth book and the 'metaphysical digression’ that follows it add to the proof of the goodness of justice' If these parts of the dialogue add anything relevant to the original explicit question it is regarding the meaning of happiness. In the fifth book, after describing the communal feeling of women and children in the ideal city, Socrates explains in what sense the guardians are happy (565d). He answers Adeimantus, who earlier (419a) complained that the men created in Socrates’ fiction are not happy (eudaimonas); their happiness seems questionable because they possess nothing of those things like land, comfortable houses, silver or gold, 'that are conventionally held to belong to men who are going to be blessed’ ('kai panta hosa nomizdetai tois mellousin makariois einai’ (ibid.)). Adeimantus uses makariois in the sense of prosperous, fortunate, and the happiness he has in mind is, no doubt, what I called happinesse. His intervention, when read in full, may serve in fact as a definition of that kind of happiness. The passage brings together convention (the other’s gaze) and economic freedom (better control within the civic space, i.e. the ability to buy land and to build houses); happiness is determined as the freedom to buy pleasure and the ability to fulfill religious duties (civic duties are a matter of honor, not pleasure; religious duties are meant to secure one’s position in this world and to protect one from suffering in the next (cf. Adeimantus’ speech, 365a– b)). The answer Socrates offers to Adeimantus’ complaint, however, is nothing but a displacement of the concept of happiness from the empirical category to the discursive one. Socrates excludes happinesse from the guardians’ world yet asserts that they live a life more blessed (makaristou) than that 'most blessed one the Olympic victors live’ (465d), and when dying for their city they are buried like 'demonic and divine beings (daimonious te kai theious)’ (469a). The economic freedom of the guardians is restricted to the consumption of bare 65

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needs without labor; they do not have the freedom or means to buy pleasure of any sort. Moreover, they seem to be deprived, in what way it does not matter here, of the intimacy of experiencing individual pleasure and pain. The guardians enjoy or suffer the state of the city as a whole and of every one of its members. We need not concern ourselves, in this context at least, with what these communal pleasures and pains mean precisely but we know for certain that they are not those of which happinesse is comprised. If the guardians are happy, they are happy despite the fact that they enjoy none of the pleasures available to a wealthy, powerful citizen; they are happy, Socrates will later show, because they are closer to the gods and further away from beasts than most other humans. When the happiness of the one who is really just, the philosopher-king, is addressed in the concluding, celebrated paragraphs of the ninth book (588–92), Socrates leaves no doubt that he is dealing with a harmonious structure and with the very contours of man which the tyrant debases toward the bestial and monstrous, and the noble man elevates toward the divine. The brothers who established the division of types of good are not aware of its consequences. Glaucon seems to be more alert to the matter; he could see the 'in-itself goodness’ of justice once justice was described though he could not spell out what he saw. Adeimantus, who, at the beginning of the fourth book, is still looking for happiness under the conventional terms, shows less understanding. The distinction between the two categories of happiness, though never fully explicit, is at work with changing degrees of explicitness according to the interlocutors involved, but it is never fully articulated on the surface of the text. Elsewhere, Plato is more straightforward. In the Critias, speaking about ancient Atlantis, Critias distinguishes between 'true happy life (ale¯thinon pros eudaimonian bion)’ and what is mistakenly considered happiness due to external beauty and to wealth (Crit. 121a–c). The inhabitants of Atlantis lost the first kind of happiness and seemed happy in the second sense when the 'gods’ part in them began to wax faint by constant crossing with much mortality and the human temper to predominate’ (ibid. 121a). The gap between a conventional conception of happiness and what may be called, in the context of the Critias, an authentic one, is carefully built in that passage. This latter type of happiness may be interpreted as an expression of the discursive constraints on the speech about man, hence the label 'discursive happiness’. The distinction between two kinds of good and happiness suggested above resolves, I believe, a difficulty regarding an alleged 66

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inconsistency between the brothers’ 'consequential’ and 'deontological’ arguments about justice, which have bothered some interpreters (Foster 1937; Annas 1981:60–71). Following the distinction, the 'consequential’ argument for justice is an argument for happinesse promised some time in the future to the one who practices justice. The 'deontological’ argument claims that a just person would enjoy happinessd as long as he is practicing justice. It is only natural that Adeimantus, who in the fourth book cannot yet detach himself from the colloquial concept of happiness (Rep. 419a ff.), would stress happiness, while Glaucon, who was the one to introduce the distinction between kinds of good would stress the more ambiguous happinessd associated with the in-itself goodness of justice. But this is only a matter of emphasis: Adeimantus, too, calls for proof that justice is good in both senses (367b–d). This is true for Socrates’ response as well. Happinessd would not be proven until the problematic demarcation of Greek man was reaffirmed, i.e. established on a new ground. For happiness e Socrates needs even more; he cannot guarantee it without the absurd calculation of the distance between the tyrant and the just man (587a–588b) as well as the immortality of the soul (608d–611b). Since, for Plato, the question of justice is but a metonym for the problem of man’s demarcation, there is no wonder that the last two issues appear in the dialogue as marginal, almost unfitting, in both content and form. The calculation of the distance is clearly a parody; the proof of the soul’s immortality is pervaded with irony ('for it is not hard’ (608d)). Both passages, so it seems, were meant to cater for the sentiments of an as yet unconvinced reader, while at the same time undermining his skeptical position. INVISIBLE JUSTICE Glaucon proposes a test case for justice. He contrasts two hypothetical situations, impossible for all practical purposes, in which the essence and appearance of justice and injustice are brought into full opposition and contradiction (see Figure 2.1). This structure of oppositions and contradictions would neutralize all conventional consequences ('leave wages and reputation to others to praise’ (367d)), and articulate the effects of justice in itself, or so the brothers hope. Hence they lay the ground for an in-itself argument for the goodness of justice. They portray a situation in which justice’s own power could be easily located and identified. The most significant fact about this situation, 67

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Figure 2.1 The square of justice

however, is not the elimination of conventional consequences but the way they are excluded. They are excluded by bracketing the other’s gaze and eliminating its effects upon the just and unjust archetype. Only justice and injustice that escape the notice of men and gods ('lanthanon theous te kai anthro¯pous’ (366e)) can be examined for their own proper power (dunamis). At the very end of this examination, after the 'proof’ for the immortality of the soul, the other’s gaze may be unbracketed and Socrates may be given back what Glaucon and Adeimantus 'borrowed’ earlier: 'the just man seeming to be unjust and the unjust man just’(612c). Even a Gyges’ ring, or any other device that makes one invisible, may be faced now: 'The soul must do just things whether it has Gyges’ ring or not, or, in addition to such a ring, Hades’ cup’ (612b; Iliad 5. 844). Yet invisibility is not a necessary condition for locating the intrinsic value and power of everything. In order to recognize the intrinsic value of health or sight, for example, the healthy person does not have to be invisible, or the spectator unseen. But justice’s case is different. Here the other’s gaze belongs to the core of the discursive field from which one is able to speak about justice, and it belongs here in three different respects: 1) the other’s gaze is made possible by a certain organization of civic space; 2) at the same time, the constant threat of another’s gaze makes an effective differentiation of civic space possible; 3) and, what is specifically Greek, the effects of this gaze are unique to man, gods being immune and beasts indifferent to it. An organized civic space determines when, where and in relation to whom the other’s gaze is appropriate and effective, and which form it assumes. Certain spatial references (within the house or outside it, within the temple, the agora, etc.) establish the gaze of others as an appropriate gesture or an unforgivable transgression, an effective deterrent or mere curiosity. These references determine whether the gaze is an act of surveillance or of spectacle, whether it aims to deter, 68

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punish or praise. At the same time only the gaze of others makes organized civic space into an effective coordinator of human interaction. The effective gaze of others is one of man’s contours, a crucial element in his demarcation. Between the immune gods and the indifferent animals, men are constantly being gazed at by others and gazing at others in ways which are not merely contingent results of their common life but conditions for its possibility. The invisible Gyges, as we saw, constitutes the extreme case of benefiting from a state of justice as he is able to transgress all spatial barriers without being noticed or harmed. At the same time he transgresses the limits of his human existence and becomes 'like a god’. To prove that an invisible just person is happier than Gyges means proving the advantage of justice in a city without an organized civic space. Not only conventional consequences are suspended when the gaze of others is bracketed; suspended with them is that which makes all conventions possible, i.e. an organized civic space. Cicero understood this suspension as a hypothetical thought experiment. But for Plato, we have seen, it was real, contemporary politics which threatened to do away with civic space and the system of constraints it imposed on the exercise of power. The logic of a reconstructive argument reflected then the logic of a deteriorating political domain: they both required a suspension of the actual organization of civic space. Bracketing the other’s gaze was not a picturesque illustration for the distinction between essence and appearance in moral affairs. The radical difference – in fact, an opposition – between essence and appearance in moral affairs was the result of a problematic discursive situation, of an inadequate discursive formation that could have no longer withstood the flux of social experience that it was supposed to order. Invisibility was not an elegant way to articulate the schism between essence and appearance but a way to produce it, to allow its emergence into discourse. To generalize at this point means to take the risk of another 'grand’ hypothesis. But the hypothesis, I believe, is tempting and worth considering. It is not that the 'true being/false appearance’ opposition was not known before. Since Parmenides at least, some versions of it must have been familiar to the discourse’s practitioners but did not shape their understanding of their social world. This understanding was governed by a different set of oppositions, between presence and absence, and by a differentiation of things and events (which only a later perspective armed with a new distinction called, derogatorily, 69

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appearances), according to their presence or absence, within or outside civic space. One hardly needs to be reminded of the central role aidos (shame) played in the Greek traditional moral code and social practice.22 In a system of values in which aidos plays such a central role, one’s character is determined only for others and only to the extent that one is exposed (or under the threat of being exposed) to their gaze; an 'inner’ character, invisible to others and not affected by their surveillance, is hardly conceivable. In order to make room for the inner essence/outside appearance distinction, a whole set of opposites had to be withdrawn, for a while at least, and then rearranged according to the totalizing power of the new distinction. But first invisibility had to be transplanted from a mythical into a political context. Originally a quality of gods, invisibility was a way – derived from a dominating discursive formation – of overcoming the reign of civic space; once put into practice it transformed the discourse within which it operated and created new conceptual and logical possibilities which, in their turn, exerted their own constraints upon discourse. Plato might have had philosophical motives for introducing the division between the real and its simulation, but it is not his intentions, philosophical or otherwise, which are at stake here, rather the structure and transformation of his discourse. My claim is that the presence ([par]ousia) of what is present was first split into 'present for others’ and 'present without letting its presence be seen’, and only consequently into 'appearance’ (phainomenon) and essence (ousia). 'The forgetfulness of Being’ or the reign of the 'hidden Signified’23 may be later effects of this transformation, but they could not be more 'primordial’ than the political-discursive crisis that made possible their emergence as discursive phenomena. The great metaphysical split was made possible due to the attempt to dissociate reason from its current civic space, which in its turn was a result of an inadequacy of certain Greek discursive patterns during an age of political instability and transition. The history of the great metaphysical divide is no doubt more complicated than that; the dissociation of reason from civic space was but one of many elements that took part in the creation and institutionalization of the division. But in the context of the Republic the situation is simpler and can be asserted with more confidence: the clear discursive options that Plato faced when writing the Republic were derived from the discursive formation 70

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within which his writing was situated. Suspending the gaze of others means bracketing the organization of civic space, and the role civic space plays in man’s demarcation. It opens two discernible, contrasting ways of solving the Republic’s initial dilemma: 1) a transformation of civic space; 2) a transformation of the demarcating formation. 1) Reason will be at peace with politics if: civic space is organized according to rational principles; reason is not given to the contingent effects of a certain conventional organization of space in the city; and civic space is a medium for the exercise of reason, not power. This is the way of political reform, which ultimately leads Plato to his political 'utopia’. In speech, a city is reconstructed from the beginning. In this city a space is reorganized and man is demarcated anew within a balanced structure. While certain lines in the old formation are transgressed (most notably, the demarcation of man from woman), the basic link between Greek man and his civic space remains intact. Or, better, the civic space proposed in the description of the Republic’s 'ideal city’ not only guards the city from a bestial tyrant and each citizen from the tyrant in his soul, but actually elevates certain segments of the population in the city to a position closer to the gods. 2) The demarcation of man may be balanced in a new, yet unpredictable way if the link between Greek man and his civic space is cut. If the city is currently inhabited by beasts, the genuinely just person, i.e. the well-demarcated man, may protect his contours in a different space, and may be differentiated from the non-human despite the city, neither through nor within it. Since one still speaks about the differentiation and demarcation of man, one still speaks about a space as a network of relations, distances, exclusions and associations. Yet this should be a space of a different sort, unrelated to the polis, indifferent to the concrete and semiotic aspects of its architecture. This space, I will argue below (ch.5), is the (metaphorical) space of philosophical discourse, the space in which arguments, not citizens, contend, in which wills to knowledge, not wills to power, motivate actions; and the Good itself, the source of intelligence and Being, rather than a capricious eros desiring what is only apparently good, is the true ruler.

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Plato explores within the realm of the same text these two contrasting solutions to his initial dilemma, a utopian reform and a route of political escapism. Reconstructing these two routes and examining them closely, I will articulate the text’s political effects in terms of the relation between the two qua discursive-political solutions to a discursive-political crisis.

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3 THE IDEAL CITY

A DETAILED NOWHERE SPACE The city, for Plato, comes into being because man 'is not self-sufficient but is in need of much’ (Rep. 369b). But the real cohesive power that draws men into regular patterns of interaction is not a primordial insufficiency, but an already sophisticated attempt to overcome a concrete one through an institutionalized division of labor. The division of labor and the professionalization of work (370a–c) are not necessary conditions for a bare human existence but for an efficient one. 'Both production and quality are improved in each case and become easier, if each man does one thing which is congenial to him’ (370c). Even in the most elementary form of cooperation the human is societal, always already demarcated from the subhuman. Practical reason is a precondition for common life, no less than the impossibility of immediately satisfying the needs that necessitate work. The first thing a division of labor involves is a regulation of time for the individual who tries 'not to miss the proper time (ergoukairon) to do something’ and 'does what is congenial to him . . . at the right time (en kair¯oi)’ (370b, c). This is a first step in a logical, not a historical, order. Socrates does not pretend to be a historian, even if the city of pigs which echoes myths of a lost golden age may have in its background some notion of the historical decline of man. Socrates proceeds from a simpler to a more complex state of human interaction with no regard for temporal sequence. In contrast to the mythical account of the establishment of ancient cities, which involves the gods but also places the act of foundation in time,1 the Socratic account limits time to an already existing human interaction. Time functions within the city, not in its demarcation from a non-civic world. The latter is the function of spatial differentiations. These appear in the 73

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next step of the city’s establishment. An area shared in common and over a long enough period of time (long enough to enable agriculture and the trading of its products) by a group of laborers is demarcated as an enclosed space. A system of division of labor differentiates between a space in which the activities it regulates take place and a space outside the scope of its control. The specialization of work establishes a steady, regular interdependence among workers (370d– e), which would not have been possible in an undefined, unlimited space. That space is soon articulated from the outside. A line is drawn around the area of the functional interaction among laborers due to the fact that even a sophisticated division of labor is not enough to provide all the needs of a community. There is no place (topon) that needs no imports (370e); import and export are functions of the activities in a specific, well-defined economic space; hence, the 'ins’ and 'outs’ of a common space are articulated through necessary commercial relations. Merchants are the first men to appear as crossing spaces (370e– 371b);2 their activities relate the city as an enclosed space to the indefinite space outside it, in which the sea is a main element (371a). Those activities on their part create the need for the two most fundamental economic institutions: market and money (371a); thus a system of exchange is framed, and it results in further elaboration of the routinization of time (371c) and of the division of labor in the city (371d). No further specification of the organization of the common space is mentioned at this point; even the market, so important for Greek civic life, has no specific place. The 'luxurious city’ does not differ in that respect from 'the city of pigs’. Although the city’s space grows in size (372c, 373b–d),3 it does not become more articulate in its inner organization. On the other hand, with its enlargement, and as a result of the acquisition of money that knows no limit, i.e. the presence of desire whose object is the equivalent of 'more’, the city enters a permanent state of war with its neighbors. This makes the outer lines of civic space more visible, but also more fragile. The result is an important development in the division of labor, the appearance of the professional warrior and a whole new class of citizens, the guardians (373c–374a). Maintaining the integrity of civic space as well as its proper size (423b) is an important task fulfilled by the guardians. The discussion of the guardians’ education postpones further specification of civic space to a much later stage. But the contours of that space become all the more important since they appear now as the material borders of a legitimate field of discursive practices. The 74

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city’s borders are borders of a purged discourse; the mimetic artist is politely sent to another city (398a), certain styles of writing and musical rhythms, even certain musical instruments (399c–d), are not allowed into the city. The city’s line marks a geographical area as well as a discursive field. The inner organization of both is left for later, separate discussions, whereby the external lines of exclusion serve equally the would-be city of justice and the would-be discourse of truth. After the impossible infusion of a myth told in the city with a myth told about it (see p. 95 ff.), the children of the earth, i.e. the welleducated guardians, come to dwell in the city. They choose the best place in the city, the most efficient for controlling its inner space and defending its borders from outside dangers, then they station their camp there (415d–e) and build their very modest houses. The guardians thus create the first spatial barrier in the city, which separates them from the rest of the population.4 The division of labor between the guardians and others constitutes the type of exchange between the two demarcated zones: goods are supplied by the workers to the guardians; defense is provided to, and control is enforced upon the workers by the guardians.5 Within their own zone, however, and on the basis of their communal life, there are no more spatial barriers. The only function of their houses and buildings is protection against the hazards of nature (415c), 'none of them should have a house or a storeroom which anyone who wishes is not permitted to enter’(416c G). This point is further specified when dealing with the new relationship between genders. In the guardians-zone of the ideal city all spatial barriers which control interactions between genders are eliminated. No woman 'should live privately with any man’ (457d G); there should be no space enclosed to women, dwelling and meals would be shared and 'men and women will mix together (homou de anamemeigmen¯on) both in the gymnasia and in the rest of their education’ (458c–d G); this effacement of barriers culminates in the palaestra, traditionally the most exclusively male of all designated places in the city, where clothes are now taken off by men and women alike (457a–b); the civic space the guardians share is totally open to mutual attraction according to 'erotic necessity’ (45 8d). Sexual interaction would be controlled, and it must be controlled for the purity of the genus, and the proper size and stability of the city (see pp. 82–4), not by spatial boundaries, but by a strict control over and routinization of time in the guardians’ zone (458d–461e, and p.85ff.). Only one more spatial boundary is mentioned throughout the whole description of the ideal city. After birth, the well-born 75

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children 'will be taken to a rearing pen in the care of nurses living apart in a certain section of the city’, while the ill-born are to be 'hidden in a secret and unknown place’ (460c G).6 There are two obvious purposes for that specific spatial enclosure; neither undermines the openness of the guardians’ zone but both rather complement and protect it. The first purpose is to maintain the purity of the guardian class. Even though all measures to ensure proper reproduction are taken (see p. 92), nature has its own way and one must prevent the ill-born from being introduced into the guardian society and raised among its members.7 The process of selection requires control over an enclosed space, yet for those who are under that control spatial segregation lasts for a limited period of time. The nursery is an attempt to confine and control the linkage of the polis to nature. At the nursery, the most sophisticated social artefact accepts its members from nature’s hand, and introduces them into its own system. At the twilight zone between nature and culture, an enclosed space is a necessity. Man’s animality, his part in nature, cannot be wholly overcome by reason’s project and, if not properly controlled, it might undermine the rational attempt to overcome the destructive power of time (cf. the Muses’ tale (545d) and below pp.89–94). The second purpose is to maintain the division of labor. Newborns, by nature, must be cared for intensively. This fact poses a threat to the basic principles of the division of labor. Without the nursery, a guardian-woman would have to divert her time and attention from guarding to nursing. Consequently, the privacy of both property and space might reappear. The nursery is an institution that protects the guardians from such a threat, 'making it very easy . . . for the wives of the guardians to have children’ (460d). Without the nursery, women’s equality, their share in civic space, would be jeopardized. It is possible to summarize at this point the few known facts and to indicate the main unknown features of space in the ideal city. Known facts. The ideal city is a separate spatial unit in which as many economic functions as possible find their place. It has a proper size above or below which it must not go. There is a strict control over those entering the city according to the requirements of a reformed discourse, a discourse that has been purged of mimesis in general and poets in particular. Within the city there is a separate zone, located in a strategic place and exclusive to guardians and rulers. Within the guardians’ zone there is a separate area for raising the newborn. Otherwise, space in the guardians’ 76

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Figure 3.1 A schematic plan of the ideal city

zone is wide open: no spatial barrier controls human interaction there. Unknown features. The natural geography and location of the city, its distance from the sea, etc.; how all the differentiations mentioned above are to be designated in the civic space (walls, gates, fences, etc.); the exact spatial references for the relation between the guardians’ zone and the rest of the city; the inner organization of civic space other than the guardians’ zone (size, location, allocation of land, rural vs. urban, sacred vs. profane, location of temples, etc.); and the separation between the rulers and the rest of the guardians. Figure 3.1 summarizes these facts. Lines represent imaginary, not material, marks of demarcation; the shape is arbitrary. THE UNIQUENESS OF THE IDEAL SPACE A sharp contrast strikes any reader who focuses attention upon the spatial language in the dialogue. The Republic is a text in which spatial language is quite abundant. From the opening scene on the way to the Piraeus (327a–c), through the similes of the cave and the 77

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divided line at the center of the dialogue, to the myth of Er that concludes it, the text is pervaded by spatial metaphors and allusions, and straightforward descriptions of different sites and places. The rarity of spatial specifications in the case of the ideal city therefore calls for reflection. One possible explanation for this rarity is precisely the ideal nature of the guardian city. This is the assumption of Leveque and Vidal-Naquet (1964). In this invaluable study of civic space in Ancient Greece they exclude the Republic and limit their analysis of Plato to the cities described in the Timaeus, Critias and Laws. Justifying this exclusion, they say that the Republic 'presents Plato’s utopia in its purest form, that is referring only theoretically to the material substratum of the polis’ (Leveque and Vidal-Naquet 1964:134). Indeed, the poverty of spatial description is no less striking when compared to the three other cities described in other Platonic dialogues: Atlantis, ancient Athens and the reformed city of the Laws. But could the 'purity’ of the 'theoretical’ description account for this omission' We have already recognized enough spatial details and enough non-theoretical, discursive constraints to suspect this 'theoretical purity’. There is enough material substance in the city, e.g. of sexuality or labor, trade and war, to allow for spatial differentiation to be included. Besides, the city’s most important, most peculiar features are related to its partition into two life-zones and to the way one of these zones, that of the guardians, is organized. The poverty of the spatial language may have another explanation. The few available details may be as significant for what they reveal about civic space as for what they leave unsaid, and the unsaid may be properly articulated when compared to the other Platonic cities. Legendary Atlantis is given the most vivid description (Crit. 114– 18).8 The description is colorful and detailed, it includes animals and plants, natural resources, topography and, of course, outer and inner spatial demarcations (Friedlander 1969: I, 310 ff.; Brumbraugh 1954:47 ff.). In fact, the unbelievable network of canals, bridges, tunnels and walls that surrounded the ancient metropolis (Crit. 115c–116b), and the one which connected it with the area under its control (ibid. 118c–e), seem to have no other intelligible purpose than to accentuate and exaggerate spatial differentiations between the 'insides’ and 'outsides’ of the city.9 The city itself also contained a rich network of spatial barriers between the sacred and the profane (ibid. 116c–d), between kings and other citizens, between men and 78

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women, and humans and animals, between the more and less faithful to the crown (ibid. 117a–d). All these boundaries not only marked and differentiated space, but were themselves marked and differentiated from within and outside by their color, material and size (ibid.). The significance of this yet more complex, variegated picture is hard to decipher, but I tend to accept the view expressed by Leveque and Vidal-Naquet, according to which legendary Atlantis was basically planned as a parody of classical Athens, with the extravagance and 'strange barbaric appearance’ of its temples (Crit. 116d), with the 'din and clatter of all sorts night and day’ in its 'largest’ harbor (ibid. 117e) (Leveque and Vidal-Naquet 1964: ch. 8; Vidal-Naquet 1986: ch. 13). The emphasis on spatial differentiations thus fits a tacit criticism of imperial Athens, a city 'full of harbors and docks and walls and revenues’ where 'no room for justice and temperance’ has been left, as Socrates notes in the Gorgias (518c). And it appropriately contrasts not only with the lack of spatial demarcations in the ideal city, but with a very similar city also described in the Critias. In ancient, legendary Athens, which existed nine thousand years before the story is told and lasted a thousand,10 and which was Atlantis’ deadly rival, 'the warrior class (makhimos) dwell by themselves around the temples of Athena and Hephaestus at the summit . . . enclosed with a single fence like the garden of a single house’ (Crit. 112b). The location of lost Athens, unlike that of the ideal city, is well known, hence its topography is carefully presented. Also described, though briefly, are the buildings and temples within the city. But only the spatial relation between the warriors and the rest is mentioned, and in no way does the organization of civic space correspond to any pattern of political interaction. Without any spatial demarcation in their own zone the warriors kept the middle way between excess and austerity generation after generation, with no change (ibid. 112b-c). If Atlantis is indeed a parody of Athens, lost Athens is a backward projection of the ideal city. When compared with the Republic, some crucial points are omitted; but we must keep in mind that the Critias may be only a fragment of a dialogue. There is nothing in the description of lost Athens to prevent it from becoming, in the course of the lost speech, a legendary model of an ideal city. The description of the city, which may not be detailed enough for architects or archeologists (Mumford 1961:177–9), is quite lively when compared with the Republic, but this does not really matter, for the details do 79

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not add much to our understanding of the political order in the city. Only one feature of civic space is crucial: there are two separate lifezones, one of which is wholly traversable by all its inhabitants. This means, I believe, that the lack of further spatial description in the Republic is similarly unimportant; everything which should have been said about the ideal civic space was said. Finally, we come to the 'second best city’, the city of the Laws. Its location is described more or less accurately (Laws 704b–705c), and is fixed in reality – a site of a desolate ancient city, later called Magnesia (ibid. 860e), with which Plato and his audience were probably familiar.11 The city should be demarcated from the outside world not by a fortified wall but, if necessary, by an area of houses built close together (ibid. 778e). Land should be allocated equally by drawing lots, taking into account both size and fertility, among the city’s 5,040 households (ibid. 737c–e); each should have a portion of land on the city’s frontier and the rest in its center (ibid. 746b). All these features, the city’s location, the inner organization of its space, its external contours, are fully explained in the text, and their historical significance can be spelt out. Excess and expansionism, intensive trade relations (both export and import), the corrupting influence of the sea, all are seen as sources of instability to be controlled, or if possible eliminated, in the reformed city. There is nothing very original about any of these proposals, no step prescribed here fails to presuppose the existing organization of civic space in Greek cities. The city’s plan echoes practices of allocating land in new colonies (Morrow 1960:103 ff.); it reflects and further develops much-repeated criticism of Athens’ imperialistic expansionism; and while opposing and diverging from the Cleisthenian reform of land distribution (Leveque and Vidal-Naquet 1964: ch. 8), the critique of the Laws still presupposes the Cleisthenian reform as its frame of reference. In other words, the spatial reform proposed in the Laws, however significant politically, is superficial from the point of view of both the discursive structure and the foundations of the political system from within which it was formulated. The overall system of spatial demarcations remains more or less intact. The sacred is demarcated from the profane (Laws 745b); the agora keeps its distinct position and status as a common secular place;12 harbor and city maintain their link and separation; land is allocated to households (ibid. 736–7; 739e–740a); rulers and warriors are spatially differentiated according to their hierarchy (ibid. 755d); and women and men have different spaces open to them and to different degrees (ibid. 780d–784a, 828c). 80

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Whereas Atlantis may be seen as a parody and Ancient Athens as a kind of utopia, the reform proposed in the Laws is a practical program to be applied in an actual case of colonization; it is part of a political agenda to be thrown into the political arena where it participates in the play of power according to the accepted rules of the game (Brann 1967:29–30; Guthrie 1978: V, 332 ff.). To challenge those rules, to overthrow the political system which they constitute, is a wholly different matter; and it was for the Republic, not the Laws, to try that. The radicalism of the change proposed in the Republic stands in opposition to the lack of intensity of spatial presence in the city’s plan. One should not understand that radicalism as a flight into the nowhere space of a utopia and should not infer from the Platonic utopia the reason for the pale presence of space in the description of the ideal city. Rather, it was the presence of space which was at stake, it was there that the problem of justice seemed to be anchored and from there that it was to be routed; it was only through a radical surgery of the city’s spatial organization that a genuine cure for injustice could be found. What is the nature of that surgery' It consists in a radical transformation of civic space. Plato divides the city into two life-zones; very little is said about one, the laborers’ zone, but the other, the guardians’ zone, is constituted as an open space in which barriers and boundaries are deliberately eliminated. That zone is completely traversable by any one who belongs to it, men and women alike. A completely open space means a completely common space. The communal nature of space is a necessary condition for the communal ownership of property, women and children. Plato draws this to its logical conclusion, the extreme of shared experience of pain and happiness (Rep. 464a). The openness of space in the guardians’ zone is not a result of a disintegrating system of power, nor is it peculiar to the power of an invisible Gyges. The possibility of a Gyges, but also of the system that makes Gyges an extreme case of transgression, is uprooted. In the guardians’ zone the visual field is wide open; no advantage is gained by being invisible, and no one needs or has the protection of spatial barriers; there is no reason to seek invisibility whether of a defender or an offender, since no transgression is related to space. The barriers that are liable to transgression, those that constitute the limits of legitimate action, are not delineated through the organization of civic space but through non-spatial factors that operate within it, i.e. the routinization of time (e.g. 461a, 539a–c; and see below p. 85 ff.) and the division of labor, as well as the control 81

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over discourse. In the ideal city space is not a medium for the exercise of power. The spatial reform does not aim to increase, by way of a new spatial organization, the level of equality (isonomia) or to decrease potential tensions among citizens (cf. Laws 735–7, 739–40), thus allowing for a more just political system to evolve. Its goal, as we already know, is much more radical: to provide a foundation for justice, to depict a city whose justice is a model for all possible cities and cannot be surpassed by any actual political system (cf. ibid. 739a). What is needed for that purpose is not the reduction and control of the sources of social instability and political transgression, but their total and permanent neutralization. New spatial organization is not the only condition for achieving that goal, but it is a necessary one, and it is presupposed by all the other methods for controlling instability in the ideal city. In order to clarify these claims let me first show how justice is related to instability and then how stability is guaranteed in the reformed, open civic space. 1) Justice and the sources of instability. In his answer to the question 'What is justice'’ Socrates offers a theoretical construction which may enable one to watch (theasaimetha) justice and injustice as they come into being (Rep. 369a). Starting from bare human needs, the elementary factors that constitute a city are brought together and the first image of a city appears (372a–b). Yet at that point Adeimantus disappointedly notes that it is impossible to observe justice and injustice there, at least not as something different from fundamental human insufficiency and interdependence (372a). Indeed, the first city has no room for justice as it contains no source of instability, its citizens 'enjoy each other, bearing no more children then their means allow, cautious to avoid poverty and war’ (372b G). The only thing known about civic space in that city is that it provides the citizens’ bare needs with minimal trade relations. Justice is superfluous since nothing seems to destabilize the perfect civic order, or, in the terms suggested above, no remedy is needed for a deharmonized demarcation of man since the discursive formation is still in harmony. Therefore, that city seems to Socrates the true and, apparently, healthy one (372e). But to Glaucon, its citizens seem more like pigs than human beings (372d–e). Indeed, what Socrates offers is not a solution but a dissolution of the problem of man’s demarcation. The men and women who inhabit the healthy city are not yet civilized, and not just because they are content when 82

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their bare needs are satisfied. The detailed description of their diet is evidence of their savage state. They eat no meat (372c, 373c) and cook only vegetables they find 'in the fields’ ('en agrois’; above, p.36) Socrates builds his first city for an undercivilized man while the problem of justice is a problem for an 'overcivilized’ man, a man whose civil life brings him to overstep his humanity. An undercivilized community may contain no source of instability; it is not here that Plato’s problem lies. The transition from undercivilized to civilized life brings with it a source of social instability, together with the possibility of delineating justice and injustice. Once we look at a luxurious city 'we might very well see how [these] . . . grow in the cities’ (372e G). What is introduced here is a human desire for more than is needed for human existence. Excess leads both to civilized life and to war (372b); the citizens of a luxurious city consciously expand its limits at their neighbors’ expense, knowing that war is an unavoidable consequence of this. Needless to say, Plato introduces here what seemed in his time to be an indispensable part of civic life. What lay beyond the sphere of an actual or a potential war lay behind the horizons of Greek civilization. For Plato, and he is not an exception, war creates the best type of citizen and prepares the ground for philosophical activity (537a, 537d). The issue comes up again when Plato tries to dissociate two types of war, within and outside the civilized part of the world (see above, p. 39). And all this is part of a description of an ideal city. The question of justice is not going to be solved by a simplistic denial of reality. Plato’s 'utopia’ is not proposed as a haven to flee to but as a political act within an existing political order. The full significance of this act cannot be grasped outside the context of the problematic discursive field that makes the 'utopia’ possible, in fact, 'invites’ it. 2) Stability in the ideal city. A just city presupposes both excess and war. Excess is a source of inner instability, of course, not only of expansionism and war. The reformed civic space must be able to take care of those two kinds of instability without recourse to an under-civilized life. In other words, excess should be neutralized, not abolished. The legitimate mode of excess should vary among the classes: consumption may be in excess outside the guardians’ zone (as long as it does not require more imports or colonization; the guardians consume less than the average citizen, so that the rest may benefit from their austerity); sexuality may be in excess –

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yet under strict control – inside the guardians’ zone; and the will to knowledge should be in excess among the rulers. It is against this background that we can now understand both the division of the city into two separate zones and the openness of the guardians’ space. Together, these two features of the ideal civic space create a revised 'healthy city’ within a common, luxurious city about which almost nothing is said. (This means, I believe, that no significant change in the organization of civic space outside the guardians’ zone is required; cf. Guthrie 1975: IV, 448.) In this way, stability is imposed within a state of excess. The healthy city is maintained without work; all necessities, and those alone, are provided from outside (416d–e). The guardians’ dwellings and diet are less than civilized (404b–c, 415e), yet the rest of their life is so cunningly and elaborately organized and controlled that one suspects a divine wisdom behind it. There are two domains into which all the guardians’ desire for 'more’ is channeled: sexuality and reputation.13 Both types of 'more’ are legitimately achieved by a guardian through excellence in war; the link between excess and war is still maintained, yet no one is deprived of his or her share when another gets more. Finally, excellence in war leads the best among them to die like daemons and divine men (469a). Within that zone where civic space is organized so as to disappear, the traditional lines of man’s demarcation are blurred. Men and women, sharing all guardians’ duties and rights alike, become alike in every respect except for strength: they live and eat like savages; they interact sexually out of erotic necessity secretly programmed by a supreme wisdom; and they fight in order to excel, and excel in order to satisfy their desire for 'more’, or else to die as daemons.14 But it is only with that strange type of human being who dwells in the revolutionized zone of the civic space that instability in the luxurious city could be cured, or rather that stability could be imposed. Both physical might and knowledge have been expropriated from the rest of the city and confined to the guardians’ zone. The legitimation of power is easily achieved and the distribution of power is hardly challenged. All that is needed for this is the temperance (sophrosyne¯) of the third class (432a–b), this temperance being 'nothing’ more than a minimal thoughtfulness and self-knowledge on their part. Thirdclass citizens need to know 'only’ their proper place and function in the city, i.e. the quality of their character as determined and announced by the authorities, the weakness of their power, the extent of their ignorance (ibid.). No particular spatial relations (except for 84

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exclusion from the guardians’ zone and its openness) are needed in order to maintain the just system of power. Violence is neutralized when strength and the knowledge of its appropriate use are confined to an enclosed, undefined civic space. There is no scarcity or excess in that space; excellence is related to the only legitimate kind of 'more’, reputation and sexuality. Without the impact of scarcity and excess, all constraints upon power become non-spatial, and at the same time a complete control over the whole civic space is achieved. Space and power remain indispensable elements of life in the polis, but the link between them is cut. The way is open for reason to control civic space and the forces within it. The spatial embodiment of reason does not lead to that unavoidable clash with reason’s 'other’ – desire or will to power – which reason experiences in the actual city. The contours of Greek man seem to be reaffirmed within and through a transformed polis; but this is a new type of human being, as Plato himself notes in the Laws (739b–740a)when the 'first best’ city is mentioned as a project 'beyond the birth, breeding, and education’ of present-day citizens. Plato’s remark refers, no doubt, to the transformation of the demarcating discursive formation in the best city: some of the less essential lines of the old demarcation are dropped (between man and woman regarding war activities, between the savage and the civilized regarding diet and dwelling), new lines are constructed (between the barbarian and the Greek regarding manners of conducting war) and one is permanently called into question (between humans and gods regarding those who excel in war and, later, in the sciences). OBJECTIFIED TEMPORALITY In the guardians’ zone of the ideal city, space is wide open but the conduct of everyday life is tightly controlled. The guardians’ life routine, the satisfaction of their needs, their social interaction, and above all their sexual behavior, are all strictly programmed and are under ongoing surveillance. The individual is integrated into a harmonious community affecting even the minute details of his or her life. Such surveillance and integration are achieved without making any use of the organization and control of the common space of the community. Time takes the place of space as a medium for the exercise of power. Power and desire are tamed by reason in and through rationalized civic time. In fact, it is possible to rewrite almost any social and political arrangement in the ideal city as an attempt to 85

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rationalize civic time, thus making intelligible some of the city’s more bizarre features. This is the point of the present section. In general, social institutions of all kinds, ancient, 'primitive’ and modern, are based on some sort of spatial organization and temporal routinization.15 An act may be said to be social when there are certain places in which, and certain times when, it is appropriate, required, allowed, forbidden or, in general, sanctioned by others. Policing public time and space is an essential part of the functioning of institutions, from the family to the court, from school to prison, from the marketplace to the army. A competent member of society knows, reflectively or otherwise, how to differentiate wrong from right, beneficial from harmful, and dangerous from secure movements within a spatiotemporal framework of social action according to spatio-temporal coordinates of an imaginary social map. All this is true for the modern as well as for the ancient social agent. Such a social wisdom should also be assumed for members of a utopian society, ancient as well as modern,16 even, or perhaps especially, when the utopian society encompasses, pervades and dominates all areas of life and does away with the realm of the private. In the guardians’ zone of the Republic’s ideal city, the life of the individual is not merely centrally controlled; activity and creativity are confined to a few domains and much of social and cultural life is simply excluded. In the guardians’ zone economic activities are prohibited, aesthetic interests and all leisure activities are strictly subjected to the educational system, the family is abolished, raising children is the profession of a few, legislation is confined to the religious sphere, and politics is reduced to the proper administration of a perfectly ordered city and is restricted to the educational elite. Most human energy is directed toward three domains of activity: war, sex and reproduction, and education. The restriction of social life to a few, well-confined spheres and the control over the daily routine of individuals within the legitimate spheres of activity, require a huge investment of power and its extreme centralization. My question is rather a 'technical’ one: if, as my previous analysis shows, space in the guardians’ zone is transparent, equally traversable to all its inhabitants, and almost entirely beyond the range of power manipulation, how is such a centralized control over the individual achieved and how is it sustained over time' How is power distributed and dispersed in the community, if it cannot be embodied in spatial differentiations and transmitted through the relays that the organization of civic space provides' What are the mechanisms 86

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guaranteeing a successful organization of power which will turn individuals into efficient functions of the political system' The answer lies with the rationalization of civic time. In order to rationalize social life in the reformed civic space, Plato diffused its inner spatial organization yet strictly organized the flow of time. All the power that was diffused when the civic space was disorganized is now being reinvested in the control of civic time. Power, one should remember, is confined to the guardians’ zone. As such, the exercise of power is part of the general division of labor; like the division of excess and consumption, it is supported by the general spatial organization of the ideal city. But the power concentrated in the guardians’ zone is somehow organized there without the material or the conceptual support of the spatial differentiation, and it needs an alternative medium of expression. This medium is provided by a 'rationalized’ temporality. In the guardians’ zone, time is a function of the order of power. Human temporality has lost all its 'existential’ characteristics; it is but a form of power. Human temporality in the ideal city is deprived of its individualized, ecstatic dimension,17 and is experienced by individuals as no more than their place in the social matrix. At the very beginning of the founding of the city, when it is still 'a city of pigs’, time is mentioned as an aspect, in fact as a justification, of the elementary division of labor. It is easier for one person to devote all his time to one type of activity in which he excels, and to share its products on a reciprocal basis with others who excel in other fields (369e–370b). Specialization is not a matter of special excellence or talent only, but of right timing as well (370b). Like the first differentiation of civic space (between the inner and the outer, see p.74), the first temporal differentiation in the city is a matter of collective efficiency, not just individual insufficiency. Needs are provided far more efficiently when taken care of collectively according to each person’s talent, but also within a demarcated unified space and a routinized time in which leisure is systematically differentiated from work. The organization of civic time is at the basis of the economic activity of the city. The division of labor and, more specifically, the demarcation of the agora as a special sphere of economic interaction presuppose certain temporal differentiations and coordination. If the farmer or any other craftsman brings what he has produced to the market, and he does not arrive at the same time (ton 87

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auton khronon) as those who need what he has to exchange, will he sit in the market idle, his craft unattended (arg¯esei t¯es hautou d¯emiorgias)' – Not at all . . . there are men who see this situation and set themselves to the service . . . – This need, then, produced tradesmen (kap¯el¯on) in our city. (371b–d) One can hear in the background a widespread criticism of the agora as a place of idleness and waste of time, a vanity fair.18 Against this background the above passage appears as a latent critique of the current state of affairs in the city, its critical point being exactly the need for a temporal coordination of activities. Temporal coordination is emphasized as a necessary condition for a rational system of exchange, based upon the rational-natural division of labor. Division of labor and exchange underlie the city’s organization beyond the economic spheres, as security is exchanged for goods and political wisdom for labor; hence, appropriate temporalization will be presupposed throughout. The rationale behind the division of labor is carried over from the economic to the political realm and then, by analogy, to the psychological realm. The temporal differentiations that the division of labor presupposes are carried over as well, and pervade the whole discussion of justice in the Republic. In the luxurious, 'inflamed’ city, the one that should finally embody justice, the right division of labor is a political, not a strictly economic, matter. It is not something given naturally or self-evidently; it is acquired through learning from experience and through reasoning. Also, the right division of labor is not spontaneously maintained. It has to be controlled in order to guard against, and correct, possible deviations. Hence, the need for two social functions that are not part of the economic sphere, educating the laborers and policing their activities. Thus, the division of labor is more than a socio-political principle; rather, it encompasses the entire domain of public affairs. But that the division of labor can be sustained only in the light of the whole practical sphere (cf. Gadamer 1980:84 ff.) is the result of Plato’s argument, not its grounding rationale. Plato introduces the non-productive practices into the scheme of his division of labor as a response to a need emerging from economic pressure. The enlargement of the city creates conflicts with neighboring cities; professional soldiers are needed, who should be able to distinguish the frightening and the dangerous from the notso-frightening and not-so-dangerous. Such a capacity is more than a 88

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techn¯e; hence, an appropriate education, which is more than the acquisition of a skill, is required. The military class thus appears as a sort of mediation between the economic sphere, on the one hand, and the educative and political spheres, on the other hand; it is indispensable for both, for the fundamental principle of the 'inflamed’ city is excess. In the 'city of pigs’, the right division of labor is a 'second nature’ that requires no special knowledge to be performed, or power to be enforced. Not much is done in this city, nothing is produced or consumed over what is needed. Only the basic necessities are in circulation. One knows what one is most qualified to do instinctively, in the same way that one knows instinctively when one has had enough of what one consumes. This undercivilized community becomes a 'real’ city once its inhabitants produce and consume more than they naturally need. The low-level equilibrium of production and consumption is disturbed and this leads to violence against the labor of others (Guthrie 1975: IV, 448–9). The warriors create the need for a 'civilized’ division of labor as much as, and even before, they are available to enforce it. Sophrosun¯e and the balance of power within the city presuppose violence and constant war outside it. The division of labor entails a division of consumption, from honey to women, and of expression, from poetry to force. And the temporal differentiations that the division of labor presupposes ground these other divisions as well. The questions what and how much to consume, and what and in which medium to express oneself are linked to the 'when’ and 'where’ of consumption and expression, as much as they are linked to the 'when’ and 'where’ of work and political activity. We saw above how important the external border of the city, as well as its inner differentiations into two life-zones, is for the overall balance of power in the city, which we may now translate into control over work, consumption and expression. But we also know that in the guardians’ zone, spatial differentiations provide no support for the division of labor, consumption or expression; hence the crucial importance of the rationalization of temporality. The ideal nature of the city does not consist in the elimination of violence, greed or excessive appetites, but in their proper channeling and distribution among the various classes through the manipulation of civic time. The necessity and form of control over time have their roots in the city’s earliest stage of 'development’, i.e. in the elementary form of human cooperation. If each one is indeed naturally adept at doing one thing better than any other, it would be more efficient for the 89

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group as a whole – all other things being equal – for one to devote all one’s time to doing just that thing. A sophisticated system of exchange would then translate the product of one’s work into the satisfaction of all one’s needs; such a system, in which the timing of the work and leisure of the whole community would be coordinated, would not divert one’s energy from one’s professional activity. The elaboration of the division of labor and its transference to the social system as a whole articulate more explicitly, but do not modify, the necessity for temporal coordination. This is especially true for education in which correct timing relates to learning, not to labor, and which is spread over the span of one’s whole life, not just one day. A fully rational division of labor means that each person is systematically brought up, not simply left, 'to do one’s own’. Whether the deed is some kind of techne¯, intellectual work, or warfare, 'doing one’s own’ is a final stage in a long process, programmed and planned from its very beginning, which starts even before one’s birth, at the time of one’s conception. The division of labor, the distribution of knowledge and the nurturing of virtues are all entangled together in a socio-political system that creates and controls the diachronic and synchronic temporal coordinations and renders time an instrument in the order of power. This can be properly achieved, however, only when the flow (durée) of time is blurred or neutralized, the ecstatic experience of time is repressed, and only the punctiform dimension of human temporality, i.e. hours in a day, days in a year, age, and other 'temporal distances’, is socially effective. Before entering the exclusive time zone of the guardians, the reader meets several regulations of time that apply to the whole city and are enforced by the guardians. Their general purpose is to create unchangeable social practices, to guarantee stability ad infinitum, to found a city that never suffers decadence but lives in an everlasting golden age. The regime, once well started, will roll on like a circle in its growth’ (424a B). Change is eliminated in various ways. First, economic factors that always pose a threat to stability in the city are removed as excessive wealth and poverty are brought under control (421–3). Second, no innovation is allowed in the educational system, no new poetic style or melody (423–3), or even children’s game (424a–425a). Finally, there is the confinement of legislation to the religious sphere (435–7). Laws seem to be obsolete precisely because they presuppose historical changes and aim at compensating for them via the constant presence of the unchanging written word. At an even deeper level, laws admit change by the very fact that they are open to 90

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interpretation and are useless without it. The practice of judgment according to the law is a practice of interpretation, always an attempt to overcome a temporal distance between the original legislator and the present agent of the law’s application (Gadamer 1975: II, 2). However, interpretation is too dangerous, too open to temporal changes and individual variations, involving too much of the uncertain and the unknown. In the ideal city, knowledge, complete and unchangeable, is presupposed. It is transmitted and distributed by the educational system, to each according to his or her merit, to each according to what is 'his or her own’, his place and role in the city. Reducing the prospect of instability by locating and removing its sources is only one step toward complete socialization and synchronization of temporality in the city. After suspending the presence of the city in history, historicity is eliminated from the guardians’ zone and confined to the rest of the city. This is the effect of the abolition of the family and the new pattern of sexual life introduced into the guardians’ zone. Three aspects of temporality are related to the new modes of sexual activity and gender relations in the guardians’ zone: 1) Cyclic time. Reproduction is a crucial link between nature and culture, its institutionalization is a form of political control over a natural process. In nature, reproduction is part of a life-cycle; from 'nature’s point of view’ time flows in cycles, from being born to giving birth, and the only progress possible is in the quality of the species. In the ideal city, a proper system of reproduction would bring about a cycle of good education and upbringing, with the conception and birth of well-disposed citizens (424a–b). In that cycle, the only progress (or change) is toward an even better genus of people. The most artificial mode of human interaction is designed to be in complete accord with the cyclical temporality of nature (cf. Menexenus 238a), the temporality of day and night, winter and summer, birth and barrenness (cf. the city of pigs (Rep. 327a–b), the Muses’ tale (546a–b)). In order to achieve that, an elaborate manipulation of the guardians’ sexual preferences and behavior is required. An age limit demarcates allowed intercourses from forbidden ones (460e–461a), in addition to a limited system of taboos (siblings not included (461c–e)). At a certain date during the year, festivals are arranged for matching couples and celebrating their marriages, which can mean here nothing but more sexual intercourse, since except for those necessary moments of pleasure 'friends [should] have everything in common’. Finally there are 'subtle lots’ to guarantee 91

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secretly the matching of the best and to award free sex to those who have excelled in war or otherwise (460b). All these procedures presuppose a bit of knowledge, a kind of expertise in the cycles of nature and in eugenics. This kind of practical knowledge, 'calculation aided by sensation (logismo¯i met’ aisthe¯seo¯s teuxontai)’ (546b), as the Muses say, is concerned not with the order of being, but with becoming, and is not given in any stage of the guardians’ education. More than anything, it is knowledge regarding the right timing of sexual activity, reproduction in particular. This knowledge, it is worth noting, is hardly explicable, let alone justifiable in rational terms; Plato needs a Muses’ tale in order to present it (see below, p. 95). At the height of its achievement reason remains opaque and must be protected by myth. 2) Age. Even an ahistorical society must recognize the temporality of growing and age. From a social point of view, the children are the locus of natural growth, their upbringing and education differing from the cycles of natural time even if contained within it. Education presupposes an anticipation of the future, it requires attention to psychological and physiological changes, it recollects and transmits a common cultural heritage, recreates a common past. In other words, education presupposes, confronts and shapes man’s relatedness to his temporality. In Plato’s ideal city, however, a great deal of the educational system works to conceal human temporality and efface the dialectical relation between future, past and present. An educational process programmed in detail anticipates everything and prestructures any possible movement in the child’s development. From his birth to the prime of life, a citizen advances within an organized social matrix. Age becomes a social status, a quality that determines a person’s place and role in the political system. In fact, age is but a device for manipulation and control: of interaction in sexual life, of development in education, and of authority in politics. Every stage in the educational process is specified according to age and duration (536–40), and the accompanying civic responsibilities. To be of a certain age means to be studying a certain subject, fulfilling a certain role or having certain sexual rights. With the abolition of the family, age becomes the significant means for social differentiation among the guardians; it is an attribute of groups (461d–c), a code for coordinating social behavior, a permit to exercise power, anything but an aspect of the individual’s own temporality. 3) The family. The abolition of the family relates each child to an age-group, which replaces the family as mediator between the 92

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individual and the city at large. The age-group is a social artefact that functions in education, sexuality and politics, and there alone; it does not take the place of the family as the locus of temporal dialectic in human life, but rather helps to conceal that dialectic. The family is the social unit where elements of the common past are preserved, partially reenacted, and transmitted within a constant anticipation of the future. Civic time could not have been compartmentalized into age-groups had the weight of the common past and an openness toward the future lain within close social units outside the reign of centralized temporality. The abolition of the family completes the synchronization of time into a social matrix, as the individual’s historicity becomes membership of an age-group with a common, false past, and a programmed, predicted future. Raised by the collective from the moment of birth, a child’s recollections merge into a collective fabricated memory. The individual’s memory in the ideal city is mastered from the outside; deprived of any sense of historical change or continuity, it is constantly nourished by a common fictitious source, the myth of the origin (414–15). Everything individuals are and have, including their most intimate memories and pains (463a), comes from the city. Without any line to demarcate the private from the public, individuality has no place. The only way people can assert and distinguish themselves is through excellent performance of a public duty, most often in war, most impressively by being ready to die or actually dying for the city (460b, 468b–469b). But even when facing death or actually dying, guardian citizens do not break through the civic temporality that embraces them to reconstitute their own historicity. Brave guardians who manage to survive a war become part of a communal ritual of reproduction (468c). Those who die assert themselves as belonging to a certain class, the golden class. Their graves are incorporated into the city’s worship (468e–469a). The 'totalitarian’ face of the ideal city is inseparable from its new mode of temporality.19 All the exercise of power avoided due to an open civic space is reinvested in the reorganization of civic time. The order of power in the ideal city is based upon control over time, not over space; power is distributed along temporal differentiations, not spatial demarcations, and the arbitrariness of traditionally demarcated space is replaced by the reason behind the compartmentalization of time. Power in the ideal city is anchored 93

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in reason via its opaque manifestation as an organization of time. When time as durée, flow, becoming, time as the source of the unpredictable, the particular, the irrational, is overcome, instrumental reason aided by myth can assume full control over civic space. Thus understood, civic temporality in the ideal city is the source of its totalitarian aspect. The radical attempt to reorganize civic space meant an open civic space and a rationalized, structured temporality. Without an open civic space, the attempt could not have been radical enough; without a rationalized temporality, power could not have been redistributed in the city in accordance with reason. And it is the same constraint, reformed temporality, that makes the city appear totalitarian as well as ideal; it is totalitarian since individuals have been deprived of their historicity; it is ideal since the city’s presence in history has been suspended. A VANITY FAIR In the ideal city, temporality is a device of measurement and organization, a social label, a form of political domination. Growth and decay are rendered cyclical and characterize individuals, not the city as a whole; change is controlled and routinized, its effects are anticipated and counterbalanced. The past is a story of the link between social and cosmic order. Having a past means having direct relations with nature. A perfect civilization tells lies in order to bridge its rupture from nature. The future contains the threat of losing the perfect stability, and forces people to be constantly on their guard, trying to prevent an always anticipated decadence. It is this threat, not death, that constitutes the 'futurity’ of time in the ideal city. Individuals are brought up to live with death, others’ as well as their own, as a natural and not so significant phenomenon, nothing to fear, nothing to direct particular attention to. But 'there is an oracle that the city will be destroyed when an iron or a bronze man is its guardian’ (415b). Each activity in the city projects this possibility as a negative pole to be averted by all means. Collective death, not private death, constitutes the horizon of temporality for each citizen and for the city as a whole. For the city is doomed to die: even the ideal city belongs to the order of Becoming, 'for everything that has come into being there is decay, not even a composition such as this will remain for all time’ (546a). Change in the ideal city has only been suspended, not actually removed, the ecstatic temporality of everyday life has been expropriated by temporal, finite beings who may err, forget or fail to 94

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listen to the perfect tune of cyclic time. For the ideal city, death means a return to history. Its cause is a mistake in the right timing of procreation (546b) that brings about what the oracle predicted, a mixture of the metallic races (546e–547a). History is first suspended in the ideal city by controlling discourse, censoring the poets, those agents of collective memory, and substituting their legendary genealogies with a new myth of origin. Whatever is suggested later, whether regarding education, sexuality or political order in the city, presupposes this first suspension: historical consciousness should be erased before historical change can be controlled and counterbalanced, and historicity concealed. The suspension of history comes to its end, so the Muses say, when that strange wisdom – 'calculation aided with sensation’, whose object is the ahistoric temporality of nature – is lost. It is important to note that history is bracketed by means of two unusual stories. Neither story is Socrates’ (one is referred to as a Phoenician thing, the other as the Muses’ high tragic talk); Socrates clearly distances himself from both (414e–d, 545e); and both invoke the expelled poets and their suspicious manipulation of collective memory ('as the poets assert and have caused others to believe’ (414c); 'to pray to the Muses, the goddesses of memory’ (545e)). Plato uses 'divine memory’ as explicitly deceitful in the first case, and as a matter of play and jesting in the second, in order to bracket human memory, to suspend historical consciousness, and then to invoke these again and to show their disastrous consequences. The irony is too obvious to be overlooked; it borders upon absurdity. The Phoenician story really cannot be transmitted unless a whole generation of parents cooperate in the conspiracy, which means that that generation has already been well educated, i.e. history has already been suspended for its members. Only those already living in an ideal city can establish it. This does not prevent Socrates from adding casually, 'let us leave the matter to later tradition (he¯ phe¯me¯ agage¯i)’ (415d G; Grube is not accurate but he gives the essential point). The 'Muses’ tale’ consists of that fantastic calculation of the geometric number of the order of procreation. Glaucon, who could not follow less complicated passages, asserts confidently that 'the Muses’ answer is right’ and is rejoined by Socrates: 'necessarily – for they are Muses’ (547a). Even more significant than the irony is the strange transition, in both cases, from the language of the myth to argumentative language, from a mythic 'spatio-temporal frame’ to the space-time of discourse. Both stories, so well demarcated and distanced from what precedes 95

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them, gradually slide into, and are absorbed within, the arguments preceding them. The myth of origin is something told about the education of the guardians in the ideal city. But once told by Socrates, it is rendered as a story about the establishment of the city: 'And when we have armed these earth born men, let’s bring them force-led by the rulers . . . let them look for the finest place in the city . . . when they have made the camp . . . let them make sleeping places’ (415d– c). Socrates takes those 'earth born men’ straight from the myth, from the bottom of earth, into the best strategic position in the city where the guardians’ zone is now to be established, i.e. described in detail. The explicit role of the myth is to blur the line between the natural and the political. The bonds among citizens and between them and the city are presented as 'facts of nature’ rather than as a matter of power relations, of social cohesion achieved either through consent or by coercion. The noble lie deliberately merges the mythical space 'inside and under the earth (hupo g¯es entos)’ (414d) with the space of the ideal city within whose borders the myth is told. A Phoenician myth ('Phonikikon ti . . . h¯ os phasin hoi poi¯etai’ (414c)) is framed within a tale (en muth¯ oi, of the guardians’ education (376d)) framed within an argument (log¯ oi, about the coming into being of justice and injustice (369a)). But the way one is encapsulated within the other is clearly marked only at the outset of each; at the closing edge one merges into the other. The myth closes (for the time being) the tale of the guardians’ education and turns into a description of their civic space. It soon becomes an argument about justice and injustice (427c). The general picture of the ideal city appears only after the line between mythos and logos has been blurred. Something similar happens with the Muses’ tale. The ideal city disappears when argument and myth are blurred again. Hearing the Muses’ version of the nuptial number, Glaucon asks: 'What do the Muses say next'’ (547b). Socrates answers with the transition from aristocracy to democracy, without invoking the Muses yet without distancing himself from them. The argument grows out of the fairytale: one can hardly tell when 'play and jesting’ end and the 'serious’ political study begins.20 The two myths thus envelop the discussion of time in the city, suspending it as a serious truth claim. They indicate that the city is not merely ideal but actually impossible, and that it is impossible not because it has no place but because it has no time to exist 'in’. The same discursive field that allows, perhaps invites, Plato to explore the transformation of civic space also undermines it from the very beginning. The problematic role civic space plays in the 96

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discursive political crisis Plato faces draws attention to time as a possible medium for a rational exercise of power. It is not the Platonist aversion to Becoming that calls upon Plato to consider the issue of civic temporality. If denial of Becoming had been the point of departure, civic temporality would never have been dealt with in the first place. We saw that temporal regulations in the ideal city had to be extracted from the text. They are never addressed for what they are, but for something else, sexuality, education or the return to the cave. It seems that Plato is forced, rather than deliberately chooses, to consider different temporal coordinations for the organization of the city. That time is the medium for the exercise of power means that it should somehow be frozen, objectified and controlled. In order to use objectified temporality as a measure of control and exercise of power one should already be suspended from history. Only those already under the control of an objectified temporality may suspend their being in history. The spatial organization of the just city is impractical, but there is nothing logically impossible about its coming into being. The coming into being of the new mode of temporality, on the other hand, is absurd. We are reminded of Aristophanes’ comedies, in which only one illogical step separates the fantastic from the real (see above, p. 30). The problem is not the organization of civic time itself, but the transition from historical to ahistorical temporality. Such a transition means overcoming human historicity and suspending man’s embodiment in history. For Plato, this embodiment did not mean much more than tradition and collective memory, but even that was enough to make the leap impossible. In order for poetry to be forgotten, the poets have to be expelled; but only a society that has already forgotten poetry will be willing to expel its poets. Circularity is present everywhere. The philosopher-king is to be educated in a city ruled by philosopher-kings, but how is the first philosopher to become a king' The only thing Plato can offer is a miracle. Like the miraculous event that carried Er between earthly and heavenly spaces, only a miracle may elevate a historical city into ahistoric time. Open space is the basis for justice, friendship and social cohesiveness in the ideal city; manipulated time is the basis for discipline and stability. The organization of space in the city makes it desirable, though only for the already converted; the organization of time in the city makes the ideal impossible for the already converted and the not yet convinced alike. The attempt to reorganize civic space in a way that would allow the coexistence of the rational and the political within the city walls, 97

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and thus balance the demarcating formation, is a complete failure. It is a failure not because it depicts an ideal, but because the ideal it depicts cannot be approached at all. Unlike an idea in which something may take lesser or greater part, no human community may ever take part in that ideal city; unlike an idea which it is possible to strive after, to imitate more and more accurately, that ideal cannot be imitated at all. There is a rupture between any real city and the ideal one, which is never to be bridged. A city may have a more or less sophisticated division of labor, more or less power invested in spatial demarcations, even greater sharing of power and property among its different social groups, but no city can ever have more of that temporality required by the ideal city. In order to have some of it, it must already have it all. The redemarcation of Greek man that still maintains the link between rationality and the civic space ends in vanity, and Plato is perhaps aware of that. Or, rather, does he not create it as a vanity from the very beginning, in order to leave but one option open: a new type of man with a new type of rationality that does away with civic space, with politics, and with the will to power'21 THE IDEAL CITY AND THE REDEMARCATION OF MAN In a sense, the ideal city has solved the Republic’s initial dilemma. At the price of a certain transformation of the demarcating formation (regarding gender differences and a rather undercivilized diet (404b– c), the initial position of Greek man between beasts and gods is secured, with some affinity to the gods (540c; 469a). But the absurdity of the transition from the historical present into the cyclic, ahistoric time of the utopia means a dissolution of the problem, not a solution, for the initial crisis was not only discursive but political as well. That much is understood by Socrates’ interlocutors in the dialogue. When the description of the city has been completed and a new type of citizen has emerged, a pressing question is imposed upon Socrates: is this fantasy realizable, and how' Glaucon and Adeimantus, at least, are not interested in an unrealizable idea; they need a model to strive after. But how is that to be achieved if the would-be imitators look not at their perfect counterparts but at a totally new type of man' How could a living Glaucon or Adeimantus, let alone a Thrasymachus, even a tamed one, men of the old type, imitate a guardian and later a philosopher, examples of the 'new man' The more we understand the appropriateness of the question, the more unexpected Socrates’ response becomes. The realization of the ideal will be shown to be 98

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logically possible, Socrates argues, but this is irrelevant for the validity of the model (472–3). This means that one does not have to consider the possibility too seriously, but also that the real question has not been answered yet. The ideal is still invalid as an ideal for the dialogue’s participants. What is needed in order to make it valid is not to bring it 'down to earth’ but to 'lift up’ those who are about to pursue it; what is required is a transformation of the participants, or some of them, to fit the new demarcation of man and to recognize themselves in the ideal. In other words, the reformed discursive formation cannot be institutionalized unless it is already in use, for some practitioners of discourse at least. As already shown (p. 97), this paradoxical pattern pervades the whole discussion of the ideal city. Here lies the core of the difference between the ideal city of the Republic and the 'second-best city’ of the Laws. For the participants of the latter dialogue, who presumably have not read the Republic (Strauss 1975:75),22 the second-best regime is their actual model for founding their new city. Such a model is the best they could grasp in speech and more than they could achieve in deed. A further compromise, 'the third-best regime’, will be presented later as the model the legislators are actually going to adopt (Laws 739e). The model of the best city is briefly mentioned (with significant omissions) by the Athenian stranger, more, so it seems, for the sake of Plato’s knowledgeable readers than for the dialogue’s interlocutors. That impression is backed by a remark about the unusual character of what the Athenian is going to present, an unexpected diversion from the 'sacred line’ (ibid. 739a). For the ordinary listener, there is nothing unusual about a reform in the allocation of land or a limitation in the number of citizens in the city; such proposals were all too familiar to the Athenian public. Those suggestions may sound unusual only to an audience already familiar with the best regime, the Platonic ideal city. The ordinary listener, such as Clinias and Megillus of the Laws, simply cannot take the true ideal as an ideal for him.23 This is, more or less, the situation of Socrates’ companions in the Republic when the question of the model’s actualization arises, except that here the participants have already been distanced in the course of the dialogue from their actual political realm (which is constantly present in the Laws, e.g. 702b–d), and their discourse, if not their life, has already been guided by reason alone. Plato’s pretensions here are enormous. He is not going to compromise on the third best, as Clinias does in the Laws, and let his readers compromise on the fourth, for a real deed always falls short of words regarding the truth (473a). The Republic 99

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strives for a transformation of its dramatic figures, and through them, I believe, its readers, until they become able to recognize the ideal as their own. The groundwork for that transformation has long been prepared by Plato. Socrates’ companions, those who are still speaking at any rate, watch the newly formed city from an infinite distance. They cannot imagine themselves as belonging to its civic space, but they have also lost their footing in their own real civic space (which is represented by the dramatic space of the dialogue; see below, p. 104 ff). Thus wandering between the not yet possible and the already lost, and the reader with them, they are ready to be absorbed into a space of a wholly different sort, the metaphorical space of discourse. The story of the guardian 'ideal’ city is a peculiar textual act. Is it a radical political platform or a surrealist parody on the politics of reforms' Where exactly should the reader place this absurd narration, in which all propositions are perfectly logical' Is it a playful game or a serious argument, a kind of speech which constitutes a political act or a philosophical reflection on its very possibility' In order to understand the political significance of the guardian city one must understand where its referent lies, whether it is placed in the political realm or in the sphere of fantastic fictions, and whether its utterances refer to reality or to its fictive representation. But this is precisely what one cannot do with the story of that city, for it is a story, mythos, in the symbolic sense of the concept of myth discussed above (pp. 41–3). The myth of the ideal city blurs the very distinctions which it articulates, violates the classificatory system which underlies it, and ingeniously problematizes its own status as a textual as well as a political act. The ideal city is a myth not because the act of its foundation is improbable or unbelievable but because the act of its narration blurs the distinction between speech and deed, theory and practice. For in a strict sense, the textual act is both a form of philosophical speech and a kind of political action; yet between philosophical speech and political action there is supposed to be an absolute distinction. This distinction, which lies in the background of this dialogue, is explicitly discussed by Plato in the Gorgias, in the context of the exchange between Callicles and Socrates. Callicles wants to confine philosophy to an early, infantile stage in the educational process and to distance it from serious political matters. He invokes Euripides’ (lost) play Zeutos, in which the distinction between practical life and 'music life’ was first introduced. Socrates would never challenge the distinction itself; he only tries to invert its values, as he would try to invert the values of a series of opposites to which the distinction between 100

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philosophical speech and political action belongs, e.g. seriousness and playfulness, manhood and childhood, public affairs and private pleasure (cf. Gorg. 482c–486d, and below pp. 114–18). In the Republic, Socrates mentions the distinction in the context of the discussion about the possible realization of the ideal: 'it is the nature of action to attain to less truth than speaking (praxin lexeo¯s he¯ton ale¯theias ephapstesthai)’ (473a). From the point of view of truth, proper action and true speech belong to separate domains, no entity can belong to both at once, for nothing can attain the truth more or less than itself. But the textual act that depicts the ideal city is such an entity: it is both a true speech and a proper action. Socrates presents the idea of the philosopher-king as a means for the realization of the ideal city, and as a response to the brothers’ demand to prove the possibility of the ideal. He qualifies his suggestion, however, by stressing the fact that action attains less truth than speaking. The action to which Socrates refers in this context is not the practical process needed for the realization of the ideal, but the completion of the story until the practical details necessary for that realization are made clear and found logically possible. In the realm of speech itself, the question whether a model is realizable or not bears no consequences (472d); the description of the ideal city remains a pure act as long as the question of its realization is suspended. What renders Socrates’ speech into an action is the practical interest of the interlocutors. From their point of view, the guardian city is, in the last analysis, a political platform that must be realizable in principle. To present the ideal city as realizable means to throw it into the political arena, and hence to make a political act. But according to the famous exchange between Socrates and Glaucon in the concluding passage of the ninth book, the guardian city was nothing but a kind of speech. It is explicitly distinguished from the actual city of the philosopher, and is placed 'in speeches’ ('en logois’) or, at most, 'in heaven’, as 'a pattern . . . (paradeigma) laid up for the man who wants to see and found a city within himself (592a– b). The intention and pretension to move from speech to action were gradually inhibited along with the sublimation of the last traces of a will to power (see below, pp. 128–31). The ideal city, which was initiated by the attempt to 'watch a city coming into being in speech’ (369a), remains in the realm of speech. The ambiguity is structural and fertile. It allows for two opposite lines of interpretation. The one understands the ideal city as a political act. It takes Plato’s proposals quite literally and argues for and against 101

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them, as if they were really on someone’s political agenda. This is the line which goes from Aristotle’s criticism of the unrealistic elements in the guardian city (Politics I, 1261a ff.) to Popper’s attack on its totalitarian character (Popper 1966: I, chs 6–9). The other line of interpretation understands the ideal city metaphorically, as a preparation or an illustration for the Platonic discussion of politics and education, or ironically, as a façade of the real, 'deeper’, antipolitical meaning of the text. The metaphorization of the textual act renders many of its details unimportant, or even redundant, something which has to be explained away. This is the line which goes from Plotinus, who consistently tried to metaphorize the Platonic text, to Levinson, Guthrie and other modern defenders of Plato, who try to protect him from his liberal critics (Levinson 1953; Guthrie 1975: IV, 483–6). The ironic reading, mainly of Strauss and his disciples (Strauss 1964; Bloom 1968, 1977), takes details very seriously (Bloom 1968: xviii), but only in order to get rid of their literal meaning and reveal their inner message, which has little to do with the way the ideal city is actually portrayed. In both its metaphorical and ironic forms, this line of interpretation tries to rescue Plato by sending him back from politics to philosophy, from the realm of action to the realm of speculative speech. But the ideal city is a myth that blurs distinctions. Its role is not that of a political platform; nor is it that of a metaphorical illustration of a philosophical message or a secret way to signal it through an ironic subversion of political reform, though the symbolic structure of the textual act makes clear how it could have been understood in both these opposite ways. The role of that peculiar textual act is to draw readers’ attention to the very distinction it blurs and to the classificatory system it tacitly problematizes. The myth of Gyges problematizes the demarcation of Greek man and the way he belongs to civic space by depicting a man who resembles a god and is immune to the power of humans embodied in the organization of civic space. In the same way, the guardian city calls readers’ attention to the demarcation of the political and the separation of the philosophical by creating a textual act which is both true speech and proper action, an expression of a search for truth and of a will to power. The initial dilemma regarding the relation between reason and civic space is now displaced from a political to a reflexive domain, and can be articulated as a dilemma regarding the relation between speech and action, philosophy and politics. More precisely, the question now becomes

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that of the politics of philosophical discourse and the philosophy of political action. Within the scope of a single, all-too-ambitious text, which the Republic is, the politics of philosophical discourse is first and foremost a politics of writing. The myth of the ideal city is an intermediate construction, not only between two possible routes in the world to which the text refers, but primarily between two other spatial constructions in the text itself: of the dramatic setting and of the philosophical discourse. The ideal city implies at once a critique of actual politics and a testimony of the failure to transform it within the realm of the political.24 To the extent that the dramatic setting of the conversation purports to be a mimesis of an actual political strife (see above, pp. 48–50), and philosophical discourse pretends to be a viable alternative to it (see ch. 5), the myth of the ideal city has a crucial role in the transition from the former to the latter. The narrative that constructs that myth and later dissolves it participates in the elevation of the dialogue’s listeners (and later readers) from politics into discourse, but for this very reason remains a political act. In the next chapter I will examine the spatial aspect of the dramatic mimesis and the effects of its diminishing presence and show how these amplify the 'elevating’ role of the myth. In the last chapter I will reconstruct the alternative opened by the space of discourse and examine its political significance.

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4 FROM DRAMA TO DISCOURSE

THE DRAMATIC SETTING OF THE FIRST BOOK The dramatic scene of the first book of the Republic, which has been a subject of considerable discussion and interpretation,1 is of special importance to us in one respect: the careful description of the drama’s spatial setting. Of this description, only a few details have attracted interpreters’ attention, most notably the opening sentence of the work: 'I went down yesterday to Piraeus’ ('Katab¯en chtes e¯ is Peiraia’). Strauss (1964:64 ff.) and Bloom (1968:310), among others, emphasize the fact that Plato’s central political work takes place in the stronghold of Athenian democracy, and in a place so problematic for Athens’ inner stability and international relations. The encounter between Socrates and Polemarchus that initiates the conversation takes place on the way back from the Piraeus to Athens, and it almost ends in a violent clash. Strauss and Bloom interpret that encounter as a struggle between force and persuasion, setting the stage for the whole dialogue.2 Polemarchus may only be jesting when he challenges Socrates: 'Either prove stronger (kreitous) than these men or stay here’ (327c). What is known about Polemarchus’ good relationship with Socrates (Pauly Realencyclopädie 1970: XL, 1256) may indicate that Plato did not have a real clash in mind. Strauss (1964:62–92) and Bloom (1968:310–12) may overinterpret the opening scene when they see in it a dramatic 'imitation’ of a conflict between power – of the many who claim to be stronger and unwilling to listen – and reason behind the persuasive argument Socrates offers (Siemsen 1986:4–5). But they are right to see that a certain conflict is at stake here, whether directly portrayed or ironically alluded to by the interlocutors. The dialogue’s participants imitate in their jestings, if these are jestings indeed, a real clash between reason and power. The dramatic situation contains an 104

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imitation of a real clash by the participants within an imitation of jesting, by the act of writing. The tension between reason and power is present at the beginning of the dialogue. Yet, even if the distance between the two levels of imitation is not wholly explicit, reason’s encounter with power is well 'enveloped’ through the way the dramatic situation is built. This envelopment is soon to be disrupted when Thrasymachus bursts into the discussion. At that point the drama becomes a more explicit imitation of a struggle between representatives of the claims of reason and power. Plato is not a historian or a tragedian, and he never goes further than this in his attempt to bring real strife into the foreground. But the first book of the Republic, a dialogue 'on the Just’, as later tradition has it, is one of the rare places in Plato where tensions among interlocutors almost burst into violence.3 This version of Straussian hermeneutics, even when amended in the way suggested above, is limited. Looking for the 'meaning’ of this or that detail of the spatial description in particular or of the dramatic scene in general, it takes those details merely as signifiers that are supposed to send the reader to a hidden meaning contained in the dramatic layer of the text. In its general outline, this hermeneutic approach – which characterizes a whole tradition that goes back to Kierkegaard and Schleiermacher – has taken Plato’s drama seriously yet never asked how the dramatic narrative constructs a unified dramatic frame.4 And while it is attentively tuned to the interplay between action and argument (cf. Gadamer 1980: ch. 1), this hermeneutic approach neglects the relation between the dramatic layer and other layers of the text, i.e. the mythical and utopic. More specifically, our interest in the dramatic space and in the relation between this and other spatial frames present in the dialogue necessitates a different hermeneutic emphasis. Here, as in the case of the ideal city, it is necessary to reconstruct the general spatial arrangement of the dramatic scene and only then look for its significance. In a sense, the dramatic space is present throughout the dialogue, a consequence of the interpretative decision to read the work as a dramatic fiction. Therefore, when Socrates tells the myth of Er we presume that he and his listeners are still sitting in Cephalus’ house, perhaps in the same place since no change of place is indicated, ten or twelve hours after they began their conversation.5 But we must bear in mind that the dialogue, though a drama, is not a play to be enacted but a literary work to be read and listened to. If the dramatic setting is to have any impact upon readers and listeners, it 105

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should be recalled at some point during the dialogue, particularly since it takes about ten hours to read it aloud. Indeed, most dialogues close at least with some remarks that call to mind their dramatic setting.6 The relevance of the dramatic setting to the text may be measured in terms of 'the intensity of dramatic presence’. The dramatic presence is dimmest when only personal pronouns are mentioned repeatedly;7 it is most intense when whole scenes like Alcibiades’ entrance to Agathon’s house in the Symposium are vividly described. The less intense the drama, the more abstract the conversation (with the usual exception of the Laws where the conversation is 'down to earth’ without being more dramatic). The more intense the drama, the less things are argued and the more they are 'shown’. One of the things that Plato often shows without even a trace of argument is a change in the direction of the conversation, or of the method or point of view employed.8 This is usually achieved by a change of the main speaker or interlocutor, and most vividly by a detailed description of a dramatic event. In general, the more intense the presence of the drama, the more conspicuous become the contours of the dramatic space. The opening scene of the Republic is an example of an intense dramatic presence in which the dramatic space is closely described. Socrates and Glaucon are on their way from Piraeus to Athens when Polemarchus observes them 'from afar as they were pressing homeward’. He orders his slave to 'run after’ the two and to order them to 'wait’ (i.e. to remain in the same place). Catching Socrates 'from behind’, the boy does what he is ordered. Socrates, 'turning around’, asks the boy 'where’ his master is. 'He is coming up behind you’, is the answer, 'just wait’ (327b). Socrates and Glaucon are waiting. Following the meeting between the two groups there is a short argument about which way Socrates should go (327c). The speakers’ gestures imply now, if not seriously portray, a hostile quarrel; the quarrel is accompanied by, and cannot be imagined without, a constant change of spatial positions between the speakers. When a compromise is reached they all turn to Cephalus’ house. The spatial relations between all those present are accurately given: Old Cephalus 'is seated on a sort of a cushioned stool’, having just performed a sacrifice 'in the courtyard’. The rest 'sit down beside him, for some stools were arranged in a circle there’ (328c). Plato’s equivalent of our 'round table’ prepares a space for a free conversation. Only Cephalus’ raised seat interferes with the arrangement and, indeed, the old man is soon to depart. When 106

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Cephalus leaves his chair and goes to take care of his sacrifices (331d), Polemarchus takes his father’s role in the conversation, yet without his special authority; he is just one among those sitting there in a circle. When Polemarchus speaks it is necessary to restrain Thrasymachus from taking over the argument ('antilambanestai tou logou’) and this is done by 'the men sitting near him who want to hear the argument out’ (336b). It may be inferred that restraining Thrasymachus 'by those near him’ means keeping him in place by force. After a while Thrasymachus violently breaks into the discussion. Fortunately, Socrates is not rendered speechless by Thrasymachus’ sudden attack, but 'only’ because he looked at him first, saw before he was seen (336d).9 The companions are sitting in a circle and number about fifteen;10 Socrates is most probably not one of those who restrain Thrasymachus; hence, we may gather, the two are sitting face to face actually wrestling with each other. Twice Thrasymachus is forced by his companions to stay in his place, first so as not to interrupt the discussion (336b), and then so as not to leave the scene without having heard Socrates’ response to 'a shower of speech’ which he 'poured like a bathman’ (344d). The man who represents the violent point of view acts violently; he is threatening the rules of the speech situation while constantly disturbing its spatial embodiment. He can be subject to the rules of rational discourse only if controlled by a force greater than his. His physical appearance is the only one described in some detail,11 with ridicule and a slight touch of disgust (336b; 350c–d). He is not pleasant to look at or to listen to, yet his personality dominates the whole first book. Wrestling with him Socrates is working not toward a definition of justice but toward the possibility of a serious discourse about justice. After both Cephalus and Polemarchus have left, it becomes clear that no authority outside the scope of discourse can give discourse its direction. Neither a traditional, religious worldview (Cephalus mentions the pious Sophocles, Pindar and an old proverb (329a, d, 331a)), nor more specific poetic advice (of Simonides (331e)), nor influential wealth (336a) can be considered legitimate sources of knowledge; none of these can provide a rational legitimation of beliefs. Discourse itself, and it alone, should serve both as a source of knowledge and as a critique of beliefs. It is exactly when this becomes clear that Thrasymachus bursts in and offers, or tries to impose, a new definition of justice, but also, and more importantly, new rules for the discussion. First Thrasymachus challenges Socrates’ way of inquiry. He tries to force Socrates to answer, not only to ask (cf. Pr. 333e– 107

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338e; Gor. 473e–474c), and demands an answer more specific than a general definition of justice like 'what is advantageous’. It is not long before he himself violates the rules he has just set for Socrates. He lets Socrates escape into the role of an inquisitor, and he himself provides a definition of justice very similar to the one he forbids, i.e. 'the advantage of the stronger’ (Rep. 338c). Thrasymachus does not know ways of persuasion other than emphatic speech, which he 'pours’ on his listeners like a bathman (334d). His speech is only one step away from a violent act: 'What more shall I do for you' Shall I take the argument and give your soul a forced feeding'’ (345b). Rules exist, in Thrasymachus’ eyes, for the sake of the one who is strong enough to impose them; this is true for a political system as well as for a 'speech situation’. The rules Thrasymachus tries to impose upon the dialogue’s interlocutors are made to fit the Sophist who takes discourse merely as a stage on which to nurture his reputation (338a) and gain money (337b, 338b). When the argument is turned against him he is ready to forget the rules he himself set (338c) or agreed to (343a).12 The Sophist tries to be the tyrant of discourse. The rules he tries to set are for others, not for himself; others should abide by them for his own advantage. Not only does he violate the agreed rules of discussion, he also tries to violate the spatial boundaries of the speech situation; no wonder that he resembles a beast (336b, 341a). The abuse of power and transgression of spatial boundaries and the demarcation of man are both implied at the dialogue’s outset. The philosophical discussion begins when a common space is shared equally by all. Cephalus, who may have represented a religious authority and stayed outside that space (328c), has left the scene. Yet the common space is constantly endangered by those who are not interested in that which is at stake, i.e. the question which 'lies in the middle’, and in determining whether the answers given to it are true or false, but in gaining some profit from the discursive activity itself. The autonomy of 'serious discourse’ – i.e. of a discourse motivated by a will to truth, an activity whose explicit intention is the production and critical examination of truth claims – will be established only when the force of those participating in discourse in order to pursue ends other than truth is overcome. It does not mean that the arguments of the tyrant-Sophist are not considered; this is the only point which Socrates concedes to Thrasymachus; he accepts his demand to consider an argument no matter who has uttered it and in which mood (349a; and cf. Phdr. 275b–c). Socrates agrees with the Sophist 108

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that for the sake of a serious argument the pragmatics of discourse (e.g. who speaks, when, where, why, in whose name, etc.) should be excluded, and only truth and falsehood should be at stake. On the other hand, the rule accepted by Socrates does mean that the Sophist’s arguments would be refuted according to a method which is not his. It is the method of inquiry suggested by Socrates and gradually agreed upon by all. It must be accepted if serious discourse is to be genuinely autonomous. No belief may rely on external sources of knowledge, no answer should be immune to further questioning. Only persuasion through argumentation, not an external source of influence, may justify an answer. If such were the rules of the game the space would still remain open to all; the victory of truth is not guaranteed, but deception and lies are doomed to fail. No power can impose these rules, since the only power which remains in the game is the power to refute, to let the false appear as such. Reason, of which we know at this point nothing but its capacity to refute, rules over sheer force and gains legitimate power, i.e. it is agreed that force may be used to impose the agreed rules upon the transgressor. The 'ideal speech situation’13 – for this is what Socrates seems to be striving to establish, and Thrasymachus to undermine, in the first book – is based upon an existing formation of forces capable of imposing the rules of discourse upon other forces foreign to its autonomy. Reason takes part in a power struggle, it drives some forces against others in order to maintain its sovereignty. A new consensus has emerged among those who are now willing to listen and who demand from everyone a full account of what has been invested in the discussion. This is a consensus regarding the rules of the game, it is what makes serious, 'rational’ debate possible. But this consensus has its necessary counterpart in coercion, for there will always be somebody who resists the rules, hopes to avoid them or tries to overturn them, and that someone has to be controlled. The ideal speech situation is, therefore, not a situation without alien interest and external pressure but a state in which they are temporarily neutralized. It means a permanent investment of power in maintaining the 'ideal’ speech situation and guarding reason from its 'other’. Reason is not just a disguised will to power; even that disguise, that attempt to bracket itself from its 'other’ (which, if reason is a will to power, is not really an 'other’), means that reason has already been intermingled in a power struggle.14 The dramatic scene in the first book tells us all this with no explicit argument, but rather in the movements of the disputants and the maneuvers of their arguments, in the tone of their words, and in the acrobatics of their 109

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persuasion, in short in everything that belongs to their speech except for that which this speech is all about (i.e. justice). A will to power, or any other desire, will appear as 'reason’s other’ only when that dramatic scene is forgotten, when the subject-matter overshadows, for the careless reader at least, the 'who’, 'to whom’, 'when’ and 'how’ of the argument, when the dramatic space seemingly disappears. Indeed, something strange has happened since Socrates met Polemarchus. Persuasion, originally an impossible way to proceed – as some refused to listen (Rep. 327c) – has been rendered the only acceptable way. But what made those unwilling to listen change their minds, yield their force to Socrates and direct it against the tyrannical Sophist among them' The force of reason is wholly invisible, hence there is no answer to this question as there will be no real answer to a similar later question, of how to make a true philosopher into a king or a king into a philosopher (see above p. 97). Perhaps it is a divine chance, perhaps it is the overwhelming charm of Socrates, which is also something divine.15 Whatever the reason, there comes a moment when Socrates takes over the discussion and Thrasymachus yields, not to Socrates’ definition of justice ('what you are saying now does not satisfy me and I have something to say about it’ (350d)), but to Socrates’ method of inquiry and to the rules of his discourse ('if you want to keep on questioning, go ahead and question’ (350e)). The transformation may be unexplained but its result is clear: from the moment it happens, the dramatic space seems to disappear. The intense presence of the dramatic space is directly related to the struggle between reason and sheer force for power to control the discourse. When reason wins and the violent speaker withdraws, the dramatic space is withdrawn with him. The spatial frame will not be mentioned again until the dialogue’s close, except for a short interfering incident in the beginning of the fifth book (see below p. 119). It is up to the reader to infer the existence of the dramatic frame, i.e. to situate the ongoing conversation within it or to forget all about it. Most readers, I assume, tend to pay less and less attention to the dramatic situation. They are absorbed by the arguments, follow Socrates’ speech and forget about his movements. They fall, I believe, into the trap of serious discourse. A NETWORK OF SUSPENSIONS The blurring of dramatic space is but one of several textual practices out of which the trap is made. Plato also uses a technique well known to professional story-tellers, or to any reader of The Arabian Nights, 110

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i.e. suspension. In general, readers, listeners or spectators of works of art, in literature, music or theatre, are invited to step outside the flow of their time and join, more or less passively, a flow of time that is not theirs and that exists only within the frame of the artistic work. Once this takes place other suspensions may come along. The suspending moment differentiates temporal frames without really breaking the continuity of time, for there is one 'real’ flow of time that pervades all of them. Unlike spatial frames, temporal frames coexist and exactly coincide; spectators experience the flow of fictional time on the stage simultaneously with, though perhaps at a different pace from, the flow of their own 'real’ time. Suspension in a literary work does not remove a temporal frame but shifts attention away from it, and it may be suspended in its turn. Suspension may be multiplied in a cumulative or non-cumulative way. In the latter case, the distance between the actual spatio-temporal frame and the original one remains constant (e.g. in Rashumon); in the former, that distance, which is also a distance between a reader or spectator and the fictional figures, grows steadily. This is the case of the Republic. The first frame one meets within the text is the dramatic frame. I have described in detail its spatial dimension and its diminishing presence. Where the presence of the dramatic space is intense, i.e. in the first part of the first book, especially in the prologue to the discussion, the presence of dramatic time is no less intense. A sequence of events is reported with frequent references to timing: I went down yesterday to the Piraeus . . . the festival is held for the first time . . . Polemarchus asks Socrates to wait and a moment later Polemarchus came . . . at sunset there will be a torch race, later there will be an all night festival. . . . We will get [there] after dinner and go to see it. (327a–328a; italics added) Socrates’ conversation with Cephalus and his son that follows, and later the duel with Thrasymachus, are still part of the drama, being events in the same chain that the dramatic time carries forward, so to speak. When, for example, Thrasymachus’ argument is in trouble, he himself is in trouble and this is told with some reference to the time of the event: 'Now, Thrasymachus did not agree . . . so easily as I tell it now, and he produced a wonderful quantity of sweat, for it was summer.16 And then I saw what I had not seen before’ (350d; italics added). 111

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However, the first book, like the first act of a play, was but a prelude (357a). When Glaucon and Adeimantus resume the discussion one is less engaged in a chain of events and more in a chain of arguments. The arguments do not go back and forth as before but, after restating the problem of justice (357a–368a), they follow each other with a subdued tension, as any reader of the Republic knows. A suspension within the dramatic frame gradually takes place when a new method of inquiry is chosen and it is resolutely agreed 'to walk it’ to its very end (369b). The interlocutors have shifted their attention from the ongoing festivities as well as from the rest of their business, and embarked on the discursive journey that will last several hours at the very least. Whatever they had in mind before, and certainly their desire to see 'those things worth seeing’ at the night festival, is put aside. But also abandoned, even if gradually, are the zeal and vigor with which arguments were exchanged a while ago. They are all following Socrates now, their resistance diminishing . Displaced from the event for which they have gathered, suspending the hectic night with its promised excitements, they are immersing themselves in a flow of discourse that knows no nights and days, having a very different promise in mind. One should remember that the religious festival is itself a suspension of daily life, that the sacred is always a suspension of the profane, and that a 'sight worth seeing’ is a suspension of a careless vision that does not watch, or of an interested gaze that always looks for a particular something or another. Hence, for the guests in Cephalus’ house the suspending moment has already multiplied itself. They have twice been carried away from their daily routine, and in this sense they are on a par with the reader, who was first carried into the drama, and then into discourse. This parity between the implied reader17 and Socrates’ interlocutors is to be maintained throughout the dialogue; but it never includes Socrates. He was a somewhat alienated spectator at the festival, going to the Piraeus out of a certain curiosity that soon gave way to other interests. Although he is the one whose way is interrupted, he is never really distracted from his daily routine. Suspension for him means those moments without an argument about this thing or another, as Aristodemus describes in the Symposium: 'As we went along Socrates fell into a fit of abstraction and began to lag behind . . . it’s quite a habit of his, you know; off he goes and there he stands, no matter where it is’ (Symp. 174d–175d).18 What constitutes suspension for others, his interlocutors as well as 112

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Plato’s readers, is for Socrates nothing but a transition from one form or subject of discussion into another. For Socrates discourse is life and all the rest are interludes; he creates, however, the discursive interludes for his companions. Soon after the discursive frame is constituted within the dramatic one, the suspension of the latter is once again emphasized. When the discussion reaches the question of the guardians’ education, the way seems long and time-consuming but it is resolved not to give up (Rep. 376d). The participants will discuss the matter 'like men telling tales in a tale and at their leisure (ho¯sper en mytho¯i mythologountes te kai schole¯n)’ (376d). A tale is interwoven with a tale and time is again expropriated. As though they were not all 'at their leisure’ before, they are now taking the conversation at an even more tranquil pace, being aware for the first time of the kind of activity in which they are now engaged. The tale of the guardians’ education comes to its tentative conclusion with the 'noble lie’. I showed above (p. 95 ff.) how the tale coalesces with the myth, and the myth with the argument about the ideal city. This series of suspensions is not cut when the drama resumes for a short while, when a short exchange between Polemarchus and Adeimantus interrupts the discussion and brings forth the question of women in the city (449a–450c). The drama now appears to suspend the flow of the argument, instead of being suspended for the argument’s sake. Yet it soon turns out that the drama appears only to be further suspended. After the direction of the argument is changed by the disturbing event, it becomes clear that the suspending moment should be even longer than had been expected. In fact, the temporal span of discourse should be expanded to include one’s whole life: ''For intelligent men, Socrates,” said Glaucon, 'the proper measure of listening to such arguments is a whole life. Never mind about us. And as for you, do not weary in going through your opinion”’ (450b). The conversation that started as a temporary interruption to the joyful activities of a festival, itself an interruption of daily life, takes on the form of a search that may last a whole lifetime; or at least this is what the participants declare they are ready for. Even Thrasymachus, who a while ago vehemently shouted his intention to leave the scene but was actually forced to stay, is now ready for a lifelong search. It is now Socrates who seems reluctant to continue and Thrasymachus urges him to go on, using again an argument already exchanged between the two, but inverting its direction (336e, 450b). 113

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THE INVERSION OF THE PRACTICAL It takes only a few more steps in the description of the ideal city before Socrates’ companions, who have just expressed their willingness to spend their life 'listening to those things’, lose their patience. Socrates, so it seems to them, is not going to address the question they are most eager to settle, i.e. the possibility of the realization of the ideal. They will not let him evade so easily what seems to be the most pressing question now; and they (or is it only Glaucon') will not allow more waste of time. 'Speak and do not waste time (m¯e diatribe)’ (472b), Glaucon presses a reluctant Socrates. So the discourse is, after all, a suspension of practical matters, for Socrates’ interlocutors at least. Without a full break into the dramatic surface they express the call of praxis upon discourse. A not-yet-inhibited will to power challenges truth and challenges it to prove its practicality. Socrates’ response is an archetype of sublimation. He is attuned to the urgency, no doubt (471c–d), yet reverses the direction of the drive. Instead of following his companions back from the ideal to reality, he invites them to distance discourse further from praxis, to widen the gap between words and deeds. The interlocutors, who originally asked for a proof that justice 'pays’ better than injustice, were invited to follow Socrates into an ideal city; they were drawn into a long conversation, suspending their ongoing activities, bracketing the flow of their daily lives, in order to watch the fully controlled activities in the absurd atemporality of the ideal city. Since they have come from a real city and intend to return there, they demand a demonstration that what they have been watching was not just a phantom, that the 'sight’ created in discourse is more relevant to their lives than the torch race which they missed watching for the sake of the conversation. Socrates’ response is to take them even further away, from the region of absurd temporality into a realm where the flow of time and, consequently, practice and its demands are constantly negated and transcended. Though contemplation, even of time in its entirety (486a), takes place in time, it is supposed to make one forget about one’s pressing business whatever it may be, for now one has ceased to care about that which makes a matter, any matter, pressing, i.e. man’s finitude (ibid.). The object of the contemplative activity is the stable and the pure, that which is immune to the destructive influence of time (cf. Nussbaum 1986: ch. 5). But although the passage of time cannot 114

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affect the realm of contemplation, it holds the prospect of miraculous and demonstrably possible change, the emergence of a philosopherking. The realization of the ideal city is expected to happen some time in an indefinite future, but not by any particular time. Those who have ceased to care about human finitude, however, should not see this as a problem. The horizon of their expectation is time as a whole ('panti t¯oi chron¯oi’ (502b)), 'the endless time that has gone by (t¯oi apeir¯oi t¯oi parel¯eluthoti chron¯oi)’, and the time whose present encompasses the totality of known human space ('even . . . some barbaric place somewhere far outside our range of vision’), and that will go on forever (499b–d). The same time-span that applies to the realization of the ideal applies to discourse and to the contemplative activity itself. The argument about the science of dialectics, that which makes one a genuine philosopher and enables one to be a king, is to be repeated time and again, indefinitely. The discursive frame that only emphatically, so it seemed, was said to expand over one’s whole life (450b) is temporally boundless, eternal, as the arguments and tale about the immortality of the soul will later show even more explicitly. This temporal frame, whatever the meaning of its boundlessness may be, certainly transcends the dramatic frame of which it is a suspension. 'It is not only now that these things must be heard,’ Glaucon says, grasping the tremendous difficulties and marvelous prospects of dialectics; 'they must be returned to many times in the future’ (532d). The 'upward inversion’ of the soul aims to be an ultimate suspension of the drama, and of the real life that drama imitates. Ironically, and most significantly, it is there, in the context of his response to the demands of praxis and in the midst of a suspension within a suspension, that Plato develops his most elaborate, most severe criticism of political reality. This reality is the one suspended by the festival and then again by the philosophical conversation, but it is also the one shared by Plato and his original audience. It will now be torn apart from two different perspectives in two parallel passages that hold symmetrical positions regarding the central, metaphysical discussion (505a–519a; on the symmetrical structure of the dialogue, see ch. 5). The first passage is a response to an argument against the idea of the philosopher-king; the argument is raised by Adeimantus and argued from the nature of current political reality. We may reformulate Socrates’ response as answers to two complementary questions: 1) Why are philosophers currently useless' (487b–489c). 2) Why do ignorant people currently rule' (489c–496a). On the basis of his answers to these two questions Socrates goes on to prove that the 115

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philosopher-king is not logically impossible, and that the ideal may be materialized after all, given the limitless spatio-temporal scope available for its realization (496a–502c). The parallel passage (512d– 533a) consists in a reorganization of the educational process of the guardians, which suggests, in fact, a new paradigm for the sciences, from arithmetic to dialectics. To see that these passages are indeed parallel is to see that the critique of the current state of affairs made in both passages proceeds from a clear idea of what a genuine practical knowledge should consist of, and that the practical and impractical are opposed and then inverted in two different contexts, the political and the scientific. Let us look at this in some detail. Those who take philosophy seriously, who do not drop it too soon but 'linger in it for a longer time. . . become quite queer, not to say vicious . . . they become useless (akhre¯stous) to the cities’ (487d). Adeimantus admits that he could not 'break into’ Socrates’ argument, which is already enclosed within a system of rules imposed by a game of speech that pushes him and his likes into a losing corner (see below, p. 153), but he can still argue from the facts, from what one may 'see in deed (ergo¯i dehoran)’ (487c). Socrates readily agrees. We already know (see above, p. 49) that there is no disagreement about the facts. But the current state of affairs needs an explanation and Socrates shows, through the image of the ship (487e–489a), 'the cause of the uselessness (akhre¯stias) of the decent ones’ (489d). His answer leaves open the possibility that one day the true usefulness of the seemingly useless will be recognized and they will be called to guide the troubled ship-city. In the parallel passage that deals with arithmetic and geometry (521d–528a), the useful and the useless are inverted in a similar way. With the exception of warfare (for which, everybody knows, those sciences are useful, yet even 'a small portion’ would suffice (526d)), the most abstract in the sciences is rendered the most useful, while the seemingly concrete and useful is rendered obsolete. Arithmetic is most concrete when used for the practice of buying and selling, but the benefits of such a practice are limited; it is most abstract and seemingly useless when numbers themselves, not tangible bodies, are the object of discussion (525d). But the science only then becomes useful (khre¯simon) as it helps the upward turn of the soul. Geometricians speak 'as though they were men of action, but their science really aims at knowledge, not action’ (527a–b). But this is a knowledge of the order of Being most suitable for philosopher-kings, knowledge that eventually would not guide any action but only a just one. 116

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The relation between practicality and knowledge becomes more explicit in the next two parallel passages. In 489c–496a, Socrates blames the so-called wise men for the poor education of the current rulers. Sophists spread ignorance instead of knowledge as they teach the opinions of the many for money and other benefits. Glaucon, 'like a man who is afraid of the many. . . not wanting to seem to command useless studies (akhr¯esta math¯emata)’ (527d), proposes astronomy as the third science in the process of education for its seeming usefulness for farming, navigation and warfare. But it is only ignorance and the absence of a genuine teacher that have caused Glaucon to bypass stereometry and to omit it from the new order of the sciences (528a–c), and it is indeed his uncritical acceptance of others’ views that caused him to make two mistakes about astronomy (it is worth noting that the second one results from his misunderstanding of the use of spatial metaphors (529a–b)). Astronomy should be studied neither for its above-mentioned applications nor for the elevated location of its visible objects; rather, it should be studied as another model and approximation of the order of Being, another stage in the upward inversion of the soul.19 Thus approached, astronomy helps one 'to convert the prudence by nature in the soul from uselessness (akhr¯eston) to usefulness (khr¯esimon)’ (530b–c). The political critique culminates when Socrates proves that the ideal constitution and the philosopher-king are not impossible though their realization hinges on a miracle (496a–502c). The reform of the sciences culminates in a complementary promise, that dialectics, the science of Being and of the Good, is possible, though it can only be dimly grasped at the present stage of the discussion (533a). Both the proper political arena and the reformed space of discourse are presented as temporally boundless, and earthly practices, which are always time-binding, have almost no claim within them (with the exception of war). Real practical matters are affairs with eternity, both in its meaning as timeless (the changeless Forms) and in the sense of encompassing all time (the horizon of dialectics and of the hope for the philospher-king). For contemplative discourse all this means more of the same. As for the world of praxis, the real world, from which the interlocutors are removed for a while and whose demands have been suspended for a while, this means a diminishing interest on the side of the participants. The critique of the current state of affairs in the sciences and in politics has silenced the demands and temptations of praxis by inverting its main values: the useful and the useless, the important and the 117

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insignificant, the finite and the infinite, and also, we shall see below (pp. 151–5), the playful and the serious. What this inversion actually amounts to is an inversion of the relation of suspension between theory and praxis. Contemplative discourse can no more be seen as a moment of suspension in the course of practical affairs. At the heart of a network of suspensions, contemplation appears as everlasting and as an everyday business. Political strife and even the religious festival are its temporary suspensions. The commonly practical is always finite and should be abandoned; contemplative discourse carries one toward eternity; hence it is the genuinely practical, the most useful activity, and the best way of spending one’s time. It then becomes clear why the crucial suspension of the drama by discourse is never dissolved in the course of the dialogue, why the drama is never resumed: the participants’ world has been inverted; they have not come 'to look for fool’s gold’, though it took Socrates some time to bring them to understand that, but 'to listen to arguments’. 'The proper measure of listening to such arguments is a whole life’ (450), in fact the whole of time, we may add in the light of later passages (see below, p. 142). Socrates’ companions are in no hurry to return to earthly politics, they are on their way upward. Even though the inquiry itself is temporal and must take place somewhere, this is better forgotten for the sake of the inquiry’s atemporal, non-spatial objects; and it can well be forgotten, for time is now limitless, as the immortality of the soul is asserted in the final argument of the text, and what awaits the soul after death in the text’s last myth. Both history and the drama are left behind, the myth establishes the frame for a discourse to infinity: But if we are persuaded . . . holding that soul is immortal . . . we shall always keep to the upper road and practice justice with prudence in every way, so we shall be friends to ourselves and to the gods both while we remain here and when we reap the rewards for it. . . . And so here and in the thousand year journey that we have described we shall fare well. (621d) THE DISAPPEARANCE OF DRAMATIC SPACE We are now capable of understanding the role of the dramatic layer of the text, especially its spatio-temporal organization: to displace the dialogue’s thrust and its readers’ attention from the political to the 118

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purely contemplative realm. The struggle between reason and force is placed in the Piraeus, in the house of a metic, and famous public figures take part in it. Some of them are soon to take part in a real power struggle in Athens between democrats and oligarchs, a struggle which will cost Polemarchus and Nicias their lives. We may well assume that the dramatic scene has some mimetic ambitions, that it tries to represent, within the realm of discourse, a civic space and political practices. This space and those practices have made the question of justice urgent; but at their present stage they cannot contribute to its solution. When the rules are set for a serious discourse the imitation ceases to hold; unlike Cephalus’ circle of stools, neither the agora nor the ecclesia provides the minimal conditions for such a discussion. Although initially a common space shared by free citizens and the place in which the new mode of rational discourse has emerged (cf. Vernant 1982a: ch. 5), this shared civic space is now perceived by a Platonic Socrates as a place dominated by the bestial in man (492b–496e). Therefore, the dramatic scene is gradually blurred and the dramatic space has only an inferred presence. Spatial details, which are abundant in the first book, are rare elsewhere. But the dramatic space is exposed again, and with great clarity, for one brief moment, later in the text. At the beginning of the fifth book some crucial practices in the ideal city, as well as the organization of its civic space, are not discussed by Socrates, an omission which Polemarchus and Adeimantus call on him to rectify. The order of bodies in space (the order of sitting) and their interaction are then precisely described: 'but Polemarchus, – he was sitting a little further away than Adeimantus – extended his hand and took hold of the other’s cloak from above at the shoulder, drew him toward himself while he leaned forward and said something to him . . .’ (449b G, italics added) What the two interlocutors actually do is force Socrates to describe his city not as a harmony of human faculties translated into abstract human groups, but as a harmony of real human beings who make love, reproduce and raise children. These young men are too much embodied, and aware of their embodiment, in real civic space to let Socrates escape with his much-too-abstract picture of an ideal city. Their voice is the call of a concrete body upon an abstract discourse which has gone too fast, too far: for even if Socrates could somehow 119

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override all existing differences of wealth and power and origin, even if he could arrange political life according to citizens’ qualities of soul alone, and control human interaction according to a strict functionalist division of labor, how could he overcome gender differences, and how could he control human interaction driven by that natural drive, by that 'necessity’ (458d), eros' Sexuality is, before anything else, a type of bodily interaction that presupposes a certain organization of bodies in space. Sexuality is the only need Socrates omits when he first sets out the foundation of the 'healthy’ as well as the 'luxurious’ city (369b–374e). For the satisfaction of that need bodily encounters are required; for the institutionalization and control of that satisfaction in human society spatial boundaries and an organization of civic space are necessary.20 Therefore, it is perfectly appropriate for the 'first and second waves’, as Socrates calls the demands to give an account of the relationship between genders (457b–c), to be introduced by that brief dramatic scene where bodies change their spatial location and touch each other. Apparently, the 'third wave’ is even more appropriate for a dramatic break in the conversation. A long digression into the rules of war among the Greeks is cut abruptly and Socrates is called on to say whether and how his heavenly city could become real (471c–e). It seems that a will to power has not yet been tamed, that it has not yet been hidden behind a will to know, that a will to know has not yet disguised its origin, that its goal has not yet been displaced. For what other interest but that of a will to power could yield such a question after the initial goal of the conversation has been apparently achieved (i.e. justice has been defined), and before the rest of the initial task (i.e. proving that the just person is happier than the unjust) has been completed' If this is correct, and a will to power, not a love of truth, directs the conversation here, and if I am right about the general link between violence (which a will to power implies) and spatial boundaries, one should expect another glimpse of the dramatic space here. But although a dramatic break occurs, the dramatic space remains invisible (i.e. unmentioned). Socrates is interrupted, the question raised brings up 'the biggest and most difficult [wave] to deal with’, and it comes upon Socrates like 'a sudden attack’ (427a G). We are reminded of another attack, that of Thrasymachus, 'who came at us as if to tear us to pieces’. But the difference is clear and significant. Thrasymachus was 'like a wild beast (h¯osper th¯erion)’ (336b) but his spatial location and movements were real, i.e. taking place in the dramatic space; Glaucon’s location and movement do not take place 120

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in the dramatic space, his assault is not real – 'h¯osper katadorm¯en epoi¯es¯o epi ton logon mou’ (472a). The last trace of the participants’ embodiment in a real political space, a space that inhabits the desires and needs of human existence, and which the dramatic scene is supposed to imitate, cannot 'break through’ into the discursive space. This embodiment is already well hidden, and should now be deciphered through the interlocutors’ mode of speech and gestures, and the etiquette of their conversation. Although the most dangerous movements in the dialogue still lie ahead, serious discourse has already gone far enough, far beyond the constraints of real civic space. Even if the will to power has not yet been completely sublimated into a will to know, even if it still affects the direction of the conversation, and this in itself is an important fact to bear in mind, it has no power to change the dramatic stage within which the conversation is situated. In fact, it has no power to bring to full light the very fact of the conversation being situated somewhere. This pale appearance of a dramatic scene that lacks dramatic space is the last in the dialogue. For five more books the participants will accompany Socrates up the divided line, down to the cave, up again, from arithmetic to dialectics; they will measure with him the 'distance’ between the tyrant and the king, and finally they will descend with him to Hades. All that time they will be sitting still in the same place, moving only in the metaphorical and mythical spaces opened for them by Socrates’ tales. In contrast to the opening struggle between reason and force, to the attack on justice launched by the Sophist, and to the demands of the body upon discourse, the case of power does not bring about that harmony between words and deeds, so characteristic of Platonic writing. The words that represent the claim of a will to power sound like an act, but actually belong to a non-dramatic space; the movement they create is discursive not dramatic. In order to answer those words, Socrates does not reopen a discussion about civic space, as he did when sexuality emerged as an unsettled issue, since the description of the ideal city has been completed (473a–b). Instead, he embarks on a new reform, a reform of rational discourse (the distinctions between the many things and the one Being, Being and Becoming, and knowledge and opinion (474d–487a)) and of the process of education, i.e. bringing a child up into that discourse (from gymnastics and music through the sciences to dialectics (521c–540a)). How is that turn related to the will to power which has brought it forth' Mainly in that it takes care to complete its suppression as a will to 121

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power, to subsume it within the reformed discourse and to redirect it, as a will, from power to knowledge. The philosopher raised up by the new system of education will be deprived of any desire to rule, intoxicated by a desire to see more of the Good. He will 'delight in each thing that is itself’ (480a). Like 'lovers of honors and erotic men’ he will love 'all of it, of that which always is’ (485b), not caring at all about his body, its pleasures or its death, dedicating himself to the contemplation of 'all time and of all being’ (485c–486a). From the practical turn in the dialogue emerges a type of man who could not care less about practical matters. Such a man will take over power, i.e. go back to the cave to rule there, against his wish, and only because he must fulfill his function in the city (519e–520a).21 Talking briefly about the organization of an actual city according to a paradigm of the ideal city (500e– 501d), the interlocutors, and with them the reader, are drawn into a speculative discussion that makes one less and less interested in power, and hence in actual political reality. With the removal of the dramatic space Socrates’ companions are carried away from their real, i.e. dramatic, spatio-temporal frame and are absorbed within another frame, the discursive-metaphorical frame. As far as a text can carry its reader 'away’ and 'toward’, the reader of the Republic is carried away with them. To the extent that this is the case, reason again appears to be intermingled in power relations, contaminated by its seeming other; the text acts; the audience of readers and listeners is acted upon; and a whole political system is involved, and at stake. Whereas the text’s practicality – i.e. reason in action, reason taking part in power relations – is real even if marginal, reason’s disembodiment is a fiction, it exists only in the drama and as its result. But these two, reason’s entanglement in a network of practices, through the work of a text, and reason’s aloofness, its disembodiment, do not stand in a simple opposition to each other, at least not in the case of Plato’s Republic. The text 'works’ only as long as the fiction holds, only as long as reason is taken as disembodied, disinterested, and contemplation as the impractical activity par excellence. A series of textual practices, some of which we have just described, leads the reader to follow reason from its first entanglement with power up to the height and abstractness of the Form of the Good as the unhypotheton. It may be effective, however, only as long as its own place in a general network of discursive and non-discursive practices remains concealed; to reveal the text’s practicality means to demonstrate the impossibility of its project, which is to leave the political realm behind. 122

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In order to reveal the text’s practicality it is necessary to decipher the mechanisms by which 'the effect of the real’22 or of the most urgent and important is achieved. We have begun to do this work by way of reconstructing the displacement from the dramatic to the discursive, achieved through the organization of the spatio-temporal frame of the drama and its dissolution. The next stage would be to reconstruct the space that appears as an alternative: the space of serious, philosophical discourse. AN EXCLUSIVE SPACE FOR A NEW TYPE OF MAN I saw that he was dissatisfied with his own performance in the answer he had given, and would not of his own free will continue in the role of answerer, and it seemed to me that it was not my business to remain any longer in the discussion. Well, said I, I have no wish myself to insist on continuing our conversation in a way that you do not approve. . . . I have something to do and cannot stay while you spin out your long speeches. I will leave you. I really ought to be going. (Pr. 335a–c; Socrates to Protagoras) It is a habit of his, you know, off he goes and there he stands, no matter where it is. . . . He started wrestling with some problem about sunrise one morning and stood there lost in thought, and when the answer would not come he still stood there and refused to give up. Time went on. . . . Well, there he stood till morning and then at sunrise he said his prayers to the sun and went away. (Symp. 175b, 220c, d; Aristodemus and Alcibiades about Socrates) It is a rule – the reader may check throughout Plato’s works – that when Socrates speaks philosophy he lies down, sits or stands still, that walking means an end to, or a lack of, philosophical discussion, and that one may walk into or out of a philosophical conversation, but one never walks during the conversation. (In the Laws the conversation takes place during a journey, but it is not a philosophical conversation and Socrates does not take part in it.)23 When the speakers stand, sit or lie their logos is set in motion; their arguments go back and forth (e.g. Hip. Min. 376c; Theaet. 200a–b), downward or upward (e.g. Rep. 445a), bypassing obstacles (e.g. Rep. 445a), crossing stormy water (e.g. Rep. 123

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472a), reaching unexpected, yet familiar positions in an unknown land (e.g. Rep. 432d), losing sight of what lies close at hand (e.g. Theaet. 208e), or gaining a glimpse of faraway objects that gradually or suddenly appear on the changing horizon of the discursive terrain. The dramatic space is the one unfolded and organized by and through the movement of the dialogue’s interlocutors. The discursive space is the one unfolded and organized by and through the movement of the dialogue’s arguments. Between the two spaces there exists a rupture, for there is only one type of movement at a time. Dramatic movements may interfere in a philosophical conversation, not merely precede or conclude it, but then only as a suspension of the discursive movement. Thus, dramatic movements may prepare the ground for a philosophical discourse (e.g. the first book of the Republic, Socrates vs. Thrasymachus), pull the ground from under a non-philosophical discourse (e.g. the Protagoras, Socrates vs. Protagoras), or they may force a shift in the direction of the discussion, i.e. a new question to pursue (see the fifth book of the Republic, Polemarchus and Adeimantus vs. Socrates).24 But, as the dramatic movement occurs, the discursive movement dies out, either for a while (e.g. the Protagoras; the fifth book of the Republic) or completely (e.g. the scene ending the Lysis). According to our analysis of the dramatic space the reverse is also true: as the philosophical discussion intensifies the drama dies out. Genuine philosophical discourse has an exclusive space of its own. Movement of speakers during a philosophical conversation is the extreme case of, but also a symbol for, the use of elements other than the force of the better argument. The body and its movements always interfere with the ideal speech situation in which arguments, not their speakers, are competing. In the Socratic conversation only two interlocutors are active at a time, and they resemble runners who run at the same pace (Pr. 335e–336a), i.e. no relative movement is allowed between the two. Therefore the 'long speech’ of the rhetorician, the 'champion runner’ (ibid.), should be excluded from discourse. The two speakers should be at rest in relation to each other; the image of constant wrestling applies to their arguments, not to their bodies. The elimination of the real (dramatic) movement of speakers symbolizes a 'sterilization’ of the speech situation, a neutralization of all its effects besides the effects of the content of what one means to say, the argument 'in-itself’. When the speaker does not move, when his statements are left to themselves, they stand or fall according to their own truth or lack of it. When cut off from the virtuosity of their 'parent’, the arguments embark on a movement of their own. Though the speaker himself, the 'parent’ 124

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of the logos (Phd. 275e) or Socrates, the 'midwife’, may come to the rescue of a newborn argument, he should do so only if it contains a grain of truth (cf. Theaet. 149–50). In fact, he is there to abort ill-born arguments more than to help the well-born. It is irrelevant whether the original father (e.g. Theaetetus), a foster father (e.g. Callicles, Pollus, Polemarchus), or a midwife is called for the task, at least as long as arguments set in motion new arguments only. The speaker, who, in a genuine philosophical conversation is also a listener, is led by the arguments and withholds any attempt to use them for his own interests and purposes. These 'practical interests’, in the form of a will to power, an erotic attraction, or lust for money, fame and the like, always find expression in the dialogues via the same sort of dramatic movements (e.g. Pr. 317c–e, Char. 154c–155c). The exclusiveness of discursive movement and the rupture drawn between it and the dramatic movement together outline an ideal speech situation that excludes all kinds of will except the will to know, and all sorts of desire except the love of wisdom. The exclusiveness of the discursive space means systematic and consistent differentiation between the practical and the contemplative, interest and knowledge, and the presence of an agent that censors and suppresses the former in order to make room for the latter. This agent is the author, the one who generates differences and hierarchies, for both differentiation and suppression exist only within the framework of the rupture between the discursive and the dramatic, i.e. between two layers of the text. The establishment of an ideal speech situation is based upon some textual strategy which neither imitates anything 'real’ nor is logically necessary. The sublimation of interest and desire toward pure contemplation seems always in need of a writer’s imagination. The situation in which the discursive has indeed an exclusive space of its own is ideal indeed; the text does not imitate real life but creates a model for imitation. The textual strategies employed are not a result of any analysis (let alone a transcendental one). They are not argued for but shown in action. The ideal speech situation is not constructed as an imitation of an actual speech situation but as an alternative to it. The alternative is endowed with the fictitiousness of the drama from which it has emerged and which it is going to annihilate. The emergence of the ideal speech situation in its exclusive discursive space, just like the vanishing dramatic space, is an effect of writing techniques employed by a master of the art. The fictitiousness of the ideal speech situation is twice deceptive. First, it is deceptive because the ideal speech situation is not 125

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continuous with the 'real’, i.e. dramatic, one, just as the discursive space is not continuous with the dramatic space; hence the ideal speech situation is, in fact, a fiction within a fiction. And again it is deceptive to the extent that the suppression of the dramatic is not interpreted as a fiction within a fiction but – as the implied reader is manipulated to interpret – as an overcoming of the fiction for the sake of serious discourse. The lie is noble perhaps, but it is a lie nevertheless. For why should readers believe in the possibility of an ideal speech situation' Why should they take the discursive space more seriously than the dramatic framework of the dialogue, i.e. seriously as long as they are absorbed within the text, but merely as a game when it comes to the arguments and their normative claims, a game in which one is engaged when reading and only as long as one is reading' Commitment to serious discourse cannot be achieved through arguments that presuppose serious discourse, i.e. the ideal nature of the speech situation and the exclusiveness of its space; it must be won through temptation, by means of textual seduction and legitimate lies concerning speech itself (en . . . logois) in which speech is used like a drug (pharmakon), a truth elixir (Rep. 382 c–e; Derrida 1981). The drug’s main ingredient is the spatial metaphor, those metaphors that endow discourse with a space of its own. In the next chapter I will back this claim through a systematic textual analysis. Here let me first complete the general outline of my argument. The spatial metaphor, which is the main means of differentiation between the dramatic and the discursive space, works to conceal, makes one forget about, non-discursive movements. When discourse appears as the only thing in motion, when the movements of arguments appear as the only thing worth reflective notice, the (implied) listener or reader is apt to forget the other kind of movement that initiated the movement with which he or she is now engaged. After a certain point in the dialogue, at the end of the first book, listeners will not face dramatic movement again (with the one exception in 449a, as discussed on p. 119). The metaphorical spatialization of discourse directs them to recall earlier arguments but never to recall earlier speakers and their real movements (see e.g. 465e). They are therefore inclined to forget the dramatic movement; they are ready to follow the text along the line it gradually draws between the more and less important, serious or urgent. Recollecting the dialogue after a long period of listening or reading, they will presumably ask where they have left the argument, not the speakers. When speakers move they can only watch the play as spectators; 126

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when arguments move they may join the game at any moment. But unless they remember the initial play among speakers and the original replacement of one movement with another, it is most likely that they will not consider the game as confined to the text, a game one may play as a listener or reader only. The movement of arguments is a movement created for them and they may reenact it and – most importantly – continue to create and develop it, without involving the whole story again. It is a movement that may exist independently of any particular speaker; it is therefore a movement that may come to life again with any speaker, even long after he or she has stopped being a reader. It may be only a game – and it was only a game even when Socrates was playing it (536c) – but it is a game that has gained an independence from its pre-text. It may be only a game, but how seriously it should be taken depends upon the power of the game itself to absorb the player-reader within it (as we shall see below, pp. 151–5). Yet as long as the game goes on, the illusion persists. The illusion of an ideal speech situation, of a movement of arguments which is never traversed by other kinds of movement, and of a search for knowledge which is never motivated by other kinds of desires, is a constitutive part of the game. This illusion is carried from the text to its partial reenactments; it is there even when one willingly forgets about the other play one has left 'in’ the text, and precisely because one forgets it. The ideal speech situation made possible by the consistent replacement of the dramatic with the discursive space is a powerful artefact with far-reaching ramifications. Not only should one remember that the arguments are not really left to themselves in the space of discourse, that a disinterested listener or speaker is a fiction, and that there is a writer behind the scene, a writer who helps certain arguments to win the race, even though, or precisely because, all speakers are made to run at the same pace. One must also remember that the dramatic space in the dialogue originally stood for a real political space, where reason and power mingled arbitrarily and for no good; one should remember that the attempt to reform that real political space by creating an image of an ideal civic space has failed, and fallen back into the discursive space; and, finally, one should remember that an organization of space is at the core of the initial politico-discursive crisis of the demarcation of Greek man and of the problem of justice. The exclusiveness of the discursive space as a possibility for an ideal speech situation is indeed a step toward resolving the Republic’s initial dilemma. 127

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At the same time, it is also a result and an expression of the radical nature of that solution. Civic space is replaced by discursive space, while the dramatic space serves as a textual mediation between the political and the 'purely’ discursive, and no compromise is allowed between the former and the latter. We have yet to answer the question how the discursive space constitutes the solution for the Republic’s initial dilemma, that is how it allows a reconciliation of the rational and the political within the reformed structure of discourse that demarcates Greek man. But there should be no doubt at this point that the solution is made possible by the constitution of the philosophical discourse in a space of its own. The Republic made possible a dignified defection from political life. In the midst of a chronic political crisis Plato opened, within the city yet outside it, a new possibility of action for Greek men. He opened for them a new space within which to move, a new space in which to exercise their (transformed) manhood, to go after their (sublimated) desires, to face their (now partial) finitude, to strive for a (new type of) excellence, and to imprint their (displaced) will and power, molding anew the organization of that space, molding it for others to follow and remember them. Their will to power is to be displaced from the city onto discourse, and is to direct them in the pursuit of more knowledge, not more power. The will to knowledge would lead them – already within the discursive space – from the particular to the universal, and from the universal to the whole (484c–486a; see especially the spatial metaphor in 485d). Their desires are all to be invested in love for pure, unchangeable beings, desirable and recognizable only from the point of view of the one who moves in the exclusive space of philosophical discourse (475e; 479e–480a; and cf. the spatial metaphor in 479e). Their excellence is not to be determined by the rules governing civic life. Whether in deed or in speech, their superiority counts as excellence only if it conforms to the rules governing the discursive space. Their temporality has changed its nature. From the point of view of the one who contemplates being and time as a whole, and is ready to construct or accept 'proofs’ for the immortality of the soul, 'death is not something terrible’ (486b). A new type of man emerges from the pages of the Republic. This type might have come into being then and there, amidst the dialogue’s original audience, with no need to wait for the appearance of the miraculous philosopher-king or the demonic creatures of the ideal city. All that was needed for this new type of man to appear – a guide into and within the space of discourse and a will strong enough to follow – 128

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was already available. This new type of man exemplifies a transformed yet harmonious demarcation of man that is still governed by the same discursive formation. Straining all of his power in pursuit of the studies that bring harmony to his soul (591a–d), he subjects his bestial part 'to the human part, or, perhaps to the divine part’ in his soul, enslaving the savage to the tame (589c, d; 590c, d; (cf. Nussbaum 1986:154–8). His place between beasts and gods has been secured; his happiness, i.e. his being as close as possible to the gods, has been guaranteed. If such a man is possible – and why shouldn’t he be possible if he has only to follow the Platonic Socrates from a civic into a discursive space' – the initial dilemma of the Republic is solved. Among men of this type the rational and the political are reconciled within a stable demarcating formation. The Platonic philosopher carries a pattern of his ideal city in his soul and minds the political business of its inner organization only (591d–592b). The complete internalization of political affairs is the price Plato pays for harmony in the demarcating formation. The political no longer clashes with the rational, for politics has become the business of the soul’s ruling part, that is of reason (or intelligence). This is a politics without a polis. The polis itself is an external necessity; participation in its life is reduced to the level of need satisfaction, like getting food or shelter. The true philosopher, a man in the full sense of the word, keeps quiet and minds his own business. Like a man who takes refuge under a small wall from a storm of dust or hail driven by the wind, and seeing other men filled with lawlessness, the philosopher is satisfied if he can somehow live his present life free from injustice and impious deeds. (496d–e G) Involvement in a city’s affairs is not a road to excellence or selfrealization of the human, let alone the divine, in man, but a play among beasts (the¯ria, agriois (496c)). Political involvement is placed with the desires of the body as a temptation to be overcome, an object of sublimation. It should be governed by the soul’s requirements for harmony in its psychological structure, which is but a reflection of the harmony in the discursive structure demarcating Greek man. Still, one should ask, is it not just a play on words to say that the political and the rational are again reconciled when, in fact, politics has been internalized and has become a sort of psychotherapy, and 129

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the city has been abandoned' What remains of the political being of Greek man if the polis does not count' The answer, I believe, is space. Space is abstracted from its material existence and assumes a different mode of being, metaphorical, no doubt, at the level of discourse. The internalization of politics and its confinement to the soul presuppose a soul immersed in a philosophical discourse, and a willing acceptance of the rules governing its movement, rules which are embodied in and signified by the inner organization of the discursive space. To belong to a well-defined and carefully organized space remains a key element in the structure of oppositions that demarcates Greek man. Gods are not citizens of the discursive space; although they may be present on the horizon of discourse there is no dialogue between mortals and immortals within it (382a). Divine happiness is promised to the one who persists in acting according to the rules of discourse; bestiality is the true essence of the one who has never bothered to enter the discursive space or has foolishly deserted it. To the extent that 'love of learning’ is a unique feature of the Hellenic world (see 435e–436a),25 the new demarcation of man remains essentially a demarcation of Greek man. A soul that follows the argument’s movement within the discursive space is governed by reason. However, this fact is not the basis but the result of the reconciliation between the rational and the political. Such a reconciliation within the discursive space is made possible because the inner organization of that space, which is the substitute for the political civic space, is precisely what defines rationality. To be rational means to move along the lines that organize the discursive space and according to the rules these lines embody and signify. As we shall soon see, it is not a preconceived notion of rationality that determines the organization of the space of discourse. Rather, an organized discursive space differentiates the rational from the irrational and regulates reason’s search for knowledge. Any move would be irrational which transgresses, rather than follows, a line within the discursive space, let alone transgresses the demarcating boundaries that make that space exclusive. There is even a tyrant present in the space of discourse. It is from this tyrant’s point of view, and for his own sake, that the space is organized and rationality is defined as they are. Much like Thrasymachus’ almost forgotten definition of justice (the just man acts for the benefit of another (343d)), it is an Other that constitutes the rules and controls the movement within the discursive space. This Other is present at the horizon of the discursive space as the ultimate 130

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Other whose presence is always a disturbing absence. Like the invisible Gyges who rules due to his invisibility, and like the Herodotian Deioces, the archetype of all despots (I.20), his power is manifested everywhere despite, or perhaps due to, his invisibility. The name of this tyrant is the Form of the Good. But the name should not mislead us; it is the position of a concept within the discursive formation that counts. The play of power and invisibility is simply carried over from one space to another. The values may be inverted but not the discursive formation that endows a concept with its value. These characteristics of the discursive space do not mean, of course, that the reconciliation of the rational and the political is a real one. With the appearance of the discursive space both rationality and politics are transformed. I can see no other reason for the regular and carefully organized employment of spatial metaphors in reflecting the state of discourse than this transformation, which leaves the organization of space at the core of the link between the two transformed concepts.26 It is clear, however, that the practical consequence of the reconciliation between the rational and the political is the institutionalization of a divorce between reformed rationality and actual politics. The Republic gave Greek man, and later his heirs in the west, a non-political space into which he could escape without leaving the city. The Republic, I would dare to say, created a place for philosophy. It made this place appear exclusive and detached, and made the intrusion of the practical into the sacred space of discourse appear an original sin.

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SPATIAL METAPHORS AND GUIDING QUESTIONS I have claimed above that Plato’s main textual strategy for the creation of an ideal speech situation and for tempting his reader into it is the use of spatial metaphors. I have also claimed that the spatiality of discourse should be taken seriously, for without it the initial dilemma of the Republic cannot be solved. The task of this chapter is first to give textual support to these claims and then to draw from them a more general philosophical conclusion. It may be that I have relied too heavily on a handful of metaphors scattered casually throughout the text. Perhaps I have taken too seriously some allusions to space and movement uttered during an abstract discussion for no other purpose than to dramatize or accentuate certain points in the argument. Perhaps I have emphasized the spatial metaphors at the expense of the spatial images (the line and the cave) which I have ignored so far, and which are usually supposed to constitute the point of gravity of the philosophical discussion, deserving their place at the center of the text. Some interpreters have suggested indeed (Derrida 1981:221 ff.), that the spatial metaphors are but 'ornaments’, a colorful way to bring home a point made in the course of an abstract discussion. This seems to be the case, especially when one considers the spatial metaphors used for creating the spatial images in those 'central’ passages (511–17). A group of 'ascent’ metaphors (500b, c, 532b, d, 533c, d) which appear in that context contrasts with the image of descent that pervades the setting of the first book.1 The metaphors illustrate and dramatize a process of abstraction from the chaotic plurality of everyday phenomena to the organized patterns of 'the things themselves’, in their pure forms, as they are grasped by the initiated soul. The 132

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metaphoric language seems but a projection of the spatial interpretation given to the ontic-epistemic hierarchy by the similes of the divided line and the cave. But the hierarchy does not necessarily imply a spatial interpretation, or any other interpretation for that matter. Both the ascent toward dialectics (521c, 533c–d) and the descent back to the cave (520c), to politics and everyday business could be easily understood in non-spatial language. The relation between the different realms of knowledge and being could be articulated in terms of oppositions drawn from within the onticepistemic discourse, for example knowledge/ignorance, true/false opinion, being/becoming, being/ nothingness, etc. Nothing seems to necessitate the projection of the ontic-epistemic hierarchy on to a metaphorical space; the choice of such a mode of explication is not a consequence of the philosopher’s discourse or a constraint laid upon it, but a privilege of the artist. Yet the spatial relations drawn by the divided line correspond, almost without a residue,2 to the relations between the ontic-epistemic realms they portray. Not only the metaphors seem to function as ornaments, but the modes of embellishment seem well prepared, in fact determined, by the body of the main metaphysical discourse. This account, however, covers only a fraction of the spatial metaphors in the Republic. Consider for example the following passage that precedes the definition of justice in the fourth book: We must, like hunters, now station ourselves in a circle around the thicket and pay attention so justice does not slip through somewhere and disappear into obscurity. Clearly, it is somewhere hereabouts. . . . The place really appears to be hard going and steeped in shadows . . . . At least it’s dark and hard to search out. . . . And I caught sight of it and said: Here! Glaucon, maybe we have come upon a track; and in my opinion, it will hardly get away from us. . . . It appears, you blessed man, that it’s been rolling around at our feet from the beginning and we could not see it after all. (432b, d–e; italics added) Obviously, there is more space here than meets the eye. There is a superfluity of spatial 'ornaments’ that would never fit naturally a body of discourse about justice. It seems ridiculous to look for any strict, regular correlation between spatial and conceptual terms, between the movement of the arguments and their content. One will look in vain for 133

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such a correlation in the above case of the thicket, for example, as well as in that of the three 'waves’ (457b–c, 472a), swimming (441c), the wind (349d), the circle (456b), the elevated spot (445c) or wrestling (544b). We may better grasp the role of these metaphors once we try to listen to them together with the dialogue’s interlocutors, from within the dramatic situation, as they are uttered – almost always by Socrates. Sitting in that circle of stools in Cephalus’ house, listening to the exchange of questions and answers, it would never occur to us that there was a thicket around to encircle, and we would probably understand that the definition of justice was close at hand by that time even without the spatial metaphor. In other words, from the interlocutors’ point of view, the literal sense is hardly evoked, whereas the 'ornamental’ sense is almost always superfluous. Whatever the meaning of the spatial metaphor, when one stops and thinks about it, one has already shifted attention from a subject-matter to one’s way of speaking about it. Consistently throughout the dialogue, the spatial metaphors work as 'shifters’, their effect is that of displacement: from the object of the inquiry to the inquiry itself, from the goal to the route toward it, and from what is to be understood to the method of understanding, that is to the way of discourse. Speaking about justice as 'something hidden in the thicket’, not as 'the advantage of the stronger’ or 'doing each one’s own’ for example, introduces a distance between the speakers and their speech. The metaphor brackets the object of inquiry and posits the inquiry itself as an object for description in a kind of 'meta-language’, i.e. a language that reflects the state of discourse. The spatial metaphor is a form of reflection. It reflects the state of the philosophical inquiry for that inquiry’s participants, it makes them aware of themselves as engaged in a philosophical discussion, of the way they have already traversed, and of the task that still lies ahead. The reflective power of the spatial metaphor is also its power to conceal; in fact, reflecting the arguments 'in their movement’ presupposes a temporary disregard for the embodiment and real movement of the speakers. The reflective moment that comes to life through the spatial metaphor constitutes a double bracketing. Throwing light on the process of questioning, both a projected final answer and the questioning subject are put off for a while. And while the former suspension is temporary – the inquiry itself is soon to be resumed – the latter is always intensified. The interlocutors move back and forth between reflecting upon (thinking, questioning) a subject-matter and reflecting (mirroring) the arguments about a subject-matter. In the meantime, they lose sight of their embodiment 134

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in their real-life situation, which becomes more and more opaque until it is finally reduced to an indiscriminate background, a kind of 'white noise’ that functions as the medium for the appearance of the 'real’ signals, the philosophical questions. It is the rule – exceptions are very few – that throughout the whole course of the philosophical conversation spatial metaphors accompany shifts from one 'guiding’ or 'primary’ question to another; discourse is a sort of movement that leaves traces in a space of its own. In what follows I will expose the close link between the order of 'primary questions’ in the text and the organization of the discursive space unfolded by the spatial metaphors. This link presents the 'primary question’ as the real, most fundamental element in the organization of the discursive space. In order to reconstruct that link it is necessary to survey in detail the distribution and use of spatial metaphors in the Republic. But first it is necessary to define the guiding question and to distinguish it from other forms of question in the dialogue. The primary questions of the dialogue, as indicated by its traditional subtitle, On the Just, are questions about justice, injustice and their consequences. But the dialogue consists of a series of independent questions, which lead the discussion into several other subjectmatters, and which cannot be reduced to the problem of justice. These are, for example, questions concerning the constitution of the soul, the proper order of learning, or the nature of the Good itself. Such questions may, but need not, be part of an inquiry about justice, though in the course of the inquiry itself they appear as necessary steps toward its successful completion. These general, independent questions constitute the main domains of inquiry and lead, each in its turn, into a series of more particular questions by which the minute steps in the discussion are taken. The two types of questions are easily discernible, and the distinction is primarily syntactic. The more specific, 'secondary’ questions are almost always yes/no questions. When this is not the case (e.g. 476–7: 'Do you know of anything…' Or shall we draw…'’ where the two alternative answers are implied by the two questions) it is at least true that several alternative (legitimate) answers to the question are clearly indicated. The guiding questions, on the other hand, are almost always 'open’ questions, i.e. there is no indication in the syntax of the question or in the context of questioning as to the number or nature of the alternative answers possible.3 Surprisingly, perhaps, answering the guiding questions in the dialogue is not a dialectical process in which a series of alternative answers to a question are examined and each 135

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refuted or found inadequate in its turn. Rather, the process of answering a guiding question is closer to the division method of the later dialogues (see e.g. Phdr. 265–6; Sophist; Statesman). Consider for example the guiding question of the guardians’ education: 'But the rearing of these men and their education, how shall we manage that'’ (Rep. 376c). The question is reiterated and followed by a first yes/no question that introduces the first division: 'What is the education' Isn’t it difficult to find a better one than . . . gymnastics for bodies and music for the soul’ (376e). Music is then divided into speech and other things, speech is divided into true and false speeches (376e), and later into speeches about mortals and immortals (392a–b). In the course of this division, and the inquiry into each of the parts determined thereof, the possibility of an entirely different approach to the initial question is totally lost. This contrasts not only with the critical dialectics of the early dialogues but also with the later Sophist, for example, in which several ways of division are examined.4 The division method does not play the same role in all guiding questions. Still, it is the rule that the guiding questions give no indication of their alternative answers and the answer suggested by Socrates is never contrasted with a possible alternative, not even by way of allusion, a fact which is certainly responsible for that sense of dogmatism which any reader of the Republic experiences. This concurs with my initial claim that the main work of the text is not to argue but to lead, not to prove but to show a way, not to yield a definite answer but to open a whole domain of questioning, to generate an interest in that domain, and to impose it over and above all other interests. The way guiding questions are answered in the Republic is an act of persuasion toward contemplation, not a pure contemplative activity. The text’s actual work is to create the possibility for raising the question of the Good, not to present an answer to the question of what the Good is, or even to the question of what justice is and whether it pays. This, I believe, is the direct impact of the strange order in which the guiding questions appear in the text. When spatial metaphors and the guiding questions linked to them are used in order to reconstruct the space of discourse the result is quite striking. The discussion of most guiding questions in the dialogue is suspended before an adequate answer is reached; very often a primary question is suspended by the formulation of another guiding question toward which attention is shifted; after the nonconclusive discussion of the Science of the Good, most suspended guiding questions are taken up again, each in its turn, almost precisely 136

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in the reverse order of their suspension, creating a symmetrical structure. Almost always, when a guiding question is suspended or reemerges the discursive shift is signaled by a spatial metaphor. Thus, the discursive space in which the metaphors unfold has a definite structure and a clear purpose. The entities which appear in this space are questions and their answers. These are arranged and differentiated quite consistently throughout the dialogue by means of suspension and its dissolution. The moment of suspension is twodimensional. On the one hand, a network of suspensions that the drama began to weave is merged into the discursive movement. On the other hand, each suspension creates an ascent toward a question from a higher order, i.e. a question one must answer first, as a prerequisite for answering a question of a lower order. The highest question of all is the question of the Good and it receives no direct or satisfactory answer. Hence a full answer to all other questions is suspended even though they are answered one by one. The impact of this suspension is multiplied by the fact that although questions are answered along the lines of the symmetrical structure – and thus their suspension seems to be dissolved – no dissolution is offered to the suspension of the dramatic framework; there is no way back from the questions to the questioning situation. The symmetrical structure fades away somewhere in the eighth book, and although certain later passages still have parallels early in the text, the discursive movement becomes much less rigorous. The way back to the dramatic framework is blocked, perhaps already at the end of the ninth book (which might well be the original end of the text, or of an earlier version),5 by placing the city just established in discourse or in heaven, and certainly by the myth of Er, which closes the dialogue. The discursive movement, on the other hand, requires a resumption of one primary question which still hangs in the air, the question of the Good. And it is toward this question, I believe, that Socrates directs the reader when he closes the dialogue with reference to the upward way. THE ORGANIZATION OF DISCURSIVE SPACE In order to back up this interpretation I will now relate the main bulk of the Republic by following (almost exclusively) the order of guiding questions and the spatial metaphors that signal them. This reconstruction will show that the spatial metaphors indeed reveal a more or less complete view of the discursive space in the dialogue and that this space is structured symmetrically as described on p.148 (fig. 137

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5.1). Arabic numbers designate moments of suspension or reemergence of guiding questions; bracketed letters designate guiding questions. 1) The brothers reformulate the arguments against justice and urge Socrates to show 'by what further argument could we choose justice before the greatest injustice’ (366b). This general request [a] initiates and leads the whole dialogue. The companions plead with Socrates 'to help out and not give up the argument (kai m¯e aniemai ton logon)’ (368c).6 The verb ani¯emi, translated here as 'give up’, has spatial and temporal connotations.7 2) Socrates agrees not to give up, yet immediately shifts directions. In order to convince the brothers that justice pays it is necessary to know what justice and injustice are [b], and it would be easier to 'investigate what justice is like in the cities’ (368e) than in man’s soul. Socrates therefore leaves aside the question of justice as posed by the brothers [a] and turns to [b], and then immediately to [c], watching a city coming into being in speech (368d–369a). The illustration of the two slates with the smaller and bigger letters gives spatial interpretation to the discursive shift. Replacing the individual with the city means changing regions of inquiry. Socrates hopes that the same thing is written on both slates and with the same letters ('perhaps there would be more justice in the bigger and it would be easier to observe closely’ (368e)) yet he still has to bridge the two regions, city and soul, in order to put the presupposed analogy to work (369a). Indeed, establishing the similarity between soul and city with respect to their elementary components ('letters’) is later described as an act of 'bridging’, though a difficult one, which costs the interlocutors some wet pants: 'well, I said, we had a hard swim through that and pretty much agreed that the same classes that are in the city are in the soul’ (441c). 3) The question of proper education for the guardians [d] turns out to necessitate a separate discussion and it suspends the description of the city [c] (376c–d), which will be resumed only after 'the noble lie’ (414e). It is agreed not to give up (apheteon) the discussion of that question even though it may be a rather long one (376d). It is at this point that the companions announce the rest of their conversation to be a tale told at their leisure; they prepare themselves for a long discussion, which is also a long journey. The spatial connotation is given here by the third plea to Socrates not to give up the argument. The verb aphi¯emi (the root of apheteon) means to discharge, send forth, out or away, to dissolve, break up, but also to loose a ship for 138

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a sail, to march, to sail. They will not sail away now, they will not free themselves from the argument, they would rather let the argument carry them onward, giving themselves to its pace, at their leisure, with no pressing matters in mind. 4) The discussion of the guardians’ education seems to be completed and leads naturally to the question of the selection of rulers from among them [e] (412a–b). (Yet an important question, that of speeches whose subject-matter is human beings [x], is explicitly put aside for later, for it depends on 'what sort of thing justice is and how it by nature profits the man who possesses it’ (392b–c), that is, on an answer to [b] and [a]. [X] is the only suspended question the answer to which [a] does not presuppose; rather, it is a question whose answer presupposes an answer to [a] and [b]). The question of selection is discussed somewhat cryptically, with references to wizardry rather than to war or other kinds of power struggles (412b–414a), and ends abruptly. The subject-matter is discussed imprecisely, in outline (en tup¯oi), not in detail (m¯e di akribeias), and suddenly the 'noble lie’ is introduced (414a–b) and sends the discussion back from [e] to [c], to a description of the ideal city (415d). In a later retrospective remark, when the selection question is raised again, that moment is described as one in which the argument was diverted from its route: 'These were the kinds of things that were said as the argument, covering its face, sneaked by for fear of setting in motion what now confronts us’ (503b). What confronts them now is a much more informed version of [e], the selection question (502c–d). 5) [c] is interrupted again. Adeimantus wonders whether citizens of such a city should be called happy and raises the question of the guardians’ happiness [f] (419a). Socrates refuses a direct answer: 'Making our way by the same road,’ he replies, 'I suppose we’ll find what has to be said’ (420b). The road is presumably (according to Socrates’ remarks in 503a) still the one taken when the original argument 'sneaked by’ in 414a; they still walk the same road in 465e when the happiness question is finally addressed explicitly, but only after the 'female drama’ [i] completes the description of the city. 6) Socrates is ready to locate justice in the city and start answering [b] even before [c], its description, has been completed (435e). They have come a long way, Socrates says, and all that is needed now is an adequate light for the darker corners in their terrain (427d), the main lines of which have already been articulated. Glaucon insists, however, that Socrates remain their guide; Socrates readily agrees, for he hopes that he knows how (or where) to proceed ('eure¯sein auto 139

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ho¯de’ (427e)). Justice is located spatially, indeed, in the thicket, 'in a place hard going and steeped in shadows’ (432c), but, in fact, it was 'rolling at our feet from the beginning’ (432e). The companions find themselves crossing the same region, yet at different altitudes. (The metaphor here is mine – it will soon be Socrates’.) 7) In order to answer the initial questions of justice, [b] and [a], it is necessary to turn from justice in cities to justice in one’s soul. This shift immediately entails a new question, about the constitution of the soul [g]. As they set about bridging the two different regions of discourse, that about the soul and that about the city, the companions cross 'a longer and further road (hodos), leading to a better understanding of the nature of the soul’ (435c–d). They nevertheless keep using the same way (methodo¯n) with which they can be content for a while (ibid.). They will meet the longer road later and will try to walk it, with partial success (504b). Again we meet the same question discussed twice on two different levels of the discourse. 8) Since they do not take the longer road they are soon ready to answer [a] on the basis of the grasp they already have of justice and injustice in the soul [b]. Glaucon has little doubt that the former is much more beneficial than the latter. But now it is Socrates who insists on not leaving the argument and Glaucon agrees not to shrink back (445b). Their argument has led them to an elevated point of view (skopias), a place from which four types of evil worth notice are clearly observed. The different types of evil are the characteristics of different types of psychological regimes that correspond to different types of political regimes and the question now is how many precisely and of which nature [h]. But the elevated place is abandoned immediately after it has been reached due to the vigorous demand to complete the description of the city with the 'female drama’, the question of the 'particular manner’ in which women and children are going to be 'in common’ [i]. They do not waste time enjoying the view from the elevated place but keep moving on the same way (420b). They are still walking in that direction in 465e after the 'female drama’ is completed and Adeimantus’ question of happiness is finally resolved. But when the elevated place is manned again in the eighth book and the account of the four regimes is resumed, its previous abandonment is referred to as a detour (543c). 9) The 'female drama’ brings about the first 'wave’8 (457b) and 'a great swarm of arguments (hesmon logo¯n)’ that Socrates bypassed (pare¯ka) before (450a, b) and is now forced by his interlocutors to face. The question asked [i] is how children and women will be held 140

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in common in the ideal city. It is, in fact, an anticipatory form of the question of the possibility of the ideal city [j] (450c). The first wave is also the beginning of the 'detour (exetrapometha)’ Socrates mentions in 543c, and it implies the time of the discourse (450b), not only its space. 10) The 'second wave’, bigger than the first, threatens the argument when the common ownership of women is explicitly stated (457c–d). The proposal raises doubt both as to its usefulness and its possibility. Socrates notes that he will have to fight 'a combination of arguments’ and asks if he 'could escape running away from one of them [the possibility question]’, leaving it for a later discussion (457e). Hence a second anticipation and another suspension of [j]. When the community of women and children is presented in detail Socrates can answer Glaucon’s question [f] and explain in what sense the guardians are happy (465e). He explicitly reminds his companions of that earlier stage in the discussion when an argument 'reproached’ them (logos e¯min epeple¯xen). Once again, the verb used for recalling a moment of suspension and signaling a new stage in the discussion has clear spatial connotations and is directly related to the image of waves: epipleo means to sail upon or against, to attack with a fleet. After the brief answer to Adeimantus Socrates raises [j], as if by passing (466d), yet the discussion immediately digresses to the issue of wars among Greeks. 11) Finally, Glaucon’s aggressive formulation of the possibility question cuts short Socrates’ account of the rules of war among the Greeks. That account seems to address nobody’s interest. It is, in fact, Socrates’ refuge from dealing directly with [j], a question he himself has raised earlier (466d) and anticipated twice before (450c, 457e). Hence, talking about stasis serves as a suspension that dramatizes the effect of [j]. When it is finally imposed on Socrates, the detour taken in 450b (9) is prolonged and the answer to [h] is further delayed. The explicit formulation of [j], whether and how the ideal city can be realized (472a), brings about the third and hardest wave.9 The question is answered in outline: the ideal city is possible if philosophers become its rulers. A full answer has to wait for another guiding question [k], who the genuine philosophers are, to be examined (474b). 12) With the question of the nature of the genuine philosophers, a new route of inquiry is taken: 'come now, follow me here . . . lead, he said (Ithi d¯e, akolouth¯eson moi t¯eide . . . Age eph¯e)’ (474c). When the distinction is finally articulated properly, Socrates remarks that the 141

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philosophers and the non-philosophers have just 'gone through (diexelthontes) a somewhat lengthy argument’ (484a). 13) Socrates thinks that it has already been established that the genuine philosophers are those most fit to rule their city, but Adeimantus does not agree. If philosophers are so apt to rule, he asks, why are they currently useless [1]' Adeimantus accuses Socrates of leading them astray as a professional leads amateurs in a game of draughts. The inexperienced players are at each question misled a little by the argument; and when the littles are collected at the end of the arguments, the slip (sphalma) turns out to be great and contrary to the first assertion. . . . And just as those who aren’t clever at playing the draughts are finally checked by those who are and don’t know where to move, so they too are finally checked by this other kind of draughts, played not with counters but speeches.’ (487c–d) Note that draughts, the game which Plato uses here as a metaphor for discourse, is one that has a clear, delineated space of its own. Socrates denies that he has misled his interlocutors into thinking that philosophers are about to accept leadership in the state; on the contrary, he readily accepts Adeimantus’ objection regarding the current state of philosophy and compares the genuine philosopher to the true navigator (488a ff.). This is one of the clearest reflexive moments in the discussion as meta-language and object language become one, for philosophy is the object of the discussion; it is also the locus of the sharpest opposition between politics and philosophy. 14) When [1] seems to be properly settled (496a, c) [j] is taken up again (497e ff.) and resolved (502c). It is established that the 'laws (nomos) suggested are the best’, and though hardly realizable, are not impossible (502c). No spatial metaphor interferes in this section. Instead, the discussion is reflected upon from a temporal point of view. It is here that the temporality of discourse is stretched to infinity. The time it takes a Thrasymachus is 'not long . . . compared with the whole of time’ (498d); but this 'whole of time’ is exactly the horizon for the realization of the ideal. Though both [1] and [j] now seem to be resolved they will be taken up again from an unexpected perspective later in the discussion ([1] from 527d–529c, 535c–536c; [j] in 540d); their apparent conclusion is no more than a break in the argument. 142

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15) It is 'only’ left to determine the proper order of education of those genuine philosophers who will eventually become the true kings of the city. But an answer to this question is a prerequisite for an adequate answer to [j], for unless the proper course of education is known to someone, it is impossible to prove that the ideal city is possible to realize. Therefore, in order to complete the answer to [j] the question of the guardian education [d], which seemed properly answered before, is addressed in a new context [d*]. In the earlier context it was assumed that from the right course of studies the proper way to select the rulers [e] would follow naturally (412–14), but the discussion was cut by the 'noble lie’. At this advanced stage of the discussion when rulers are identified with philosophers, this assumption becomes self–evident. The severe tests for the would-be rulers prescribed earlier turn out to mean a long process of studies (503e–504a); the rulers would be those who successfully reach the final stage of studies. Hence, the new formulation of [d] as [d*] also means a reformulation of [e] as [e*] (502d). Once again, the conversation comes back to a region it has already traversed and meets the argument that earlier, 'covering its face, sneaked by, for fear of setting in motion what now confronts us (parexiontos kai parakaluptomenou tou logou, pephob¯emenou kinein to nun paron)’ (503a–b). 16) Soon another familiar point is reached. In order to establish the right order of study it is necessary to consult the nature of the soul, hence [g] has to be addressed again. In a matter of such urgency – the best education of the best men in the best city – one cannot be content with the imprecise method of analysis used before (435c–d), but must walk the 'longer road around (makrotera ei¯e periodos)’ in order 'to get the finest possible look at these things’ (504b). This road is taken now and leads the companions to the verge of the 'greatest study’ (505e). What this study is, is therefore a new guiding question [m] that imposes itself and suspends the renewed discussion of [g] (505a). No one would let Socrates go (apheinai)10 without answering it (ibid.). 17) It is easy to answer [m]: the greatest study is the science of the Good; it is more difficult to answer what the Good itself is [n]. Socrates is reluctant to speak about the Good. He is urged by Glaucon not to withdraw when he is almost at the end ('h¯osper epi telei ¯on apost¯es’) (506d). The spatial association is that of an end to a tiresome road. This is backed by Socrates’ explanation of his hesitation: 'For it looks to me that it is out of the range of our present thrust (kata t¯en parousan 143

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horme¯n ephikesthai) to attain the opinion I now hold about it [the Good]’ (506d). It seems as if near the end of a long ascent the climbers are left breathless and cannot reach the summit. The question of what the Good itself is is left aside 'for the time being’ (506d–507a), that is for the rest of the dialogue. The Good remains Socrates’ promise and debt to his friend (507a); but it is on the basis of the assumption that Socrates knows what he is now leaving open that the dialogue proceeds. The question of the Good is the last guiding question in the dialogue whose answer remains hanging in the air, but unlike all the other questions that were abandoned ahead of time, this one is not going to be addressed again. From now on the conversation addresses only questions that were raised before and were not answered at all (e.g. the four types of regimes), or were not answered adequately (e.g. the proper course of studies). Also, from now on the discourse is less often reflected upon and the spatial metaphor is less frequently used. It seems as if from the moment the Form of the Good enters the horizon of discourse, one need not be reminded of the exclusiveness of the space in which one is moving and of the uniqueness of one’s movement. From that point on the space of discourse is the only possible one, at least for those participants of the dialogue who have become docile followers of Socrates. (The last objection is raised by Adeimantus in 487b.) 18) After an image of the Good is presented it is possible to take up [d] again, now reformulated [d*] as a question about the sciences and their proper ideal order, to be distinguished from the order in which they are presently pursued (cf. above, pp. 116–17). To answer this question means to give an account of the stages in the philosophical ascent (521c). With the help of the similes of the divided line and the cave, philosophy is identified with the ascent toward that which is: 'tou ontos ousan epanodon’ (521c). The picture of an ascent is drawn from the simile of the cave, which is but an interpretation of the divided line (517b) with respect to 'education and its lack’ (514a). The two similes establish an epistemological and ontological order, which are parallel and in which gradations of truth and reality are illustrated spatially and vertically. Philosophy is the search for the ultimate truth and the ultimate real; it is therefore an ascent. 19) The last stage in the course of studies, dialectics, is also the Science of the Good (532b–1, 534b–c). [m] is answered, though without shedding much light on the question of what the Good itself is. That place toward which the dialectical road leads and where the whole 144

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journey presumably meets its end is beyond the reach of the present conversation. [m] too remains a suspended question. Glaucon is eager to know everything about it, into which forms it is divided, and what are its ways. For these, it seems, would lead at last toward that place which is for the one who reaches it a haven from the road, as it were, and an end to his journey. (ai pros auto agousai eien, oi aphikomen¯oi h¯osper hodou anapaula an ei¯e kai telos t¯es poreias.) (532d–e) But Socrates is prevented from proceeding on the same road, for Glaucon is no longer able to follow (533a). A brief and cryptic description of dialectics follows this exchange, the only one possible from their lower standpoint, and the epistemic-ontic order of the divided line is reiterated. 20) With the field of dialectics delineated, 'the treatment of the studies [d*] has already reached its end’ (535a). Only now can [e*] be settled. The original question, how to select rulers [e] is explicitly recalled ('do you remember, in the former selection of the rulers'’ (ibid.)) and posed now as a question regarding the distribution of knowledge: 'the distribution is still ahead of you. To whom shall we give these studies and how shall we do it'’ (ibid.). Now that the space of discourse is well organized the answer can be given in temporal-discursive terms: what to study, when and for how long (536d–540c). [d] and [e] actually merge; taking position in the space of discourse is not any different from taking position in the field of power. In the metaphorical-ideal space of discourse power and knowledge coalesce without a residue. 21) But before this merging is finalized, the miserable state of philosophy discussed above (12) is mentioned again (535c–536c); and taking [l] again, it is explained how to prevent in the ideal city the recurrence of the actual failure of philosophers in their real cities (535c– 536d). At that point Socrates reminds himself and the others that their conversation is but a game. No spatial metaphor is employed here directly, but the clear reflective remark invokes, by way of recollection ('I forgot . . . that we were playing’ (536c)) a previous spatial metaphor made in exactly the same context (487b–c; see (12) above). Only after thus removing the spirit of seriousness from his anger about the current state of philosophy and his hopes for a better future (536c–d) is Socrates ready to give the government in an ideal state to genuine philosophers. 145

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22) The philosophers’ curriculum is summarized (536d–540c); it is organized from a 'practical’ point of view in order to raise philosophers who can rule. [d] and [e] are finally settled. It is also clear now who is the genuine philosopher, an older man of stable nature who can distinguish dialectics from childish playing with arguments; hence [k] too is answered. With these three questions resolved the discussion of [j] is concluded: it is not impossible to educate genuine philosophers who are capable of ruling; hence the ideal city is not impossible. A suggestion is made about the concrete steps true philosophers should take in order to translate the ideal into practice. The 'quickest and easiest’ way to establish the best city would be to send 'all in the city over ten to the country’ (540c–d). No spatial metaphor is employed here; the reflexive moment is achieved through an ironic remark about the quickest way to achieve the almost impossible, which implies a rather paradoxical allusion to space. The practical proposal that suddenly introduces real space into the argument presupposes – just after the currently poor state of philosophy has been lamented – that philosophers have already assumed power in the city. Indeed, if this were the case civic and discursive space would have been contiguous, not exclusive. 23) The detour has come to an end; it is possible now to 'go back to the same way’ abandoned before. The question of women [i] that initially caused it is briefly mentioned (543a–c). 24) The account of the four lesser regimes [h] that [i] suspended at the beginning of the fifth book is resumed (543c–d). 25) The account of the four lesser regimes is actually part of answering [a] and [b], what justice and injustice are and which is to be preferred. It starts with the Muses’ tale and goes on without interruption throughout the eighth and most of the ninth book up to the 'proofs’ of the distance between the tyrant’s unhappiness and the 'king’s’ happiness (which implies an answer to [f] as well). The defeat of injustice is sealed through the mythical image of the soul (588b– 592a). There are both temporal and spatial references to the suspended question, which is now finally resolved: 'Let’s take up again the first things said (ta pro¯ta lekhthenta), those thanks to which we have come here (di ha deur he¯komen)’ (588b). The dialogue’s most important primary question is finally answered. 26) When it is understood what justice is, the answer given to [c] assumes a new meaning. According to Glaucon’s understanding of Socrates, the city of the philosopher, not his fatherland (patridi) but the one 'whose foundation we have just gone through’, has its place in the discourse ('te¯i en logois keimene¯i’ (592a–b)). Whether or not 146

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Socrates accepts Glaucon’s interpretation is not clear, for he offers two other topoi: In heaven (en ourano¯i) . . . a pattern (paradeigma) is laid up for the man who wants to see and found a city within himself on the basis of what he sees. It does not make any difference whether it is or will be somewhere. For he would mind the things of this city alone. (592b)11 The metaphorization of discourse should not be pressed too literally; it is enough that the relations of exclusion between real and discursive space are carefully maintained. 27) Now that one knows 'what justice is and how it by nature profits the man who possesses it’ (392b–c), it is possible to answer [x]. The criticism of poetry in the tenth book (595a–608c) is a delayed answer to the question of the speeches about humans that could not be answered without [a]. There is no allusion to the space of discourse but discursive time is mentioned as open to infinity (608c). The question of the immortality of the soul (which is not a guiding question, for it yields a yes/no answer) is but an accentuation of this aspect of the time of discourse without which [a] cannot be complete; so is the myth of Er. 28) The dialogue closes with a coda to the myth of Er in which 'an upward road (ano¯ hodou)’ is mentioned. This road cannot be the one leading to heaven, as it is described in the myth just told (614c), for it applies to the companions while still in this world. Socrates probably means the ascent which philosophy is (521c), and of which the discursive space of the dialogue, with its own partial ascent toward the Good, is already a part. All primary questions appear prior to the discussion of the Science of the Good; all but one are addressed anew after that discussion, and some even recur in the reverse order of their first appearance ([h], [i], [j], [l], [m]). The only exception is [f], which is answered in the course of the 'female drama’ 10), and which actually becomes obsolete when the happiness of the guardians merges with that of the 'king’ addressed in 25). The results of this reconstruction are presented in Figure 5.1. Repetition, reformulation and elaboration of previous questions are indicated by the lines linking the corresponding questions. A quick look at Figure 5.1 shows that the primary questions are ordered and organized throughout the dialogue in a way that 147

Key to guiding questions [a] Does justice pay more than injustice' [b] What are justice and injustice' [c] Watching a city coming into being in speech. [d] What is the education proper for guardians' [d*] The order of studies. [e] How to select the rulers' [e*] How to distribute knowledge' [f] In what sense are the guardians happy' [g] How is the soul constituted' [h] The nature of four types of lesser regimes. [i] How do women and children take part in the city' [j] Is the ideal city possible' [k] Who are the genuine philosophers' [l] Why are philosophers currently useless' [m] What is the greatest science' [n] What is the Good itself' [x] What is the proper way to speak about human affairs'

Figure 5.1 The space of discourse

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approaches a symmetrical order, of which the discussion of the Good is the focal point.12 It is immediately before and after the question of the Good is introduced that the symmetry is most clearly present while toward both ends of the text the symmetrical order tends to fade out. The first book and the last sections of the tenth lie entirely outside the symmetrical order: discursive space is framed in between drama and myth. The order of the dialogue’s primary questions is a skeleton of the symmetrical structure on which the whole dialogue is constructed. Most of the different segments of the discussion are organized in the course of the conversation in parallel passages, arranged in an order similar to the one exemplified by the primary questions: the question of the Good is the focal point; passages that precede it are on a par with passages that follow it in order of proximity to the focal point.13 THE NAME OF THE GAME The symmetrical structure intensifies the suspending moment in two ways. First, it gives regularity to the suspension of guiding questions, i.e. it imposes a form on the suspending moment, which in itself is but an interruption, a formless moment of differentiations and associations of consecutive points in the flow of time. Suspension is primarily a temporal concept (cf. above, pp. 110–11) and the symmetrical order of suspensions translates the temporal differentiations and associations into a space of synchronic relations. Second, being a textual structure yet an incomplete one, the symmetrical order establishes firmly, but also helps to disguise, a key suspending moment in the dialogue, the suspension of the dramatic frame. The incompleteness of the symmetrical order coalesces with the lack of dissolution of this crucial suspension. The pattern created by the symmetry according to which suspensions are dissolved blurs the fact that the suspension of the drama is not dissolved after all. The network of suspensions that the drama weaves (see above, p. 110 ff.) leads the discourse from an actual speech situation into an ideal one, i.e. into discourse’s exclusive zone. In this space the primary questions are suspended and answered in a more or less symmetrical order. The quest itself, however, because it is conducted in an ideal speech situation, presupposes the suspension of the dramatic frame as one of the conditions for its possibility. Yet, since the quest does not fall back upon an actual speech situation, i.e. since one never returns to the political context represented in the drama from which 149

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the primary question emerged, the original moment of suspension in which the claims of praxis were inhibited becomes a continuing act of silencing. Several writing techniques combine to render suspension into forgetfulness. Besides the symmetrical order and the early withdrawal of the dramatic space one should mention the myth that closes the dialogue. When the questioning comes to its end and the argument is concluded, Socrates’ companions do not turn back to practical matters but go on to story-telling; enchanted by the myth they are led to a realm beyond the reach of both deeds and argument. The ideal speech situation is not a model for an actual one; it is rather developed into a performance of the forbidden art, poetry. When such a performance takes place in the course and context of a philosophical discussion, it is discourse, not everyday business, that would be resumed when the performance ends. The language with which Socrates concludes the myth leaves no room for doubt. The lesson of the myth (621c–d) places readers and interlocutors back at the upward way, and the upward way is the philosophical ascent. The suspension which should now be resolved does not involve the dramatic situation with its practical affairs but the crucial question which is still hanging in the air, the question at the focal point of the whole network of suspension which the dialogue is, the question of the Good itself; without an adequate answer to it the truth of all answers remains in suspense (505a, 506a). The dialogue opens and ends with a story of descent and accomplishes an Aufhebung in between: the Homeric hero is transformed into a philosopher, and cunning, quarrelsome gods are made agents of pure justice (Brann 1967). But the sublimation of myth is not confined to its content or structure, for the very site of mythtelling is also displaced and transplanted from the theatre, the marketplace or the aristocrats’ parties into the space of discourse.14 Discursive space replaces civic space as the realm where the suspension which makes the poetic performance possible takes place. Myth, that is a story consciously told as fabulous, is now enveloped with logos, not with world affairs, and it is to that realm that one returns when the 'show’ is over. The competition between poetry and philosophy does not really end in the expulsion of the poet but in making him subservient in the philosopher’s castle, captive in the space of serious discourse. Stubborn readers may insist on practical questions. They may still ask what to do about one’s real city, about its terrible power struggles, corruption, suffering and evil, what to do when morning comes and one must go back to one’s Athens. The answer is given twice in the 150

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dialogue, in the sixth and ninth books (496b ff., 591c ff.). It is to mind the business of one’s soul rather than of one’s city and to be active in one’s own city, the city 'in speech’ just created, not that to which one belongs. It remains for us to see what kind of a political being the one who follows Socrates’ advice would be. But the main point is not that the practical question could be answered on the basis of what is said in the dialogue; rather, that it should not be asked at all. Readers who let themselves be led by the dialogue through its whole network of suspensions are probably on the way up now, preoccupied with the space of discourse, not of the city, striving for more knowledge, not more power, and searching for the one and only Good, not this or that thing commonly thought of as good. This is at least where the implied reader stands. The real reader, whom the ideal city cannot accommodate, for it is made for demonic figures, not for human beings (see above, p. 99 ff.), can become a citizen in that city of speech only by reenacting the role of the implied reader. (What we are doing, refusing to reenact that role, let me remind my reader, is to deconstruct it, to make its future reenactment somewhat less convenient.) Readers may become citizens in that city once they have mastered the rules of the game that they were reenacting while reading the dialogue. The name of the game, I suggest, once again, is suspension. Its main rule says that every move, i.e. argument (487d) which is not backed by an 'unsuspendable’ support, should be suspended till it is thus supported. The unsuspendable is the unhypotheton, the Form of the Good. The Republic is a play of suspensions toward the Good. Let me explicate this claim at a slower pace. Our conversation is but a game, implies Socrates in one of the more direct meta-discursive remarks in the dialogue ('I forgot that we were playing’ (536c)). The leisure required for playing was guaranteed early in the conversation (376d), in fact it consisted of free time borrowed from the night festival (328a). Twice their conversation is referred to as the telling of a tale (376d, 501e), a common form of entertainment, and once it is compared with draughts, a popular game (487b–d). In a later context philosophical discourse is compared to a game by way of criticism of too early an approach to dialectics (439c– e). Dialectics is not a game for those who are too young or unprepared but the most serious matter for the genuine philosopher. The conversation is a game for the professional, Socrates, but (gradually at least) a serious matter for his companions. For Socrates, however, there is no inversion of relations; he is always playing yet seriously so, he is always serious yet playfully so. 151

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A game is an organized form of suspension of daily routine and everyday business. When participation and (usually) victory, bring fame, money and other kinds of benefits, the game is intertwined with the economic, political and social systems, and suspension is merely a transition from one set of rules that govern daily activity to another. But if we look not at the institutionalized game – the Greek Olympic Games are not very different from ours in this respect – but at the occasional game of the amateur, we see that the suspending moment here is more radical and more genuine. In the occasional game, participants derive pleasure and satisfaction merely from playing it, and expect no other benefit even from winning. In other words, playing the game is an end in itself; hence, the suspension of the pursuit of ends that govern daily activity. If the game is not taken seriously, if the attitude 'it is only a game’ guides behavior during it, it cannot be played well. If, on the other hand, upon leaving the game one forgets that 'it was only a game’, the seriousness of life outside the game tends to be undermined. Seriousness toward the game is 'overplayed’: it is carried over from the field and misplaced in the sphere of 'real’ practice. The suspension of both everyday seriousness and playfulness toward the game while it is being played is necessary for it to be successful; the dissolution of this suspension is equally necessary for maintaining the playfulness of the game, its suspension from the sphere of routine, serious practice. Among amateurs (but usually not among professionals) the roles assigned to each player during a game are not carried over to or from the general social matrix. Within the game, one’s social role and status are supposed to be suspended. Only the players’ skill should determine roles and status in the game and decisions should be reached by common agreement. The more strictly this rule is maintained, the 'purer’ the game and the less it is played for purposes other than playfulness. The suspension of social differentiations within the game is also the suspension of the conflict-laden pursuit of ends beyond its scope. Competition within the game temporarily replaces competition outside it; there is supposed to be no connection between the two (though sometimes, when a game is institutionalized and intertwined with other social systems, playing or winning may act as a compensation for losing real battles). Suspension is not merely a moment in the enactment of a game but the condition that makes it possible. In the ideal game, suspension is all-pervasive and complete. The real game presupposes the ideal condition and realizes that condition exactly to the extent that it is 'only 152

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a game’, i.e. not a regular activity, with a fixed place within a sociopolitical system. The more intense the suspending moment, the purer the game becomes, i.e. the more independent and self-sufficient. Suspension, one may say, is a primordial rule of all games: it gives a necessary framework to the entire set of rules that constitute the game. The Republic unfolds as the account of a game. It grows out and in place of a night festival and – as we already saw – a network of suspensions is developed from the Piraean affair onward. The game’s participants take their conversation, i.e. their game, seriously, though it takes them some time to do so. There are numerous indications of this, mainly in the repeated pleas to Socrates not to give up the argument (367b, 450b–c, 471c, 506d). The players are mostly amateurs; the only professional, though one of a very special kind, is Socrates. Playing with inexperienced players, Socrates tries not so much to win the game as to teach the players its rules (except for the first book, but there we have a different kind of game, and the two main players seem both to be professionals). Socrates is reluctant to use complex moves, to which they would not be able to respond, and he refrains from using his strongest cards, his opinions about the Good (506e) and his knowledge of dialectics (533a). But he is not abusing their inexperience in playing the game of draughts where speeches are used instead of counters (487b, d). Adeimantus accuses Socrates of cornering his companions and forcing them to accept an incredible claim, namely that philosophers are about to assume leadership in the city. That this is incredible under the present circumstances Socrates readily agrees. What Adeimantus fails to understand, and Socrates works hard to explain once more, is the distinction between the ideal and the actual, that which ought to be the case and that which is the case. Socrates does not try to prove that a translation from the former to the latter is necessary, but that it is not impossible. Adeimantus thus learns a lesson in suspension: he learns to suspend the spell of the present and to free himself from being confined to 'facts’ in order to look for and see the possibilities of a different future. He learns, in fact, the first steps in the art of social critique, which always involves a suspension of the domination of the present and its 'facts’, as well as a problematization of the role an existing social order allocates to the critic as one of its citizens. The dialogue is not merely an account of a game: it is constructed like a game which any reader may reenact. Unlike a sports news report of a game, the account is constructed in such a way that reading it means playing the game again with the original team, although it 153

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will not be quite the same game – no two games are the same, except in that the rules do not change. Reading is interpreting, which means that the game can never be reenacted as a precise copy of the 'original’.15 But then, the reenactment is not itself the aim of the account being constructed as a game. The aim is rather to teach the rules of the game, to let the reader master the game by reenacting its play, to produce new potential players. In this way the text is free from the dangers of abusing readers (cf. Phd. 275d–e). Its aim is not to give anyone a melody to sing forever, and to let the scholastic police worry about possible deviations; rather, its aim is to give one a field in which to play more new melodies, if one only wishes. Its hope is even more radical: it is to confine all future melodies to the field whose main lines the text so carefully draws. The composition of the dialogue as a game creates a typical Platonic agreement between form and content, although agreement here applies only and fully to the meta-discursive level in the dialogue. Content is what is said about the discourse, i.e. that it is a game, that it involves suspension, that it inverts the relations between theory and practice; the form is drawn by the way meta-discursive remarks (e.g. spatial metaphors) fall into a pattern that reveals the rules of the game. We have gone through enough details in the exposition of the text to know that 'game’ is not a metaphor to describe discourse but an actual way to construct it, and that it is not a contingent invention of a single story-teller but a definite, quite strict set of rules for the exchange of questions and answers. These rules, I argue, are provided by the organization of the discursive space through the various textual strategies (symmetry, suspension of questions, suspensions of the dramatic frame) uncovered above. The discursive space is constructed to direct and constrain the movement within it, it works as a system of rarefication of possible discursive acts. The regularity of suspension, reformulation and repetition of several discursive units, mainly the primary question, suggests that the discursive movement is governed by other rules besides the most explicit one, i.e. to always admit the force of the better argument. The spatial metaphor unfolds the discursive field by establishing synchronic relations among certain discursive units. These synchronic relations were found to be organized meaningfully, i.e. with regularity of suspensions, repetitions, etc., and their impact to penetrate the dialogue as a whole. It is through this structure of synchronic relations, not due to a single spatial metaphor or the cumulative effect of several such metaphors, that the meaning of the discursive space, i.e. its 154

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function in the text, should be understood. The discursive space is the field of the game. Its inner organization signifies the rules of the game like the white lines drawn on the grass of a football field. Not every rule has a place within this system of signification drawn in space, but every move within the field is confined by it. In this way the organization of space, being a system of signification of rules, constitutes the syntax of the game, i.e. of philosophical discourse. Rules carry the identity of the game, yet exist independently of any particular play; in the same way the syntax for our game is independent of the particular play which the dialogue embodies, the dramatic speech situation in Cephalus’ house, and of the pragmatics of the speech situation in general. We have been able to decipher syntactic relations among discursive units only when presupposing an understanding of their meanings and analysing shifts in the agents and modes of enunciation. But this does not mean that the syntax we have uncovered can be reduced to either the semantics or the pragmatics of discourse. This syntax provides rules for the exchange of questions and answers and the progress of arguments in the philosophical conversation. Regardless of the subject-matter (semantics) and the politics and roles of the speakers involved (pragmatics), it governs the course of the conversation and directs it toward a focal point, which transcends the discursive field, yet serves as the ultimate standard for any move within it. However, the focal point at the end of the discursive movement, the unhypotheton, has no meaning expressible within discourse besides its structural function, i.e. being the end of the movement created by the syntax of discourse. In other words, unlike justice or pleasure, the Good is part not of the semantics of philosophical discourse but of its syntax. The basic rule in the game is to transcend, or not to be content with, any given 'discursive situation’, before the ultimate standard is reached. From this ultimate standard follow justification and refutation of any possible belief. The ultimate standard itself, as the source and foundation of the possibility of justification of beliefs, cannot be given to justification. Justification requires moving beyond the claim to be justified and backing it with another claim already known to be true. But precisely these two moves, going beyond the unhypotheton and laying it under (i.e. hanging it upon) something else, are denied: the Good is the very end (telei) of the intelligible realm (532b) in which the discursive movement comes to rest (511b, 532e). As indicated by its name, the unhypotheton is not laid under anything besides itself, nothing 155

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suspends it, it is the source of all suspension. For Plato, hypothesis in the real sense is a stepping-stone toward that which does not need support from anything else, and from which all hypotheses are hung if true, or fall if false. The hypothesis is placed under the ultimate basis of knowledge as the suspended is hung from its suspensor.16 More importantly, the notion of hypothesis, as it is employed in that difficult passage in the sixth book, conveys the double meaning of suspension. When a hypothesis is used as a beginning, e.g. by geometricians, truth and knowledge are suspended. This suspension lasts till the hypothesis finds its support in an unqualified true proposition from which it is derived, or else is refuted. In both cases, when hypotheses are used according to their literal sense, i.e. as something put under something else (i.e. as suspended by that which is above it), the suspension of truth by the hypothesis would be dissolved when going upward. This upward movement brings the abolition of the hypothesis ('tas hupotheseis anairousa’ (533c)), as if the hypothesis were 'lifted up’ (anairesai) to the status of the true proposition or actually destroyed (anairesai), i.e. refuted.17 The upward movement dissolves the suspending moment; whether verified or refuted the hypothesis is no longer a hypothesis. The unhypotheton is therefore the focal point of all possible suspensions in the discursive field. Every truth claim is in fact a suspension (deferment) of truth if it is not suspended from (supported by) the unhypotheton. But also, every truth claim should be suspended (and is suspended in the course of the dialogue) in order to reach that ultimate suspension (support) which the Good provides. Reaching that ultimate suspension requires, however, a long process of suspensions (deferments) of truth claims (from common beliefs to scientific knowledge), which in its turn requires a continuing suspension of the practical realm with its own claims and demands. The Good is the source of all suspensions (deferments) by, and within, the discursive field precisely because it is supposed to be the ultimate suspensor (supporter), endowing every being with its being and existence ('to einai te kai t¯en ousian’) (509b) and knowability (508d, e). The philosopher who ascends from the cave would recognize the Good to be the cause of all that is right and fair in everything ('aute¯ ortho¯n te kai kao¯n aitia’), the source of truth and intelligence ('ale¯theian kai noun’) (517c). This, or something like it, is the case, Socrates hopes without certainty (517b). The dialectician should be able 'to separate the Form of the Good from all other things and 156

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distinguish it in the argument’, especially in contrast to the many things that seem to be good but are only the Good’s phantoms (534b, c). But all this lies beyond the scope of our present game. Reaching the unhypotheton would certainly change the nature of the game, for after that point 'the argument . . . goes back down again to an end, making no use of anything sensed in any way (hauto¯s epi teleute¯n katabaine¯i, aisthe¯to¯i pantapasin oudeni proskhro¯menos)’ (511b). Whatever this movement through the Forms means, it is not the discursive movement that the dialogue now presents. The questions whose answers were postponed until the conversation arrives at the image of the Good are not answered with the knowledge of the Good in mind, but with a promise that such knowledge is possible and worth pursuing. The Good appears on the horizon of the discursive space through various images, not as it is in itself. The promise with which the dialogue proceeds to answer the suspended questions – that there is such a thing as the Good, and that it is the cause of being and knowledge – is no different from the promise of light outside the cave (517b) and of the unhypotheton at the end of the discursive journey (511b). In other words, the being and nature of the Good as an ultimate foundation for Being and Knowledge is but a hypothesis, yet a hypothesis which governs the whole discursive space. Were it not so, our game would have lost its playfulness, it would have become a serious deduction from the ultimate source of knowledge. It would have also lost its purpose, which is to teach the rules of the pursuit of the Good, not to announce what is the Good, or any other Form for that matter, Justice included.18 For the pursuit to be genuine, the thing searched for must remain in a realm of uncertainty. Hence the absence of the Good itself and its presence only as absent, through the re-presentation of its images. It is in this sense that I maintain the Good to be a key in the syntax of the discursive space of the Republic and a lacuna in its semantics. It is also in this respect, of an invisible, dominating presence, that the Good should bes compared to the generic tyrant, the one exemplified in the dialogue through the figure of legendary Gyges (cf. pp. 31–4). Socrates speaks reluctantly about the Good, and only indirectly. He is willing to speak only about the 'child of the Good’ and Glaucon considers this a debt that should be paid in due time (506e–507a).19 The whole discussion of the Good is but a loan given to Socrates by his companions, which allows him to give an indirect account of the Good by way of analogy and images (the sun, 506a–509d; the line, 509d–511e; and the cave, 514a–517a). What they actually lend him is 157

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time; what he owes them is all his knowledge and/or opinions about the Good. If Socrates becomes their debtor, it means that the knowledge of the Good already belongs to them, except that they are still unable to receive and handle it properly, like minors who still rely upon their guardian and are not allowed access to their property. They are owners who wait and prepare themselves for the moment when they will be ready to assume responsibility for what is already in their possession. This means that they are actually possessed by the Socratic inquiry, charmed by its spell, willing to delay but not to give up access to the knowledge of the Good. A framework of suspension is set for the discourse of the Good. Within this framework the Good is represented by images. First, the account is given by what is 'most similar’ to it (506e), the sun, and then in the context of the movement toward the Good, by the images of the line and the cave. Representation is another form of suspension. That which is supposed to be present is absent, instead it is represented by another. Any act that involves re-presentation, whether in practical affairs or in the context of cognition and recognition, depends upon the proper transition or translation from the representing agent to the represented one. In other words, correct representation must come to its successful end in the presence of that which was absent at the moment of representation. Representation as a model for cognition stands or falls with the possibility of replacing the representation with the re-presence of the thing to be known. Representation as a legal or political practice stands or falls with the freedom and will of a representative to encounter her/his (absent) represented client, i.e. to reassert legitimacy as a re-presentative. Representation is genuine as long as there are suspending moments in the act of representation itself, i.e. as long as the represented absent encounters or is juxtaposed with its representative. That which is absent must be present for a while, at least for its representative. Readers of the Republic will never know if the representation of the Good is a genuine one (this is but another way of saying that the question of the Good itself remains suspended). If the puzzling way in which the Good is represented intrigues them they will probably try to find out. Generations of readers, from Aristotle to Hegel and beyond, have done so, with questionable success. Every one of them, however, is a witness to Plato’s own success in his attempt to lure his readers into the riddle of the unhypotheton. This impossible discursive creature, whose paradoxical features seem to be directly drawn from the realm of myth, is supposed to be at one and the same time, and 158

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for all times to come, discourse’s ultimate foundation and its final end, discourse’s horizon as well as one of its objects (as a Form, 534b–c). It is an entity that transcends the realm of being ('huperekhontos; huperbole¯s’ (509b–c)) but shines immanently from any real being. Some of these paradoxes, perhaps all, may be dissolved, but only in the framework of a metaphysical doctrine of the kind the Republic never provides.20 In making one’s way toward such a doctrine, which was what most philosophers did at least until Hegel and Husserl, one is already playing the game of the Republic. In the Republic there appears for the first time in western metaphysics the concept of an absolute being, 'the Good in itself’, as a special entity, whose role is to be at one and the same time the transcendent foundation of reality and knowledge and the governing law of the philosophical discourse. In order to match the Good with its discursive representative, the network of suspension must be woven far beyond the point where Plato left it in the Republic. This applies both to the continuing suspension of the practical sphere, which the Republic imitates through its dramatic framework, and to the continuing effort to 'destroy hypothesis’ within discourse itself. What this means is that from the moment the Good appears at the discourse’s horizon and is taken seriously enough, i.e. not as its syntactic, governing rule but as its most important object, there occurs a total inversion of all pairs of opposite values involved in the original suspension. From the moment the Good is taken seriously its absence from the discursive field dominates the discursive activity and subordinates all other activities to discourse. To 'touch’ the unhypotheton with the argument (511b) becomes the most important task, contemplation becomes a genuine practical matter, the most urgent one; only those discursive practices that bring one closer to the Good are useful (see above, pp. 114–18). The realm of practice, from whose perspective philosophers seem useless (487 ff.), appears now as worthless as the contemplating philosopher appeared before. Practical matters lose all urgency, whether in politics or in the sciences; and finally, skills and knowledge employed in the solution of practical problems are considered rather useless. What all this means is that the real suspending moment is one in which practical matters interfere with discursive activity. Suspension has reversed its course. Before the appearance of the Good, practical matters were taken as suspended by that which they usually envelop, a short period of entertainment, in ritual, play or speeches. Now it is continuing discursive activity which is (taken to be) interrupted 159

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occasionally by some unavoidable necessities of daily life, the life of the polis, religious and social duties, and the bare, minimal needs of the body. If the Good is taken seriously, suspension should be carried from the game into the daily life that envelops the game. But since suspension has reversed its course, this game becomes the serious matter par excellence. It has lost its playfulness, there is nothing more serious than the playfulness of this game. (This is precisely Callicles’ complaint against Socrates’ attitude toward philosophy; cf. Gor. 484c ff.). Everyday seriousness becomes ridiculous, for practical matters assume the role previously assigned to the occasional game. At last, reversing the course of suspension forces the game from the text into real life, that is from writing to speech, from dead to living discourse. Never mind that writing created the game of suspensions, that textual strategies organized discursive suspensions into regular patterns. Never mind, for if you do mind this suspension would not be able to reverse its course and would appear again as nothing but the name of the game, i.e. merely a game. The traces of writing must be erased in order to make possible the continuation of the suspending movement beyond the discursive space of that one particular text.21 One way to do just that, to erase writing’s traces, is by the constant use of spatial metaphors. Being reflections of the state of discourse, spatial metaphors never reflect it as embodied in a text; rather, they posit the arguments in a speech situation, though an ideal one. They endow discourse with a space, which replaces the space of actual speech situations, yet at the same time overshadows the other space of discourse, and another system of synchronic relations, the material space of writing. Writing offers a spatialization of the actual speech situation that does not need the metaphor. In fact, if taken in the context of writing, the spatial metaphor would be grounded; it would lose its power to transfer discursive relations from a temporal to a spatial context, for this transference already occurs when a speech or a dialogue is inscribed. The spatial metaphor needs real movement of speaking bodies, which it so conspicuously conceals, in order to be effective. It offers a way to spatialize an actual speech situation that seems to be an alternative to writing and, perhaps, a way to overcome it. It opens the field for a much more serious game than writing, according to a famous passage in the Phaedrus. There the opposition between the written and the spoken discourse is expressed in terms of two games, of which one is a waste of time if not a real danger, and the other is 'the real thing’. 160

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Writing, according to that passage, was invented by legendary Theuth, who also invented 'numbers and calculation, geometry and astronomy, not to speak of draughts and dice’ (Phdr. 274c–d). Writing is not a science like the former but a game like the latter, though a dangerous one if taken as more than a mere game. It relates to the spoken discourse as the 'garden of Adonis’ planted 'during the summer time . . . in a holiday spirit (de¯ paidias te kai heurtes charin)’ relates to the field of a 'sensible farmer’ who 'sows his seeds in the suitable soil’ and at the right time (ibid. 276b). Writing is but an unserious form of recreation (paidias) that leaves no traces behind; real traces are only those left in one’s soul, while inscription is actually a method of forgetfulness, like writing words in water (ibid. 276c). A serious man of discourse will sow his seeds in literary gardens . . . and write them when he does write by way of pastime (paidian), collecting a store of refreshment both for his own memory, against the day 'when age oblivious comes,’ and for all such as tread in his footsteps; and he will take pleasure in watching the tender plants grow up. And when other men resort to other pastimes, regaling themselves with drinking parties and such like, he will doubtless prefer to indulge in the recreation I refer to. – And what an excellent one it is, Socrates! How far superior to the other sort is the recreation that a man finds in words, when he discourses about justice and other topics you speak of. (ibid. 276e) The opposition between the spoken and the written word is a topic of considerable prominence in Plato’s writing. Plato, it is often claimed, gave priority to spoken over written discourse and tried to preserve its sense in his own writing. Preserving something of the eros of a living speech situation is supposed to be the main motive that pushed Plato to use and develop the literary form of the dialogue to such an extent. Plato (of the early and middle dialogues at least), it is commonly held, embodied the philosophical conversation within an intricate dramatic situation in which speech and speaker are made to fit each other intimately.22 Yet the rupture between the dramatic and the discursive space shown above should lead one to suspect that this way of looking at the matter is far too simplistic. Our tedious journey through the discursive space of the Republic should teach us that Plato did not 161

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write dialogues out of fear of losing the effects of the actual speech situation but in the hope of overcoming them; being fully aware of the political status and psychological effects of the actual speech situation, he wrote directly against it. The wrong assumption that ascribes to Plato a longing for the lively Socratic conversation comes from a culture whose texts have long lost their contact with actual speech situations and from writers who mourn that distance and are looking at Plato and his culture with admiring nostalgia.23 Yet fourthcentury BC Athens is not a culture of the death of the book but of its birth; it is a culture in which most reading was actually listening, in which the book was still a marginal phenomenon, even if, and perhaps for this very reason, a somewhat suspicious one, and in which the authority of an author was far from being self-evident. Indeed, at the end of the fifth century writing had become an established mode of communication used not only for preserving (which it had been for quite some time) but for exchanging ideas and for maintaining close contact among those who shared intellectual interests, not only economic or political ones (interests which writing had served for quite some time). Books were circulated in the agora and were part of the merchant’s goods; literacy was a major component of the institutionalized education of the youth; even oratory was helped by the now common use of the written word. The presence of the written word already threatened to rob the privileged speaker, in the context of the religious ritual or of the circulation of poetry, of his special advantages and power. With writing widespread, the democratization of cultural life was made possible, as even the most revered texts gradually became accessible to many. However, despite the changing status of the written word in Greek culture, writing was not yet taken for granted, its political significance was not clearly grasped, and its relation to oral discourse not yet established. The Greeks still admired the spoken word and continued to practice very sophisticated forms of oral performance in the theater, the agora and the assembly. Education, even in its more advanced form in the schools, was still far from being dominated by writing. In fact, for a long time, the written text only accompanied oral performances of the rhapsodist, the rhetorician or the Sophist, and drew its authority from the presence, lived or recollected, of a performing speaker. This is the literal core of Plato’s critique of writing in the Phaedrus: that it lacks such a presence, hence is devoid of authority, and hence is dangerous, for it can lend itself to the 162

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manipulation of any uneducated reader or listener. The task of Platonic writing, however, is not to deny its own authority, but to legitimize itself while being aware of the deficiencies of the medium, without giving in to the even more dangerous effects of public speech situations. Two forms of discourse coexisted and were in distribution and constant competition. The one was initially and predominantly political, even when not directly addressing public matters, for its main domain of proliferation was the public space. The other’s relation to the political sphere is less clear. It made the discursive 'capital’ accessible to the many, but in its moment of conception it was withdrawn from the public deep into the private domain. In writing, the discursive performance itself was born in privacy and was usually invisible, at least from the point of view of the audience at large. Although it often called for, and was regularly supplied by, a translation into the other form of discourse, it might have always done without it. With writing available one may judge for oneself, free from the performative effects of the spoken word, from the spatio-temporal constraints it imposes on the practitioner and the listener. Writing opens possibilities whose consequences cannot be foreseen by those who witness its emergence into the center of intellectual life. For them it is at the same time dangerous and tempting, a possible route to great influence, even if not yet to immortalization, but also a channel of withdrawal, an alternative sphere of activity. Writing as the main discursive medium is the condition for the possibility of the dissociation (apparent or not) of discourse from practice and of the concealment or castration of discourse’s practicality. It is a medium Plato had to use and conceal at the same time: he had to use it in order to undermine the hegemonic mode of communication, i.e. the political-public speech situation; he had to conceal it, at least as a possible political act, in order not to hinder its growing legitimation. What is at stake, in fact, is the very distinction between the private and public domains, and legitimate access to both. The philosopher should not simply write texts which are better than those of the others competing with him on positions in the field of discourse. In the existing politico-discursive conditions, philosophy rivalled poetry or rhetoric not for their texts but for their performative effects (603c– 608a), and public life was a continuous struggle to reshape various institutionalized speech situations.24 Under these conditions the strategy of philosophical writing is to criticize the distorting effects of 163

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its rivals and to deny its own effects, which means at the same time to undermine the very politics of speech while denying any politics to philosophical writing. The creation of a hiatus between two kinds of writing, and between speech and writing, serves precisely this purpose. It makes philosophical writing a legitimate private matter, against more suspicious private speech situations, and at the same time reshapes the demarcation between the private and the public and reevaluates both. This has to be understood against a more general historical background. In Pericles’ time and largely due to his unusual personality, Athens became a magnet for intellectuals from all over the Hellenic world. The creation of a cultural center, the political freedom to pursue new ideas (and freedom there was, in spite of persecutions), and the material support of an affluent community made Athens much more than an inviting shelter for the wandering bard or Sophist. Athens became a place where intellectuals settled for long periods of time, for there was no shortage of audience or money, and this in turn created the conditions for attracting more interested learners from other cities. Around the more prominent figures, and probably the richer, there emerged a more or less stable group of disciples. With the ability of some intellectuals to remain in one school and to attract a hard core of disciples, the school emerged as a defined social institution, which gradually came to occupy a place within the polis, and was defined both culturally and geographically. One of the most important aspects of this new phenomenon (which should be carefully distinguished from the religious cults, the Pythagorean included) was its non-committal relationship with the formal political system. The locus of intellectual activity shifted from the public to the private domain and from the city’s center to its periphery; already the Sophists used to conduct their study in private houses (cf. 601e); Plato’s Academy, it is well known, was located on private land adjacent to the shrine for the hero Hekademos. The opposition between serious and non-serious discourse found its natural social embodiment in the growing opposition between two kinds of discursive activity: one was still carried on in the streets, the agora and the assembly, and was directly political; the other was carried on within the shelter provided by certain rich citizens, and its practical significance was becoming more and more ambiguous. However, these two forms of discourse are both constituted as speech situations; the opposition between them is actually a product 164

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and reproduction of the opposition between the private and the public. Philosophical writing is directed against both, being both a critique of the political speech situations and an alternative to the private ones.25 Just like invisible Gyges or the ideal city, writing is a tertiary entity that breaks an existing classification. (Being neither strictly private nor entirely public, neither strictly serious nor merely playful, it can be dealt with only within a mythical framework.) Giving up hope of transforming the political, it strives to establish a new private domain that would still be shared by many and that would somehow absorb the virtues of the public domain without giving in to its vices. This means, of course, a radical challenge to the existing political order, with its institutionalized means of communication and modes of discourse. But if this were understood, if the critique of the actual speech situations became part of the selfawareness of Plato’s contemporary readers, they would have been immediately thrown back into the realm from which Plato worked so hard to elevate them. They would have found themselves back in the space of the city, for the critique of contemporary speech situations and their attempted replacement with the game of the ideal one meant taking a direct part in the city’s political strife. It even meant a direct threat to the organization of civic space, at least to the way it channeled speech in the public domain, that is to the significance of the agora or the assembly as the stage for the ongoing debates so crucial for the life of the polis. All this worked, however, against the declared goals of the serious game, which were to dissociate a reformed discursive activity from contemporary politics. Writing had to reconcile the rational and the political within the metaphorical space of discourse, to confine politics to the soul, which meant, in fact, to the space of discourse the only one in which reason could rule. Therefore, the ideal speech situation should not have been understood by readers as a direct attack on the actual ones; therefore, the presence of writing should have been suppressed; therefore, the real game should have become a form of speech and should stand in direct opposition to writing. The game of suspensions constructed with the full mastery of the art of writing must have disowned writing. Contemplation and the reflective moment it involved were born out of this game as distinct and nonpractical activities that could not – and still hardly can – look into their own mode of existence within the written text, let alone comprehend their practical significance.

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The Republic is a text in which the scattered textual acts constitute a unified deed: that of making room for philosophy, creating for philosophy a space within the city and yet outside it, unharmed by the city’s upheavals, at once a refuge for Greek man and the transformation of his contours. Those who claim that the Republic is a political failure are blind to this aspect of the text; they fail to see how much they themselves are still trapped in that twilight zone between the real city and the real haven that Plato prepared for them. Philosophy, written philosophy at least, was born out of an intricate system of suspensions of practice and its everyday language; it was born as a game, itself a sort of suspension, which became a suspension of all games in favor of a new type of seriousness, but also of every man’s seriousness in favor of a new type of game. All this is written large on that gravestone covering philosophy’s birthplace, the Republic. Like Socrates, we, too, tend to forget that when involved in philosophical discourse 'we are just playing’. This forgetfulness does not mean just taking ourselves too seriously but, more importantly, overlooking both the life context the philosophical play presupposes and the regime it serves. Like the young, immature dialecticians we tend 'to play with the arguments’, 'always using them to contradict’, forgetting how serious the game is, what constitutes it as a game, and what makes it so serious. I have used a Platonic text to demonstrate a conception of the practical dimension of philosophical writing. Through a systematic reconstruction of the text’s different layers, and an analysis of the interrelations among them, I have deconstructed Plato’s seriousness regarding the play he invented. Platonism still pervades the philosophical discussion, at least in the sense that the practical dimension of philosophical writing is still largely hidden. Perhaps a deconstructed Plato will contribute to the overcoming of this residue of Platonism. But even Plato’s deconstruction cannot be played out entirely outside his own field, without taking any part in the game he invented, without sharing his love for truth. Only a will to know can tell that the search for the ultimate truth is based on deception, 'For we too take our fire from the same ancient source’. But you will have gathered what I am driving at, namely, that it is still a metaphysical faith upon which our faith in science rests – that even we seekers after knowledge today, we godless antimetaphysicans still take our fire, too, from the flame lit by a faith 166

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that is thousands of years old, that Christian faith which was also the faith of Plato, that God is the truth, that truth is divine. – But what if this should become more and more incredible, if nothing should prove to be divine any more unless it were error, blindness, the lie – if God himself should prove to be our most enduring lie' (Nietzsche, The Gay Society, 344)

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1 GREEK, ALL TOO GREEK 1. Following Adam’s reading: 't¯oi Gugou t¯ou Ludou’ (Adam 1963: I, 70, 126– 7). Another suggested reading is: 'Gug¯ei t¯oi tou Ludou progon¯oi’ (Gyges, ancestor of the Lydian)’. See Adam (ibid.). 2. The reading of the manuscript (II) is problematic: ekhein rarely has the meaning of 'have on’ or 'wear’ in Attic Greek and the nudity of the corpse, implied by the phrase 'touton de allo men ekhein ouden’, is not mentioned by later sources. However, Adam shows that the emendation that omits ekhein and on and replaces touton with toutou, to read 'he took nothing from the corpse except a gold ring on its hand and went out’ is unjustified (Adam 1963: I, 71, 127–8). 3. For attempts to relate the two stories, see Adam (1963: I, 126–7) and Frutiger (1930). Adam claims that 'the resemblance between the two stories . . . is confined to two incidents, viz. the joint murder of the reigning sovereign by the queen and her paramour, and their succession to the throne’. Such a comparison does not throw much light on the philosophical importance of the myth or on the importance of the mythical sediment in the philosophical argument. 4. The story is mentioned by several ancient authors: Cicero, De officiis, III.38 (where historical Gyges, not his ancestor, is mentioned); Lucian, Bis accusatus sive tribunalia 21, No. 41 (where only the ring is mentioned); Philostratus, The Life of Apollonius of Tyana 89, 28; Heroikos., 137.31; Strabo XIII. 626; Diogenes Laërtius, II.20. 5. I am following here the general line taken by post-structuralist students of Greek mythology, mainly French anthropologists and historians, who have looked for the logic of Greek mythical discourse and tried to reconstruct its cultural significance and social functions in its proper historical contexts (Vernant 1980, 1982; Detienne 1967, 1977, 1979, 1981; Vidal-Naquet 1986; Loraux 1986; and Gordon 1981 among others). They all share the view that there was never a hiatus in Ancient Greece between 'irrational’, mythical modes of thought and rational ones, and they read Platonic myths as sources for the genealogy and analysis of mythical

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NOTES discourse. What this approach implies and systematically corroborates is that when Plato manipulates myths for the sake of rational arguments, thus controlling their explicit contents, he is still a captive of their inner logic, of the basic structures of oppositions and homologies to which myths give expression, call attention and reassert even while problematizing. Philosophers have hardly noted the consequences of this approach to myth for the interpretation of the Platonic corpus, with one important exception: Jacques Derrida’s 'Plato’s pharmacy’ (Derrida 1981). My own reading of the Republic is indebted to this work, as well as to the other post-structuralist writings mentioned above, in ways only partially suggested by further references. But against the deconstructivist tendency to undermine the text as a unique discursive unit, I will not abandon the attempt to reconstruct the unity of the dialogue; this unity, however, will be displaced from the realm of philosophical contents or literary structures to that of political action. 6. In the Republic itself, a work that calls for poets to be banished from the city, Plato relates three myths, briefly mentions another, and tells an anecdote which, he says, could be worthy of credence. All the myths are indicated explicitly as such: what 'they tell’ (muthologusin)’ about Gyges (359d–e); the noble lie, 'something Phoenician . . . told by the poets (h¯os phasin hoi poi¯etai)’ (414c–415d); the tyrant who ‘act[ed] out the myth (t¯oi muth¯oi) told in connection with Lycaean Zeus’ (565d), and the myth (apologou) of Er (614b–621d). The anecdote is something Socrates heard (ti pisteuo) and believes about Leontius (439e). Besides the manipulation of old myths and the invention of new ones, there are other occasions in which Plato evokes or alludes to Homeric tales (e.g. 406a, 468e–469b). Segal reconstructs 'a mythical plane of organization’ in the text on a par with the philosophical one and shows how the former serves and complements the latter (Segal 1978). Brann reconstructs the entire dialogue as a new version of Heracles’ descent into Hades (Brann 1967): Socrates is the heroic descender, Thrasymachus is the hydra, and the secondary deed is the foundation of the best city (Heracles’ secondary deed (parergon) was to release Theseus who founded Athens). In general, however, most interpreters who take the mythical layer seriously and do not try to explain it away mainly account for its uses and abuses by the philosophical argument. The mythical layer was interpreted as an attempt to bring mythical thought under the control of rational discourse (e.g. Frutiger 1930; Crombie 1962:153–4; Brumbraugh 1957:106ff), and to use it for educational purposes (e.g. Smith 1986; Wood 1987). Plato’s use of myth was said to betray his recognition that his new mode of writing had a limited ability to grasp or transmit certain truths (e.g. Friedlander 1969: I, 189–210; Rosen 1968:207–11). Myth was also read as an expression of Plato’s dialogue with the tradition within and against which he was writing, and of course, as an expression of his own art of persuasion and mastery of writing (e.g. Gadamer 1980: esp. ch. 4; Nussbaum 1986: esp. 122–35). Almost without exception, all these works turn to the text from the point of view of the author and look for what he meant to say, understanding myth as a powerful tool in the hand of a master of the art. Against the assumption that underlies all these works I assume that Plato

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7.

8.

9.

10.

was not as free of mythical discourse as the critique he launched against it implies, or as his modern interpreters have made him out to be. In the same vein, I assume that what Plato meant to say is often less important than what he could have said, or even was forced to say by those constraints which mythical discourse still imposed, even when myths were taken as incredible and their messages censored. The custom is one of the 'truths our fathers in the past distinguished (Herodotus I.8). It is worth noting that Herodotus’ Gyges supplements his appeal to tradition by an (ibid.). old saying: 'let each look at his own With a slight variation of wording and even less change of the literal sense, one gets Socrates’ definition of justice in the fourth book: 'having (Rep. 433e). The and doing each one’s own truth of the old custom is contrasted by Gyges to the transgression imposed by the king, who insists that 'men’s ears are less credulous than their eyes’ (Herodotus I. 8). Thus sight and hearing, vision and speech, are contrasted as two possible sources of knowledge and legitimation of beliefs. About the importance of custom and its transgression in Herodotus’ story of Gyges, see Benardete (1969: ch. 1); Hartog (1988:33ff.). We have only indirect evidence for Plato’s familiarity with Herodotus’ writing, but it is quite convincing. See Adam (1963:79); Lobel (1950); Page (1951). There can be no evidence, of course, that Herodotus did not know Plato’s version of the myth or that Plato is consciously playing with a theme from Herodotus. We know, however, that Herodotus was aware of the link between invisibility, public surveillance and the power of a despot (see the story of Deioces (Herodotus I.97–100; Benardete 1969: ch. 1)). It is likely that Herodotus, when telling the story of Gyges, would have used it to exemplify that link had he been familiar with Plato’s version. Dik¯e may be more appropriately translated as punishment or retribution and it keeps that meaning in the context of human affairs as well (e.g. obligation to pay debts and tribute in international relations (Herodotus V.84)). Dik¯e always indicates a pattern of action and reaction (Immerwahr 1966:187 ff.) In contrast to dik¯e Herodotus uses dikaiosyn¯e in a strict political context, especially regarding king-subject relations (I. 96, II. 151, VI. 86, VII. 52, 164). Immerwahr translates dikaiosyn¯e as loyalty (1966:105– 6, 187), which may be an accurate translation in Herodotus’ case but loses both the root of the abstract noun and its later associations. For example, a whole family is punished for the transgression of an individual (III. 118–19); Athens will be punished for the sins of individuals (V. 89, VII. 133). The distribution of punishment and rewards long after his death to the descendants of the person who committed the offence is common to the conceptions of justice of Hesiod, Solon, Theognis and Aeschylus. Dodds claims that the family remains a moral unit even after the emergence of the individual in Greek rational consciousness (Dodds 1959:33). Some of the rhetoricians still speak about inheriting responsibility for the wrongdoing of an ancestor (e.g. Lysias 6.20; Democritus 57.27; Isocrates, Busiris 25). As for Herodotus himself, the principle of individuation is applicable in his text only in the context of

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11.

12.

13.

14.

prosperity and decline with no fixed relation to moral consideration (see Immerwahr 1966:153, 310). 'The strongest moral form the Homeric man knows is not the fear of gods but respect for public opinion, aidos’ (Dodds 1959:18). A shameful act is also ugly (aiskhros), its opposite is handsome (kalon); external appearances are always at stake (ibid.: 26). On the other hand, when gods become moral agents and their gaze becomes all-pervasive, aidos tends to become ate¯, guilt. The moralizing gaze knows no spatial limits, and at the same time morality is internalized. However, Dodds’ classification of shame vs. guilt culture (ibid.: chs 1 and 2) simplifies the relation between the two concepts, and is wrong in confining shame to a pre-Archaic age (see ch. 2, note 20). The relations between the order of power, its exercise and distribution, and the organization of space in society have recently attracted the attention of scholars in various disciplines. Although some insights may be drawn from Marx, Durkheim and Lévi-Strauss, as well as from Heidegger, a study of the relations between space and power would mean going beyond any of them. The studies of urbanists (most notably Lewis Mumford in his numerous writings) and geographers (of the Swedish School led by Hagerstrand; Hagerstrand 1975, 1976) have some relevance to the subject. More systematic is the work of the social theorist A. Giddens (1979, 1984) who tries to incorporate those sources and others into an integrative social theory of power and domination, space and time, labor and property. But I find that the most systematic, original and theoretically and empirically important is the work done in the London School of Architecture by a group led by B. Hillier (Hillier and Hanson 1984). I have consulted these works, but only after my approach to 'the presence of space’ in the organization, production and distribution of power was already influenced by insights drawn from Foucault’s studies of power and space. See especially Foucault (1975: esp. Preface, chs 1, 89; 1979: esp. Part III; 1980b: chs 4-8; 1986). The organization of civic space in Ancient Greece has been studied extensively but only seldom with an attempt to integrate the geographical and architectural aspects with the political and intellectual ones. I have found most useful Mumford (1961); Leveque and Vidal-Naquet (1964); Vernant (1982a: part 3); Detienne and Vernant (1974: ch. x); Polignac (1984); Loraux (1986). The idea here is certainly Foucauldian and is indebted to Foucault’s analysis of the Panopticon (1979:195–228; 1980b: ch. 8), but it should not be confined to a particular configuration of power, space and visibility. One should allow for differences in 'professionalization’, institutionalization and explicitness of the roles and positions of observers and observed. In the modern city, for example, the local policeman is a 'professional’ observer; street coffee-houses are institutionalized places in which people regularly observe and are observed; and in some neighborhoods residents fulfill the (not necessarily explicit) role of observers when watching with suspicion or curiosity anyone who is not a local inhabitant, while they themselves may also be watched in return by curious visitors (Hillier and Hanson 1984:130–40).

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15. For the basic lines of demarcation of Greek man, see Vernant (1980), and Detienne (1977, 1979). For the Greek vs. the barbarian, see Hartog (1988), Kerferd (1981:156 ff.), Loraux (1986:163–8, 333); for the difference in degree of humanity between man, woman and slave in Classical Greece, see, e.g. Finley (1960, 1963/64), Vidal-Naquet (1986: III, 4), and Kerferd (1981:158–9). There is one more line of exclusion which I will not consider, the exclusion of children (Vidal-Naquet 1986: III, 4). Whatever the significance of this exclusion, it clearly differs from other excluding lines in that the child is never a non-Greek man. 16. About dietary rules as a system of exclusion and demarcation see Detienne (1979: chs 3–4). For ancient sources see e.g. Homer, Iliad 13. 5–6; Herodotus I. 216, XIII. 5–6; Porphyry, On Abstinence 2. 20–1, 4. 6–18. Often there was a link between foreign dietary rules and foreign customs regarding clothing, occupation and family life. Fish-eaters (agatharchides) lived without clothes and shared their women; women were also shared by seed-eaters (speimatophagi) and wood-eaters (hylophagi) (Ferguson 1965: ch. 2). In general vegetarianism is ascribed to a precivilized stage of human existence, a kind of golden age according to some writers, a deficient state of the human condition according to others. 17. The myth in the Phaedo is exceptional in that the known inhabited land is but a lower, not very significant part of the other legendary 'land below the heaven’ (108e–110b). See Motte (1971:389–90). 18. Leontius, son of Agalaion; the name is found once more in a fragment from an Attic comedy (Adam 1963: I, 255) in an uninforming context, which suggests, however, that Leontius was known for his lust for corpses. 19. On this point in the Gorgias, see Kahn (1983); more generally on Plato’s argument against hedonism in the Gorgias, Republic and Philebus, see Nussbaum (1986: ch. 5). Note, however, that Nussbaum’s convincing reconstruction of the argument (which, like most studies of the Republics fourth book, is silent on the episode of Leontius) can account for Leontius’ desire only if it is similar to those weird desires mentioned in the Gorgias. Guided by Nussbaum’s interpretation one must overlook the peculiarity of Leontius’ story and its political implications and the full significance of the corpse as an object of desire. 20. The text probably refers to a pre-Themistoclean wall whose exact location cannot be determined with certainty (Wycherley 1978:7–11). On the sociopolitical relations of Athens and the Piraeus and their geographical aspects, see Amit (1962). For ancient sources see Thucydides I. 92, 93; II.17; Plutarch, Themistocles VI. 4; Aristophanes, Acharnians, 544–54; Isocrates, Panegyricus 42. 21. The only literary evidence is a letter by Cicero (ad Fam. IV. 12–13) on the basis of which it was inferred that a ban on burials within the city was introduced around 500 B.C. For the archeological evidence, see Kurtz and Boardman (1971:70), Wycherley (1978:12). There were exceptions, however, mostly children, but a few intra-mural burials of adults have also been found (Kurtz and Boardman 1971; Hartog 1988:134–8). 22. The corpse is exposed to the beast but the first burial seemed at first to be the work of the gods (Antigone 249–52, 278). In general, the gods are at work throughout the burial scenes in Antigone (Kitto 1956:138–58).

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NOTES 23. About the opposition savage–tame (agrios–h¯emeros) in the Republic, see Segal (1978); about this opposition in Greek mythology in general, see Detienne (1971, 1977), Vernant (1982b). But one does not have to look far afield; consider a passage from the Laws: Now man we call a gentle (h¯emeron) creature, but in truth, though he is wont to prove more god-like and gentle (teiotaton h¯emer¯otaton) than any if he have but the right native endowments and the right schooling; let him be trained insufficiently or amiss, and he will show himself more savage (agri¯otaton) than anything on the face of the earth’ (766a) See also Aristotle, Politics 1253a31. 24. The archetype in this case is, of course, Oedipus. The same man who solved the riddle of nature (the ambiguous Sphinx) must also, as murderer of his father and husband of his mother, break the consecrated tables of the natural order . . . wisdom, and especially Dionysiac wisdom, is an unnatural crime . . . 'whoever, in pride of knowledge, hurls nature into the abyss of destruction, must himself experience nature’s disintegration . . . wisdom is a crime committed on nature’; such are the terrible words addressed to us by the myth’. (Nietzsche 1974:9) 25. Men are sometimes metamorphosed into women, but these are clearly a kind of mixture (620d) between the two opposites, the divine and the bestial. 26. See especially Brann (1967), Segal (1978); also Friedlander (1969: I, 173– 5). For a different, more radical, yet related view of Plato’s Socrates, see the provocative work of Mario Montuori (1981). 27. This view of the philosopher in the Platonic middle dialogues as a godlike creature, a man who strives to transcend the limits of human finitude and stabilize the fragility of human existence, is articulated convincingly by Nussbaum (1986: Part II, esp. ch. 5). According to Nussbaum, Plato’s theory of value in the middle dialogues can be interpreted as an attempt to ground the possibility, and present the features and consequences of a 'divine’ human existence, i.e. a philosophical one, that suppresses man’s animality and blurs the distinction between the mortal and the immortal. But since Nussbaum is interested mainly in the reconstruction of the explicit Platonic argument she fails to see the structural similarity between the philosopher and the tyrant, let alone draw its philosophical consequences. 28. Human sacrifice to Zeus in Arcadia is mentioned in the pseudo-Platonic Minos (315c), in a fragment from Hecataeus (Müller 1885v. I. 31, frg. 375), and by Theophrastos, as quoted by Porphyry (de Abstinentia 2.27) and Eusebios (Praeparato Evengelica 4.16.10). The man-wolf story is told in

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29. 30.

31.

32.

33.

detail in three later sources: Pliny, Naturalis Historia 8.81–2; Pausanias 6.8.2; Saint Augustinus, de civitate dei, 18.17. For a comparison between the three latter sources, see Cook (1960: I, 71–81), on which I rely in the next few paragraphs. Human sacrifice may end up in cannibalism (e.g. Herodotus I. 216), but does not necessarily (e.g. Laws 782c). Aristotle agrees with Plato on this point: 'Of old, the demagogue was also a general and then democracies changed into tyrannies. Most of the ancient tyrants were originally demagogues’ (Politics, 1303a, trans. B. Jowett). (See also ibid. 1310b14.) On the exclusion of women and slaves, see Vidal-Naquet (1986: III, 4), Loraux (1986:146–8). The exclusion of women from the gymnasium or the assembly goes without saying (Aristophanes’ Lysistrata 390 ff.). Whether or not women were allowed to be present in the theater is a disputed question, but there is strong evidence that they were not, while slaves probably were allowed (Ehrenberg 1951:27, note 2). Parke (1977:130), following Pickard-Cambridge (1968:264 ff.), suggests that they were allowed into tragedies but not comedies. As against ideas heard from Hippias perhaps (Pr. 337c–d), and more probably from Antiphon (DK 87b44). See Kerferd (1981:157–8), especially the translation he offers to a key sentence in Antiphon’s fragment and his interpretation of the whole passage. Aeschylus’ Persae may seem a counter-example. But taking into account the opposition between laments and eulogy and its correspondence with the general opposition between minors, women, slaves and barbarians on the one hand and men (andres) on the other (Loraux 1986:146–8), the play does not efface but emphasizes the demarcating line. Hartog adds to this the distinction between the spear and the bow drawn several times in the play (the Persians were bowmen, without spears, anoplos), and interprets it as 'a way of suggesting the Persians to be barbarians’ (Hartog 1988:45). Almost all modern scholars who have tried to integrate interpretation of the Platonic myths into their understanding of the Platonic argument (see note 5) read the myths metaphorically. Post-structuralist analysis poses, of course, a variety of alternatives. Here I have chosen to follow that of Sperber’s Rethinking Symbolism (1975), not because I take his theoretical framework to be universally valid but because the myth of Gyges is precisely the type of discourse his analysis fits most neatly.

34. Transgression, then, is not related to the limit as black to white, the prohibited to the lawful, the outside to the inside, or as an open area of a building to its enclosed spaces. . . . Perhaps it is like a flash of lightning in the night which, from the beginning of time, gives a dense and black intensity to the night it denies, which lights up the night from the inside, from top to bottom, and yet owes to the dark the stark clarity of its manifestation, its harrowing and poised singularity; the flash loses itself in this space which it marks with its sovereignty and becomes silent now that it has given a name to obscurity. (Foucault 1977:35)

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NOTES 35. Aristophanes would not have composed three plays regarding the status of women in the polis (Lysistrata, Thesmophoiazusae, Ecclesiazuae) had not the question been in the air (Kerferd 1981:162). For the Greek– barbarian debate, see note 32.

2 THE PROBLEM OF JUSTICE RESTATED 1. The detailed account of all these misdeeds appears in two of Lysias’ speeches. In Against Eratosthenes (oration xii), a speech he delivered himself, Lysias speaks about Polemarchus’ execution and the expropriation of the family fortune. In On the Confiscation of the Property of the Brothers of Nicias (oration xviii) he speaks about Niceratus’ death. Lysias managed to escape but lost all his money. Another eyewitness of these events in Athens is Xenophon who recorded the upheavals in his Hellenica. It should be mentioned here also that Glaucon’s and Adeimantus’ (and hence Plato’s) close relatives Charmides and Critias were leaders of the Oligarchic party and were both killed in the decisive battle with the Democrats in the Piraeus in 403 BC (Xenophon, Hellenica II. 3–19). Cf. Lintott (1982: ch. 4). As for the debate concerning the dating of the dialogue’s composition and its dramating setting (e.g. Dies in Bude’s edition cxxii ff.; Guthrie 1975: IV 437; Thesleff 1982, 1989), I do not think that it can have much effect on my interpretation, as long as the gap between drama and composition is maintained (Kahn 1986:7–9). 2. Following Havelock and others, it is important to note the rarity of the abstract noun dikaiosyne¯ before Plato. It appears once in Theognis (I. 145–8), eight times in Herodotus, and once in Thucydides. See Havelock (1978: ch. 6). 3. Heraclitus, according to what seems to be an authentic tradition (Strabo xiv. 632), gave up the crown in Ephesus, which he legitimately inherited, and ceded the kingdom to his brother (see Guthrie 1969: I, 409). Heraclitus’ contempt for his fellow citizens is well expressed by more and less authentic fragments (DK 49, 104, 121; Dionysiacs Laër. ix.3). For the Pythagorean political opposition and its relation to other forms of opposition to the political-religious system in the city (Orphism, Cynicism, Dionysiacs), see Detienne (1979:70–95). 4. For expressions of an inhibited will to power in the dialogues, see ch. 4. The authenticity of the Seventh Letter hardly needs to concern us here, for, even if it is spurious in parts or as a whole, there is little reason to doubt the accuracy of the account it gives of Plato’s youthful aspirations to enter political life (324c–326b). This part of the letter has not been suspected by scholars of misrepresenting Plato, the man; it was part of the common knowledge about Plato in antiquity as witnessed by several independent sources. See the anecdotes 12, 14, 46–7, 71, 109, 111, in Reginos (1976). 5. I assume the general, commonly accepted classification of the Platonic corpus into three groups (Ross 1951; Guthrie 1975: IV) and the Socratic nature of the early dialogues. I also assume with Dodds (1959) and Irwin (1977, 1979) that the Gorgias is not a 'Socratic dialogue’ but belongs to an

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early-middle or transitory period (against Kahn 1981, 1986; Thesleff 1982:116–57). 6. Being actively engaged in politics was not a matter of course for any Athenian. There were families in Athens who had a tradition of political involvement and 'whose scions were encouraged and expected to take part in polities’ (Connor 1971:10). Nevertheless – Finley adds as a correction to the above statement – 'every individual had to choose to devote himself to politics . . . [his] family gave him a headstart and backing, but he himself had to run the course’ (Finley 1983:64). Socrates had no family to back him in political life and no urge to choose the political course. The precise opposite was true for Plato. 7. Cephalus spoke only about just men (by way of negation: meden adikon) and about life conducted justly ('dikaio¯s'). Socrates is the first to introduce the abstract noun into the dialogue (Havelock 1978:296 ff.). 8. Together with his brother Lysias, Polemarchus took part in the establishment of the Panhellenic city in Thurii; he returned to Athens after the Oligarchic revolution in Thurii (Dionysios Halikarnasseus, v.452; Plutarch, Vitae). 9. For justice as penalty in Herodotus, see: I.115, 120; IV.43; VII.35; VIII.106; IX.116; and for dike¯ dounai: I.155; III.69; V.106; VI.11; VIII.100; for justice as compensation: I.45; IX.65, 94; for justice as dikaoi, to punish: I.100; III.29. 10. Aristotle faces the problem of comparison between different types of equality in the Politics (iii.9–10) and although he claims to deal with the questions he himself raises at 'another occasion’ (iii.11; 1281a39), he never goes back to the initial problem. 11. Though in both cases Athens and its hegemony are still more important than the Hellenic world and the call for Panhellenism is fed by a fear of a common enemy, Persian or Macedonian. See Perlman (1971). On Panhellenism in Democritus see e.g. Grote (1971: I, ch. X); in Isocrates, see Cloche ( 1963:33 ff.). 12. See for example EN, i.2, vi.3–12, x.9; Politics, i.1, vii.1–3, 13. 13. See Kerferd (1981:29–41, 56–67); Guthrie (1969: III, 40 ff.); Havelock (1963:216); and from a different perspective Foucault (1972:218–19). See also the controversial Ryle (1966). 14. Happiness is fragile; it is not necessarily related to one’s character and aretai, ande is dependent on one’s tukhe, that is on external circumstances beyond one’s control. In contradistinction, happiness may be associated d with self-sufficiency, with the proper, harmonious constitution of one’s soul and its independence from the turmoils of everyday life. If this interpretation is allowed it is possible to formulate Aristotle’s arguments against the Platonic conception of happiness as a defence of a refined, humane version of happiness against a psychological-metaphysical interpretation of happiness . e I think in particular of Nussbaum’s d reconstruction of the Aristotelian position in Nussbaum (1986:318–77). 15. For a critical presentation of the debate between utilitarian and the deontological interpretations of the brothers’ speeches, see Irwin (1977: ch. 7); Annas (1981: ch. 2).

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NOTES 16. E.g. Foster (1937:386–93); Sach (1971: II, 35–51); Cross and Woozley (1964:66-9). 17. E.g. Sach (1971) who, for the sake of a 'consequential’ interpretation, claims that the second category (of things good in both senses) is not meant to exclude the third (of things good for their consequences). 18. Interpreting a passage in the ninth book (581d ff.), Nussbaum argues that Plato speaks about 'the pleasure that consists in A-ing’ not 'the pleasure that is yielded by A-ing’ (Nussbaum 1986:458, note). She thinks that in this sense intellectual activity is not different from scratching or perverted love-making and that knowledge of the good is necessary for the valuejudgment that ranks the former as the highest and the latter as the lowest form of activity (ibid.: 141–51). I think that her argument (which, in general, I find insightful and convincing) should be qualified at two points. In the context of the passage from the Republic which is being discussed, one cannot ascribe to Glaucon, early in the second book, more than a dim recognition of the first stage of the Platonic argument, for whose reconstruction Nussbaum needs not only the fourth and the ninth books, but passages from the Gorgias and the Philebus as well (Nussbaum 1986:141–2 and note 21). More generally, by framing the argument in the context of a conflict over 'value-judgment’, Nussbaum does away with the question of justice and its political context (never to be mentioned in her study of the Republic), which actually calls for the distinction between the types of good and pleasure. 19. Sach (1971:38–40) reaches a similar view, that of understanding 'good’ in terms of pleasure, on the basis of interpreting Republic 357b6 only. He is wrong on two accounts, however: 1) he ascribes what Glaucon implies (due to inaccurate language at the outset of the philosophical discussion) to Plato himself; 2) he identifies 'good’ and 'pleasure’ without a residue, claiming that good things are productive of good (1971:41). But Glaucon says no more than that good things are productive of pleasure, either at once or in the future. 20.

If a contemporary had been told that there is an enviable state of the soul, characterized by proper functioning of every one of its parts, only by accident could he have guessed that this is supposed to be the moral attribute of justice. (Vlastos 1971b: 72)

What was true for Plato’s contemporaries in general was true for Glaucon as well. Plato would have committed a 'dramatic fallacy’ no less 'uncharacteristic’ than the logical one Vlastos tries to save him from (ibid.) had he put into Glaucon’s mouth a statement only Socrates could have asserted. For the same reason Mabbott (Mabbott 1937) is wrong when trying to determine the meaning of Glaucon’s 'good in-itself’ in the earlier tripartite division on the basis of Socrates’ argument, later in the fourth book. 21. Cf. Rep. 496c: 'The men who have become members of this small band have tasted how sweet and blessed (makarion) a possession it [philosophy] is’ (G). Here blessedness is explicitly announced as a discursive matter.

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22. Dodds’ famous characterization of 'shame culture’ versus 'guilt culture’ (1968:28–63) implies the ineffectiveness of aidos as a means for social control in Classical Athens. But against this view, see the convincing argument of Wilkerson (1982) that shows the continuous presence of shame ('what would people say'’) as a code for social behavior in Athens, even after the decline of the traditional worldview. 23. The allusion is, of course, to Heidegger’s and Derrida’s critique of the 'metaphysics of presence’ and to their grand hypotheses about the history of western metaphysics (Heidegger 1961; Derrida 1976, 1982). Derrida (especially with regard to the notion of 'difference’) agrees with Heidegger’s claim that there is an element in philosophical discourse that precedes its history and makes that history possible. Their reading of Greek philosophy is therefore ahistorical, and eo ipso apolitical. But what one is made to forget, even if it is Being that one forgets, or learn to signify in writing, even if that learning itself is accessible only through writing, is always also an effect of a certain political order in a certain historical context. Critical discourse should historicize whatever claims to be more primordial than both history and politics. Taking seriously both Heidegger and Derrida, the last paragraphs of this chpater should be read as a plea for such a historicization.

3 THE IDEAL CITY 1. Usually, the city’s place in time is embodied, represented and retold, both in drama and poetry, through its genealogy, which goes back to the gods (Homer, Odyssey 7. 50, 11. 163–5; Iliad 20.227). Plato’s Atlantis, too, has a genealogy that goes back to Poseidon, and his legendary Athens has a forgotten history of preceding generations, which fell into oblivion 'for reason of destructions of their successors and the lapse of time’ (Critias 113a, 109d). 2. The Greek has clear spatial allusions: ('Then again we need more people to service imports and exports. These are merchants, are they not') (371a). Eisago means to carry into, import, and exago to carry out of, export. Emporoi are those who are 'in the roads’, 'em[en]poros’. Merchants, those people who are always in a state of movement on the roads, carrying goods into and out of closed spaces, are crossing many civilized spaces but genuinely belong to none. It is significant that Plato uses emporoi here and not kapeloi, a word usually referring to local retail traders. Emporos originally referred to a man who went as a passenger on another man’s ship; it later came to signify a trader who is not confined to his own particular locality. See Ehrenberg (1947:114ff.) 3. The 'luxurious city’ is a loose translation for 'phlegmainousan polin’, 'inflamed city’ (372e), a city that has grown excessively, in which acquisition of money knows no limit (apeiron) and the boundary of necessity is overstepped ('huperbantes ton t¯on ana¯nkai¯on boron’) (373d). The city oversteps its limits both metaphorically and geographically as it cuts off and dominates ‘a piece of our neighbor’s land’ (373d). See also note 13 below.

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NOTES 4. The distinction between guardians in the full sense of the word ('orthotaton kalein . . . phulakas’) and the so-called auxiliaries ('epikourous’) (414b) has no bearing on the spatial organization of the city. For the meaning of the word, see Taylor (1926:276). 5. Note that the partition of the city into two life-zones is significantly omitted from the description of the 'second-best’ regime in the Laws (739a–e). This fact should be added to the better-known omission of the philosopher-king. 6. That 'secret place’ (460c) was perhaps a euphemism for infanticide, but this point is disputed among interpreters (Adam 1963:357–60; Guthrie 1975: IV 481–2). 7. The nursery is a space that should be open in principle to children of all classes; otherwise the nurturing of the would-be citizens according to the 'metallic nature’ is impossible. (For support of the view that Plato is serious about such nurturing, see Guthrie 1975: IV, 464 ff.; against, e.g., Taylor 1926:275; Grube 1935:269.) This fact poses, however, some practical difficulties that Plato fails to consider. Especially disturbing is the question of the effect such a practice of nurturing will have on the population at large. 8. Much has been written about Atlantis, especially in the attempt to trace the myth back to a known city or kingdom or to known myths about such a kingdom. But Plato is our only source for the myth, and though there probably were different influences on Plato, the city is more likely than not the creation of his own imagination. Its detailed description in the text is, of course, peculiarly Platonic. For a short summary of the attempts to localize Atlantis, or at least its myth, see Guthrie (1978: V, 247–50). For a detailed presentation, see Bramwell (1937). 9. 'Technology has completely escaped any 'rationale”’, in Brumbraugh’s words (1954:55). The lack of a technical rationale makes the presence of a different logic all the more evident. This is, I propose, the mythical logic of spatial discourse, in which spatial demarcations are links to political stability and to rational management of political affairs. 10. ‘Thousand years’ appears to be a generic term for a measurable unit of time that transcends human history. The journey of the soul in the other world lasts, according to Er, 1,000 years (615b–c). See Phd. 249b; Tim. 23d; Laws 699b. 11. Cf. Morrow (1960:30 ff., 95) against Taylor (1926:464). 12. The secularization of the agora was an important change that affected the whole network of relations between the religious, economic and political spheres in the city. In fact, this change institutionalized the separation of the above-mentioned spheres and subordinated the latter to the former. This line of thought naturally continues in Aristotle’s ideal city, in the separation of the agora into two domains: the 'vulgar’ one for business and commerce, and the 'free agora’ for the more serious political, intellectual and religious activities (Politics 1331a31). For more about the place of the Acropolis in the Laws’ city, see Leveque and Vidal-Naquet (1964: ch. 8); and Vernant, (1982b: 226 ff).

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13. Professor Seth Benardete made a similar point in a lecture in the Boston Colloquium for Ancient Studies (March 1984). He argued, mainly on the basis of philological analysis, that honor among the guardians is structured like money and is meant to replace it as an object of desire in the ‘ideal’ city. Money is an object of desire of which one wants more regardless of its consumption. The same goes for honor. 14. In the Laws, the inhabitants of the best city, where friends ‘have all things really in common’, are called in a straightforward manner, ‘gods or sons of gods (theoi e¯ paides theon)’ (739c–d). 15. See ch. 1, note 12. It seems, however, that the patterns of temporal organization have gained more attention from researchers and thinkers than patterns of spatial organization. But see Marx’s remarks in Capital (1967: I, 233, 409) and the Grundrisse (1973:703–12) about wealth as 'disposable time’ and the changes machines introduce in workers’ temporality. 16. From More onward, one of the main elements in most utopic writing has been its spatial dimension. The reorganization of social life and political order, and the transformation of mechanisms and processes of socialization and education, have almost always been embodied in the imaginary architectonics and geography of the utopian site. 17. Without going into any systematic analysis of the concept of time (yet incorporating some insights from the phenomenological analysis of temporality of Husserl, Heidegger and Sartre), I assume that the experience of time is clearly different from the measurement of time, that there is more to time than an onward movement from the past via the present toward the future, and that time can be intelligibly spoken of both as a durée and as a relation of anteriority – posteriority between discrete events. I assume a dialectical relation between the three temporal dimensions, between anticipation and memory, and between preparation for the future and preservation of the past. 18. See, for example, Aristophanes in the Knights (181, 263, 636, 1258) and in the Clouds: 'You will learn to hate the agora . . . you will spend your time bright and shining in the gymnasia, not chattering in the agora’ (991, 1003). Socrates, of course, was one of the agora’s most famous idlers, 'always babbling’ there 'about cobblers and fullers and such paltry folk’, as Callicles sees him in the Gorgias (491a). For more on the agora as a place for business, leisure and pleasure, see Wycherley (1962:50 ff.). 19. The totalitarian nature of the ideal city has been, at least since Popper’s The Open Society and Its Enemies, a subject of a rather stale and often anachronistic debate in the secondary literature (Popper 1966: chs 6–9; Levinson 1953; Annas 1981:90–4; Klosko 1986b: ch. IX). It is necessary to distinguish in the context of this debate between the totalitarian aspects of the ideal regime itself and the question whether or not Plato really 'meant’ them. I have addressed only the first issue. As for these aspects themselves, it is of crucial importance not to project upon fourth-century BC Plato notions of individualism and liberty taken directly and uncritically from the historical experience and political discourse of the twentieth century. Claude Lefort has rightly noted, having mainly Popper in mind, that those criticizing Plato’s utopia as totalitarian are unable

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NOTES to accept the idea of a social order that is of necessity instituted politically, the idea of a space that can, despite its internal heterogeneity, perceive itself in its entirety. . . .[Such a view is unable] to conceive of unity without assuming that a coercive force has to be applied in order to compress various modes of activity, behaviour or belief into a single mould and, simultaneously, to subject individuals to the will of a master. (Lefort 1988:3) Indeed, those who blame Plato for totalitarianism are not necessarily wrong as to the interpretation of this or that detail in his political program, but as to the context within which to understand such details: whether it is Plato’s shameless will to power (Popper), or his indifference toward the welfare and liberty of the individual (Vlastos, Annas, Klosko). This misunderstanding stems, I believe, from the inability to look at the Ancient Greeks without imposing upon them a modern, rather liberal notion of the political and of the relation between private and public domains that it implies. But the ideal city is totalitarian nevertheless, i.e. even when one tries to understand it within the proper Greek concept of the political and of the private domain. For it is Plato himself, as I have tried to show, not the modern reader, who could not conceive of the unity of his Callipolis without rechanneling power, whose spatial embodiment he gave up, into totalitarian modes for the organization of time. It is not unrestrained will to power or contempt for the individual but the logic of civic space and time that stands behind Plato’s totalitarianism. Only when this aspect of the ideal city, and especially its paradoxical consequences, is properly understood can one move forward and consider the second question, what Plato 'really meant’ by his radical political reform. 20. Popper takes the Muses’ tale seriously indeed. Having no interest in the 'literary’ aspects of the dialogue he fails to follow the text in the way it separates the framework of the ideal city from the framework of the myth, thus alluding to the impossibility of the whole project. Only gross misunderstanding of Plato’s irony and other strategies of writing could bring one to say that the myth was 'Plato’s own invention . . . thus we see that nobody but Plato himself knew the secret of, and held the key to, true guardianship’, and that therefore the philosopher-king could only be Plato himself (Popper 1966: I, 153). 21. Klosko (1981) has distinguished between traditionalist and revisionist interpreters of the Republic regarding the implementation of the ideal city: the former (among whom he cites Nettleship, Cornford, Barker, Sinclair and Reader) take Plato’s proposal seriously; the latter (Crombie, Guthrie and the Straussians) claim that Plato was never serious about his radical reforms. As Klosko presents it, at stake is mainly the question whether or not Plato’s political reforms could have been put into practice, or, more precisely, whether Plato and his more sympathetic readers could have hoped that they would be. Klosko is certainly right that there are passages in which Plato advocates political reforms (1981:377 ff.) and that some of these reforms could have been conceived as practical at the time. I also agree with his criticism of the Straussian arguments against the

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practicality of the ideal city (Klosko 1986c, following Hall 1977); if the ideal city is impossible it is not because of any of the difficulties raised by Strauss (1964) or Bloom (1968, 1977). Klosko rightly argues that Strauss and Bloom have not shown that 'the central institutional structures of the ideal state are so absurd that Plato could not possibly have taken them seriously’ (Klosko 1986a: 282). However, against Klosko and other traditionalists I believe that the 'institutional structures’ were indeed absurd, and hope that this claim is demonstrated by the above textual analysis. But in answer to the revisionists, I am not sure it is possible to say how serious Plato was about those structures. It seems to me that Plato never meant his political reform as a mere ironic façade to his 'real teaching’, but earnestly examined the utopian solution to the politicodiscursive dilemma he faced, following it to its ultimate consequences. However, contrary to both traditionalists and revisionists I have not looked for Plato’s 'serious intention’, but tried to reconstruct the actual work of his text. After all, the practical significance of the ideal city is not a result of the intentions one ascribes to Plato the author, from a distance of centuries, but of the textual strategies that have made possible the ascription of authorial intentions throughout the centuries. In this respect, the reconstruction of the mythical structure of the utopian solution and its relation to the other, escapist-discursive solution seems to me more important than the examination of the practicality of any details of the proposed utopia. 22. Strauss (1975:75) asserts this with no argumentation, but it is not difficult to supply some: the little known about Clinias and Megillus does not make them potential readers of the Republic; the absence of any philosophical argumentation, in fact, of the word 'philosophy’ itself from the Laws; the radical difference between the system of education in the Republic and the Laws and the acceptance of the latter without much questioning; and the lack of other participants in the political discourse of Classical Athens. One may still argue that only those familiar with the Republic or its doctrines would have been surprised by a deviation from 'the sacred line’ (739a). A possible answer to this objection is that this deviation, itself a deviation from the general line of the argument in the fifth book of the Laws, is addressed behind Clinias’ and Megillus’ back to an audience that did read the Republic. 23. 'For we are addressing ourselves to men, not gods’, the Athenian tells his companions in the Laws (732c). On the other hand, the best city is inhabited, if at all, by gods and sons of gods, not human beings, at least from the point of view of the Spartan and the Cretan (Laws 739e, 853c). 24. For the distinction between 'politics’ and 'the political’ (in French: le politique and la politique), see Lefort (1988), especially the essay, 'Hanna Arendt and the question of the political’. The political, for Lefort (who explicitly follows Arendt here), is the proper domain of political philosophy, whose task is to problematize the limits and forms of political action, whereas political science is concerned with politics itself and presupposes a reified political domain with objectified demarcations and distinctions. To question the political, let me add here, is always already to be engaged in political action, and the work that inaugurated political

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NOTES philosophy was a political act par excellence, no matter how apolitical it pretended to be.

4 FROM DRAMA TO DISCOURSE 1. For the Straussian intepretation see Strauss (1964:64 ff.); Brann (1967:4 ff.); Bloom (1968:310-16). Other recent interpretations (Siemsen 1986:1– 8; Lycos 1987: part 1; Klosko 1986a: 51-2; Seery 1988) only reassert Strauss’ understanding of the opening scene as a dramatic symbolization of the conflict between 'reason and politics’ or 'justice and power’ and of the philosopher’s inability to use rational argument successfully in order to overcome the effects of power. See also Friedlander (1964: II); Gadamer (1980: chs 3, 5). For other interpretations of the scene which differ regarding the nature of the signified yet remain symbolic, see Voegelin (1957: III, 100–120); Sesonske (1966:40–7); Annas (1981:15 ff.) 2. Brann (1967:4 ff.), for example, takes a different, less political view. The lack of the article ten before 'Piraeus’ is unusual, she argues. Without it the Athenian listener heard he Peraia – 'the beyond land’, or 'beyond the river’. The land beyond the river is Hades; Socrates actually describes a descent into Hades and a deed that resembles that of another heroic descender, Heracles. Brann’s interpretation is suggestive, yet it disregards the encounter between Socrates and Polemarchus and overlooks, here and in the rest of her fascinating essay, the actual political context of the dialogue. 3. There is no less tension, perhaps, in the Gorgias, between Socrates and Callicles (505c–e), or in the Protagoras, between Protagoras and Socrates (333d ff), but nowhere is there an allusion to the possibility of a violent clash; the interlocutors manage to maintain civility even in their adversity. 4. One should not take this hermeneutic decision as self-evident. It stands in opposition to at least two other hermeneutic options taken by ancient and modern readers. Some of the ancients (most notably Aristotle) and some moderns (Irwin 1977, I think, is a perfect example) have ignored the drama completely and concentrated exclusively on the explicit arguments Such a reading separates the semantic layer of the text from its pragmatics, constituted by the drama, and thus misses the opportunity to see how what a speaker in the Platonic dialogue means to say and argue is constrained and made possible by the dramatic situation. The arguments reconstructed in this way may be valid or faulted, but they do not necessarily represent the thrust of the Platonic dialogue. The other option is to take the narrative framework too seriously, i.e. to erase the distinction we are so used to making between historical and dramatic narrative, or between the historical and the Platonic Socrates. This was a viable option for someone like Athenaeus, who composed in the late second century AD a long list of passages in the Platonic corpus which seemed to him historically inaccurate or simply false (Athenaeus xi, 505ff.; cf. Aristides’ complaints about the way Plato portrayed four great orators, In Defense of Oratory, 'The virtue of the four‘).

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5. Reading aloud each of the Republic’s ten books takes about an hour, hence the conversation may have lasted at least ten hours. The conversation started on a summer evening, about the time of the torch race that took place at sunset; if it lasted ten hours, indeed, it ended at dawn the next morning. This is hinted, perhaps, by the words closing the myth of Er: 'but, all of a sudden, he recovered his sight and saw that it was morning’ (621b). (after Libes’ note in Plato’s Hebrew translation, Libes 1973: II, 516). 6. There are, however, some exceptions to this rule of thumb. In the Philebus the dramatic scene is only alluded to and in the Parmenides, Timaeus and the Laws it is not mentioned at all, only the frame or the task of the argument, as it was set up in the beginning of the conversation, is recalled. The Sophist ends, in fact, in the opening of the Statesman; the unwritten 'Philosopher might have completed the dramatic setting of the whole trilogy. The Gorgias, much like the Republic opens with a vivid dramatic scene and ends with a myth of judgment that calls to follow 'the guidance of the argument’. It seems to me most likely that this fact is not a coincidence, and that behind it lies a project, common to the Republic and the Gorgias, regarding the relation of politics and philosophy. 7. From the Theaetetus onward Plato tried to avoid those 'tiresome . . . bits of narrative interrupting the dialogue, such as 'and I said’ or 'and I remarked’ . . . 'he assented’ or 'he did not agree’. (Theaet. 143b-c). 8. E.g. the Symposium, with its different speakers and the short exchange between the speeches; the Phaedrus with its three speeches and the following discussion; or the shifts of both interlocutors and arguments in the Phaedo and the Gorgias. 9. Socrates invokes a popular belief that if a man is seen by a wolf before seeing it he is struck speechless. It is not only to Thrasymachus’ bestiality that Socrates alludes here, but also to the spatial relations between him and Thrasymachus. 10. Eleven names are mentioned; Cephalus has left; and 'some others’ are said earlier (327c) to accompany Polemarchus. 11. Cephalus’ appearance is also mentioned briefly. He 'seems very old’ and 'is crowned with a wreath for he has just performed a sacrifice’ (328c). Cephalus’ religious act, just like his appearance, is external to the philosophical conversation. 12. The rules of a proper philosophical conversation are the subject of much dispute in the Protagoras (333d ff.), and in a less systematic way concern the interlocutors in the Gorgias (457b ff.). In the Republic itself, in a later stage of the discussion in the first book and in a more peaceful atmosphere, more rules are set for the conversation (348a-b). 13. The ideal speech situation is a pragmatic, counterfactual construction of the perfect conditions for what I have called above 'serious discourse’, i.e. discourse in which truth claims (or other moral or aesthetic normative claims) are enunciated and examined by speakers who follow the force of the stronger argument only, and do not let any other motive affect the course of deliberation. The notion of the ideal speech situation was introduced by Habermas (e.g. 1979: ch. 1, 1984:18–43, 273–316) and

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14.

15.

16.

17.

Apel (1980: chs 5, 7), but it may apply, with minor modifications, to Rawls’ concept of the original position (Rawls 1971). I think that the Socratic conversation in some of the early and middle Platonic dialogues is a perfect figurative illustration of the abstract philosophical concept. Speaking about the early dialogues, Klosko reconstructs four conditions for the possibility of the Socratic elenchus: intelligence, trust, frankness and willingness to abide by the discussion’s results (Klosko 1986b: 18– 19). These seem like a series of paraphrases of Habermas’ conditions for argumentation: understanding, symmetry of conditions for all participants, sincerity and exclusion of all force except that of the better argument (Habermas 1984:18–43, 273–316; cf. Ophir 1986). But the figurative presentation of the Socratic elenchus is more than an illustration of an abstraction, for the dramatic embodiment of the concept exposes the real conditions for its possibility, i.e. the use of power for the sake of reason and in its name. Thus the link to the works of Habermas, Apel and Rawls, which offers itself here, is meant to serve as a possible vantage-point for the reassessment of the moderns, using the perspective gained through the interpretation of the ancients, (see below, p. 125, and cf. Ophir 1989). One should distinguish this entanglement of reason and power from the compelling force of the argument itself, something against which many, from Callicles (Gorgias 505d) to Nozick (1981: ch.1) and Rorty (1982:157– 8), have complained (Irwin 1986). The question is not why should one accept the demand upon one’s belief raised by a 'powerful’, 'better’ argument, but what makes one’s argument a demand upon another’s belief in the first place. Klosko, too, recognizes the Socratic conversation as an attempt to create the necessary conditions for the process of philosophical persuasion (Klosko 1986a). The Socratic spell with its double effect, therapeutic and poisonous, is the theme of Derrida’s admirable essay 'Plato’s Pharmacy’ (Derrida 1981). For a more conventional interpretation of the magic features of speech in Gorgias and the Platonic Socrates, see Romilly (1975: ch. 2). In the famous opening sentence of the Republic Socrates says: 'Yesterday I went down. . . .’ The anonymous audience who is listening to Socrates hardly needs to be reminded 'that it was summer’ if the conversation took place only yesterday. This seems one of those rare points in the text’s surface that betrays the literary effort behind the seemingly casual composition. Even more so, it indicates that Plato had in mind an audience different from the one implied by the fictional narration. In other words, here is another argument, if one is still needed, for not taking the dialogue as simply 'mimetic’. Cf. Iser 1978; 1980:298. The implied reader is a construct of a field of reading possibilities, 'prestructured by three basic components: the different perspectives represented in the texts [characters, narrator, author, etc.], the vantage point from which [the actual reader] joins them together, and the meeting place where they converge’ (Iser 1978:36). To ignore completely the narrator’s point of view, for example, means to transgress the field of possible readings constructed by the encounter between text and reader; a text may be used in such a way, of course, but not properly

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read or understood. To reconstruct the implied reader does not mean to exhaust all possible readings in advance but to delineate in advance – or in retrospect – their legitimate space. This notion of a prestructured field of possible readings has its critical limitations, of course, but in our context it seems to me highly appropriate, if instead of looking for the perspectives of the different characters in the dialogue one looks for the perspectives of its different spatio-temporal frames. Indeed, the dialogue’s main 'heroes’ are these frames: the mythological, dramatic, utopic and discursive. Each frame may provide a perspective from which to organize the entire dialogue. The history of interpretations of the Republic may even be related in terms of the preferred spatio-temporal frames employed as a dominant perspective: Aristotle and Popper – the utopian; the Straussians – dramatic; Brann or Voegelin – the mythological; and so many recent analytic philosophers – the discursive. My own reading of the Republic, the analysis of the relations among the different frames, would be in these terms an attempt to undermine the way the text prestructures the encounter with its reader. Instead of being another concretization of the implied reader I am trying to be an ultimate reader of the implied. 18. In the same dialogue, the Symposium, Alcibiades tells a story about Socrates that attests to the same phenomenon. When serving as a soldier in the campaign in Potidaea Socrates was observed 'wrestling with some problem or other about sunrise one morning, and standing] there lost in thought’ until the next morning (220c). Montuori argues (1981: ch. 4) that Alcibiades could not have met Socrates in the battle of Potidaea since he arrived there after Socrates had already left. If one accepts this claim the symbolic features of Alcibiades’ story become all the more significant. 19. Some interpreters tried to save Plato from a 'too theoretical’ approach to astronomy (e.g. Shorey 1933; Lloyd 1967), but I think that these 'empirical’ interpretations are wrong. Mourelatos (1980) offers a convincing thesis in favor of 'theoretical’ astronomy (or 'apriori’, as he calls it), which is directly relevant to my discussion above. Mourelatos shows systematic parallels between geometry and astronomy regarding the objects and methods of their study (529e–530b). The analogy between the two sciences may be seen as an elaboration of a particular case, though an important one, in the symmetry I described above, and it maintains the same inversion of relations between the practical and the theoretical, and the useful and the useless. According to Mourelatos and, indeed, according to the passage he discusses, the relation between geometry and astronomy, as they are commonly practiced, and as they should be studied by a philosopher, may be schematized as follows: Expert geometrician (who studies diagrams for the forms they represent)/ Inexpert geometrician (who uses diagrams for measurements) = Real astronomer (who studies movements of celestial bodies for the forms they represent/Contemporary astronomer (who uses the constant relations among moving celestial bodies for measurements and predictions). Inserting this ratio into the general symmetry we may continue the equation in the following way:

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20.

21.

22.

23.

24.

Expert geometrician/Inexpert geometrician = Real astronomer/ Contemporary astronomer = Philosopher-king/Contemporary ruler = Genuine philosopher/Sophist. Consider, for example, the place of the woman near the Hestia, the place of the unmarried girl inside the house, the palaestra as a meeting-place for boys and young men, the advantage of the free man over the free woman in terms of crossing enclosed spaces within the city in order to enjoy sexual relations of all kinds, and the association of power with free, extensive sexual relations as exemplified by characters such as Gyges or Pisthetairos. The question why should the philosopher go back to the cave in order to rule is not satisfactorily answered there. A different answer is given in another context and is omitted by Socrates when presenting the image of the cave, yet it may still be relevant: the philosopher, Socrates argues in the first book, is willing to rule in order not to be ruled by others, since being ruled by lesser men is for him the greatest punishment (347b–c). Cf. Barthes 1968. According to Barthes, the contingent textual detail that refers but does not really signify anything in particular (the signified is 'expelled’ from the sign) creates 'l’effet du réel’, i.e. an illusion of reality that is not governed by the structure of the plot or narrative but is 'there’, independent of the writer’s interventions. What is really signified by the contingent detail is the realistic character of the entire story (or picture or play). I believe that the contingent details in the Platonic dialogue (contingent, that is, from the argument’s point of view) should be understood according to the same semiotic principle: not for their particular signifieds or meanings, but for the effect of their overall dispersion throughout the text. In the next chapter I will do this systematically with regard to the spatial metaphor. Against Aristotle, who speaks about the Athenian Stranger from the Laws as if he were Socrates (Politics 1264 ff.), a fact directly related to his understanding of both the Republic and the Laws. In Brann’s words (1967), 'the Republic is made [by Aristotle] to emerge as an insufficiently detailed forerunner of the Laws, while the Laws are regarded as a Republic made practicable’. Cf. the opening scene in the Protagoras. Socrates and Hippocrates enter Callias’ house and come upon Protagoras 'walking in the portico, and, walking with him in a long line’ was a band of pupils and admirers whom Protagoras draws 'from every city that he has passed through, charming them with his voice like Orpheus’. Socrates, who describes the scene, adds: As I looked at the party I was delighted to notice what special care they took never to get in front or to be in Protagoras’ way. When he and those with him turned round, the listeners divided this way and that in perfect order, and executing a circular movement took their places each time in the rear. It was beautiful. (Pr. 314e–315b)

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Soon the dramatic movement comes to an end as they make a regular circle around Protagoras and sit down – a scene described with much detail (ibid. 317d–e). When Socrates crosses Protagoras’ way it already occurs on the discursive plane. 25. In that passage (435c) Plato divides the world into three, on the same basis as the three elements of the soul. The northern regions are characterized by the element of high-spiritedness, Egypt and Phoenicia (south and east) are characterized by love of money, and 'the region where we dwell’ is known for 'the quality of love and knowledge’. 26. In his essay 'White mythology’ Derrida criticizes two hermeneutic approaches to philosophical metaphors (with special attention to Plato’s metaphors): the one that takes metaphors as ornaments, and the one that takes them as 'expressions’ of philosophical ideas (Derrida 1982:207 ff.). He then argues that a philosophical critique that would try to overcome these two approaches and understand the true discursive role of metaphors in philosophy is actually impossible, because the fundamental oppositions upon which philosophical discourse itself is based (physis/ nomos, sensible/ intelligible, essence/accident, space/time, signifier/ signified) are products of 'the history of metaphorical language’ (ibid: 227–9). In other words, there is no way to 'de-metaphorize’ philosophy without ceasing to philosophize. But in my view one does not have to accept this primordial predicament of language; instead, one may try to historicize certain philosophical metaphors in order to exorcize philosophical discourse of their spell. The analysis presented above therefore goes beyond Derrida’s argument in two respects: a) it reconstructs a crucial moment in 'the history of metaphorical language’, a moment in which serious discourse was given a space of its own; b) it historicizes and thus allows one to understand and overcome, within the framework of philosophical discourse, one of philosophy’s most fundamental distinctions, the theory/practice, or reason/power distinction.

5 THE SPACE OF DISCOURSE 1. 'I went down to the Piraeus…’ (327a). Cf. the discussion in ch. 4 above. In the secondary literature this descent was emphasized mainly by Voegelin (1957:III), Brann (1967:1–20) and more recently by Seery (1988). 2. The residue is perhaps the ratio between the segments of the line. Cf. Brumbraugh (1954:98 ff.), Ross (1951:45 ff.) and Adam (1963: II, 64). 3. The reader may find a classification and analysis of Socratic questions in the early dialogues in Santas (1979:59 ff.). The classification is conducted according to the question’s pragmatics (who is asked, in which situation, what the presupposition of the questioning act is, etc.), its syntactics (the logical form of the question and of the expected, legitimate answer), and its semantics (what the question is about, what its presuppositions are). Santas’ classification remains schematic and seems to me abstracted from any hermeneutic interest.

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NOTES 4. Locating an early version of the division method in the Republic may give some support to the dating of the Philebus in a middle or latemiddle period (Waterfield 1986; Nussbaum 1982, 1986; 459). The presence of a division method as early as the Republic may intrigue those who are interested in Plato’s development and in the chronological order of the dialogues. If one recognizes that a diaeresis is already employed in the Republic, then the novelty of the Phaedrus applies to the explicit formulation of the method only, i.e. to an awareness of a discursive pattern which has already been in use. On the other hand, the development that the Sophist introduces in employing that discursive pattern does not lie in providing a better method of definition (Findlay 1974:257) but in the awareness of alternative courses of definition through division. The question posed when such an awareness is reached is how the different definitions stand in relation to each other. Plato does not ponder explicitly on this question, but a dialogue such as the Sophist may, as a whole, provide an answer. Only by placing the last definition in the context of all the rest, and understanding that this definition includes some previous definitions and excludes others, is the true nature of the genus in question reached. This, I believe, is what Plato meant by collection (Phdr. 266e). 5. Cf. Nettleship (1963:355); Guthrie (1975: IV, 437); Thesleff (1982:101–10). Annas (1981:335) admits the oddities of the tenth book but defends it as part of the original text, an 'excrescence’ containing 'extra material on points that [Plato] felt had not been adequately and forcefully enough treated’. The result, she says, is that the tenth book shows a 'level of philosophical argument and literary skill that is much below the rest’ of the Republic. Since we have no reason to think that the last book is not Plato’s, she argues, we must conclude that 'Plato failed as a literary artist’ in composing it. I prefer, however, to go along with Thesleff (1989:1–15) and consider the possibility that certain passages, perhaps even certain dialogues, were composed in the Academy by teams of students or teachers. The tenth book is certainly a candidate. It mainly consists in answering a question whose treatment was suspended in the third book (392a–b), the question of speeches about humans. Unlike all other questions suspended throughout the dialogue, the answer to this one was not necessary for dealing with justice and its consequences, but depends, rather, on settling the questions of justice (ibid.; see below, p. 139). After resolving these Plato could therefore have left it to others to deal with the consequences, or at least to draw the outline for such a discussion. 6. This is the second time Socrates is asked to stay, not to go home, not to free himself from the company. The first time occurred within the dramatic framework in the opening scene of the dialogue; the second takes place within the discursive framework. At once Socrates starts out on the way. He is begged 'in every way’ not to stop pursuing the argument. He is already sailing into the open sea, asked by all his friends not to leave the boat, not to return to shore. Later he will compare the argument to the wind that carries the boat: 'You see, I myself really don’t

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know yet but wherever the argument, like a wind, tends, thither must we go’ (394d). can mean 'to send’, 'to send forth’, 'to send back’, 'to let go’, 'let 7. free’. 'Let free’, 'let go’ may imply (and 'send back’ explicitly conveys) the meaning of ceasing an ongoing activity ahead of time, dropping something in the midst of an activity; it is translated as 'give up’ in this instance. 8. Kuma, translated here as wave, means anything swollen and is often used to denote a fetus in the womb. Cf. Theaetetus 149a ff., 210b, in the context of presenting Socrates as a midwife. Socrates certainly plays on this meaning when talking about the waves/fetus/swollen thing that the 'female drama’ brings about. 9. The third wave is an idiom which means something like the last stroke. The third in a series of waves was considered to be the biggest. Odysseus was almost drowned by the three waves Poseidon sent against him. He was rescued by Athena and in the third day of swimming in the open sea he was carried to the Phaiakian shore (Odysseus 5. 313–425). Socrates will be carried by his wave from the possibility question to the images of the Good and the final inversion of relations between discourse and practice which brought about that question. Note that between the second and third wave Socrates mentions another legendary figure who almost drowned, Arion, who was rescued by a dolphin from a stormy sea (453d; cf. Herodotus I. 23–4). Cf. 376d and point 3, p. 138 above. 10. The verb used is 11. The three topoi involved here, logos, a heaven inhabited with 'patterns’, and the philosopher’s 'inner sphere’, are probably related but it is not immediately clear how. In 509e Socrates speaks about the heaven of patterns as the noetic topon, without invoking explicitly either the realm of speech or man’s inner sphere. The soul cannot belong entirely to the noetic place if one wants to keep alive the metaphor of the mind’s eye. On the other hand, it may well be that the Good is responsible not for Being as such but for the coming of beings into logos (507a); hence the noetic sphere (of 'patterns’) and the realm of speech would somehow merge (Derrida 1981:82). 12. Cf. Ophir (1986:3–29). Some general features of symmetry in the dialogue have not escaped scholars’ notice, of course, but I know of only three proposals to construct the symmetrical structure of the dialogue in some detail: Voegelin (1957: III, 47 ff.); Brann (1967); Wood (1987:496–514). These studies, however, mainly dwell on some of the analogical passages scattered throughout the text (see note 13 below) and never go beyond the thematic layer of the text, with its mythical and allegorical allusions. The advantage of my proposal is in the independent pragmatic and semantic criteria (the primary question and the spatial metaphor) it uses. With the help of these two criteria it becomes possible to offer a comprehensive reconstruction of the entire dialogue, with the reasonable exception – accounted for by other parts of my argument – of the first book and the last sections of the tenth. 13. The series of analogies is presented here in brief:

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NOTES I. The sun as the image of the Good and the divided line as an image of the ascent toward the Good (506e–509d): the image of the cave and its interpretation (514a–519c). II. The distribution of knowledge as a distribution of power (502e): the obligation of philosophers to return to the cave (519e–520e). III. The gap between what is and what ought to be the status of philosophers in the city (487c–489d): the gap between what is and what ought to be the status of the four sciences (521d–530e). IV. Time is not limited for the realization of the ideal city (497d–502c): time is not limited for the study of dialectics (531b–534b). V. The philosopher is defined according to the object of his love and the scope of his interests (474d–484a): the dialectician is identified according to the object of his knowledge (534b–535a). VI. 'Acting attains to less truth than speaking’ – a warning before the discussion of the possibility of the ideal (472c–473b): 'our conversation is but a game’ – a warning before concluding the discussion of the education of the philosopher-king (536c). VII. Teaching children horse-riding – a break in the possibility discussion (466c–467a): children riding horses are mentioned before the conclusion of the possibility discussion (537a). VIII. The tripartite constitution of the soul is presented in order to find justice in one’s soul (434d–444a): and prove the unhappiness of the most unjust soul (580d–583b). (From here onward the order of the later segments of the analogies is not maintained.) IX. Harmony among the components of the soul in relation to temptation, self-control and relations between rulers and their subjects (430e– 432b): harmony in city and soul is corrupted by erotic temptations, drunkenness and abnormal relations between masters and slaves (571a– 578c). X. Excessive poverty and wealth as sources of social instability in general (421d–423d); and in oligarchy in particular (550b–557c). XI. Sharing land and property in the guardian-zone of the city (416d– 420a): redistribution of land and reemergence of wealth in timocracy (447b–450c). XII. The myth of origin, a Phoenician tale, and the foundation of the city by the guardians (414a–415e); the Muses’ tale, how the eugenic knowledge was lost and the decline of the ideal city started (545d–547b). 14. An Aufhebung of myth, its displacement from the aristocrats’ party to the height of philosophical contemplation, is precisely what happens in the Symposium, from Phaedrus’ and Aristophanes’ speeches to that of Diotima. 15. On interpretation as a sort of play, and playing a game as interpreting, see Gadamer (1975:91 ff.). My game-talk may sound at times Wittgensteinian, but in fact it is anti-Wittgensteinian in spirit. It does not take any set of rule-governed activity as a game but only a set in which one primary rule differentiates a particular activity from all other activities, i.e. the rule of suspension. In the theory of language-games there is no place for suspension; language is always flexible enough to allow an easy transition from one game to another.

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16. I have used the double meaning of suspension intentionally. Suspension means a temporary stop, withdrawal or removal, a deferment, a postponement. But it also means the act of hanging and the state of being hung from something, and this is indeed what the original Latin suspendere denotes. From this comes the more general connotation of being attached to something from below, of being supported by something by being hung on it (e.g. suspension bridge, suspensory ligament). There may be an overlapping between the two distinct semantic fields, if indeed 'being hung from’ is a more transient state than 'being laid upon’. Laying something upon a supporting base is usually meant to last forever, as in the act of laying a foundation which will be permanent for that in need of support. Hanging something from its support is usually accompanied by the expectation of a fall, which sooner or later probably comes, for hanging acts against the 'natural motion’ of bodies (the same tendency used in laying upon) and therefore, perhaps, seems more temporary and less secure. The spatial relations of physical suspension imply temporal suspension, which is then abstracted from its material context and comes to denote a temporal relation only. This etymological speculation is not entirely beside the point, if one only notices that the Latin suspendere retains the spatial relation as well as the Platonic meaning of the Greek hupothitemi, 'to put under’, the verb from which hypothesis as well as the unhypotheton are derived. 17. Since the hypothesis retains its content, by being 'lifted up’ it is actually aufgehoben in the Hegelian sense. 18. The purpose of the game is not to proclaim what justice is, in and of itself. This is one of the purposes of the conversation and one should keep in mind this distinction between game and conversation. The latter is but an aspect of the former, it is unfolded for the reader by the mere flow of questions and answers and by their explicit subject-matter. The former appears only through textual analysis, although one already participates in it when one reads. The conversation exists only among the dialogue’s interlocutors; the game is reenacted through any act of reading. The conversation gives concrete content to the empty form of the game, which a set of rules constitutes. But the rules do not need this particular conversation in order to hold. 19. Socrates plays on words. Tokos means both interest and offspring. A similar play on the word is found in 555e, in the context of explaining instability in the oligarchic regime. 20. I have not worked out in detail the consequences of my argument for the debate over the allegedly 'unwritten’ or 'esoteric’ doctrines of Plato, but it is certainly relevant, for it offers an alternative explanation for the allusive discussion of the Good in the Republic – an important immanent piece of evidence for the esoterics. Accepting the logic of suspension as a key to the development of Platonic writing, one may then try to understand Plato’s need for an esoteric doctrine in terms of the same political-discursive situation that gave rise to turning away from the city and into the space of discourse. Or, one may try to show – and I would certainly prefer this route – that it is the logic of suspension present in

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21.

22.

23.

24.

25.

the Republic, as well as in other middle dialogues, which, together with Aristotle’s ambiguous references to Plato, later gave rise to the speculation about the existence of esoteric teachings, and even motivated the forgery of parts of the Seventh Letter. Cf. Tarrant’s new convincing evidence for the claim that the Letter was known without the famous 'digression’ – another crucial piece of immanent evidence for the esoterics – at least until Plutarch (Tarrant 1983). Tarrant also offers an explanation, and a probable background, for the forgery in Middle Platonism. 'Erasing the traces of writing’ is written, of course, under the influence of Derrida, especially his 'Plato’s pharmacy’ (Derrida 1981). But I understand Derrida to say that the drive to erase writing’s traces has emerged out of the 'primordial’ structure of writing itself and the system of opposition it imposes upon language. Trying to historicize the 'primordial’ my claim is a more modest one, for I have tried to locate the need to erase writing’s traces in a particular problem in the political-discursive climate of Athens in the late fifth and early fourth centuries BC. This is, no doubt, a celebrated theme in the hermeneutic literature about Plato that goes back to Schleiermacher’s (1836) introduction to the German translation of the dialogues and to Kierkegaard’s Concept of Irony. In this century it is evident in Strauss (1964), Friedlander (1969) and Gadamer (1980). I have consciously exaggerated Gadamer’s view for the sake of my argument, but I do not think I have distorted its main thrust. Gadamer, who gives priority to living conversation in his conception of language (e.g. Gadamer 1975:345 ff.), considers Plato so valuable for us precisely because he wrote so as to preserve the living element of language in writing. This may be the effect of Plato’s writing only once a reader disregards the original practical content of the dialogue, i.e. creating an illusion of an ideal speech situation in order to avoid the dangerous aspects of the actual one. The ideal speech situation is actually the Aufhebung of actual speech mediated through writing. The hallmark of that struggle is, of course, the rhetorician as a statesman. This presupposes free access for all citizens to the institutionalized speech situations in which policy was made. The tyrant, according to Plato and Aristotle at least, is not one who threatens that speech situation from the outside, e.g. by abolishing its openness, but one who abuses it, employing its elements to gain unlimited control over it from within. The first tyrants were demagogues, says Aristotle (Politics 1303a, 1310b14; and cf. Rep. 565e ff.). For an eloquent description of political life in Athens as a struggle for control over institutionalized speech situations, see Finley (1983: ch. 4). Compare Isocrates’ Letter to Philip: And yet I do not fail to realize what a great difference there is in persuasiveness between discourses which are spoken and those which are to be read, and that all men have assumed that the former

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are delivered on subjects which are important and urgent, while the latter are composed for display and personal gain. . . . For when a discourse is robbed of the prestige of the speaker, the tones of his voice, the variations which are made in the delivery, and, besides, of the advantages of timeliness and keen interest in the subject matter; when it has not a single accessory to support its contentions and enforce its plea, but is deserted and stripped of the aids which I have mentioned; and when someone reads it aloud without persuasiveness and without putting any personal feeling into it, but as though he were repeating a table of figures, in these circumstances it is natural, I think, that it should make an indifferent impression upon its hearers. . . . You will be in the best position to discover with accuracy whether there is any truth in what I say if you put aside the prejudices which are held against the sophist and against speeches which are composed to be read. (Letter to Philip 25–30; Loeb edition, vol. I)

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INDEX

All references are to Plato and the Republic unless otherwise indicated. Academy 5, 164, 189 acorns 35–6 Adam, J. 168, 170, 172, 178 Adeimantus 112–6; death of 175; and happiness 65–7, 139–40; and ideal city 98, 119; and justice 11, 17, 68, 82; and philosophers 142, 153 Aeschylus 43, 170, 174 Agalaion 172 Agathon 106 age, and ideal city 92–3 agora, and city of Laws 80; and civic space 18, 19, 68; and discourse 119, 162, 164–5; secularization of 87–8, 179–80; and women 38 Ajax 33 Alcibiades 106, 123, 186 allegory 13, 16, 17 allelophagy see cannibalism Ameleta, river 24 Amit, M. 172 analogies and dialogue 190–1, anarchy 29 Anaximander 46 anger, necessity of 27 Annas, J. 24, 31, 67, 176, 180–1, 183, 189 Antigone 26, 39

Antiphon 43, 46, 174 Arcadia 35–6 Arendt, H. 182–3 argument, and demarcation 40–1; and myth 11–15, 27–8, 33, 95– 6, 174 Arion 190 Aristides 184 Aristodemus 112, 123 Ariston 50 Aristophanes 30–1, 57, 97, 172, 174, 180, 191 Aristotle, and demarcation 22, 29, 61; and drama 183; and equality 176; and happiness 176; and ideal city 102, 179; and justice 45, 53–6; and polis 22, 55; and Republic 158, 186, 187; and soul 29; and tyrants 174, 193 Arrowsmith, W. 30, 31 astronomy 186–7 Athena 79, 190 Athenaeus 184 Athens, ancient 78–81; and Atlantis 78–9, 81; and burials 26; and corpses 27; and culture 162, 164; and empire 30; foundation 169; legendary 178; and Piraeus 104–6, 172; and political disorder 37–8, 48–9; and power struggle 119, 150; and retribution 170; and women 38 Atlantis 22, 78–9, 81, 178, 179 Augustinus, Saint 173

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barbarians, corpses of 39–40; demarcation of 6, 38, 39–40, 43 Barthes, R. 187 beasts, demarcation of 6, 21–3, 26–7, 30–1, 33, 40 Benardete, S. 170, 180 Birds 30–1 Bloom, A. 9, 25, 52, 102, 104, 182–3 Boardman, J. 39, 172 Bramwell, J. 179 Brann, E. 81, 169, 173, 186, 187, 188, 190 Brumbraugh, R. S. 78, 169, 179 Burnet, I. 9 Cairns, H. 9 Callias 187 Callicles 25, 100, 125, 160, 180, 183, 185 Callipolis 181 cannibalism 34–8, 174 cave 78, 121, 132, 156, 187, 191 Cephalus 48, 52–3, 58, 60, 105–8, 111–12, 176 Charmides 175 chasm 10, 16, 18, 19, 21, 23 children, and city of pigs 82; and ideal city 76–7, 81 Cicero 11, 17, 41, 69, 168, 172 city, dangers of 49–50; and instability 83–5; and utopic solution 7–8 city of Laws 99; and civic space 78, 80; and Cleisthenes 80; and women 80–1 city of pigs 73–4, 82–3; and division of labour 87–8; and economic institutions 87–8; and Glaucon 82; and Socrates 73, 83; and time 87–8, 91 city, reformed see city of Laws civic space, and agora 18, 19, 68; and Birds 30–1; and body 32; and city of Laws 78, 80; and city of pigs 82; and corpses 26; and demarcation 22–3, 28, 43– 5, 47, 56, 71; and economic institutions 74; and gaze of

others 68–71; and guardians 74–7, 83–5; heavenly 30–1; and ideal city 73–85; and justice 7, 19, 46–52; organization of 19– 21, 171; and political disorder 37–8; and power 1, 7, 32; and reason 70–2; and slaves 174; and time 85–94; and tyrant 37– 8, 49; and women 174–5, 187 civic time see time Cleisthenes 80 Cleito 22 Clinias 99, 182 Cloche, P. 176 Connor, W. R. 39, 176 conversation, and Socrates 151–5, 162 Cook, A. B. 173 Cornford, F. M. 181 corpses 10, 15–16, 18, 23–30, 38, 39–40, 42; and the ideal city 33–4 crime, and happiness 10, 15, 58, 60–7 Critias 66, 175 Croesus 10, 16 Crombie, I. M. 169, 181 demons see gods death, of Adeimantus 175; of Glaucon 175; and happiness 60; and ideal city 33–4, 94; and immortality 32, 33–4, 118; of Polemarchus 48, 119, 175; of Socrates 48–52 deconstruction 7–8, 14, 18, 166 Deioces 54, 131, 170 demarcation, and argument 40–1; and Aristotle 22, 29, 61; and beasts 27–9; and city of pigs 82–3; and city walls 26; and civic space 22–3, 28, 43–5, 47, 56, 71; and corpses 24–30; and discursive formation 22–3; and discursive space 127–31; and gaze of others 68–72; of Greek man see Greek man; and Gyges 42–3, 102; and happiness 60–7, 61; human 21–3, 24–30; and

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INDEX human sacrifice 35–8; of philosophers 29, 31–4, 173; and redemarcation 98–103; of slaves 6, 23, 38, 40, 174; and Socrates 22, 50–2; subversion of 30–1; and tyrant 37–8, 49; violation of 42–3 democracy 29, 34, 48, 104 Democritus 170, 176 Demosthenes 55 Derrida, J. 7, 51, 126, 132, 169, 178, 185, 188, 193 desire, and reason 27 destruction of ideal city 94 Detienne, M. 7, 12, 13, 36, 168, 172, 173, 175 dialectics 115, 117, 144–5, 151, 153 dialogue, and dramatic setting 104–10 dietary law 35–8 Diogenes Laertius 22, 168 Dionysians 36, 173 Diotima 191 discourse, and agora 119, 162, 164–5; autonomy of 104–9; and drama 104–31; and Good 155– 60; and myth 12–14, 40–1; and politics 103; private and public 162–5; space of 1–8, 132–67; and truth 12; and tyrant 130; and writing 160–6, 193–4 discursive formation, and city of pigs 82–3; and demarcation 22–3; and invisibility 68–72; and justice 46–7; and myth 40– 1; and redemarcation 98–103; and Socrates 51–2; subversion of 30–1 discursive situation, and games 155 discursive space 124–31, 132–67; and demarcation 127–31; and games 150–67; organization of 137–49; and writing 160–2 divine judgement 16–17 division of labour, and city of pigs 87–8; and ideal city 73–4, 87–90 Dodana 3 Dodds, E. R. 170, 171, 175, 178

drama, and Aristotle 174, 193 drama and discourse 104–31 dramatic setting and dialogue 104–10 dramatic space, disappearance of 118–23 draughts 153 Durkheim, E. 171 dynasties, and justice 16 economic institutions, and city of Laws 80; and city of pigs 87–8; and civic space 74 education, and Glaucon 117; and guardians 28, 86, 90–3, 95–7; and ideal city 75–6, 81; question of 138–9, 142–3; and writing 162–3 Egypt 2, 188 Ehrenberg, V. 174, 178 Ephesus 175 equality 54–5 Er, myth of 24–5, 33, 78, 97, 137, 147, 169, 179, 184 Eros 30–1, 58 escapist solution 7 Euripides 100 Eusebios 173 excess 83–5 existentialism 11, 18 family, and ideal city 92–3 Finley, M. I. 19, 37, 172, 176, 193 food, raw and cooked 36 Form of Good 62–3, 122, 131, 151, 157 Foster, J. 67 Foucault, M. 1, 7, 171, 174, 176 Freeman, H. 46 Freud, S. 4 Friedlander, P. 78, 169, 173, 183, 193 Gadamer, H. G. 50, 88, 91, 105, 169, 183, 191, 193 games 142, 149–67, 191–2; and discursive space 150–67; and Socrates 8, 151–5, 162, 166; and

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suspension 151–66; syntax of 155; and writing 150–67 games, Olympic 152 gaze of others 17–21, 29, 67–72, 171 gender, and ideal city see under women Giddens, A. 171 Glaucon, and city of pigs 82; death of 175; and dialectics 115, 144–5; and dramatic space 120; and education 117;and Gyges 10–23; and happiness 60–7; and ideal city 98–103; and injustice 57–9, 140; and justice 20, 49, 67–72; and the Muses 95–6; and Polemarchus 106; and Socrates 10–23 goddess, and truth 5 gods, demarcation of 6, 21–3, 26, 30–1, 34–5 golden age 36, 73, 90, 172 Good, and discourse 155–60; question of 8, 136–7, 144, 147– 9, 150–1; as ruler 71; and Socrates 143–5, 157–8 Good, Form of 62–3, 122, 131, 151, 157 good in itself 49–50, 61–4, 66, 159, 177 Gordon, R. L. 168 Gorgias 13, 33 Greek man, demarcation of 6–7, 10–45: and civic space 8, 43–5, 47, and discursive space 127– 31, and Pausanias 34–5, and Socrates 50–2; and dietary rules 37; transformation of 55–6, 166 Greek world, and power 5 Grote, G. 176 Grube, G. M. A. 9, 95, 178 guardian-zones 75–7, 81, 83–91 guardians, and civic space 74–7, 83–5; and diet 36; and education 28, 86, 90–3, 95–7; and excess 83–5; and happiness 65–6; and sexuality 84, 86, 91–3 guiding questions 132–7, 138–49

guilt and shame 171, 178 Guthrie, W. C. K. 43, 48, 81, 84, 89, 102, 175, 178, 181 Gyges, and Cicero 11; and eros 30–1; and happiness 22; and Herodotus 10–18, 170; historical 168; inner differentiation 44; and invisibility 32, 42, 68–9, 81, 130; myth of: and demarcation 42–3, 102, and justice 7, 10–23, 44–5, and symbolic utterance 41–3; and ring 10–11, 18, 21, 23, 42, 68; as tyrant 21–2, 30, 157 Habermas, J. 185 Hades 24, 121, 169, 183 Hägerstrand, T. 171 Hall, D. 182 Hamilton, E. 9 Hanson, J. 19 happiness 60–7, 176; and Adeimantus 65–7, 139–40; and Aristotle 176; and death 60; and demarcation 61, 66–7; and Glaucon 60–7; and goodness 62–7; and guardians 65–6; and Gyges 22; and Herodotus 16; and injustice 10, 15, 58, 60–7; and justice 7, 16, 49, 60–7; and philosopher-kings 66; question of 139–41; and Socrates 60–7; and Solon 15; and Thrasymachus 16–17, 60; and tyrant 60–1 Hartog, F. 170, 171, 172, 174 Havelock, E. A. 52, 175, 176 heavenly city 30–1 Hecataeus 173 hedonism 25 Hegel, G. W. F. 158–9, 192 Heidegger, M. 171, 178, 180 Hekademos 164 Hellas 39 Hephaestus 79 Hera 30, 31 Heracles 169, 183 Heraclitus 46, 50, 175

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INDEX hermeneutics 4, 105, 183, 188, 189, 193 Hermippus 22 Herodotus, and cannibalism 37, 172, 174; and Gyges 10–18, 41, 170; and happiness 16; and justice 16, 41, 52–4, 56; and logos 12–13; and myth 12–13; and retribution 53–4, 176; and tyrant 130–1 Heroikos 168 Hesiod 1, 36, 45, 170 Hestia 187 Hillier, B. 19, 171 Hippias 43, 174 Hippocrates 187 history, effect of Republic 14; and ideal city 94–8; and Socrates 73 Homer, and Socrates 51; works of 21, 26, 68, 169, 172, 178 Homeric heroes 23, 33, 52, 150, 171 homosexuality 25 horse, bronze 10–11, 16, 18, 23 human, demarcation of 21–3, 24–30 hunting 28 Husserl, E. 159, 180 ideal city 73–103; and Adeimantus 98, 119; and age 92–3; and Aristotle 102, 179; and children 76–7, 81; and civic space 73–85; construction of 20–1; and death 33–4, 94; destruction of 94; and division of labour 73–4, 87–90; and education 75–6, 81; and family 92–3; and Glaucon 98– 103; and guardians 74–7; and Gyges 81; and history 94–8; and invisibility 81; and justice 82–5; and metaphor 102–3; myth of 75; and philosopherkings 101; and redemarcation 98–103; and reproduction 91–2; and sexuality 75, 81; and Socrates 21, 98–103; and spatial language 77–82; and stability 82–5; and time 85–94; and

totalitarianism 93–5, 102, 181; and transgression 81–2; and women 40, 75–6, 81, 91–3 ideal speech situation 125–7, 150, 165, 185 Immerwahr, H. R. 53, 170 immortality 32, 33–4, 118 injustice, and Glaucon 57–9, 140; and happiness 10, 15, 58, 60–7; and tyrant 57–9 instability, and civilization 83–5 inversion 15–21, 114–18 invisibility 15, 17–18, 29; and discursive formation 68–72; and Gyges 32, 42, 68–9, 81, 130; and ideal city 81; and Gyges’ ring 10–11, 18, 21, 23, 42, 68; and social space 18–21 invisible justice 67–72 Irwin, T. H. 176 Iser, W. 185 islands of the blessed 32, 64 Isocrates 55, 57, 170, 172, 176, 193–4 Jesus 42, 166 Jowett, B. 174 judgement, divine 16–17 justice, and Adeimantus 11, 17, 68, 82; and Aristotle 53–4, 54–6; and city of pigs 82–3; and civic space 7, 19, 46–52; and discursive formation 46–7; and equality 54–5; and gaze of others 67–72; and Glaucon 20, 49, 67–72; good in itself 11, 17, 20–1, 49–50; and Gyges 7, 10– 23, 44–5; and happiness 7, 16, 49, 60–7; and Herodotus 16, 41, 52–4, 56; and ideal city 82–5; invisible 67–72; and myth of man-wolf 44–5; and Plato 56–7; problem of 46–72; question of 138, 139–40, 146–7; and retribution 52–4, 170; and Socrates 47, 60–7, 82, 138–40, 170; and Thrasymachus 47, 48– 50, 57–9, 130; and virtue 53–5 Kahn, C. H. 46, 48, 172, 175, 176

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Kant, I. 62 Kerferd, G. B. 43, 172, 174, 175 Kierkegaard, S. A. 105, 193 king 10, 15, 32 Kitto, H. D. F. 172 Klosko, G. 180, 181–2, 183, 185 knowledge, will to 32, 50, 71 Kronos 36 Kurtz, D. C. 39, 172

Mourelatos, A. P. D. 186 Mumford, L. 79, 171 murder 10, 15, 18 Muses’ tale 76, 91, 95–7, 146, 181 music 28, 90; exclusion of 75, 76, 77 myth, and argument 11–15, 27–8, 33, 95–6, 174; of Atlantis 22; of cities 75; and discursive formation 12–14, 40–1; of Er 24–5, 33, 78, 97, 137, 147, 169, 184; of Gorgias 13, 33; of Gyges 10–23, 41–3, 44–5, 102; and Herodotus 12–13; of ideal city 75 see also ideal city; of man-wolf 30, 34–8, 44–5; and ornament 12, 23; of Phaedo 13, 33; and Plato 12–15; and poetry 169–70; and Thucidides 13; and Timaeus 13 mythos and logos 12–15, 150

labour, division of see division of labour Lefort, C. 181, 182 Leontius 25–7, 30, 169, 172 Lethe 24 Leveque, P. 78, 79, 80, 171 Lévi-Strauss, C. 171 Levinson, R. B. 102, 180 Libes 184 Lintott, A. 175 Lloyd, G. E. R. 186 Lobel, E. 170 logos and mythos 12–15, 150 Loraux, N. 168, 171, 172, 174 Lucian 168 Lydia 10, 15 Lysias 170, 175, 176 Mabbot, J. D. 177 McLeish, K. 30 man-wolf myth 30, 34–8, 44–5 Marsyas 51 Marx, K. 4, 171, 180 Megillus 99, 182 metallic races 93–5 metamorphosis 33, 34–8 metaphors 102–3, 133–7; and guiding questions 8, 132–7; and ornaments 132, 188; spatial 126, 160 metic 118 military class see warriors mob 29 Montuori, M. 173, 186 morality 16 More, Sir Thomas 180 Morrow, G. E. R. 80 Motte, A. 24, 172

naked bodies 10–11, 15, 16, 23 nature 22, 24, 30, 76 necrophilia 25, 34 Nettleship, R. L. 181 Niceratus 48, 175 Nicias 48, 119 Nietzsche, F. 4, 167, 173 Nozick, R. 185 Nussbaum, M. C. 114, 129, 169, 172, 173, 176, 177, 189 Odysseus 190 Oedipus 173 oligarchy 28, 48 omophagy 36 Ophir, A. 185, 190 Orpheus 33 Orphics 36, 50 Ovid 36 Page, D. L. 170 palaestra 187 Panhellenism 176 Panopticon 171 Parke, H. W. 174 Parmenides 5, 46, 69

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INDEX parody 78–9, 81, 100 Pausanias 34–5, 173 Peloponnesian War 47 Pericles 31, 164 Perlman, S. V. 176 Phaedrus 2, 191 phenomenology 4 philosopher-kings, death of 33–4; emergence of 114–17, 128; and happiness 66; and ideal city 101; and politics 2, 3; and Socrates 101, 115–18 philosophers, and Adeimantus 142, 153; definition of 129; demarcation of 29, 31–4, 173; nature of 141–2, 145–6; and Socrates 187; and tyrant 32; and will to power 2, 32 philosophy, and politics 2, 3–4, 8, 14 Philostratus 168 Phoenicia 188 Phoenician myth 95–6, 169 Pickard-Cambridge, A. 174 Pindar 107 Piraeus 78, 104–6, 111, 118, 172, 175; and corpses 25, 27 Pisthetairos 30–2, 187 Pliny 173 Plotinus 102 Plutarch 172, 193 poetry 90, 95; exclusion of 75, 76, 77, 97, 169; and philosophy 150, 163 Polemarchus 52–3, 176, 184; death of 48, 119, 175; and Glaucon 106; and Socrates 104–10, 111– 13, 124–5 Polignac, de F. 171 polis, and Aristotle 22, 55; and civic space 19; and demarcation 28; and nature 76; and politics 48–9, 129; and schools 164–5; and Socrates 51; and women 43 polis see also civic space politics, and diet 36–8; and discourse 103; and nature 30; and philosophy 2, 3–4, 8, 14;

and Plato 175–6; and polis 48– 9, 129; and civic space 19–21 Pollus 125 Polynices 39 Popper, K. R. 102, 180–1, 186 Porphyry 172, 173 Poseidon 22, 178, 190 Potidaea 186 power, and civic space 1, 7, 32; and reason 2, 52, 104–10; and sexuality 187; and time 85–94; will to see will to power Prichard, H. A. 62 Protagoras 5, 12, 45, 123–4, 183, 187–8 Pythagoreans 50 questioning, and Socrates 12, 57 questions, guiding 132–7, 138–49 Rawls, J. 185 reason, and civic space 70–2; and desire 27; and power 2, 52, 104–10 redemarcation, and ideal city 98– 103 reformed city see city of Laws reproduction, and ideal city 91–2 retribution, divine 16–17; and Herodotus 53–4, 176; human 17; and justice 52–4, 170 Rorty, A. O. 185 Rosen, S. 169 Ross, D. 44, 175 Ryle, G. 176 Sach, D. A. 177 sacrifices 30–1, 34, 106, 184; human 34–8, 173–4 Santas, G. S. 188–9 Sartre, J. P. 180 Schleiermacher, F. 105, 193 Scully, S. 27, 53 second best city see city of Laws Seery, J. E. 183, 188 Segal, C. 31, 169, 173 serious discourse see discourse Sesonske, A. 183

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sexuality, and guardians 84, 86, 91–3; and ideal city 75, 81; and power 187; and Socrates 120 shame and guilt 171, 178 Shorey, P. 186 Siemsen, T. 104, 182–3 Silenus 51 Simonides 52, 107 slaves 6, 23, 38, 40, 174 Smith, J. E. 169 social space, and invisibility 18–21 Socrates, and allegory 13; and argument 189; and Callicles 183; and city of pigs 73, 83; and conversation 151–5, 162; death of 48–52; and demarcation 22, 50–2; and dialectics 151, 153; and discursive formation 51–2; and Er 105; and games 8, 151–5, 162, 166; and Glaucon 10–23; and Good 143–5, 157–8; and Gorgias 79; and Gyges 21; and Hades 183; and happiness 60– 7; as hero 33; historical 50, 50– 2, 176; and history 73; and Homer 51; and ideal city 21, 98–103; as idler 180; and invisible justice 67–72; and justice 47, 60–7, 82, 138–40, 170; and man-wolf myth 37, 184; and metaphor 133–7; as midwife 124, 190; and morality 16; and Muses’ tale 96; and philosopher-king 101, 115–18; and philosophers 187; Platonic 2, 48–52, 119, 129; and Polemarchus 104–10, 111–13, 124–5; and polis 51; and Protagoras 12, 123–4, 183, 187– 8; and questioning 12, 57; and sexuality 120; and soul 25–7; and Thrasymachus 49–50, 184; and tyrants 21, 58–9; and women 22, 140–1 Solon 15, 16, 41, 170 Sophists 1, 3, 5, 16–17, 29; see also Thrasymachus Sophocles 26, 107

soul 24, 29, 31–4, 143–4 space, civic see civic space space, discursive see discursive space space, exclusive, and new man 123–31 space, social 18–21 spatial metaphors 126, 160; and guiding questions 132–7 spatial organization, and time 84– 94 Sparshott, F. E. 48 spatial language, and ideal city 77–82 Sperber, D. 41, 174 Sphinx 173 stability, and cities 82–5 story see myth Strabo 168, 175 Strauss, L. 31, 48, 99, 102, 104, 105, 181–2, 183, 193 surveillance, social see gaze of others suspension, and games 151–66; moments of 138–50, 192 suspensions 8, 110–15, 118 symbolic utterance, and Gyges 41– 3 Tarrant, H. 193 Taylor, A. E. 179 temporality 73, 82, 85–94 textual acts 14 see also discourse Thamyris 33 Theaetetus 125 Themistocles 172 Theognis 170, 175 Theophrastos 173 Thersites 33 Theseus 169 Theuth 161 Thrasymachus, and dramatic discourse 105–13; and dramatic space 120, 124; and happiness 16–17, 60; as hydra 169; and injustice 57–9; and justice 47, 48–50, 130; and tyrants 21 Thucydides 13, 31, 57, 172 Thurii city 176

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INDEX time 73, 82, 85–94 totalitarianism 93–5, 102, 181 transgression 10, 15, 19, 20, 174; and diet 34–8; and ideal city 81–2 truth 1, 12, 14, 31, 101–3 tyrant, and cannibalism 34–8; and civic space 37–8, 49; and discourse 130; and Eros 30–1; and happiness 60–1; and Herodotus 130–1; and injustice 57–9; and philosophers 32; and social space 21; and Socrates 21, 58–9; soul of 28; and Thrasymachus 21 undercivilized life 19, 82–3 utopia 71–2, 81, 86, 180 utopic solution 7–8 vanity fair 88, 94–8 vegetarianism 35–6, 83, 172 Vernant, J. P. 7, 13, 46, 119, 168, 171, 173 Vidal-Naquet, P. 7, 78, 79, 80, 168, 171, 172, 174 virtue 53–5 Vlastos, G. 38, 40, 46, 177, 181 Voegelin, E. 183, 186, 188, 190 war 28, 39–40, 83–5

warriors 27, 74, 79, 80, 88–9 Waterfield, R. A. H. 189 Wilkerson, K. E. 178 will to knowledge 32, 50, 71 will to power 2, 32, 50, 71, 120–2; and eros 30–1; and new man 98; and Plato 175; and sublimation 101 Winnington-Ingrahm, R. P. 31 Wittgenstein, J. 191–2 women, and agora 38; and city of Laws 80–1; and city of pigs 82– 3; and civic space 174–5, 187; common ownership of 140–1; and confinement 37–8; demarcation of 6, 22–3, 33; and ideal city 40, 75–6, 81, 91–3; and polis 43; and Socrates 22, 140–1 Wood, R. E. 169, 190 writing, and discourse 160–6, 193– 4; and discursive space 160–2; and education 162–3; and games 150–67 Wycherley, R. E. 172, 180 Xenophon 175 Zeus 3, 30, 31, 173 Zeus Lykaios 16, 35 zones 75–7, 81, 83–91

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