Gorgias Boasts of Rhetoric's Power, and Contradicts Himself
Gorgias
And whenever there's a choice to be made of the kind you were just talking about, Socrates, you'll see that it's the orators who give the advice, and who carry the vote on these matters.
Socrates
It's exactly because I find that astonishing, Gorgias, that I've been asking all along what the power of rhetoric actually is. Looking at it this way, its scale strikes me as something almost superhuman.
Gorgias
If you knew everything about it, Socrates, you'd see that it gathers up under itself, one might say, every other power there is. And I'll give you a striking proof of it: many times now I've gone in with my brother, or with other doctors, to see some patient who wouldn't drink his medicine, or let the doctor cut or cauterize him, and when the doctor couldn't persuade him, I did — by no other craft than rhetoric. And I say that if an orator and a doctor went to any city you like, and had to compete in speech before the assembly or some other gathering over which of them should be chosen as doctor, the doctor would be nowhere in the running, and the one able to speak would be chosen instead, if he wanted it. And if he competed against any other craftsman whatever, the orator would persuade them to choose him over anyone else; there's no subject on which the orator couldn't speak more persuasively than any other craftsman, before a crowd. So great and so remarkable, then, is the power of this craft; one must, however, Socrates, use rhetoric as one would any other competitive skill. For with any other competitive skill, too, one shouldn't use it against everyone just because one has learned boxing, or wrestling, or fighting in armour, so as to be stronger than both friends and enemies — that's no reason to strike one's friends, or stab and kill them. And by god, if someone goes to the wrestling school, gets his body into good shape, becomes a boxer, and then strikes his father and mother, or some other relative or friend, that's no reason to hate the trainers and the men who teach fighting in arms, and drive them out of their cities. Those men taught their skill so that it would be used justly, against enemies and wrongdoers, in self-defence, not as the aggressor; but the others turn it round and use their strength and their craft wrongly. So the teachers aren't wicked, and the craft is neither to blame nor wicked on that account — the ones not using it rightly are, I think. The same argument holds for rhetoric too. The orator is capable of speaking against everyone and about everything, so as to be more persuasive before a crowd, on virtually any subject he likes; but that's no more reason to strip the doctors of their reputation — just because he could do this — or the other craftsmen either; one ought to use rhetoric justly too, just like any competitive skill. And if, I suppose, someone becomes an orator and then uses this power and this craft to do wrong, that's no reason to hate his teacher and drive him out of the cities. For the teacher handed it over for just use, and the other man uses it the opposite way. So it's the one who misuses it who ought rightly to be hated, and driven out, and put to death — not the one who taught him.
Socrates
I think you too, Gorgias, are experienced in many discussions, and have noticed something about them: that the parties rarely manage to define their terms with each other, learn from each other, and teach each other, and so bring their meetings to a close that way; instead, if they disagree about something and one says the other isn't speaking correctly or clearly, they get annoyed, and think the other is speaking out of spite against them, competing to win rather than searching out the matter under discussion; and some of them end up parting in the most shameful way, having abused each other and said and heard such things about themselves that even the bystanders are distressed on their behalf, for having thought such people worth listening to. Why, then, am I saying this? Because right now you seem to me to be saying things that don't quite follow or agree with what you said at first about rhetoric; so I'm reluctant to press the argument against you, in case you take me to be speaking out of a wish to win against you personally, rather than to get the matter clear. Now, if you're the kind of man I am, I'd be glad to go on questioning you; if not, I'd let it drop. And what kind am I? The kind who would be glad to be refuted if I say something untrue, and glad to refute someone else if he says something untrue — no less glad, in fact, to be refuted than to refute; since I count being refuted the greater good, by as much as it's a greater good to be rid of the worst evil oneself than to rid someone else of it. For I don't think there's any evil for a man as great as a false opinion about the very things our discussion now happens to concern. So if you say you're that kind of man too, let's go on talking; but if you think we should drop it, let's say goodbye to it now and break off the discussion.
Gorgias
Well, I say that I myself am just the kind of man you describe, Socrates — though perhaps we ought to consider those present too. Even before you two arrived, I'd already given a long display to those here, and now we'll probably run on a good while, if we keep talking. So we ought to consider them as well, in case we're keeping some of them from something else they'd rather be doing.
Chaerephon
You can hear the commotion for yourselves, Gorgias and Socrates — these men want to hear whatever you say; and as for me, I hope I never get so busy that I'd give up a discussion like this, conducted this well, for something else that mattered more to do.
Callicles
By the gods, Chaerephon, I've been present at a great many discussions myself, and I don't know that I've ever enjoyed one as much as this; so as far as I'm concerned, you'll be doing me a favour even if you want to talk the whole day through.
Socrates
Well then, Callicles, nothing stands in my way, as far as I'm concerned, provided Gorgias is willing.
Gorgias
It would be shameful indeed, Socrates, for me now to refuse, after announcing myself that anyone could ask whatever he wanted. So if it suits these gentlemen, go ahead and talk, and ask whatever you want.
Socrates
Listen, then, Gorgias, to what puzzles me in what you've been saying; it may well be that you're speaking correctly and I'm the one misunderstanding. You say you're able to make someone into an orator, if he wants to learn from you?
Gorgias
Yes.
Socrates
So as to be persuasive before a crowd on every subject — not by teaching them, but by persuading them?
Gorgias
Exactly so.
Socrates
You were saying just now that the orator will even be more persuasive than the doctor on matters of health.
Gorgias
Yes, I did say that — before a crowd, that is.
Socrates
And doesn't that mean before people who don't know? Since surely he won't be more persuasive than the doctor among those who do know.
Gorgias
True.
Socrates
So if he's going to be more persuasive than the doctor, he becomes more persuasive than the one who knows?
Gorgias
Quite so.
Socrates
Without being a doctor himself — isn't that right?
Gorgias
Yes.
Socrates
And the one who isn't a doctor is presumably without the knowledge the doctor has.
Gorgias
Clearly.
Socrates
So the one who doesn't know will be more persuasive than the one who does, among people who don't know, whenever the orator is more persuasive than the doctor. Does that follow, or something else?
Gorgias
That's what follows, in this case.
Socrates
So the orator and rhetoric stand the same way toward all the other crafts too: rhetoric itself has no need to know how things actually stand, only to have discovered some device of persuasion so as to appear, to those who don't know, to know more than those who do.
Gorgias
So isn't it a great convenience, Socrates, not having to learn all the other crafts, only this one, and yet coming off no worse than the actual craftsmen?
Socrates
Whether the orator comes off worse than the others, or not, because of standing this way, we'll examine in a moment, if it's relevant to us; but first let's look at this: whether the orator is in fact related to the just and the unjust, the shameful and the fine, the good and the bad, the same way he's related to health and the other subjects of the other crafts — not knowing himself what's good or bad, or fine or shameful, or just or unjust, but having contrived some persuasion about them, so as to seem, among people who don't know, to know more than the one who actually knows? Or is it necessary to know, and must someone who's going to learn rhetoric from you already know these things beforehand? And if not, will you, the teacher of rhetoric, teach the one who comes to you none of this — since it isn't your business — but make him seem, before the crowd, to know these things when he doesn't, and seem to be good when he isn't? Or will you be altogether unable to teach him rhetoric at all, unless he already knows the truth about these matters beforehand? How do things stand here, Gorgias? And for god's sake, as you promised a moment ago, uncover it and tell me what the power of rhetoric actually is.
Gorgias
Well, Socrates, I suppose that if he happens not to know these things, he'll learn them from me too.
Socrates
Hold on there — that's well said. If you're going to make someone into an orator, then, he must know the just and the unjust — either beforehand, or having learned it from you afterward.
Gorgias
Quite so.
Socrates
Well, then? Is the one who's learned carpentry a carpenter, or not?
Gorgias
Yes.
Socrates
And the one who's learned music, musical?
Gorgias
Yes.
Socrates
And the one who's learned medicine, medical? And so with everything else, by the same reasoning — whoever has learned each thing becomes the sort of person that knowledge of it makes him?
Gorgias
Quite so.
Socrates
So by that same reasoning, isn't the one who's learned justice, just?
Gorgias
Absolutely, surely.
Socrates
And the just man does just things, presumably.
Gorgias
Yes.
Socrates
So must not the orator be just, and the just man want to do just things?
Gorgias
So it appears.
Socrates
So the just man will never want to do wrong.
Gorgias
He must not.
Socrates
And by our argument, the orator must be just.
Gorgias
Yes.
Socrates
So the orator will never want to do wrong.
Gorgias
So it appears not.
Socrates
Do you remember, then, saying a little earlier that we shouldn't blame the trainers, or drive them out of their cities, if a boxer uses his boxing unjustly and does wrong with it — and that, in just the same way, if an orator uses rhetoric unjustly, we shouldn't blame his teacher or expel him from the city, but rather the wrongdoer, the one misusing rhetoric? Was that said, or not?
Gorgias
It was said.
Socrates
But now this same man, the orator, turns out never to do wrong at all. Or not?
Gorgias
So it appears.
Socrates
And right at the start, Gorgias, it was said that rhetoric dealt not with arguments about odd and even, but with arguments about the just and the unjust — wasn't that so?
Gorgias
Yes.
Socrates
So when you said that at the time, I took it that rhetoric could never be an unjust thing, since it always deals in arguments about justice; but then, a little later, when you said that the orator could use rhetoric unjustly too, I was so struck by this, and thought what you were saying didn't hang together, that I said what I said — that if you counted being refuted a gain, as I do, it would be worth continuing the discussion, and if not, we should let it go. And now that we've examined it further, you see for yourself that it's agreed all over again that the orator is unable to use rhetoric unjustly, or to be willing to do wrong. So how all this actually stands, by the dog, Gorgias, is not a small matter to work out properly — it will take more than one sitting.
The Conversation with Polus
Rhetoric as Flattery, Not a Craft
Polus
What's this, Socrates? Do you actually believe about rhetoric what you're saying just now? Or do you think — because Gorgias was ashamed not to agree with you that the orator also knows what is just and fine and good, and that if someone came to him without knowing these things he would teach him himself, and then perhaps some contradiction turned up in the discussion out of that admission — this very thing ⟨which⟩ you're so pleased with, having led him into such questions yourself, since who do you think would deny knowing justice himself and being able to teach it to others? But it's real boorishness to drag arguments into that kind of place.
Socrates
My dear Polus, this is exactly why we acquire companions and sons — so that when we older men trip up, you younger ones will be there to set our lives straight, both in what we do and what we say. And now, if Gorgias and I are tripping up anywhere in this discussion , you're here — correct us, since you're a fair man — and I'm willing to take back anything from what's been agreed, if it seems to you not to have been agreed well, whatever you like, provided you guard just one thing for me.
Polus
What's that?
Socrates
Your long-windedness, Polus — rein it in, the kind you tried to use at first.
Polus
What? Won't I be allowed to say as much as I like?
Socrates
You'd be in real trouble, my excellent fellow, if you came all the way to Athens — where there's more freedom to speak than anywhere else in Greece — and then turned out to be the one man here denied it. But turn it around — if you go on talking at length and refuse to answer what you're asked, wouldn't I be the one in trouble, if I'm not allowed to get up and stop listening to you? But if you actually care about the argument we've been having and want to set it right, as I was just saying, take back whatever you like, and question and be questioned in turn, the way Gorgias and I did — test me, and let yourself be tested. You do say, I take it, that you know the same things Gorgias knows — or don't you?
Polus
I do.
Socrates
Then you're inviting people to ask you anything they want, whenever they want, on the assumption that you'll know how to answer?
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
Well then, do whichever one you like right now — ask, or answer.
Polus
All right, I'll do that. Answer me this, Socrates: since Gorgias seems to you to be at a loss about rhetoric, what do you say it is?
Socrates
Are you asking what craft I say it is?
Polus
I am.
Socrates
None at all, Polus — to tell you the truth.
Polus
Then what do you think rhetoric is?
Socrates
A thing that you claim, in the treatise I read recently, to have turned into a craft.
Polus
What do you mean by that?
Socrates
A kind of knack, I'd say.
Polus
So rhetoric seems to you to be a knack?
Socrates
Yes, unless you have something else to say.
Polus
A knack for what?
Socrates
For producing a kind of gratification and pleasure.
Polus
Then don't you think rhetoric is a fine thing — being able to gratify people?
Socrates
What's this, Polus? Have you already heard from me what I say it is , that you're now asking on top of that whether I think it's fine?
Polus
Didn't I hear you say it's a kind of knack?
Socrates
Since you value gratifying people so much, would you like to do me a small favor?
Polus
I would.
Socrates
Ask me now what craft I think cookery is.
Polus
All right, I'm asking: what craft is cookery?
Socrates
None, Polus.
Polus
Then what is it? Say.
Socrates
I say a kind of knack.
Polus
What kind? Say.
Socrates
I say a knack for producing gratification and pleasure, Polus .
Polus
So cookery and rhetoric are the same thing?
Socrates
Not at all — but they're parts of the same pursuit.
Polus
What pursuit do you mean?
Socrates
I'm afraid saying the truth might come off as rather crude — I hesitate to say it for Gorgias's sake, in case he thinks I'm making fun of what he does for a living. As for whether this is the rhetoric Gorgias practices , I don't know — nothing in our conversation just now made clear what he actually thinks it is — but what I call rhetoric is a part of something that isn't fine at all.
Gorgias
A part of what, Socrates? Speak — don't feel embarrassed on my account.
Socrates
Well, it seems to me, Gorgias, that there's a certain practice that isn't a craft at all, but belongs to a soul that's good at guessing, bold, and naturally clever at dealing with people — and I call the general name for it flattery. This pursuit, it seems to me, has many other parts, and cookery is one of them — it looks like a craft, but by my account it isn't a craft at all, just a knack and a routine. I call rhetoric a part of this same thing, and cosmetics too, and sophistry — four parts over four things. So if Polus wants to ask about it, let him ask — because he hasn't yet learned what part of flattery I say rhetoric is ; it's escaped him that I haven't answered that yet, and instead he's asking me on top of it whether I think it's fine. I won't answer him whether I think rhetoric is fine or shameful until I first answer what it is. That wouldn't be fair, Polus — but if you really want to find out, ask what part of flattery I say rhetoric is.
Polus
All right, I'm asking — tell me what part.
Socrates
Would you actually understand it if I answered ? By my account, rhetoric is the image of a part of politics.
Polus
Well then? Do you say it's fine or shameful?
Socrates
Shameful, I'd say — I call bad things shameful — since I have to answer you as though you already know what I mean.
Gorgias
By Zeus, Socrates, I myself don't even understand what you mean.
Socrates
Naturally, Gorgias — I haven't said anything clear yet, and Polus here is young and sharp.
Gorgias
Well, never mind him — tell me how you mean that rhetoric is the image of a part of politics.
Socrates
I'll try to explain what rhetoric seems to me to be — and if it turns out not to be this, Polus here will refute me. You do speak of a body, and of a soul, don't you?
Gorgias
Of course.
Socrates
And you think each of these has a certain good condition?
Gorgias
I do.
Socrates
What about this? A good condition that only seems good, but isn't? Here's what I mean: many people appear to have bodies in good condition, and no one could easily tell they're not, except a doctor or someone skilled in physical training.
Gorgias
That's true.
Socrates
I'm saying the same thing exists in both body and soul — something that makes the body and the soul seem to be in good shape, without actually being any better off.
Gorgias
That's so.
Socrates
Come, let me try to show you more clearly what I mean, if I can. Since there are two things, I speak of two crafts: the one concerned with the soul I call politics; the one concerned with the body I can't give you a single name for that way, but since caring for the body is one thing, I name two parts of it, physical training and medicine; and within politics, corresponding to physical training, I put legislation, and corresponding to medicine, justice. These two pairs share something with each other , since they're concerned with the same subject — medicine with physical training, and justice with legislation — but all the same they differ somewhat from one another. Now, there being these four, all of them always tending toward what's best — some for the body, some for the soul — flattery notices this — not by knowing, I mean, but by guessing — and splits itself into four parts, and slips in under each of these, and pretends to be the very thing it has slipped under, caring nothing for what's best, and hunting after folly with whatever's most pleasant at the moment, and tricking it, so that it seems to be worth the most. So cookery has slipped in under medicine, and pretends to know the best foods for the body, so that if a cook and a doctor had to compete in front of children, or in front of grown men just as foolish as children, over which of the two understands good foods and bad, the doctor would die of hunger. This whole thing I call flattery, and I say it's shameful , Polus — this is what I'm saying to you — because it aims at what's pleasant without regard for what's best; and I say it isn't a craft but a knack, because it has no account to give of the nature of what it applies and why it applies it, so that it can't state the cause of anything. And I don't call a thing a craft when it's a reasonless business; if you dispute any of this, I'm willing to give my reasons.
So medicine, as I say, has cookery-flattery lying beneath it; and in the same way physical training has cosmetics beneath it — a mischievous, deceptive, low, and unfree thing, deceiving through shapes and colors and smooth finish and clothing, so that it makes people chase a borrowed beauty and neglect the true beauty that comes through physical training. So as not to go on too long, I want to put it to you the way geometers do — you'll probably follow now — that what cosmetics is to physical training, sophistry is to legislation, and what cookery is to medicine, rhetoric is to justice. This is what I mean: they're distinct by nature in this way, but because they're so close, sophists and orators get mixed up together over the same territory, and neither they themselves nor other people can tell what use to make of them. In fact, if the soul didn't govern the body, but the body governed itself, and cookery and medicine weren't observed and distinguished by the soul but the body itself judged them, weighing them by the gratification it got — dear Polus, you know Anaxagoras's saying well — everything would get mixed up together in one heap, with no way to tell apart what belongs to medicine, to health, and to cookery. So you've now heard what I say rhetoric is: the counterpart , in the soul, of cookery in the body. Maybe it's strange of me, forbidding you to make long speeches and then stringing out such a long one myself. But I deserve to be forgiven for it — when I spoke briefly you didn't follow, and you couldn't make any use of the answer I gave you, but needed a full explanation. So if I in turn can't make use of your answers when you answer , string out a speech yourself as well; but if I can make use of them, let me — that's only fair. And now, if there's anything in this answer you can use, use it.
Polus
Well then, what do you say? Does rhetoric seem to you to be flattery?
Socrates
I said a part of flattery. Don't you remember, at your age, Polus? What will you do later on?
Polus
So do you think good orators are looked down on in their cities as flatterers?
Tyrants and Orators Have the Least Power
Socrates
Is this a question you're asking, or are you stating the opening of some argument?
Polus
I'm asking, yes.
Socrates
It doesn't even seem to me that they're regarded as such.
Polus
What? Don't they have the greatest power in their cities?
Socrates
No — not if by "having power" you mean something good for the one who has it.
Polus
Well, that is what I mean.
Socrates
Then it seems to me that orators have the least power of anyone in the city.
Polus
What? Don't they, like tyrants, put to death anyone they want, and confiscate property and banish from their cities anyone they see fit?
Socrates
By the dog, Polus, I honestly can't tell, with each of these claims of yours, whether you're stating your own opinion, or asking me a question.
Polus
Well, I'm asking you.
Socrates
Very well, my friend — but then are you asking me two things at once?
Polus
How, two things?
Socrates
Didn't you just say something like this — that orators put to death anyone they want, just like tyrants, and confiscate property and drive out of their cities anyone they see fit?
Polus
I did.
Socrates
Well, I tell you these are two questions, and I'll answer you on both. Because I say, Polus, that both orators and tyrants have the least power of anyone in their cities, just as I was saying a moment ago — since they don't do, so to speak, anything they want, but only what seems best to them.
Polus
Well then, isn't that having great power?
Socrates
No — not according to Polus.
Polus
I don't say that? I certainly do.
Socrates
By the— no, not you, since you said having great power was a good thing for the one who has it.
Polus
Yes, I did say so.
Socrates
So you think it's a good thing, if someone does what seems best to him without having any sense? And you call that having great power?
Polus
No, I don't.
Socrates
Then will you prove that orators have sense, and that rhetoric is a craft and not flattery, by refuting me? But if you leave me unrefuted, the orators who do what seems best to them in their cities, and the tyrants too, will have gained nothing good by it — while power, as you say, is a good thing, and doing what seems best without sense you yourself agree is a bad thing — or don't you?
Polus
I do.
Socrates
So how could orators or tyrants have great power in their cities, unless Polus refutes Socrates and shows that they do what they want?
Polus
This man—
Socrates
I say they don't do what they want — so refute me.
Polus
Didn't you just agree, [earlier than this], that they do what seems best to them?
Socrates
Yes, and I still agree now.
Polus
Then don't they do what they want?
Socrates
I say they don't.
Polus
While doing what seems best to them?
Socrates
I do say that.
Polus
That's outrageous and absurd, Socrates.
Socrates
Don't speak ill of me, my excellent Polus — to greet you in your own style — but if you're in a position to question me, show that I'm lying; if not, answer the questions yourself.
Polus
Well, I'm willing to answer, so I can find out what you mean.
Socrates
Do you think people want the very thing they're doing at any given moment, or that other thing for the sake of which they do what they do? For instance, those who drink medicine prescribed by doctors — do you think they want the very thing they're doing, drinking the medicine and being in pain, or that other thing, being healthy, for the sake of which they drink it?
Polus
Clearly, being healthy.
Socrates
In the same way, people who sail the sea and carry on any other kind of business don't want the very thing they're doing at each moment — after all, who wants to sail, run risks, and have troubles — but rather, I think, the thing for the sake of which they sail: growing rich, since it's for wealth's sake that they sail.
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
So isn't it the same way with everything? If someone does something for the sake of something else, doesn't he want not the thing he's doing, but that other thing for the sake of which he's doing it?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
Now, is there anything among existing things that isn't either good, or bad, or in between the two — neither good nor bad?
Polus
That must be so, Socrates.
Socrates
And you'd say that wisdom, health, wealth, and other such things are good, and their opposites are bad?
Polus
I would.
Socrates
And by things that are neither good nor bad, do you mean things that sometimes share in the good, sometimes in the bad, and sometimes in neither — for instance, sitting, walking, running, and sailing, and again, stones and sticks and other such things? Isn't that what you mean? Or do you call something else neither good nor bad?
Polus
No, those are what I mean.
Socrates
Now, when people do these in-between things, do they do them for the sake of the good things, or the good things for the sake of the in-between ones?
Polus
The in-between things, surely, for the sake of the good ones.
Socrates
So it's in pursuit of the good that we walk, when we walk, thinking it's better to do so, and in pursuit of the same thing, the good, that we stand still, when we stand — or isn't that so?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
And so too, if we put someone to death, or banish someone, or confiscate property, we do it thinking it's better for us to do these things than not?
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
So it's for the sake of the good that people do all these things, when they do them.
Polus
I agree.
Socrates
And didn't we agree that whatever we do for the sake of something else, we don't want the things themselves, but that other thing for the sake of which we do them?
Polus
Absolutely.
Socrates
So we don't want to slaughter people, or banish them from their cities, or confiscate property, simply as such — rather, if these things are beneficial, we want to do them, but if they're harmful, we don't want to. For we want the good things, as you say, and we don't want the things that are neither good nor bad, nor the bad things either. Isn't that so? Do you think I'm telling the truth, Polus, or not? Why don't you answer?
Polus
The truth.
Socrates
Then if we agree on this, whenever someone puts a person to death, or banishes him from the city, or confiscates his property, whether he's a tyrant or an orator, thinking it's better for himself, though it actually turns out worse, that man, surely, is doing what seems best to him — isn't that so?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
Then is he also doing what he wants, if these things really turn out to be bad? Why don't you answer?
Polus
Well, I don't think he's doing what he wants.
Socrates
Then is there any way such a man has great power in that city, if having great power is something good, by your own admission?
Polus
There isn't.
Socrates
So what I was saying is true — that it's possible for a man doing what seems best to him in a city neither to have great power nor to do what he wants.
Polus
As if you, Socrates, wouldn't accept being free to do whatever seems good to you in the city rather than not, and as if you don't envy someone when you see him put to death whoever he pleased, or confiscate property, or throw someone in prison.
Socrates
Justly, or unjustly?
Polus
Whichever way he does it, isn't it enviable either way?
Socrates
Mind your words, Polus.
Polus
Why?
Socrates
Because you shouldn't envy people who aren't enviable, or the wretched — you should pity them.
Polus
What? Is that how you think it is with the men I'm talking about?
Socrates
Of course it is.
Polus
So a man who puts to death whomever he pleases, justly putting him to death, seems to you wretched and pitiable?
Socrates
Not to me — but not enviable either.
Polus
Didn't you just say he was wretched?
Socrates
The one who kills unjustly, my friend, is wretched, and pitiable besides — the one who kills justly, merely not enviable.
Polus
Surely the man who dies unjustly is pitiable and wretched.
Socrates
Less so than the one who kills him, Polus, and less so than the one who dies justly.
Polus
How can that be, Socrates?
Socrates
Like this — doing wrong happens to be the greatest of evils.
Polus
Is that really the greatest? Isn't suffering wrong greater?
Socrates
Not in the least.
Polus
So you would rather suffer wrong than do it.
Better to Suffer Than to Do Wrong: The Paradox and Archelaus
Socrates
For my part, I'd want neither — but if it were necessary to do wrong or to suffer wrong, I'd choose to suffer wrong rather than do it.
Polus
Then you wouldn't accept being a tyrant?
Socrates
No — not if by being a tyrant you mean what I mean.
Polus
Well, I mean exactly what I meant a moment ago — being free in the city to do whatever seems good to you, killing and banishing and doing everything according to your own judgment.
Socrates
My blessed friend, catch me up on the argument as I make it. For if I, in the crowded marketplace, taking a dagger under my arm, were to say to you, Polus — I've just now acquired a certain wonderful power, even a tyranny — since if it seems to me that one of these men you see here needs to die right away, this man will be dead, whoever I decide on; and if it seems to me that one of them needs his head broken, his head will be broken right away; and if I decide his cloak should be torn, it will be torn — that's how much power I have in this city — well, if I showed you the dagger when you doubted me, you'd probably say, on seeing it, Socrates, in that way everyone would have great power, since a house could be burned down that way, whichever one you liked, and the Athenians' dockyards too, and their triremes, and all their ships, public and private alike — but that isn't what having great power means, doing whatever seems good to you — or do you think it is?
Polus
No, certainly not that way.
Socrates
Can you say, then, why you criticize that kind of power?
Polus
I can.
Socrates
Why is that? Tell me.
Polus
Because a man who acts that way is bound to be punished.
Socrates
And being punished isn't a bad thing?
Polus
Certainly it is.
Socrates
So it turns out, my amazing friend, that [having great power] is a good thing after all, in your view, only if doing what seems best to him is also followed by acting beneficially — and that, it seems, is what having great power really is; if not, it's a bad thing, and no power at all. And let's consider this too — don't we agree that sometimes it's better to do the things we were just talking about, killing people and driving them out and confiscating property, but sometimes not?
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
This much, then, it seems, is agreed by both of us.
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
So when do you say it's better to do these things? Tell me, what boundary do you draw?
Polus
No, you answer that [same] question yourself, Socrates.
Socrates
Well, I say, Polus, if you'd rather hear it from me, that when someone does these things justly, it's better, and when unjustly, worse.
Polus
You're a hard man to refute, Socrates — but couldn't even a child refute you and show that you're not telling the truth?
Socrates
Then I'll be very grateful to the child, and just as grateful to you, if you refute me and free me from talking nonsense. But don't grow tired of doing a friend a favor — go on and refute me.
Polus
Well, Socrates, there's certainly no need for me to refute you with ancient history — recent events, things that happened just yesterday, are enough to refute you and show that many people who do wrong are happy.
Socrates
What events do you mean?
Polus
You do see this Archelaus, son of Perdiccas, ruling Macedonia?
Socrates
If not seeing him, at least I hear about him.
Polus
Does he seem to you happy, or wretched?
Socrates
I don't know, Polus — I've never met the man.
Polus
What? You'd know if you met him, but otherwise, on the spot, you can't tell that he's happy?
Socrates
No, by Zeus, certainly not.
Polus
Clearly then, Socrates, you'll say you don't even know whether the Great King is happy.
Socrates
And I'll be telling the truth — since I don't know how he stands with respect to education and justice.
Polus
What? Does all happiness depend on that?
Socrates
That's what I say, Polus — I say that a fine and good man or woman is happy, and an unjust and wicked one is wretched.
Polus
So by your account, this Archelaus is wretched?
Socrates
Yes, my friend — if he's unjust.
Polus
But how is he not unjust? He had no right at all to the rule he now holds, being born of a woman who was a slave to Alcetas, Perdiccas's brother — by justice he was Alcetas's slave, and if he'd wanted to do what's just, he'd still be serving Alcetas, and he'd be happy by your own account. But as it is, he's become wonderfully wretched, since he's committed the greatest wrongs — first, he summoned this very man, his own master and uncle, as if to give back the rule that Perdiccas had taken from him, made him and his son Alexander, his own cousin and nearly his own age, his guests, got them drunk, threw them into a wagon, led them out by night, cut their throats, and made them both disappear. After doing this wrong, he failed to notice that he'd become the most wretched of men, and felt no regret for it; but a little later, given the chance to become happy by justly raising his brother — Perdiccas's legitimate son, a boy of about seven, to whom the rule belonged by right — and giving him back the throne, he refused, and instead threw him into a well, drowned him, and told the boy's mother Cleopatra that he'd fallen in chasing a goose and died. So now, since he's committed the greatest wrongs of anyone in Macedonia, he's the most wretched of all Macedonians, not the happiest, and there's probably some Athenian — starting with you, — who'd rather become any other Macedonian whatsoever than become Archelaus.
Socrates
And right at the start of our conversation, Polus, I praised you for seeming to me well trained in rhetoric, but for having neglected the art of discussion — and now, is this really any different, the argument by which even a child could refute me, and by which you now think I've been refuted, when I say the wrongdoer isn't happy? Where does that follow, my good man? In fact I don't agree with you on any of this.
Polus
That's because you're not willing to, since it does seem to you the way I say.
Socrates
My blessed friend, you're trying to refute me the way rhetoricians do, like the men in the law courts who think that's how refutation works. There too, one side thinks it refutes the other whenever it produces many reputable witnesses for what it says, while the side arguing the opposite produces only one witness, or none at all. But this kind of refutation is worth nothing when it comes to the truth — sometimes a man can be falsely accused by many people who seem to be somebody. And right now, on the point you're making, nearly everyone will agree with you and say the same things, Athenians and foreigners alike, if you want to produce witnesses against me that I'm not telling the truth; you can call on, if you like, Nicias son of Niceratus and his brothers with him, whose tripods stand in a row in the Dionysium; or, if you like, Aristocrates son of Scellias, whose fine offering stands at the Pythian temple; or, if you like, the whole house of Pericles, or any other family here you care to choose. But I, being just one man, don't agree with you — you're not compelling me, but you're bringing forward many false witnesses against me and trying to drive me out of my property and out of the truth. But unless I can produce you yourself as a single witness agreeing with what I say, I don't think I've proved anything worth mentioning about the matters our argument concerns; and I don't think you have either, unless I testify for you being just one man alone, and you let all these others go their way. So this is one kind of refutation, as you and many others think it is; but there's another kind too, which I in turn believe in. Let's set them side by side and see whether they differ from each other at all. For in fact the matters we're disputing aren't at all small — they're pretty much the very things it's finest to know and most shameful not to know, since the heart of the matter is knowing or not knowing who is happy and who is not. To begin with the very point our argument is about right now: you think it's possible for a man doing wrong and being unjust to be happy, given that you consider Archelaus unjust yet happy. Should we take it that this is your view?
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
But I say it's impossible. That's one point we disagree on. Very well then — will the wrongdoer be happy if he actually meets with justice and punishment?
Polus
Not in the least — in that case he'd be the most wretched of all.
Proving Injustice Worse Than Suffering It
Socrates
But if the wrongdoer doesn't pay the penalty, will he be happy, on your account?
Polus
I do.
Socrates
But in my opinion, Polus, the wrongdoer — the unjust man — is wretched in every case, but more wretched if he doesn't pay the penalty and doesn't meet with punishment for his wrongdoing, and less wretched if he does pay the penalty and gets his due from gods and men.
Polus
That's a strange thing to try to say, Socrates.
Socrates
I'll try to make you say the same as I do, my friend; after all, I consider you a friend. Right now, this is what we disagree about — you take a look too. I said earlier that doing wrong is worse than suffering it.
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
Whereas you say suffering it is.
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
And I said that wrongdoers are wretched, and you refuted me.
Polus
Yes, by Zeus.
Socrates
So you think, Polus.
Polus
And I think truly.
Socrates
Perhaps. And you, in turn, say wrongdoers are happy, if they don't pay the penalty.
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
But I say they're the most wretched, and those who pay the penalty less so. Do you want to refute this too?
Polus
But that's even harder to refute than the last one, Socrates.
Socrates
Not at all, Polus — impossible, in fact; the truth is never refuted.
Polus
What do you mean? If a man doing wrong is caught plotting to set himself up as tyrant, and once caught is racked and mutilated and has his eyes burned out, and after suffering many other great torments of every kind himself, and watching his own children and wife suffer them too, is finally crucified or coated in pitch and burned — will this man be happier than if he escapes, sets himself up as tyrant, and lives out his life as ruler in the city doing whatever he wants, envied and counted happy by the citizens and by other foreigners too? Is that what you're saying is impossible to refute?
Socrates
You're just trying to scare me again, noble Polus, and that's not refuting — a moment ago you were just calling witnesses. Still, remind me of one small thing. Did you say plotting unjustly to become tyrant?
Polus
I did.
Socrates
Well then, neither of them will ever be happier than the other — neither the one who's gotten hold of the tyranny unjustly nor the one who pays the penalty — since, between two wretched men, neither could be happier — but the one who escapes and becomes tyrant is the more wretched of the two. What's this, Polus? Are you laughing? Is this some other kind of refutation, laughing whenever someone says something, instead of refuting it?
Polus
Don't you think you've been refuted, Socrates, when you say things no human being would agree to? Go ahead, ask any of these men here.
Socrates
Polus, I'm not one of the politicians — last year, when I was chosen by lot to sit on the council, and my tribe held the presidency and I had to put a matter to the vote, I made a fool of myself, because I didn't know how to conduct a vote. So don't tell me now either to put these men here to the vote, but if you have no better refutation than that, hand the argument over to me in my turn, as I was just saying, and try the kind of refutation I think is needed. For when I make a claim, I know how to produce just one witness — the very man I'm arguing with — and I let the majority go hang, and I know how to put it to the vote of just one man, but with the majority I don't even hold a discussion. So see whether you're willing, in your turn, to submit to a refutation by answering what you're asked. For I do think that I myself, and you, and everyone else, believe that doing wrong is worse than suffering it, and not paying the penalty worse than paying it.
Polus
But I don't think that — not about myself, and not about anyone else. Would you actually choose to suffer wrong rather than do it?
Socrates
So would you, and so would everyone else.
Polus
Far from it — neither I nor you nor anyone else would.
Socrates
Then won't you answer?
Polus
Certainly; in fact I'm eager to hear what you'll say.
Socrates
So tell me, so you'll know, just as if I were asking you from the beginning — which do you think is worse, Polus, doing wrong or suffering it?
Polus
Suffering it, in my view.
Socrates
And what about this? Which is more shameful, doing wrong or suffering it? Answer.
Polus
Doing wrong.
Socrates
Then it's also worse, if it's more shameful.
Polus
Not in the least.
Socrates
I see; apparently you don't think fine and good are the same thing, or bad and shameful.
Polus
No, I don't.
Socrates
And what about this? Do you call all fine things fine — bodies, colors, shapes, sounds, and practices — every time, without looking to anything? Take fine bodies first — don't you call them fine either in view of their use, whatever each is useful for, or in view of some pleasure, if they make the people looking at them enjoy the sight? Can you name anything about physical beauty outside these two?
Polus
I can't.
Socrates
Then don't you call everything else fine the same way too — shapes and colors — either because of some pleasure, or because of benefit, or both?
Polus
I do.
Socrates
And sounds too, and everything in music, the same way?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
And surely fine things in the realm of laws and practices are no exception either — they're fine by being beneficial or pleasant or both.
Polus
No, they aren't.
Socrates
Then the beauty of studies is the same way too?
Polus
Certainly; and you're defining it well now, Socrates, defining the fine by pleasure and good.
Socrates
Then the shameful is the opposite — by pain and bad?
Polus
It must be.
Socrates
So whenever, of two fine things, one is finer than the other, it's finer by exceeding in one of these two, or in both — either in pleasure or in benefit or in both.
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
And when, of two shameful things, one is more shameful than the other, it will be more shameful by exceeding in pain or in bad — or isn't that necessary?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
Come now, what did we just say about doing wrong and suffering it? Didn't you say that suffering wrong is worse, and doing wrong more shameful?
Polus
I did.
Socrates
So if doing wrong is more shameful than suffering it, then it must either be more painful — more shameful by exceeding in pain — or in bad, or in both? Isn't that necessary too?
Polus
How could it not be?
Socrates
First, then, let's consider whether doing wrong exceeds suffering it in pain, and whether wrongdoers feel more pain than those who are wronged.
Polus
Not at all, Socrates, not that.
Socrates
Then it doesn't exceed it in pain.
Polus
No, it doesn't.
Socrates
Then if not in pain, it can't exceed in both any longer.
Polus
It doesn't appear so.
Socrates
So it's left with the other.
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
In bad.
Polus
So it seems.
Socrates
Then, exceeding in bad, doing wrong would be worse than suffering it.
Polus
Clearly so.
Socrates
Now wasn't it agreed by most people, and by you, earlier on, that doing wrong is more shameful than suffering it?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
But now it's turned out to be worse.
Polus
So it seems.
Socrates
So would you actually choose the worse and more shameful thing over the lesser? Don't hesitate to answer, Polus; you won't be harmed at all; just answer bravely, submitting to the argument the way you'd submit to a doctor, and either say yes or no to what I ask.
Polus
No, I wouldn't choose it, Socrates.
Socrates
Would anyone else?
Polus
Not, I think, on this argument.
Socrates
So I was telling the truth, that neither I, nor you, nor anyone else on earth would choose to do wrong rather than suffer it; because it happens to be worse.
Polus
So it appears.
Socrates
So you see, Polus, when one refutation is set beside the other, they're nothing alike — everyone else agrees with you except me, but you alone are enough for me, agreeing and testifying by yourself, and I put it to the vote of you alone and let the rest go hang. Let's leave that as settled between us, then; and next let's consider the second point we disputed — whether the wrongdoer's paying the penalty is the greatest of evils, as you thought, or whether not paying it is greater, as I, in turn, thought.
Let's look at it this way; do you call paying the penalty and being justly corrected for doing wrong the same thing?
Polus
I do.
Punishment as Medicine for the Soul
Socrates
Can you say that just things aren't all fine, insofar as they're just? Think it over and tell me.
Polus
Yes, I think they are, Socrates.
Socrates
Now look at this too; if someone does something, must there also be something that's affected by the one doing it?
Polus
I think so.
Socrates
And does it suffer whatever the doer does, and in just the way the doer does it? Here's what I mean; if someone strikes, must something be struck?
Polus
It must.
Socrates
And if the one striking, strikes hard or fast, must the thing struck be struck in that same way?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
So the thing struck undergoes just the kind of experience the striker produces?
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
Then if someone burns something, must something be burned?
Polus
How could it not?
Socrates
And if someone burns it intensely or painfully, must the thing burned be burned just as the burner burns it?
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
Then if something cuts, isn't it the same account? Because something is cut.
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
And if the cut is large or deep or painful, does the thing cut get just that kind of cut the cutter makes?
Polus
It appears so.
Socrates
So in short, see whether you agree with what I just said, about everything — that whatever the doer does, the sufferer suffers just that.
Polus
Yes, I agree.
Socrates
Now that this is agreed, is paying the penalty a matter of suffering something or doing something?
Polus
It has to be suffering, Socrates.
Socrates
At the hands of someone doing it, then?
Polus
How could it not be? At the hands of the one correcting him.
Socrates
And does the one who corrects rightly correct justly?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
Doing just things, or not?
Polus
Just things.
Socrates
Then the one being corrected, in paying the penalty, suffers just things?
Polus
It appears so.
Socrates
And just things have been agreed to be fine, haven't they?
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
So of these two, one does fine things, and the other — the one being corrected — suffers them.
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
Then if they're fine, are they also good? Because they're either pleasant or beneficial.
Polus
It must be.
Socrates
So the one paying the penalty suffers good things?
Polus
So it seems.
Socrates
So he's benefited?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
The benefit I have in mind? Does he become better in his soul, if he's justly corrected?
Polus
Likely so.
Socrates
So the one paying the penalty is rid of a badness of soul?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
So is he rid of the greatest evil? Look at it this way; in a man's property, do you see any badness other than poverty?
Polus
No, just poverty.
Socrates
And in the body's condition? Would you say weakness and disease and ugliness and things like that are its badness?
Polus
I would.
Socrates
Then you think there's a corresponding badness in the soul too?
Polus
How could there not be?
Socrates
And don't you call this injustice, and ignorance, and cowardice, and things like that?
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
So, since there are three things — property, body, and soul — you've named three corresponding kinds of badness: poverty, disease, injustice?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
Which of these kinds of badness is the most shameful? Isn't it injustice, and in a word, the badness of the soul?
Polus
By far.
Socrates
And if it's the most shameful, is it also the worst?
Polus
What do you mean, Socrates?
Socrates
Like this; from what's been agreed before, the most shameful thing is always most shameful by producing the greatest pain, or harm, or both.
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
And haven't we just agreed that injustice, and the soul's badness taken as a whole, is the most shameful?
Polus
Yes, it's been agreed.
Socrates
Then either it's the most distressing, and is the most shameful by exceeding in distress, or in harm, or in both?
Polus
It must be.
Socrates
So is being unjust and unrestrained and cowardly and ignorant more painful than being poor or sick?
Polus
I don't think so, Socrates, not judging by that.
Socrates
So it must be by some extraordinary, tremendous harm and astonishing badness, exceeding everything else, that the soul's badness is the most shameful of all — since it's not by pain, on your own account.
Polus
So it appears.
Socrates
But surely whatever exceeds in the greatest harm would be the greatest evil there is.
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
So injustice, and lack of restraint, and the soul's other badness, are the greatest evil there is?
Polus
So it appears.
Socrates
So what craft rids someone of poverty? Isn't it moneymaking?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
And of disease? Isn't it medicine?
Polus
It must be.
Socrates
And of badness and injustice? If you're not so ready with that, look at it this way; where, and to whom, do we take people whose bodies are sick?
Polus
To the doctors, Socrates.
Socrates
And where do we take wrongdoers and the unrestrained?
Polus
To the judges, you mean?
Socrates
To pay the penalty, isn't that right?
Polus
I do.
Socrates
So don't those who correct rightly correct by making use of a kind of justice?
Polus
Clearly so.
Socrates
So moneymaking rids us of poverty, medicine of disease, and justice of lack of restraint and injustice.
Polus
So it appears.
Socrates
So which of these [that you mention] is the finest?
Polus
Which ones do you mean?
Socrates
Moneymaking, medicine, justice.
Polus
Justice is far superior, Socrates.
Socrates
Then, in turn, it must produce the most pleasure or the most benefit, or both, if it's the finest?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
So is being treated by a doctor pleasant, and do people being treated enjoy it?
Polus
I don't think so.
Socrates
But it is beneficial. Isn't it?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
Because he's rid of a great evil, so it's worth enduring the pain in order to be healthy.
Polus
How could it not be?
Socrates
So would a person be happiest in body this way — being treated — or by never being sick in the first place?
Polus
Clearly, by never being sick.
Socrates
So happiness, it seems, wasn't ridding oneself of an evil, but never having acquired it in the first place.
Polus
That's so.
Socrates
And what about this? Of two people who have an evil, either in body or in soul, which is more wretched — the one being treated and getting rid of the evil, or the one not being treated, but keeping it?
Polus
The one not being treated, it seems to me.
Socrates
Then wasn't paying the penalty a ridding of the greatest evil, badness?
Polus
Yes, it was.
Socrates
Because it chastens them, and makes them more just, and judicial correction becomes a kind of medicine for badness.
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
So the happiest person is the one who has no badness in his soul, since that turned out to be the greatest of evils.
Polus
Clearly so.
Socrates
And second, presumably, the one who's rid of it.
Polus
So it seems.
Socrates
And that was the one being admonished, and reproved, and paying the penalty.
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
So the one living worst is the one who has [injustice] and isn't rid of it.
Polus
So it appears.
Socrates
And isn't this the very man who, doing the greatest wrongs and making use of the greatest injustice, manages things so that he's neither admonished nor corrected nor made to pay the penalty — the way you say Archelaus and the other tyrants and orators and men of power have arranged things for themselves?
Polus
So it seems.
Socrates
Because these men, my excellent fellow, have managed just about the same thing as if someone gripped by the worst diseases managed to avoid paying his doctors the penalty for what's wrong with his body, and refused treatment, fearing like a child the burning and the cutting, because it's painful. Or don't you think so too?
Polus
I do.
Socrates
Not knowing, it seems, what health and the excellence of the body actually are. Because, based on what we've just agreed, Polus, those who run from paying the penalty are probably doing something like this too — seeing only the pain of it, but being blind to the benefit, and not knowing how much more wretched it is to live with an unhealthy soul than with an unhealthy body — a soul that's rotten and unjust and unholy — which is why they do everything they can to avoid paying the penalty and being rid of the greatest evil, arranging money and friends and making themselves as persuasive as possible; and if what we've agreed is true, Polus, do you notice what follows from the argument? Or would you like us to work it out together?
Polus
If you think we should.
Socrates
So does it follow that injustice, and doing wrong, are the greatest evil?
Polus
So it appears.
Socrates
And surely paying the penalty turned out to be a ridding of this evil?
Polus
It seems so.
Socrates
And not paying it is a persistence of the evil?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
So doing wrong is second in magnitude among evils; but the wrongdoer's not paying the penalty is by nature the greatest and first of all evils.
Polus
So it seems.
Socrates
So wasn't this, my friend, what we disputed — you counting Archelaus happy, the man doing the greatest wrongs and paying no penalty at all, while I believed the opposite: that whoever it is, Archelaus or anyone else on earth, who does wrong and doesn't pay the penalty, deserves to be wretched beyond all other men, and that the wrongdoer is always more wretched than the one wronged, and the one who doesn't pay the penalty more wretched than the one who does? Wasn't that what I was saying?
Polus
Yes.
Socrates
Then hasn't it been proved that it was true?
Polus
So it appears.
Socrates
Well then; if this is true, Polus, what great use is rhetoric? From what we've just agreed, a man must above all guard himself against doing wrong, on the grounds that he'd have evil enough on his hands. Isn't that so?
Polus
Certainly.
Socrates
But if he does wrong, either himself or someone else he cares about, he should go there of his own accord, as fast as he can, to pay the penalty, to the judge just as he'd go to a doctor, hurrying so that the disease of injustice doesn't sit there festering and turn the soul incurable — or how should we put it, Polus, if the earlier agreements still hold for us? Mustn't this agree with what came before, exactly this way and no other?
Polus
Well, what else are we to say, Socrates?
Socrates
So when it comes to defending his own injustice, or that of his parents, or his friends, or his children, or a wrongdoing country, rhetoric is of no use to us at all, Polus — unless someone should suppose the opposite : that a man ought to accuse himself most of all, and then his own household, and anyone else among his friends who happens to be doing wrong at any given time, and not hide the wrongdoing but bring it out into the open, so that he pays the penalty and becomes healthy, forcing himself and others not to shrink back but to offer himself up, shutting his eyes and bravely, the way one offers oneself to a doctor for cutting and burning, pursuing what's good and fine and not counting the pain — if he's done something deserving a beating, offering himself to be beaten, if deserving imprisonment, to be bound, if a fine, paying it, if exile, going into exile, if death, dying — being himself the first accuser, both of himself and of the rest of his household, and using rhetoric for this very purpose, so that once the wrongdoings are made plain, they may be rid of the greatest evil, injustice. Shall we say this, or not, Polus?
Polus
It seems strange to me, Socrates, but I suppose it agrees with what came before.
Socrates
Then either those earlier points must be given up, or these must necessarily follow?
Polus
Yes, that's how it stands.
Socrates
But turning it around the other way — if one really must do harm to someone, whether an enemy or anyone else, provided he himself isn't wronged by the enemy, since that's what has to be guarded against — but if the enemy wrongs someone else, then every means must be prepared, in what one does and what one says, so that he doesn't pay the penalty and never comes before the judge; and if he does come, one must contrive a way for the enemy to escape and avoid paying the penalty — so that if he ⟨has⟩ stolen a great deal of gold, he keeps it instead of giving it back, and spends it on himself and his own people unjustly and godlessly, and if he's done things deserving death, that he not die — best of all, never, but remain immortal in his wickedness, and failing that, that he live for as long a time as possible in that condition. It's for purposes like these, Polus, that rhetoric seems useful to me, since for the man who isn't going to do wrong, I don't think its use amounts to much — if indeed it has any use at all, since in what came before it turned out to have none anywhere.
The Conversation with Callicles
Callicles Interrupts: Nature Against Convention
Callicles
Tell me, Chaerephon — is Socrates serious about this, or is he joking?
Chaerephon
To me, Callicles, he seems to be in dead earnest — but there's nothing like asking him yourself.
Callicles
By the gods, I do want to. Tell me, Socrates, should we take you right now to be serious, or joking? Because if you're serious, and what you're saying happens to be true, wouldn't human life be turned upside down, and aren't we doing, it seems, the exact opposite of everything we ought to?
Socrates
Callicles, if human beings didn't all share some feeling — one thing for some, another thing [or] the same for others — but each of us instead felt something private, unlike what anyone else feels, it wouldn't be easy to point out to another person one's own feeling. I say this because it occurs to me that you and I happen to be in the same condition right now — each of us in love with two things at once: I with Alcibiades, son of Cleinias, and with philosophy, you with two loves, the Athenian people and the son of Pyrilampes. So I notice that every time, clever as you are, whatever your darling says, and however he says things stand, you're unable to contradict him — you keep flipping this way and that; in the assembly, if you say something and the Athenian people deny that's how it is, you change your position and say what they want, and you go through the same thing with that handsome young son of Pyrilampes. You're incapable of opposing your darlings' wishes and words, so that if someone, hearing you say the things you say because of them, were amazed at how strange they are, you might tell him, if you wanted to speak the truth, that unless somebody stops your darlings from this kind of talk, you'll never stop saying it yourself either. So you should expect to hear the same sort of thing from me too, and don't be surprised that I say these things — instead, stop philosophy, my darling, from saying them. Because it's philosophy, my dear friend, that's saying what you're hearing from me now, and she's far less fickle than my other darling; that son of Cleinias says different things at different times, while philosophy always says the same, and what she's saying is exactly what you find so surprising — and you were there yourself when it was said. So either refute her — as I was just saying — and show that doing wrong, and doing wrong without paying the penalty for it, isn't the worst of all evils; or, if you leave that unrefuted, then by the dog, the god of the Egyptians, Callicles will not agree with Callicles, but will be out of tune with himself his whole life long. And yet, my excellent friend, I think it better for my own lyre to be out of tune and off pitch, and for a chorus I might direct — and for the vast majority of people to disagree with me and say the opposite — than for me, one single man, to be out of harmony with myself and contradict myself.
Callicles
Socrates, you seem to me to be showing off in argument like a true crowd-pleaser; and right now you're playing to the crowd because Polus suffered the very thing he accused Gorgias of suffering at your hands. He said, I gather, that when Gorgias was asked by you whether, if someone who wanted to learn rhetoric came to him not already knowing what's just, Gorgias would teach him, Gorgias grew ashamed and said he would teach him, because of people's custom of getting angry if you say no — that because of this admission he was forced to contradict himself, and that you were delighted with exactly that — and that he made fun of you, rightly, as it seemed to me at the time; but now Polus himself has suffered this very same thing all over again. And for that very reason I don't admire Polus, for conceding to you that doing wrong is more shameful than suffering wrong; because it was that very admission that got him tangled up by you in the argument and left with his mouth shut, too ashamed to say what he actually thought. Because in truth, Socrates, you lead people into this crude, crowd-pleasing stuff, all while claiming to be chasing the truth — things that aren't fine by nature at all, only by convention. And for the most part nature and convention are opposed to each other; so if a person feels ashamed and doesn't dare say what he actually thinks, he's forced to contradict himself. You've caught on to this clever trick, and you use it to cheat in argument: if someone speaks by convention, you press him with questions about nature, and if he speaks about nature, you switch to convention. Take, for instance, this business of doing wrong and suffering wrong — when Polus was speaking of what's more shameful by convention, you chased the argument down the line of nature. Because by nature, whatever is worse is also more shameful, and that's suffering wrong, while by convention it's doing wrong. For this experience — suffering wrong — isn't even something that happens to a real man; it happens to some slave, for whom it would be better to die than to live, since when he's wronged and trampled on he's unable to defend himself, or anyone else he cares about. No, I think the ones who make the laws are the weak and the many. So they make their laws with themselves and their own advantage in mind, and that's how they hand out their praise and their blame; they scare the stronger sort of men, the ones capable of getting more, so that these men won't get more than they do, and they say that getting more than one's share is shameful and unjust, and that this is what doing wrong means — seeking to have more than others; because, I think, being the lesser men themselves, they're content if they get an equal share. That's exactly why seeking to have more than the many is called unjust and shameful by convention, and they call it doing wrong; but nature herself, I think, reveals the opposite — that it's just for the better man to have more than the worse, and the more capable more than the less capable. This is shown to be so in many places — among the other animals, and among whole cities and races of men, where justice has been decided on exactly these terms: that the stronger should rule the weaker and have more. For by what justice did Xerxes march against Greece, or his father against the Scythians? Or one could mention countless other cases just like these. No, I think these men act according to the nature of what's just — yes, by god, according to the law of nature — though perhaps not according to the one we lay down among ourselves; we mold the best and strongest of our own kind, taking them while they're still young, like lion cubs, and by chanting spells and casting charms over them we enslave them, telling them they must have an equal share and that this is what's fine and just. But if, I think, a man is born with a nature strong enough for it, he shakes all this off, breaks through it, escapes it — he tramples our writings and our tricks and our incantations and all our laws that go against nature, rises up, and stands revealed as our master, the slave turned ruler, and right there the justice of nature bursts into the light. It seems to me that Pindar too shows exactly what I'm saying, in the song where he says—
and this, he says—
that's roughly how it goes — I don't know the song by heart — but it says that he drove off Geryon's cattle neither by paying for them nor by their owner giving them, on the ground that this is what's just by nature, and that cattle and all other possessions belong, by right, to the better and stronger man, and not to the worse and weaker.
So that's how the truth stands, and you'll come to know it if you finally leave philosophy behind and move on to greater things. Because philosophy, Socrates, is a charming thing if a person takes it up in moderation at the right age; but if he lingers in it longer than he should, it's the ruin of a man. Because even if someone is extremely gifted by nature, if he keeps doing philosophy well past the right age, he inevitably ends up without experience of everything a man needs experience of if he's going to turn out fine, good, and well regarded. Such men end up with no experience of the laws that govern the city, none of the language they need to deal with people in their private and public dealings, none of human pleasures and desires — in short, no experience of character at all. So whenever they enter into some private or public business, they become ridiculous — just as, I think, politicians become ridiculous whenever they turn to your kind of discussions and arguments. For what Euripides says turns out to be true — every man shines brightest in the thing he's good at, and hurries toward that,
but wherever he's weak, he runs from that and abuses it, while he praises the other, out of goodwill toward himself, thinking that in this way he's praising himself. No, I think the best course is to share in both. It's fine to take part in philosophy for the sake of education, up to a point, and there's nothing shameful in a young boy doing philosophy; but once a man is already older and still philosophizing, the whole business becomes ridiculous, Socrates, and I, for one, react to men who philosophize exactly the way I react to men who lisp and play childish games. Because when I see a small child, one for whom that kind of talk is still appropriate, lisping and playing, I'm delighted — it seems charming to me, free and fitting for the child's age; but when I hear a little boy speaking clearly and carefully, it strikes me as a harsh thing, it grates on my ears, and it seems to me somehow fit for a slave; and whenever someone hears a grown man lisp, or sees him playing games, it looks ridiculous, unmanly, and deserving of a beating. Well, I feel this exact same thing toward men who philosophize. When I see philosophy in a young boy, I admire it — it seems fitting to me, and I take that person to be a free man, while the one who doesn't philosophize is unfree and will never think himself worthy of anything fine or noble; but when I see an older man still doing philosophy, not putting it aside, that man, Socrates, already seems to me to need a beating. As I was just saying, this is what happens to such a man — even if he's remarkably gifted, he becomes unmanly, fleeing the center of the city and the marketplaces, where the poet says men become distinguished, and instead he ends up burrowing away, living out the rest of his life whispering in a corner with three or four boys, never once uttering anything free, grand, or worthwhile. Now, Socrates, I'm fairly well disposed toward you — I'm probably in the same position right now as Euripides' Zethus was toward Amphion, whom I mentioned a moment ago. Because things like this occur to me to say to you, just as they occurred to him to say to his brother — that you're neglecting, Socrates, what you ought to be taking care of, and that you're twisting a nature of soul as noble as yours into some boyish shape, and that you'd be unable to bring a properly framed argument to a courtroom debate, or grasp anything plausible and persuasive, or come up with a bold plan on someone else's behalf. And yet, my dear Socrates — and don't be annoyed with me over this; I'll speak out of goodwill toward you — don't you think it's a shameful condition to be in, the one I think you're in, and the one all the others are in who keep pushing on further and further into philosophy? Because right now, if someone grabbed hold of you, or of any other man of your sort, and dragged you off to prison, claiming you'd done wrong when you'd done no wrong, you know perfectly well you wouldn't have any idea what to do with yourself — you'd get dizzy and stand there gaping, with nothing to say, and if you went up before the court and happened to draw some thoroughly worthless and vicious prosecutor, you'd be put to death, if he wanted to press for the death penalty. And yet how is this wisdom, Socrates, when a craft takes a naturally gifted man and makes him worse — unable to help himself, unable to save himself or anyone else from the gravest dangers, stripped of his entire property by his enemies, and living in his own city, quite literally, without any honor at all? A man like that — if I may put it a bit crudely — can be slapped across the face and the one who hits him pays no penalty for it. So take my advice, my good man — give up your refutations, practice the fine art of practical affairs, and practice whatever will get you a reputation for good sense, leaving these clever little exercises to other people, whether we should call them nonsense or drivel, the kind of thing that will leave you living in an empty house; and stop admiring men who spend their time on these petty refutations, and admire instead the men who have a good life, a good reputation, and plenty of other good things.