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THE REPUBLIC - BOOK VI

By Plato

Circa 360 BCE

Translated by Benjamin Jowett

Republic by Plato: Book 6.

PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE

Socrates, who is the narrator; Glaucon; Adeimantus; Polemarchus; Cephalus; Thrasymachus; Cleitophon; And others who are mute auditors. The scene is laid in the house of Cephalus at the Piraeus; and the whole dialogue is narrated by Socrates the day after it actually took place to Timaeus, Hermocrates, Critias, and a nameless person, who are introduced in the Timaeus.

Republic - Plato's Greatest Dialogue, Philosophy - BOOK_6.

  BOOK VI

And thus, Glaucon, after the argument has gone a weary way, the true and
the false philosophers have at length appeared in view.

I do not think, he said, that the way could have been shortened.

I suppose not, I said; and yet I believe that we might have had a better
view of both of them if the discussion could have been confined to this
one subject and if there were not many other questions awaiting us,
which he who desires to see in what respect the life of the just differs
from that of the unjust must consider.

And what is the next question? he asked.

Surely, I said, the one which follows next in order. Inasmuch as
philosophers only are able to grasp the eternal and unchangeable, and
those who wander in the region of the many and variable are not
philosophers, I must ask you which of the two classes should be the
rulers of our State?

And how can we rightly answer that question?

Whichever of the two are best able to guard the laws and institutions of
our State -- let them be our guardians.

Very good.

Neither, I said, can there be any question that the guardian who is to
keep anything should have eyes rather than no eyes?

There can be no question of that.

And are not those who are verily and indeed wanting in the knowledge of
the true being of each thing, and who have in their souls no clear
pattern, and are unable as with a painter's eye to look at the absolute
truth and to that original to repair, and having perfect vision of the
other world to order the laws about beauty, goodness, justice in this,
if not already ordered, and to guard and preserve the order of them --
are not such persons, I ask, simply blind?

Truly, he replied, they are much in that condition.

And shall they be our guardians when there are others who, besides being
their equals in experience and falling short of them in no particular of
virtue, also know the very truth of each thing?

There can be no reason, he said, for rejecting those who have this
greatest of all great qualities; they must always have the first place
unless they fail in some other respect.

Suppose then, I said, that we determine how far they can unite this and
the other excellences.

By all means.

In the first place, as we began by observing, the nature of the
philosopher has to be ascertained. We must come to an understanding
about him, and, when we have done so, then, if I am not mistaken, we
shall also acknowledge that such an union of qualities is possible, and
that those in whom they are united, and those only, should be rulers in
the State.

What do you mean?

Let us suppose that philosophical minds always love knowledge of a sort
which shows them the eternal nature not varying from generation and
corruption.

Agreed.

And further, I said, let us agree that they are lovers of all true
being; there is no part whether greater or less, or more or less
honourable, which they are willing to renounce; as we said before of the
lover and the man of ambition.

True.

And if they are to be what we were describing, is there not another
quality which they should also possess?

What quality?

Truthfulness: they will never intentionally receive into their mind
falsehood, which is their detestation, and they will love the truth.

Yes, that may be safely affirmed of them.

"May be," my friend, I replied, is not the word; say rather "must be
affirmed:" for he whose nature is amorous of anything cannot help loving
all that belongs or is akin to the object of his affections.

Right, he said.

And is there anything more akin to wisdom than truth?

How can there be?

Can the same nature be a lover of wisdom and a lover of falsehood?

Never.

The true lover of learning then must from his earliest youth, as far as
in him lies, desire all truth?

Assuredly.

But then again, as we know by experience, he whose desires are strong in
one direction will have them weaker in others; they will be like a
stream which has been drawn off into another channel.

True.

He whose desires are drawn towards knowledge in every form will be
absorbed in the pleasures of the soul, and will hardly feel bodily
pleasure -- I mean, if he be a true philosopher and not a sham one.

That is most certain.

Such an one is sure to be temperate and the reverse of covetous; for the
motives which make another man desirous of having and spending, have no
place in his character.

Very true.

Another criterion of the philosophical nature has also to be considered.

What is that?

There should be no secret corner of illiberality; nothing can more
antagonistic than meanness to a soul which is ever longing after the
whole of things both divine and human.

Most true, he replied.

Then how can he who has magnificence of mind and is the spectator of all
time and all existence, think much of human life?

He cannot.

Or can such an one account death fearful?

No indeed.

Then the cowardly and mean nature has no part in true philosophy?

Certainly not.

Or again: can he who is harmoniously constituted, who is not covetous or
mean, or a boaster, or a coward -- can he, I say, ever be unjust or hard in
his dealings?

Impossible.

Then you will soon observe whether a man is just and gentle, or rude and
unsociable; these are the signs which distinguish even in youth the
philosophical nature from the unphilosophical.

True.

There is another point which should be remarked.

What point?

Whether he has or has not a pleasure in learning; for no one will love
that which gives him pain, and in which after much toil he makes little
progress.

Certainly not.

And again, if he is forgetful and retains nothing of what he learns,
will he not be an empty vessel?

That is certain.

Labouring in vain, he must end in hating himself and his fruitless
occupation?

Yes.

Then a soul which forgets cannot be ranked among genuine philosophic
natures; we must insist that the philosopher should have a good memory?

Certainly.

And once more, the inharmonious and unseemly nature can only tend to
disproportion?

Undoubtedly.

And do you consider truth to be akin to proportion or to disproportion?

To proportion.

Then, besides other qualities, we must try to find a naturally
well-proportioned and gracious mind, which will move spontaneously
towards the true being of everything.

Certainly.

Well, and do not all these qualities, which we have been enumerating, go
together, and are they not, in a manner, necessary to a soul, which is
to have a full and perfect participation of being?

They are absolutely necessary, he replied.

And must not that be a blameless study which he only can pursue who has
the gift of a good memory, and is quick to learn, -- noble, gracious,
the friend of truth, justice, courage, temperance, who are his kindred?

The god of jealousy himself, he said, could find no fault with such a
study.

And to men like him, I said, when perfected by years and education, and
to these only you will entrust the State.

Here Adeimantus interposed and said: To these statements, Socrates, no
one can offer a reply; but when you talk in this way, a strange feeling
passes over the minds of your hearers: They fancy that they are led
astray a little at each step in the argument, owing to their own want of
skill in asking and answering questions; these littles accumulate, and
at the end of the discussion they are found to have sustained a mighty
overthrow and all their former notions appear to be turned upside down.
And as unskilful players of draughts are at last shut up by their more
skilful adversaries and have no piece to move, so they too find
themselves shut up at last; for they have nothing to say in this new
game of which words are the counters; and yet all the time they are in
the right. The observation is suggested to me by what is now occurring.
For any one of us might say, that although in words he is not able to
meet you at each step of the argument, he sees as a fact that the
votaries of philosophy, when they carry on the study, not only in youth
as a part of education, but as the pursuit of their maturer years, most
of them become strange monsters, not to say utter rogues, and that those
who may be considered the best of them are made useless to the world by
the very study which you extol.

Well, and do you think that those who say so are wrong? I cannot tell,
he replied; but I should like to know what is your opinion.

Hear my answer; I am of opinion that they are quite right.

Then how can you be justified in saying that cities will not cease from
evil until philosophers rule in them, when philosophers are acknowledged
by us to be of no use to them?

You ask a question, I said, to which a reply can only be given in a
parable.

Yes, Socrates; and that is a way of speaking to which you are not at all
accustomed, I suppose.

I perceive, I said, that you are vastly amused at having plunged me into
such a hopeless discussion; but now hear the parable, and then you will
be still more amused at the meagreness of my imagination: for the manner
in which the best men are treated in their own States is so grievous
that no single thing on earth is comparable to it; and therefore, if I
am to plead their cause, I must have recourse to fiction, and put
together a figure made up of many things, like the fabulous unions of
goats and stags which are found in pictures. Imagine then a fleet or a
ship in which there is a captain who is taller and stronger than any of
the crew, but he is a little deaf and has a similar infirmity in sight,
and his knowledge of navigation is not much better. The sailors are
quarrelling with one another about the steering -- every one is of
opinion that he has a right to steer, though he has never learned the
art of navigation and cannot tell who taught him or when he learned, and
will further assert that it cannot be taught, and they are ready to cut
in pieces any one who says the contrary. They throng about the captain,
begging and praying him to commit the helm to them; and if at any time
they do not prevail, but others are preferred to them, they kill the
others or throw them overboard, and having first chained up the noble
captain's senses with drink or some narcotic drug, they mutiny and take
possession of the ship and make free with the stores; thus, eating and
drinking, they proceed on their voyage in such a manner as might be
expected of them. Him who is their partisan and cleverly aids them in
their plot for getting the ship out of the captain's hands into their
own whether by force or persuasion, they compliment with the name of
sailor, pilot, able seaman, and abuse the other sort of man, whom they
call a good-for-nothing; but that the true pilot must pay attention to
the year and seasons and sky and stars and winds, and whatever else
belongs to his art, if he intends to be really qualified for the command
of a ship, and that he must and will be the steerer, whether other
people like or not -- the possibility of this union of authority with the
steerer's art has never seriously entered into their thoughts or been
made part of their calling. Now in vessels which are in a state of
mutiny and by sailors who are mutineers, how will the true pilot be
regarded? Will he not be called by them a prater, a star-gazer, a
good-for-nothing?

Of course, said Adeimantus.

Then you will hardly need, I said, to hear the interpretation of the
figure, which describes the true philosopher in his relation to the
State; for you understand already.

Certainly.

Then suppose you now take this parable to the gentleman who is surprised
at finding that philosophers have no honour in their cities; explain it
to him and try to convince him that their having honour would be far
more extraordinary.

I will.

Say to him, that, in deeming the best votaries of philosophy to be
useless to the rest of the world, he is right; but also tell him to
attribute their uselessness to the fault of those who will not use them,
and not to themselves. The pilot should not humbly beg the sailors to be
commanded by him -- that is not the order of nature; neither are "the
wise to go to the doors of the rich" -- the ingenious author of this
saying told a lie -- but the truth is, that, when a man is ill, whether
he be rich or poor, to the physician he must go, and he who wants to be
governed, to him who is able to govern. The ruler who is good for
anything ought not to beg his subjects to be ruled by him; although the
present governors of mankind are of a different stamp; they may be
justly compared to the mutinous sailors, and the true helmsmen to those
who are called by them good-for-nothings and star-gazers.

Precisely so, he said.

For these reasons, and among men like these, philosophy, the noblest
pursuit of all, is not likely to be much esteemed by those of the
opposite faction; not that the greatest and most lasting injury is done
to her by her opponents, but by her own professing followers, the same
of whom you suppose the accuser to say, that the greater number of them
are arrant rogues, and the best are useless; in which opinion I agreed.

Yes.

And the reason why the good are useless has now been explained?

True.

Then shall we proceed to show that the corruption of the majority is
also unavoidable, and that this is not to be laid to the charge of
philosophy any more than the other?

By all means.

And let us ask and answer in turn, first going back to the description
of the gentle and noble nature. Truth, as you will remember, was his
leader, whom he followed always and in all things; failing in this, he
was an impostor, and had no part or lot in true philosophy.

Yes, that was said.

Well, and is not this one quality, to mention no others, greatly at
variance with present notions of him?

Certainly, he said.

And have we not a right to say in his defence, that the true lover of
knowledge is always striving after being -- that is his nature; he will
not rest in the multiplicity of individuals which is an appearance only,
but will go on -- the keen edge will not be blunted, nor the force of
his desire abate until he have attained the knowledge of the true nature
of every essence by a sympathetic and kindred power in the soul, and by
that power drawing near and mingling and becoming incorporate with very
being, having begotten mind and truth, he will have knowledge and will
live and grow truly, and then, and not till then, will he cease from his
travail.

Nothing, he said, can be more just than such a description of him.

And will the love of a lie be any part of a philosopher's nature? Will
he not utterly hate a lie?

He will.

And when truth is the captain, we cannot suspect any evil of the band
which he leads?

Impossible.

Justice and health of mind will be of the company, and temperance will
follow after?

True, he replied.

Neither is there any reason why I should again set in array the
philosopher's virtues, as you will doubtless remember that courage,
magnificence, apprehension, memory, were his natural gifts. And you
objected that, although no one could deny what I then said, still, if
you leave words and look at facts, the persons who are thus described
are some of them manifestly useless, and the greater number utterly
depraved; we were then led to enquire into the grounds of these
accusations, and have now arrived at the point of asking why are the
majority bad, which question of necessity brought us back to the
examination and definition of the true philosopher.

Exactly.

And we have next to consider the of the philosophic nature, why so many
are spoiled and so few escape spoiling -- I am speaking of those who
were said to be useless but not wicked -- and, when we have done with
them, we will speak of the imitators of philosophy, what manner of men
are they who aspire after a profession which is above them and of which
they are unworthy, and then, by their manifold inconsistencies, bring
upon philosophy, and upon all philosophers, that universal reprobation
of which we speak.

What are these corruptions? he said.

I will see if I can explain them to you. Every one will admit that a
nature having in perfection all the qualities which we required in a
philosopher, is a rare plant which is seldom seen among men.

Rare indeed.

And what numberless and powerful causes tend to destroy these rare
natures!

What causes?

In the first place there are their own virtues, their courage,
temperance, and the rest of them, every one of which praise worthy
qualities (and this is a most singular circumstance) destroys and
distracts from philosophy the soul which is the possessor of them.

That is very singular, he replied.

Then there are all the ordinary goods of life -- beauty, wealth,
strength, rank, and great connections in the State -- you understand the
sort of things -- these also have a corrupting and distracting effect.

I understand; but I should like to know more precisely what you mean
about them.

Grasp the truth as a whole, I said, and in the right way; you will then
have no difficulty in apprehending the preceding remarks, and they will
no longer appear strange to you.

And how am I to do so? he asked.
 
Why, I said, we know that all germs or seeds, whether vegetable or
animal, when they fail to meet with proper nutriment or climate or soil,
in proportion to their vigour, are all the more sensitive to the want of
a suitable environment, for evil is a greater enemy to what is good than
what is not.

Very true.

There is reason in supposing that the finest natures, when under alien
conditions, receive more injury than the inferior, because the contrast
is greater.

Certainly.

And may we not say, Adeimantus, that the most gifted minds, when they
are ill-educated, become pre-eminently bad? Do not great crimes and the
spirit of pure evil spring out of a fulness of nature ruined by
education rather than from any inferiority, whereas weak natures are
scarcely capable of any very great good or very great evil?

There I think that you are right.

And our philosopher follows the same analogy -- he is like a plant which,
having proper nurture, must necessarily grow and mature into all virtue,
but, if sown and planted in an alien soil, becomes the most noxious of
all weeds, unless he be preserved by some divine power. Do you really
think, as people so often say, that our youth are corrupted by Sophists,
or that private teachers of the art corrupt them in any degree worth
speaking of? Are not the public who say these things the greatest of all
Sophists? And do they not educate to perfection young and old, men and
women alike, and fashion them after their own hearts?

When is this accomplished? he said.

When they meet together, and the world sits down at an assembly, or in a
court of law, or a theatre, or a camp, or in any other popular resort,
and there is a great uproar, and they praise some things which are being
said or done, and blame other things, equally exaggerating both,
shouting and clapping their hands, and the echo of the rocks and the
place in which they are assembled redoubles the sound of the praise or
blame -- at such a time will not a young man's heart, as they say, leap
within him? Will any private training enable him to stand firm against
the overwhelming flood of popular opinion? or will he be carried away by
the stream? Will he not have the notions of good and evil which the
public in general have -- he will do as they do, and as they are, such
will he be?

Yes, Socrates; necessity will compel him.

And yet, I said, there is a still greater necessity, which has not been
mentioned.

What is that?

The gentle force of attainder or confiscation or death which, as you are
aware, these new Sophists and educators who are the public, apply when
their words are powerless.

Indeed they do; and in right good earnest.

Now what opinion of any other Sophist, or of any private person, can be
expected to overcome in such an unequal contest?

None, he replied.

No, indeed, I said, even to make the attempt is a great piece of folly;
there neither is, nor has been, nor is ever likely to be, any different
type of character which has had no other training in virtue but that
which is supplied by public opinion -- I speak, my friend, of human
virtue only; what is more than human, as the proverb says, is not
included: for I would not have you ignorant that, in the present evil
state of governments, whatever is saved and comes to good is saved by
the power of God, as we may truly say.

I quite assent, he replied.

Then let me crave your assent also to a further observation.

What are you going to say?

Why, that all those mercenary individuals, whom the many call Sophists
and whom they deem to be their adversaries, do, in fact, teach nothing
but the opinion of the many, that is to say, the opinions of their
assemblies; and this is their wisdom. I might compare them to a man who
should study the tempers and desires of a mighty strong beast who is fed
by him -- he would learn how to approach and handle him, also at what times
and from what causes he is dangerous or the reverse, and what is the
meaning of his several cries, and by what sounds, when another utters
them, he is soothed or infuriated; and you may suppose further, that
when, by continually attending upon him, he has become perfect in all
this, he calls his knowledge wisdom, and makes of it a system or art,
which he proceeds to teach, although he has no real notion of what he
means by the principles or passions of which he is speaking, but calls
this honourable and that dishonourable, or good or evil, or just or
unjust, all in accordance with the tastes and tempers of the great
brute. Good he pronounces to be that in which the beast delights and
evil to be that which he dislikes; and he can give no other account of
them except that the just and noble are the necessary, having never
himself seen, and having no power of explaining to others the nature of
either, or the difference between them, which is immense. By heaven,
would not such an one be a rare educator?

Indeed, he would.

And in what way does he who thinks that wisdom is the discernment of the
tempers and tastes of the motley multitude, whether in painting or
music, or, finally, in politics, differ from him whom I have been
describing For when a man consorts with the many, and exhibits to them
his poem or other work of art or the service which he has done the
State, making them his judges when he is not obliged, the so-called
necessity of Diomede will oblige him to produce whatever they praise.
And yet the reasons are utterly ludicrous which they give in
confirmation of their own notions about the honourable and good. Did you
ever hear any of them which were not?

No, nor am I likely to hear.

You recognise the truth of what I have been saying? Then let me ask you
to consider further whether the world will ever be induced to believe in
the existence of absolute beauty rather than of the many beautiful, or
of the absolute in each kind rather than of the many in each kind?

Certainly not.

Then the world cannot possibly be a philosopher?

Impossible.

And therefore philosophers must inevitably fall under the censure of the
world?

They must.

And of individuals who consort with the mob and seek to please them?

That is evident.

Then, do you see any way in which the philosopher can be preserved in
his calling to the end? and remember what we were saying of him, that he
was to have quickness and memory and courage and magnificence -- these
were admitted by us to be the true philosopher's gifts.

Yes.

Will not such an one from his early childhood be in all things first
among all, especially if his bodily endowments are like his mental ones?

Certainly, he said.

And his friends and fellow-citizens will want to use him as he gets
older for their own purposes?

No question.

Falling at his feet, they will make requests to him and do him honour
and flatter him, because they want to get into their hands now, the
power which he will one day possess.

That often happens, he said.

And what will a man such as he be likely to do under such circumstances,
especially if he be a citizen of a great city, rich and noble, and a
tall proper youth? Will he not be full of boundless aspirations, and
fancy himself able to manage the affairs of Hellenes and of barbarians,
and having got such notions into his head will he not dilate and elevate
himself in the fulness of vain pomp and senseless pride?

To be sure he will.

Now, when he is in this state of mind, if some one gently comes to him
and tells him that he is a fool and must get understanding, which can
only be got by slaving for it, do you think that, under such adverse
circumstances, he will be easily induced to listen?

Far otherwise.

And even if there be some one who through inherent goodness or natural
reasonableness has had his eyes opened a little and is humbled and taken
captive by philosophy, how will his friends behave when they think that
they are likely to lose the advantage which they were hoping to reap
from his companionship? Will they not do and say anything to prevent him
from yielding to his better nature and to render his teacher powerless,
using to this end private intrigues as well as public prosecutions?

There can be no doubt of it.

And how can one who is thus circumstanced ever become a philosopher?

Impossible.

Then were we not right in saying that even the very qualities which make
a man a philosopher may, if he be ill-educated, divert him from
philosophy, no less than riches and their accompaniments and the other
so-called goods of life?

We were quite right.

Thus, my excellent friend, is brought about all that ruin and failure
which I have been describing of the natures best adapted to the best of
all pursuits; they are natures which we maintain to be rare at any time;
this being the class out of which come the men who are the authors of
the greatest evil to States and individuals; and also of the greatest
good when the tide carries them in that direction; but a small man never
was the doer of any great thing either to individuals or to States.

That is most true, he said.

And so philosophy is left desolate, with her marriage rite incomplete:
for her own have fallen away and forsaken her, and while they are
leading a false and unbecoming life, other unworthy persons, seeing that
she has no kinsmen to be her protectors, enter in and dishonour her; and
fasten upon her the reproaches which, as you say, her reprovers utter,
who affirm of her votaries that some are good for nothing, and that the
greater number deserve the severest punishment.

That is certainly what people say.

Yes; and what else would you expect, I said, when you think of the puny
creatures who, seeing this land open to them -- a land well stocked with
fair names and showy titles -- like prisoners running out of prison into
a sanctuary, take a leap out of their trades into philosophy; those who
do so being probably the cleverest hands at their own miserable crafts?
For, although philosophy be in this evil case, still there remains a
dignity about her which is not to be found in the arts. And many are
thus attracted by her whose natures are imperfect and whose souls are
maimed and disfigured by their meannesses, as their bodies are by their
trades and crafts. Is not this unavoidable?

Yes.

Are they not exactly like a bald little tinker who has just got out of
durance and come into a fortune; he takes a bath and puts on a new coat,
and is decked out as a bridegroom going to marry his master's daughter,
who is left poor and desolate?

A most exact parallel.

What will be the issue of such marriages? Will they not be vile and
bastard?

There can be no question of it.

And when persons who are unworthy of education approach philosophy and
make an alliance with her who is a rank above them what sort of ideas
and opinions are likely to be generated? Will they not be sophisms
captivating to the ear, having nothing in them genuine, or worthy of or
akin to true wisdom?

No doubt, he said.

Then, Adeimantus, I said, the worthy disciples of philosophy will be but
a small remnant: perchance some noble and well-educated person, detained
by exile in her service, who in the absence of corrupting influences
remains devoted to her; or some lofty soul born in a mean city, the
politics of which he contemns and neglects; and there may be a gifted
few who leave the arts, which they justly despise, and come to her; --
or peradventure there are some who are restrained by our friend Theages'
bridle; for everything in the life of Theages conspired to divert him
from philosophy; but ill-health kept him away from politics. My own case
of the internal sign is hardly worth mentioning, for rarely, if ever,
has such a monitor been given to any other man. Those who belong to this
small class have tasted how sweet and blessed a possession philosophy
is, and have also seen enough of the madness of the multitude; and they
know that no politician is honest, nor is there any champion of justice
at whose side they may fight and be saved. Such an one may be compared
to a man who has fallen among wild beasts -- he will not join in the
wickedness of his fellows, but neither is he able singly to resist all
their fierce natures, and therefore seeing that he would be of no use to
the State or to his friends, and reflecting that he would have to throw
away his life without doing any good either to himself or others, he
holds his peace, and goes his own way. He is like one who, in the storm
of dust and sleet which the driving wind hurries along, retires under
the shelter of a wall; and seeing the rest of mankind full of
wickedness, he is content, if only he can live his own life and be pure
from evil or unrighteousness, and depart in peace and good-will, with
bright hopes.

Yes, he said, and he will have done a great work before he departs.

A great work -- yes; but not the greatest, unless he find a State
suitable to him; for in a State which is suitable to him, he will have a
larger growth and be the saviour of his country, as well as of himself.

The causes why philosophy is in such an evil name have now been
sufficiently explained: the injustice of the charges against her has
been shown -- is there anything more which you wish to say?

Nothing more on that subject, he replied; but I should like to know
which of the governments now existing is in your opinion the one adapted
to her.

Not any of them, I said; and that is precisely the accusation which I
bring against them -- not one of them is worthy of the philosophic
nature, and hence that nature is warped and estranged; -- as the exotic
seed which is sown in a foreign land becomes denaturalized, and is wont
to be overpowered and to lose itself in the new soil, even so this
growth of philosophy, instead of persisting, degenerates and receives
another character. But if philosophy ever finds in the State that
perfection which she herself is, then will be seen that she is in truth
divine, and that all other things, whether natures of men or
institutions, are but human; -- and now, I know that you are going to
ask, what that State is.

No, he said; there you are wrong, for I was going to ask another
question -- whether it is the State of which. we are the founders and
inventors, or some other?

Yes, I replied, ours in most respects; but you may remember my saying
before, that some living authority would always be required in the State
having the same idea of the constitution which guided you when as
legislator you were laying down the laws.

That was said, he replied.

Yes, but not in a satisfactory manner; you frightened us by interposing
objections, which certainly showed that the discussion would be long and
difficult; and what still remains is the reverse of easy.

What is there remaining?

The question how the study of philosophy may be so ordered as not to be
the ruin of the State: All great attempts are attended with risk; "hard
is the good," as men say.

Still, he said, let the point be cleared up, and the enquiry will then
be complete.

I shall not be hindered, I said, by any want of will, but, if at all, by
a want of power: my zeal you may see for yourselves; and please to
remark in what I am about to say how boldly and unhesitatingly I declare
that States should pursue philosophy, not as they do now, but in a
different spirit.

In what manner?

At present, I said, the students of philosophy are quite young;
beginning when they are hardly past childhood, they devote only the time
saved from moneymaking and housekeeping to such pursuits; and even those
of them who are reputed to have most of the philosophic spirit, when
they come within sight of the great difficulty of the subject, I mean
dialectic, take themselves off. In after life when invited by some one
else, they may, perhaps, go and hear a lecture, and about this they make
much ado, for philosophy is not considered by them to be their proper
business: at last, when they grow old, in most cases they are
extinguished more truly than Heracleitus' sun, inasmuch as they never
light up again.

But what ought to be their course?

Just the opposite. In childhood and youth their study, and what
philosophy they learn, should be suited to their tender years: during
this period while they are growing up towards manhood, the chief and
special care should be given to their bodies that they may have them to
use in the service of philosophy; as life advances and the intellect
begins to mature, let them increase the gymnastics of the soul; but when
the strength of our citizens fails and is past civil and military
duties, then let them range at will and engage in no serious labour, as
we intend them to live happily here, and to crown this life with a
similar happiness in another.

How truly in earnest you are, Socrates! he said; I am sure of that; and
yet most of your hearers, if I am not mistaken, are likely to be still
more earnest in their opposition to you, and will never be convinced;
Thrasymachus least of all.

Do not make a quarrel, I said, between Thrasymachus and me, who have
recently become friends, although, indeed, we were never enemies; for I
shall go on striving to the utmost until I either convert him and other
men, or do something which may profit them against the day when they
live again, and hold the like discourse in another state of existence.

You are speaking of a time which is not very near.

Rather, I replied, of a time which is as nothing in comparison with
eternity. Nevertheless, I do not wonder that the many refuse to believe;
for they have never seen that of which we are now speaking realised;
they have seen only a conventional imitation of philosophy, consisting
of words artificially brought together, not like these of ours having a
natural unity. But a human being who in word and work is perfectly
moulded, as far as he can be, into the proportion and likeness of virtue
-- such a man ruling in a city which bears the same image, they have
never yet seen, neither one nor many of them -- do you think that they
ever did?

No indeed.

No, my friend, and they have seldom, if ever, heard free and noble
sentiments; such as men utter when they are earnestly and by every means
in their power seeking after truth for the sake of knowledge, while they
look coldly on the subtleties of controversy, of which the end is
opinion and strife, whether they meet with them in the courts of law or
in society.

They are strangers, he said, to the words of which you speak.




And this was what we foresaw, and this was the reason why truth forced
us to admit, not without fear and hesitation, that neither cities nor
States nor individuals will ever attain perfection until the small class
of philosophers whom we termed useless but not corrupt are
providentially compelled, whether they will or not, to take care of the
State, and until a like necessity be laid on the State to obey them; or
until kings, or if not kings, the sons of kings or princes, are divinely
inspired with a true love of true philosophy. That either or both of
these alternatives are impossible, I see no reason to affirm: if they
were so, we might indeed be justly ridiculed as dreamers and
visionaries. Am I not right?

Quite right.

If then, in the countless ages of the past, or at the present hour in
some foreign clime which is far away and beyond our ken, the perfected
philosopher is or has been or hereafter shall be compelled by a superior
power to have the charge of the State, we are ready to assert to the
death, that this our constitution has been, and is -- yea, and will be
whenever the Muse of Philosophy is queen. There is no impossibility in
all this; that there is a difficulty, we acknowledge ourselves.

My opinion agrees with yours, he said.

But do you mean to say that this is not the opinion of the multitude?

I should imagine not, he replied.

O my friend, I said, do not attack the multitude: they will change their
minds, if, not in an aggressive spirit, but gently and with the view of
soothing them and removing their dislike of over-education, you show
them your philosophers as they really are and describe as you were just
now doing their character and profession, and then mankind will see that
he of whom you are speaking is not such as they supposed -- if they view
him in this new light, they will surely change their notion of him, and
answer in another strain. Who can be at enmity with one who loves them,
who that is himself gentle and free from envy will be jealous of one in
whom there is no jealousy? Nay, let me answer for you, that in a few
this harsh temper may be found but not in the majority of mankind.

I quite agree with you, he said.

And do you not also think, as I do, that the harsh feeling which the
many entertain towards philosophy originates in the pretenders, who rush
in uninvited, and are always abusing them, and finding fault with them,
who make persons instead of things the theme of their conversation? and
nothing can be more unbecoming in philosophers than this.

It is most unbecoming.

For he, Adeimantus, whose mind is fixed upon true being, has surely no
time to look down upon the affairs of earth, or to be filled with malice
and envy, contending against men; his eye is ever directed towards
things fixed and immutable, which he sees neither injuring nor injured
by one another, but all in order moving according to reason; these he
imitates, and to these he will, as far as he can, conform himself. Can a
man help imitating that with which he holds reverential converse?

Impossible.

And the philosopher holding converse with the divine order, becomes
orderly and divine, as far as the nature of man allows; but like every
one else, he will suffer from detraction.

Of course.

And if a necessity be laid upon him of fashioning, not only himself, but
human nature generally, whether in States or individuals, into that
which he beholds elsewhere, will he, think you, be an unskilful
artificer of justice, temperance, and every civil virtue?

Anything but unskilful.

And if the world perceives that what we are saying about him is the
truth, will they be angry with philosophy? Will they disbelieve us, when
we tell them that no State can be happy which is not designed by artists
who imitate the heavenly pattern?

They will not be angry if they understand, he said. But how will they
draw out the plan of which you are speaking?

They will begin by taking the State and the manners of men, from which,
as from a tablet, they will rub out the picture, and leave a clean
surface. This is no easy task. But whether easy or not, herein will lie
the difference between them and every other legislator, -- they will
have nothing to do either with individual or State, and will inscribe no
laws, until they have either found, or themselves made, a clean surface.

They will be very right, he said.

Having effected this, they will proceed to trace an outline of the
constitution?

No doubt.

And when they are filling in the work, as I conceive, they will often
turn their eyes upwards and downwards: I mean that they will first look
at absolute justice and beauty and temperance, and again at the human
copy; and will mingle and temper the various elements of life into the
image of a man; and thus they will conceive according to that other
image, which, when existing among men, Homer calls the form and likeness
of God.

Very true, he said.

And one feature they will erase, and another they will put in, they have
made the ways of men, as far as possible, agreeable to the ways of God?

Indeed, he said, in no way could they make a fairer picture.

And now, I said, are we beginning to persuade those whom you described
as rushing at us with might and main, that the painter of constitutions
is such an one as we are praising; at whom they were so very indignant
because to his hands we committed the State; and are they growing a
little calmer at what they have just heard?

Much calmer, if there is any sense in them.
 
Why, where can they still find any ground for objection? Will they doubt
that the philosopher is a lover of truth and being?

They would not be so unreasonable.

Or that his nature, being such as we have delineated, is akin to the
highest good?

Neither can they doubt this.

But again, will they tell us that such a nature, placed under favourable
circumstances, will not be perfectly good and wise if any ever was? Or
will they prefer those whom we have rejected?

Surely not.

Then will they still be angry at our saying, that, until philosophers
bear rule, States and individuals will have no rest from evil, nor will
this our imaginary State ever be realised?

I think that they will be less angry.

Shall we assume that they are not only less angry but quite gentle, and
that they have been converted and for very shame, if for no other
reason, cannot refuse to come to terms?

By all means, he said.

Then let us suppose that the reconciliation has been effected. Will any
one deny the other point, that there may be sons of kings or princes who
are by nature philosophers?

Surely no man, he said.

And when they have come into being will any one say that they must of
necessity be destroyed; that they can hardly be saved is not denied even
by us; but that in the whole course of ages no single one of them can
escape -- who will venture to affirm this?

Who indeed!

But, said I, one is enough; let there be one man who has a city obedient
to his will, and he might bring into existence the ideal polity about
which the world is so incredulous.

Yes, one is enough.

The ruler may impose the laws and institutions which we have been
describing, and the citizens may possibly be willing to obey them?

Certainly.

And that others should approve of what we approve, is no miracle or
impossibility?

I think not.

But we have sufficiently shown, in what has preceded, that all this, if
only possible, is assuredly for the best.

We have.

And now we say not only that our laws, if they could be enacted, would
be for the best, but also that the enactment of them, though difficult,
is not impossible.

Very good.

And so with pain and toil we have reached the end of one subject, but
more remains to be discussed; -- how and by what studies and pursuits
will the saviours of the constitution be created, and at what ages are
they to apply themselves to their several studies?

Certainly.

I omitted the troublesome business of the possession of women, and the
procreation of children, and the appointment of the rulers, because I
knew that the perfect State would be eyed with jealousy and was
difficult of attainment; but that piece of cleverness was not of much
service to me, for I had to discuss them all the same. The women and
children are now disposed of, but the other question of the rulers must
be investigated from the very beginning. We were saying, as you will
remember, that they were to be lovers of their country, tried by the
test of pleasures and pains, and neither in hardships, nor in dangers,
nor at any other critical moment were to lose their patriotism -- he was
to be rejected who failed, but he who always came forth pure, like gold
tried in the refiner's fire, was to be made a ruler, and to receive
honours and rewards in life and after death. This was the sort of thing
which was being said, and then the argument turned aside and veiled her
face; not liking to stir the question which has now arisen.

I perfectly remember, he said.

Yes, my friend, I said, and I then shrank from hazarding the bold word;
but now let me dare to say -- that the perfect guardian must be a
philosopher.

Yes, he said, let that be affirmed.

And do not suppose that there will be many of them; for the gifts which
were deemed by us to be essential rarely grow together; they are mostly
found in shreds and patches.

What do you mean? he said.

You are aware, I replied, that quick intelligence, memory, sagacity,
cleverness, and similar qualities, do not often grow together, and that
persons who possess them and are at the same time high-spirited and
magnanimous are not so constituted by nature as to live orderly and in a
peaceful and settled manner; they are driven any way by their impulses,
and all solid principle goes out of them.

Very true, he said.

On the other hand, those steadfast natures which can better be depended
upon, which in a battle are impregnable to fear and immovable, are
equally immovable when there is anything to be learned; they are always
in a torpid state, and are apt to yawn and go to sleep over any
intellectual toil.

Quite true.

And yet we were saying that both qualities were necessary in those to
whom the higher education is to be imparted, and who are to share in any
office or command.

Certainly, he said.

And will they be a class which is rarely found?

Yes, indeed.

Then the aspirant must not only be tested in those labours and dangers
and pleasures which we mentioned before, but there is another kind of
probation which we did not mention -- he must be exercised also in many
kinds of knowledge, to see whether the soul will be able to endure the
highest of all, will faint under them, as in any other studies and
exercises.

Yes, he said, you are quite right in testing him. But what do you mean
by the highest of all knowledge?

You may remember, I said, that we divided the soul into three parts; and
distinguished the several natures of justice, temperance, courage, and
wisdom?

Indeed, he said, if I had forgotten, I should not deserve to hear more.

And do you remember the word of caution which preceded the discussion of
them?[1]

To what do you refer?

We were saying, if I am not mistaken, that he who wanted to see them in
their perfect beauty must take a longer and more circuitous way, at the
end of which they would appear; but that we could add on a popular
exposition of them on a level with the discussion which had preceded.
And you replied that such an exposition would be enough for you, and so
the enquiry was continued in what to me seemed to be a very inaccurate
manner; whether you were satisfied or not, it is for you to say.

Yes, he said, I thought and the others thought that you gave us a fair
measure of truth.

But, my friend, I said, a measure of such things Which in any degree
falls short of the whole truth is not fair measure; for nothing
imperfect is the measure of anything, although persons are too apt to be
contented and think that they need search no further.

Not an uncommon case when people are indolent.

Yes, I said; and there cannot be any worse fault in a guardian of the
State and of the laws.

True.

The guardian then, I said, must be required to take the longer circuit,
and toll at learning as well as at gymnastics, or he will never reach
the highest knowledge of all which, as we were just now saying, is his
proper calling.

What, he said, is there a knowledge still higher than this -- higher
than justice and the other virtues?

Yes, I said, there is. And of the virtues too we must behold not the
outline merely, as at present -- nothing short of the most finished
picture should satisfy us. When little things are elaborated with an
infinity of pains, in order that they may appear in their full beauty
and utmost clearness, how ridiculous that we should not think the
highest truths worthy of attaining the highest accuracy!

A right noble thought; but do you suppose that we shall refrain from
asking you what is this highest knowledge?

Nay, I said, ask if you will; but I am certain that you have heard the
answer many times, and now you either do not understand me or, as I
rather think, you are disposed to be troublesome; for you have of been
told that the idea of good is the highest knowledge, and that all other
things become useful and advantageous only by their use of this. You can
hardly be ignorant that of this I was about to speak, concerning which,
as you have often heard me say, we know so little; and, without which,
any other knowledge or possession of any kind will profit us nothing. Do
you think that the possession of all other things is of any value if we
do not possess the good? or the knowledge of all other things if we have
no knowledge of beauty and goodness?

Assuredly not.

You are further aware that most people affirm pleasure to be the good,
but the finer sort of wits say it is knowledge?

Yes.

And you are aware too that the latter cannot explain what they mean by
knowledge, but are obliged after all to say knowledge of the good?

How ridiculous!

Yes, I said, that they should begin by reproaching us with our ignorance
of the good, and then presume our knowledge of it -- for the good they
define to be knowledge of the good, just as if we understood them when
they use the term "good" -- this is of course ridiculous.

Most true, he said.

And those who make pleasure their good are in equal perplexity; for they
are compelled to admit that there are bad pleasures as well as good.

Certainly.

And therefore to acknowledge that bad and good are the same?

True.

There can be no doubt about the numerous difficulties in which this
question is involved.

There can be none.

Further, do we not see that many are willing to do or to have or to seem
to be what is just and honourable without the reality; but no one is
satisfied with the appearance of good -- the reality is what they seek;
in the case of the good, appearance is despised by every one.

Very true, he said.

Of this then, which every soul of man pursues and makes the end of all
his actions, having a presentiment that there is such an end, and yet
hesitating because neither knowing the nature nor having the same
assurance of this as of other things, and therefore losing whatever good
there is in other things, -- of a principle such and so great as this
ought the best men in our State, to whom everything is entrusted, to be
in the darkness of ignorance?

Certainly not, he said.

I am sure, I said, that he who does not know now the beautiful and the
just are likewise good will be but a sorry guardian of them; and I
suspect that no one who is ignorant of the good will have a true
knowledge of them.

That, he said, is a shrewd suspicion of yours.

And if we only have a guardian who has this knowledge our State will be
perfectly ordered?

Of course, he replied; but I wish that you would tell me whether you
conceive this supreme principle of the good to be knowledge or pleasure,
or different from either.

Aye, I said, I knew all along that a fastidious gentleman like you would
not be contented with the thoughts of other people about these matters.

True, Socrates; but I must say that one who like you has passed a
lifetime in the study of philosophy should not be always repeating the
opinions of others, and never telling his own.

Well, but has any one a right to say positively what he does not know?

Not, he said, with the assurance of positive certainty; he has no right
to do that: but he may say what he thinks, as a matter of opinion.

And do you not know, I said, that all mere opinions are bad, and the
best of them blind? You would not deny that those who have any true
notion without intelligence are only like blind men who feel their way
along the road?

Very true.

And do you wish to behold what is blind and crooked and base, when
others will tell you of brightness and beauty?

Still, I must implore you, Socrates, said Glaucon, not to turn away just
as you are reaching the goal; if you will only give such an explanation
of the good as you have already given of justice and temperance and the
other virtues, we shall be satisfied.

Yes, my friend, and I shall be at least equally satisfied, but I cannot

help fearing that I shall fall, and that my indiscreet zeal will bring
ridicule upon me. No, sweet sirs, let us not at present ask what is the
actual nature of the good, for to reach what is now in my thoughts would
be an effort too great for me. But of the child of the good who is
likest him, I would fain speak, if I could be sure that you wished to
hear -- otherwise, not.

By all means, he said, tell us about the child, and you shall remain in
our debt for the account of the parent.

I do indeed wish, I replied, that I could pay, and you receive, the
account of the parent, and not, as now, of the offspring only; take,
however, this latter by way of interest,[2] and at the same time have a
care that i do not render a false account, although I have no intention
of deceiving you.

Yes, we will take all the care that we can: proceed.

Yes, I said, but I must first come to an understanding with you, and
remind you of what I have mentioned in the course of this discussion,
and at many other times.

What?

The old story, that there is a many beautiful and a many good, and so of
other things which we describe and define; to all of them "many" is
applied.

True, he said.

And there is an absolute beauty and an absolute good, and of other
things to which the term "many" is applied there is an absolute; for
they may be brought under a single idea, which is called the essence of
each.

Very true.

The many, as we say, are seen but not known, and the ideas are known but
not seen.

Exactly.

And what is the organ with which we see the visible things?

The sight, he said.

And with the hearing, I said, we hear, and with the other senses
perceive the other objects of sense?

True.

But have you remarked that sight is by far the most costly and complex
piece of workmanship which the artificer of the senses ever contrived?

No, I never have, he said.

Then reflect; has the ear or voice need of any third or additional
nature in order that the one may be able to hear and the other to be
heard?

Nothing of the sort.

No, indeed, I replied; and the same is true of most, if not all, the
other senses -- you would not say that any of them requires such an
addition?

Certainly not.

But you see that without the addition of some other nature there is no
seeing or being seen?

How do you mean?

Sight being, as I conceive, in the eyes, and he who has eyes wanting to
see; colour being also present in them, still unless there be a third
nature specially adapted to the purpose, the owner of the eyes will see
nothing and the colours will be invisible.

Of what nature are you speaking?

Of that which you term light, I replied.

True, he said.

Noble, then, is the bond which links together sight and visibility, and
great beyond other bonds by no small difference of nature; for light is
their bond, and light is no ignoble thing?

Nay, he said, the reverse of ignoble.

And which, I said, of the gods in heaven would you say was the lord of
this element? Whose is that light which makes the eye to see perfectly
and the visible to appear?

You mean the sun, as you and all mankind say.

May not the relation of sight to this deity be described as follows?

How?

Neither sight nor the eye in which sight resides is the sun?

No.

Yet of all the organs of sense the eye is the most like the sun?

By far the most like.

And the power which the eye possesses is a sort of effluence which is
dispensed from the sun?

Exactly.

Then the sun is not sight, but the author of sight who is recognised by
sight.

True, he said.

And this is he whom I call the child of the good, whom the good begat in
his own likeness, to be in the visible world, in relation to sight and
the things of sight, what the good is in the intellectual world in
relation to mind and the things of mind.

Will you be a little more explicit? he said.

Why, you know, I said, that the eyes, when a person directs them towards
objects on which the light of day is no longer shining, but the moon and
stars only, see dimly, and are nearly blind; they seem to have no
clearness of vision in them?

Very true.

But when they are directed towards objects on which the sun shines, they
see clearly and there is sight in them?

Certainly.

And the soul is like the eye: when resting upon that on which truth and
being shine, the soul perceives and understands and is radiant with
intelligence; but when turned towards the twilight of becoming and
perishing, then she has opinion only, and goes blinking about, and is
first of one opinion and then of another, and seems to have no
intelligence?

Just so.

Now, that which imparts truth to the known and the power of knowing to
the knower is what I would have you term the idea of good, and this you
will deem to be the cause of science, and of truth in so far as the
latter becomes the subject of knowledge; beautiful too, as are both
truth and knowledge, you will be right in esteeming this other nature as
more beautiful than either; and, as in the previous instance, light and
sight may be truly said to be like the sun, and yet not to be the sun,
so in this other sphere, science and truth may be deemed to be like the
good, but not the good; the good has a place of honour yet higher.

What a wonder of beauty that must be, he said, which is the author of
science and truth, and yet surpasses them in beauty; for you surely
cannot mean to say that pleasure is the good?

God forbid, I replied; but may I ask you to consider the image in
another point of view?

In what point of view?
 
You would say, would you not, that the sun is only the author of
visibility in all visible things, but of generation and nourishment and
growth, though he himself is not generation?

Certainly.

In like manner the good may be said to be not only the author of
knowledge to all things known, but of their being and essence, and yet
the good is not essence, but far exceeds essence in dignity and power.

Glaucon said, with a ludicrous earnestness: By the light of heaven, how
amazing!

Yes, I said, and the exaggeration may be set down to you; for you made
me utter my fancies.

And pray continue to utter them; at any rate let us hear if there is
anything more to be said about the similitude of the sun.

Yes, I said, there is a great deal more.

Then omit nothing, however slight.

I will do my best, I said; but I should think that a great deal will
have to be omitted.

You have to imagine, then, that there are two ruling powers, and that
one of them is set over the intellectual world, the other over the
visible. I do not say heaven, lest you should fancy that I am playing
upon the name ("ourhanoz, orhatoz"). May I suppose that you have this
distinction of the visible and intelligible fixed in your mind?

I have.

Now take a line which has been cut into two unequal parts, and divide
each of them again in the same proportion, and suppose the two main
divisions to answer, one to the visible and the other to the
intelligible, and then compare the subdivisions in respect of their
clearness and want of clearness, and you will find that the first
section in the sphere of the visible consists of images. And by images I
mean, in the first place, shadows, and in the second place, reflections
in water and in solid, smooth and polished bodies and the like: Do you
understand?

Yes, I understand.

Imagine, now, the other section, of which this is only the resemblance,
to include the animals which we see, and everything that grows or is
made.

Very good.

Would you not admit that both the sections of this division have
different degrees of truth, and that the copy is to the original as the
sphere of opinion is to the sphere of knowledge?

Most undoubtedly.

Next proceed to consider the manner in which the sphere of the
intellectual is to be divided.

In what manner?

Thus: -- There are two subdivisions, in the lower or which the soul uses
the figures given by the former division as images; the enquiry can only
be hypothetical, and instead of going upwards to a principle descends to
the other end; in the higher of the two, the soul passes out of
hypotheses, and goes up to a principle which is above hypotheses, making
no use of images as in the former case, but proceeding only in and
through the ideas themselves.

I do not quite understand your meaning, he said.

Then I will try again; you will understand me better when I have made
some preliminary remarks. You are aware that students of geometry,
arithmetic, and the kindred sciences assume the odd and the even and the
figures and three kinds of angles and the like in their several branches
of science; these are their hypotheses, which they and everybody are
supposed to know, and therefore they do not deign to give any account of
them either to themselves or others; but they begin with them, and go on
until they arrive at last, and in a consistent manner, at their
conclusion?

Yes, he said, I know.

And do you not know also that although they make use of the visible
forms and reason about them, they are thinking not of these, but of the
ideals which they resemble; not of the figures which they draw, but of
the absolute square and the absolute diameter, and so on -- the forms
which they draw or make, and which have shadows and reflections in water
of their own, are converted by them into images, but they are really
seeking to behold the things themselves, which can only be seen with the
eye of the mind?

That is true.

And of this kind I spoke as the intelligible, although in the search
after it the soul is compelled to use hypotheses; not ascending to a
first principle, because she is unable to rise above the region of
hypothesis, but employing the objects of which the shadows below are
resemblances in their turn as images, they having in relation to the
shadows and reflections of them a greater distinctness, and therefore a
higher value.

I understand, he said, that you are speaking of the province of geometry
and the sister arts.

And when I speak of the other division of the intelligible, you will
understand me to speak of that other sort of knowledge which reason
herself attains by the power of dialectic, using the hypotheses not as
first principles, but only as hypotheses -- that is to say, as steps and
points of departure into a world which is above hypotheses, in order
that she may soar beyond them to the first principle of the whole; and
clinging to this and then to that which depends on this, by successive
steps she descends again without the aid of any sensible object, from
ideas, through ideas, and in ideas she ends.

I understand you, he replied; not perfectly, for you seem to me to be
describing a task which is really tremendous; but, at any rate, I
understand you to say that knowledge and being, which the science of
dialectic contemplates, are clearer than the notions of the arts, as
they are termed, which proceed from hypotheses only: these are also
contemplated by the understanding, and not by the senses: yet, because
they start from hypotheses and do not ascend to a principle, those who
contemplate them appear to you not to exercise the higher reason upon
them, although when a first principle is added to them they are
cognizable by the higher reason. And the habit which is concerned with
geometry and the cognate sciences I suppose that you would term
understanding and not reason, as being intermediate between opinion and
reason.

You have quite conceived my meaning, I said; and now, corresponding to
these four divisions, let there be four faculties in the soul -- reason
answering to the highest, understanding to the second, faith (or
conviction) to the third, and perception of shadows to the last -- and let
there be a scale of them, and let us suppose that the several faculties
have clearness in the same degree that their objects have truth.

I understand, he replied, and give my assent, and accept your
arrangement.

______

1. Cf. iv. para. 268.

2. A play upon tokos, which means both "offspring" and "interest".

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The Republic, a dialogue by Plato, Book 6.