Freedom Turning Into Slavery

What then? Is this man to be ranked by us under democracy, as one who would rightly be called democratic?

Let him be so ranked, he said.

Then, I said, it remains for us to discuss the finest constitution and the finest man of all — tyranny and the tyrant.

Quite so, he said.

Come then, my dear friend, in what way does tyranny come about? That it changes over from democracy is fairly clear.

Clear.

Is it not, then, in some sense the same way that democracy comes from oligarchy, and tyranny from democracy?

How so?

The good they set before themselves, I said, and because of which oligarchy was established — this was [excessive] wealth; was it not? —

Yes.

Then insatiable desire for wealth, and neglect of everything else for the sake of money-making, destroyed it.

True, he said.

Is it not then also the insatiable desire for that which democracy defines as good that destroys it in turn?

And what do you say it defines as good?

Freedom, I said. For that, I suppose, is what you would hear said in a city under democracy — that it possesses this as its finest thing, and that for this reason it alone is worth living in for anyone who is free by nature.

That saying is certainly repeated often, he said.

Is it not then, I said, just as I was about to say a moment ago, that the insatiable desire for this and neglect of everything else changes this constitution too, and prepares it to need a tyranny?

In what way? He asked.

Whenever, I suppose, a city under democracy, thirsting for freedom, happens to have bad cupbearers presiding over it, and becomes drunk on unmixed wine beyond what is fitting, then, if its rulers are not very gentle and do not give it freedom in abundance, it punishes them, accusing them of being vile and oligarchic.

They certainly do that, he said.

And it heaps abuse, I said, on those who are obedient to the rulers, as willing slaves and nothing at all, while it praises and honors, both privately and publicly, rulers who are like the ruled and ruled who are like the rulers. Is it not necessary that in such a city freedom go to every extreme?

How could it not?

And that this anarchy, my friend, I said, sinks down into private households, and ends by working its way into the very animals.

What do we mean, he asked, by a thing like that?

For example, I said, a father grows accustomed to becoming like his child, and fears his sons, while a son becomes like his father, and feels neither shame nor fear before his parents, so that he may be free; a resident alien becomes equal to the citizen, and the citizen to the resident alien, and likewise the foreigner.

Yes, that is indeed how it happens, he said.

These things happen, I said, and other small things like them as well; a teacher in such a place fears his pupils and fawns on them, while pupils make light of their teachers, and likewise of their attendants; and in general the young set themselves up as equal to their elders and compete with them, in word and in deed, while the old come down to the level of the young and fill themselves with wit and playfulness, imitating the young, so that they may not seem disagreeable or overbearing.

Very much so, he said.

But the extreme of the people's freedom, my friend, I said, as much of it as occurs in such a city, is when the bought men and the bought women are no less free than those who bought them. And how great the equality and freedom is that arises between women toward men and men toward women — we very nearly forgot to mention it.

Then shall we not say, he said, in the words of Aeschylus, whatever has now come to our lips?

Quite so, I said — and that is indeed what I mean too; for no one without experience of it would believe how much freer the animals kept by men are here than elsewhere. For quite literally, according to the proverb, the dogs become just like their mistresses, and so too do the horses and donkeys, accustomed to walking about in a thoroughly free and dignified manner, barging into anyone they meet in the streets who does not get out of the way, and everything else likewise becomes full of freedom.

You are telling my own dream back to me, he said; for I myself, when walking out to the country, often experience just that.

And the sum of all these things gathered together, I said, do you notice how tender it makes the soul of the citizens, so that if anyone brings any form of slavery near them at all, they grow indignant and cannot bear it? For in the end, I suppose you know, they pay no heed even to the laws, written or unwritten, so that in no way at all may anyone be their master.

I know it very well, he said.

This, then, my friend, I said, is the beginning, so fine and full of youthful vigor, from which tyranny grows, as it seems to me.

Full of youthful vigor indeed, he said; but what comes after this?

The same thing, I said, as the disease that arose in oligarchy and destroyed it — this same disease, arising in this constitution too, greater and stronger because of its license, enslaves democracy. And in truth, doing anything to excess tends to produce a great change into its opposite, in seasons and in plants and in bodies, and indeed, not least of all, in constitutions.

That is likely, he said.

For excessive freedom seems to change into nothing other than excessive slavery, both for the private man and for the city.

That is indeed likely.

It is reasonable, then, I said, that tyranny is established from no other constitution than democracy — from the most extreme freedom, I suppose, comes the greatest and most savage slavery.

Yes, that stands to reason, he said.

But I do not think, I said, that is what you were asking, but rather what the disease is that grows in oligarchy and, arising the same in democracy, enslaves it.

True, he said.

Well, I said, I meant that class of idle and extravagant men — the boldest of them leading, the less bold following — whom indeed we compare to drones, some equipped with stings, others without.

And rightly so, he said.

These two, then, I said, disturb every constitution when they arise in it, just as phlegm and bile disturb the body; against which indeed the good physician and lawgiver of a city must guard well in advance, no less than a wise beekeeper — above all so that they may not arise at all, but if they do arise, so that they may be cut out, comb and all, as quickly as possible.

Yes, by Zeus, he said, absolutely.

Let us then take it up this way, I said, so that we may see more clearly what we want.

How?

Let us divide a city under democracy, in our discussion, into three parts, just as indeed it actually is. For one such class, I suppose, grows up in it because of its license, no less than in the city under oligarchy.

So it is.

But it is much sharper here than there.

How so?

There, because it has no honor but is driven away from office, it becomes untrained and lacking in vigor; but in democracy this class is, I suppose, for the most part what stands at its head, apart from a few, and the sharpest part of it speaks and acts, while the rest, settling around the speakers' platforms, buzzes and will not tolerate anyone saying otherwise, so that in such a constitution everything is managed by this class, apart from a few exceptions.

Very much so, he said.

Then another such class is always separated off from the multitude.

What sort?

When everyone, I suppose, is engaged in money-making, those who are most orderly by nature generally become the wealthiest.

Likely.

It is from these, I suppose, that the most honey for the drones is taken, and the most easily got.

How indeed, he said, could anyone extract honey from those who have little?

Such rich men, I suppose, are called the pasture of the drones.

Just about, he said.

The Protector Becomes a Tyrant

The people would be a third class — all who work with their own hands and keep out of public affairs, not possessing a great deal — and this, whenever it is gathered together, is the largest and most dominant group in a democracy.

It is so, he said; but it is not often willing to do this, unless it gets some share of the honey.

And it does always get a share, I said, so far as its protectors are able, by taking the property away from those who have it, distributing it to the people, and keeping the greatest part for themselves.

It does get a share that way, he said.

Then those it is taken from are compelled, I suppose, to defend themselves, speaking before the people and doing whatever they can.

How could they not?

Then they are accused by the others, even if they have no wish to overturn anything, of plotting against the people and being oligarchic.

What else?

And then in the end, whenever they see the people, not willingly but through ignorance and being deceived by slanderers, attempting to do them wrong, then at last, whether they wish it or not, they truly become oligarchic — not willingly, but because that drone breeds this evil in them too by stinging them.

Quite so.

Then impeachments, trials, and contests against one another follow.

Very much so.

And is it not always the people's habit to set some one man above itself especially, and to nourish him and make him great?

It is indeed their habit.

This, then, I said, is clear — that whenever a tyrant springs up, he sprouts from the root of a protector and from nowhere else.

Very clear indeed.

What, then, is the beginning of the change from protector to tyrant? Or is it clear that it happens once the protector begins to do the same thing as the man in the story told about the shrine of Lycaean Zeus in Arcadia?

What story? He asked.

That the one who tastes the human entrail — one piece cut up and mixed in among the entrails of the other sacrificial victims — must inevitably become a wolf. Or have you not heard the story?

I have.

Is it not the same, then, with one who, standing as protector of the people and getting hold of a mob entirely obedient to him, does not hold back from the blood of his own kin, but, bringing unjust charges, as such men are apt to do, and hauling a man before the courts, commits murder, blotting out a man's life, tasting kindred blood with unholy tongue and mouth, and drives men into exile and kills them, and hints at the cancellation of debts and the redistribution of land — is it not necessary, then, and fated for such a man, after this, either to be destroyed by his enemies or to become a tyrant and turn from a man into a wolf?

The Tyrant Secures His Power

Quite necessarily, he said.

This man, then, I said, becomes the one who stirs up strife against those who own property.

This man.

So then, if he is driven out and returns in spite of his enemies, does he come back a finished tyrant?

Clearly.

But if they are unable to expel him or kill him by denouncing him to the city, they plot in secret to kill him by a violent death.

That is, at any rate, he said, how it tends to happen.

At this point, then, all who have advanced this far discover the notorious request typical of tyrants: to ask the people for some guards for his person, so that the people's helper may be kept safe for them.

Very much so, he said.

And I suppose they grant it, fearing for him but feeling confident about themselves.

Quite so.

Now, whenever a man who has property sees this, and along with his property gets a reputation for hating the people, then, my friend, this man, in accordance with the oracle given to Croesus— …by the many-pebbled Hermus flees, and does not stay, nor is ashamed to be a coward.

No, he said, for he would not be put to shame a second time.

But whoever is caught, I said, is, I suppose, given over to death.

Necessarily.

But that protector himself, it is clear, does not lie fallen, great and mighty; instead, having cast down many others, he stands in the chariot of the city, made into a tyrant instead of a protector.

Why should he not? He said.

Shall we, then, go through the happiness, I said, of the man and of the city in which such a mortal comes to be?

By all means, he said, let us go through it.

So then, I said, is it not the case that in the first days and for some time he smiles at and greets everyone he happens to meet, and says he is not a tyrant, and promises many things both privately and publicly, and frees people from debts and distributes land to the people and to those around him, and pretends to be gracious and gentle to everyone?

Necessarily, he said.

But when, I suppose, he is reconciled with some of his enemies abroad and destroys others, and there is peace from them, then first he is always stirring up some wars, so that the people may be in need of a leader.

That is likely.

Is it not also so that, by paying taxes, they become poor and are forced to be occupied with their daily needs, and so plot against him less?

Clearly.

And if he suspects, I suppose, that some men of free spirit will not allow him to rule, does he not contrive to destroy them under some pretext, by handing them over to the enemy? For all these reasons, is it always necessary for a tyrant to stir up war?

Necessarily.

And by doing these things, is he not all the more certain to be hated by the citizens?

How could it be otherwise?

Is it not also the case that some of those who helped set him in power, and who hold power themselves, speak freely both to him and to one another, criticizing what is going on — whichever of them happen to be the boldest?

That is likely.

The tyrant, then, must quietly do away with all of these, if he is to rule, until he leaves no one, whether friend or enemy, who is of any use.

Clearly.

He must, then, look sharply to see who is brave, who is large-minded, who is wise, who is rich; and so happy is he that, whether he wishes it or not, he is compelled to be an enemy to all these and to plot against them, until he has purged the city.

A beautiful purge indeed, he said.

Yes, I said, the opposite of what physicians do to bodies; for they remove the worst and leave the best, but he does the opposite.

So it seems, he said, for it is a necessity for him, if he is indeed to rule.

He is bound, then, I said, by a blessed necessity, which commands him either to live among the base majority and be hated by them, or not to live at all.

By such a necessity, he said.

So then, is it not the case that the more he is hated by the citizens for doing these things, the more numerous and more trustworthy the bodyguards he will need?

How could it be otherwise?

Who, then, are the trustworthy ones? And from where will he send for them?

Many will come flying to him of their own accord, he said, if he offers pay.

Drones, I said — by the dog — you seem to me, again, to be talking about some sort of foreign and motley men.

Your impression of me, he said, is a true one.

But who from here at home? Would he not be willing—

How so?

To take the citizens' slaves away, free them, and make them part of his own bodyguard.

Certainly, he said; since these are indeed the most trustworthy to him.

Truly, I said, you speak of a blessed sort of tyrant, if he makes use of such friends and trustworthy men, after destroying those earlier ones.

The People's Slavery

But indeed, he said, he does make use of such men.

And do these companions admire him, I said, and do the young citizens keep his company, while the decent ones hate him and avoid him?

Why would they not?

It is no wonder, I said, that tragedy in general is thought to be wise, and Euripides outstanding in it.

Why is that?

Because he too uttered a saying that holds close-packed thought, that tyrants are wise through the company of the wise. And he plainly meant that the wise are those whose company the tyrant keeps.

And how he praises tyranny as something godlike, he said, and many other things besides — both he and the other poets.

Accordingly, I said, the poets of tragedy, being wise, forgive both us and those who govern themselves in ways close to our own, because we will not admit them into our constitution, as singers of tyranny's praises.

I for my part think, he said, that those of them who are refined do forgive us.

But going around to the other cities, I think, gathering the crowds, hiring beautiful, loud, and persuasive voices, they drag constitutions toward tyrannies and democracies.

Very much so.

So they also receive pay for this and are honored — most of all, as is likely, by tyrants, and second by democracies; but the higher up they go toward the steep ascent of constitutions, the more their honor gives out, as if it were unable to go on for want of breath.

Certainly.

But indeed, I said, here we have wandered off the point; let us return again to that army of the tyrant — the fine, numerous, varied army, never the same — and ask from where it will be fed.

Clearly, he said, if there are sacred funds in the city, he will spend these, for as long as the proceeds of what has been sold off keep sufficing, compelling the people to pay in smaller contributions.

But what, when these run short?

Clearly, he said, he himself, and his drinking companions, and his male and female friends, will be fed from his father's estate.

I understand, I said — that the people who bred the tyrant will feed him and his companions.

He has no choice in it, he said.

What [then] do you mean? I said — suppose the people grow indignant and say that it is not just for a grown son to be supported by his father, but the reverse, for a father to be supported by his son, and that it was not for this reason that they bred him and set him up, so that, once he had grown great, they, enslaved to their own slaves, should then support him and the slaves together with a rabble of others, but rather so that, with him as their protector, they might be freed from the rich and from those called fine and good in the city, and now they bid him and his companions leave the city, just as a father drives a son out of the house along with troublesome drinking companions?

He will find out then, by Zeus, he said, what sort of creature it was that the people bred, embracing and rearing it, and that, being weaker, they are driving out one who is stronger.

How, I said, do you mean that? Will the tyrant dare to use force against his father, and even to strike him, if he will not obey?

Yes, he said, once he has taken his weapons away.

You are calling the tyrant, I said, a father-beater and a harsh keeper of his father's old age, and it seems that this, now, would be tyranny fully avowed, and, as the saying goes, the people, fleeing the smoke of slavery to free men, would have fallen into the fire of the mastery of slaves, having put on, in place of that great and unseasonable freedom, the harshest and bitterest slavery to slaves.

Yes indeed, he said, that is how it happens.

What then? I said — will it not be a fitting thing for us to say, if we claim to have gone through adequately how tyranny arises out of democracy, and, once it has come to be, what sort of thing it is?

Quite adequately, he said.

Book IX

Lawless Desires, and Dreams

It remains, then, I said, to consider the tyrannical man himself — how he changes over from the democratic man, and once he has come to be, what sort of man he is and how he lives, wretched or happy.

Yes, he is the one still left, he said.

Do you know, then, I said, what I still find myself missing?

What is it?

It seems to me that we have not adequately distinguished the desires — what kinds there are and how many. And while this is left wanting, the inquiry we are conducting will be less clear.

Well then, he said, are we not still in good time?

Very much so — and do consider what I want us to see in them. It is this. Among the unnecessary pleasures and desires, some seem to me to be lawless — desires that are liable to arise in everyone, but which, checked by the laws and by the better desires with the help of reason, are in some men done away with altogether, or left few and weak, while in others they are stronger and more numerous.

Which ones do you mean, he asked?

The ones that wake in sleep, I said — whenever the rest of the soul is asleep, all that is rational and gentle and rules over the other part, but the beastly and wild part, gorged with food or drink, rears up and, having thrown off sleep, seeks to go and satisfy its own dispositions; you know that in such a state it dares to do everything, as though released and freed from all shame and practical wisdom. For it does not shrink from attempting, as it supposes, to have intercourse with its mother, or with anyone else at all — man, god, or beast — from committing any bloody murder, or from touching any food whatsoever; and in a word, it stops short at no folly and no shamelessness.

Most true, he said.

But when, I think, a man is in a healthy and moderate state with himself, and goes to sleep having roused the rational part of himself and feasted it on fine arguments and reflections, having arrived at communion with himself, and having given the appetitive part neither want nor excess, so that it may settle and not trouble the best part with either joy or pain, but leave it alone by itself, pure, to look about and reach out to perceive something it does not know — whether of the past, the present, or even the future — and likewise having calmed the spirited part, and not going to sleep with his temper stirred from having fallen into anger with someone, but having quieted those two parts and stirred up the third, in which practical wisdom arises, and so takes his rest — you know that in such a state he grasps truth most of all, and then the visions appearing in his dreams are least lawless.

How the Tyrannical Man Comes to Be

Entirely so, I think, he said.

So then, we have been led on to say more about this than we needed; but what we want to know is this — that a terrible, wild, and lawless kind of desire is present in each of us, even in some of us who seem entirely moderate, and this becomes evident in dreams. So if you think there is something in what I say, and you agree, then consider this.

Well, I agree.

So recall what sort of man we said the democratic man was. He was, I suppose, one who had been raised from youth by a thrifty father, who honored only the money-making desires, and dishonored those that are not necessary but arise for the sake of play and adornment. Isn't that so?

Yes.

But having associated with more refined men, full of the desires we just went through, and having rushed into every kind of wanton excess and into their kind of life, out of hatred for his father's thriftiness, yet having a nature better than those who corrupt him, and being drawn in both directions, he settled into a middle between the two ways, and enjoying each in a moderate way, as he supposed, he lives neither an illiberal nor a lawless life, having become democratic instead of oligarchic.

For that was, and still is, he said, the opinion held about such a man.

Now suppose again, I said, that this man, now grown older, has a young son raised in turn in his ways.

I suppose so.

Now suppose also that the same things happen to him as happened to his father, that he is led into every lawlessness, which those who lead him into it call complete freedom, that his father and the rest of his household come to the defense of these desires in between, while others in turn bring aid on the other side — and that, when these terrible enchanters and tyrant-makers despair of holding the young man by any other means, they contrive to implant in him a certain erotic love as champion of the idle desires and of those that divide up what lies ready at hand, a great winged drone — or what else do you suppose the erotic love of such men to be?

Nothing else, he said, but this.

So then, when the other desires, buzzing around him, full of incense and perfumes and garlands and wines, and of the pleasures set loose in such gatherings, swell and feed him to the utmost and implant in the drone the sting of longing, then this champion of the soul is given a bodyguard of madness and is driven into a frenzy, and if it finds within him any opinions or desires that are still decent and still feel shame, it kills them and thrusts them away from itself, until it has purged him of moderation and filled him with an imported madness.

You are describing, he said, exactly how a tyrannical man comes to be.

Is it not for this reason, then, I said, that erotic love has long been called a tyrant?

It seems so, he said.

And does not a drunken man too, my friend, I said, have a somewhat tyrannical cast of mind?

A Life Ruled by Eros

For it does.

And indeed, the man who is mad and deranged both attempts to rule not only men but gods as well, and expects that he can.

Very much so, he said.

And a man becomes tyrannical in the strict sense, I said, my good sir, whenever, whether by nature or by habits or by both, he becomes given to drink, to erotic love, and to melancholy.

Yes, absolutely.

So it seems that such a man comes to be in this way — but how does he live?

That is what children say at their games, he said — you will tell me that yourself.

I will tell you, I said. I think that after this, festivals and revels and banquets and courtesans and everything of that kind arise among them — the sort of men in whom erotic love, dwelling within as a tyrant, steers everything in the soul.

It must be so, he said.

So then, do not many terrible desires sprout up beside them, every day and every night, and need a great deal?

Many indeed.

So whatever income there may be is quickly used up.

How could it not be?

And after this come borrowings, and inroads on his estate.

What else?

So whenever everything runs out, is it not inevitable that his desires — crowded together, violent, nesting within him — cry out, and that he, driven as though by goads, by his other desires and above all by erotic love itself, which leads all the rest like a bodyguard, is goaded into frenzy and looks about for whoever has anything that can be taken from him, either by deceit or by force?

Very much so, he said.

He must carry off plunder from every quarter, or be gripped by great throes and pains.

He must.

So then, just as the pleasures that arise later within him get the better of the older ones and take away what belongs to them, will he not likewise, being younger, think it right to have more than his father and mother, and to take from them, once he has spent his own share, allotted to him out of the family property?

But what else? So he said.

And if they do not allow it, will he not first attempt to steal from his parents and deceive them?

Certainly.

And when he is unable to, would he then snatch and use force?

I think so, he said.

So if the old man and the old woman hold their ground and fight, my good sir, will he be careful and hold back from doing anything a tyrant would do?

I am not at all confident, he said, about the parents of such a man.

But, Adeimantus, in the name of Zeus, do you think that such a man — for the sake of a mistress newly become dear to him, who is no kin of his — would strike his mother, long dear to him and his own by blood, or — for the sake of a boy in his bloom newly become dear to him, who is no kin of his — would strike his father, past his bloom yet still his own by blood and the oldest of his friends, and would enslave them both to his new favorites, if he brought them into the same house?

Yes, by Zeus, he said.

It seems, I said, a supremely blessed thing to have begotten a tyrannical son.

Very much so, he said.

The Tyrannical Man in Private and in Public

And what happens, then, when the resources of his father and mother fail such a man, and the swarm of pleasures gathered within him has already grown great — will he not first breach the wall of some house, or strip the cloak from someone walking late at night, and after that plunder some temple? And amid all this, the desires newly freed from slavery, waiting on erotic love like a bodyguard, will overpower — together with him — the opinions he had held from childhood about what is noble and shameful, the ones once counted as just, desires that before were released, as if in a dream , only during sleep, when he himself was still ruled within himself democratically by law and by his father; but tyrannized now by erotic love, becoming while awake always what he rarely became in a dream, he will hold back from no dreadful bloodshed, no food, no deed, but erotic love, living within him tyrannically in utter anarchy and lawlessness, since it is itself sole monarch, will drive the man who has it, as though he were a city, to every kind of recklessness, so as to feed both itself and the tumult gathered around it — part of it come in from outside through bad company, part of it from within, set loose and freed by the same habits and by the man himself; or is this not the life of such a man?

That is indeed his life, he said.

And if such men are few in a city , I said, and the rest of the multitude is moderate, they go off and serve as bodyguard to some other tyrant, or hire themselves out as mercenaries, if a war happens to be on somewhere; but if they find themselves in peace and quiet, they do many small evils right there in the city.

What sort of things do you mean?

Such things as stealing, breaking into houses, cutting purses, stripping clothes off people, robbing temples, kidnapping people into slavery; and sometimes, if they are capable speakers, they bring false accusations, bear false witness, and take bribes.

You call these small evils, he said, if such men are few.

Small things, I said, are small in comparison with great ones, and all these together, set beside a tyrant for wickedness and the misery of a city, as the saying goes, don't even come close. For whenever many such men arise in a city, along with others who follow their lead, and they become aware of their own numbers, then it is they who, together with the folly of the people, breed the tyrant — that one among them who, more than the rest, has the greatest and fullest tyrant established in his own soul.

Naturally, he said — for he would be the most tyrannical of all.

So then, if they yield willingly — well and good; but if the city does not give way, then, just as he once punished his mother and father, so again he will punish his fatherland, if he is able, by bringing in new companions, and he will keep and nourish his long-beloved motherland — as the Cretans say — and fatherland, enslaved now under them. And this indeed would be the end point of such a man's desire.

That, he said, absolutely.

So then, I said, in private life, even before they rule, such men become like this: first, in dealing with whomever they are with, either they consort with their own flatterers, men ready to serve them in anything, or, if they need something from someone, they grovel themselves, daring to strike every pose as though they were intimates, only to be strangers once they have got what they wanted?

Very much so indeed.

So in their whole life they are never a friend to anyone, but always either mastering someone or a slave to another, and a tyrannical nature never tastes freedom or true friendship.

Certainly.

So would we not be right to call such men faithless?

How could we not?

And indeed as unjust as it is possible to be, if we were right in what we agreed earlier about justice, what sort of thing it is.

First Proof: The City and the Soul Compared

Yes indeed, he said — quite rightly.

Let us sum up, then, I said, the worst man. And he is, I take it, the man we described as in a dream — whoever proves to be such a man in waking reality.

Certainly.

So this is what he becomes — whoever, being most tyrannical by nature, gains sole rule, and the longer he lives as a tyrant, the more he becomes such a man.

Necessarily, said Glaucon, taking up the argument.

So, I said, will he who appears most wicked also appear most wretched? And will he who has been a tyrant for the longest time and most completely — having in truth become such most fully and for the longest time — also appear most wretched? But then, the many think many things.

Necessarily, he said — at any rate that much is so.

Then is it not the case, I said, that the tyrannical man would resemble the city ruled by a tyrant, and the democratic man the city ruled democratically, and so with the rest?

What else?

Then as one city is to another in virtue and happiness, so too is one man to another?

How could it not be so?

Then how does the tyrannized city compare in virtue to the one ruled by a king, such as we described at the outset?

Quite the opposite, he said — for the one is best and the other worst.

I will not ask, I said, which one you mean — it is clear. But do you judge happiness and wretchedness in the same way, or differently? And let us not be struck with astonishment, looking at the tyrant as one man on his own, nor at the few who stand around him, but, as we ought, let us go in and view the whole city, sinking down into every part of it and seeing it, and only then declare our opinion.

But you challenge us rightly, he said; and it is clear to everyone that there is no city more wretched than the one ruled by a tyrant, and none happier than the one ruled by a king.

So, I said, would I be right, in issuing this same challenge about the men as well, to demand that the judge of them be that man who is able, in his mind, to enter into a man's character and see through it, and who is not, like a child looking from outside, struck with amazement by the tyrannical display they put on for those outside, but sees through it clearly? So if I should think that we all ought to listen to that man — the one able to judge, who has lived under the same roof with him and has been present at his dealings within the household, seeing how he behaves toward each of his intimates, occasions on which he would most be seen stripped of his tragic costume, and again in the dangers of public life — and, having seen all this, we should bid him report how the tyrant stands, in happiness and wretchedness, compared to other men?

You would be quite right, he said, to make this challenge too.

Do you want us, then, I said, to pretend that we ourselves are among those capable of judging, and that we have already met such men, so that we may have someone to answer what we ask?

Certainly.

Come now, I said, consider it this way. Recalling the likeness between the city and the man, and so examining each point by point in turn, tell me the condition of each.

What sort of things? He asked.

First, I said, to speak of the city, will you call the tyrannized city free or enslaved?

As enslaved as a city can possibly be, he said.

And yet you do see in it masters and free men.

I do see them, he said — though that is a small thing; but as a whole, so to speak, even the most decent part of it is enslaved, dishonored and wretched.

If, then, I said, the man is like the city, must not the same order be present in him too, and his soul be full of much slavery and unfreedom, with the parts of it that were most decent enslaved, while a small part — the most base and maddest — rules as master?

Necessarily, he said.

What then? Will you say that such a soul is enslaved or free?

Enslaved, I should think, at any rate.

Then again, does not the city which is enslaved and tyrannized do least of all what it wishes?

Very much so.

Then the tyrannized soul too, to speak of the soul as a whole, will do least of all what it wishes; but, always dragged along by force under the gadfly's goad, it will be full of turmoil and regret.

How could it not be so?

And must the tyrannized city be rich or poor?

Poor.

Then the tyrannical soul too must always be needy and insatiable.

So it is, he said.

What then? Must not such a city, and such a man, be full of fear?

Very much so.

Do you think you will find more lamentations, groans, wailings and pains in any other city?

By no means.

And do you think that among men such things are found more in anyone else than in this tyrannical man, maddened by desires and erotic love?

How could they be? He replied.

The Tyrant's Slavery and Misery

It is with an eye to all this, I think, and to other things of the same kind, that you judged that city the most wretched of cities—

Is that not right? He said.

Very much so, I said. But about the tyrannical man now, in turn — what do you say, looking to these same things?

By far the most wretched of all the rest, he said.

There, I said, you are no longer right.

How so? He said.

This, I said, is not yet the man who is such in the highest degree.

But who then?

This one will perhaps still seem to you more wretched than he.

Which one?

Whoever, I said, being tyrannical in nature does not live out his life as a private citizen, but is unlucky enough that some misfortune furnishes him with the means of becoming an actual tyrant.

I gather, he said, from what has already been said, that you are speaking the truth.

Yes, I said, but we should not merely suppose such things, but examine them very carefully by just such reasoning; for our inquiry concerns the greatest matter of all, the good life and the bad.

Quite rightly, he said.

Consider, then, whether I am saying anything to the purpose. For it seems to me we must reflect on him by examining the following.

From what?

From each one of the private men — all those who are rich in their cities and own many slaves. For these men have at least this much in common with tyrants, ruling over many; but the tyrant's numbers are different.

Yes, they are different.

Do you know, then, that these men live free of fear and are not afraid of their household slaves?

For what would they be afraid of?

Nothing, I said; but do you see the reason?

Yes, because the whole city comes to the aid of each private citizen.

You put it well, I said. But what then? If some god should lift a single man — one who owns fifty slaves or even more — out of the city, together with his wife and children, and set him down in a desolate place with the rest of his property and his household slaves, where none of the free would be there to help him, in what sort of fear, and how much of it, do you suppose he would come to be, on account of himself and his children and his wife, lest they be destroyed by the slaves?

In every kind of fear, he said, for my part.

Would he not then be forced already to flatter some of his own slaves and to promise them a great deal, and to free them though nothing required it, and would he not be revealed as a flatterer of his own servants?

He would be under every compulsion, he said, or else be destroyed.

But what, I said, if the god should also settle around him in a circle many other neighbors, who would not tolerate it if anyone claimed the right to be master over another, but if they caught anyone doing such a thing anywhere, would punish him with the most extreme penalties?

He would, he said, I think, be even more completely beset by every trouble, guarded all around by nothing but enemies.

Is the tyrant, then, not bound in just such a prison, being by nature such as we have described, full of every sort of fear and erotic love; and though his soul is ravenous, he alone of those in the city may not travel abroad anywhere, nor see the sights the other free men long to see, but lives shut away in his house for the most part like a woman, envying even the other citizens if one of them travels abroad and sees something good?

Quite so indeed, he said.

Does not the man reap even more of such troubles who governs himself badly — the one you just now judged most wretched, the tyrannical man — in that he does not live out his life as a private citizen, but is forced by some turn of fortune to become an actual tyrant and, unable to rule himself, undertakes to rule others as well, just as if a man with a sick body, one that has no mastery of itself, were forced to live not in private but contending against other bodies and fighting?

What you say, he said, is altogether most apt and most true, Socrates.

Is not this condition, then, my dear Glaucon, I said, wretched through and through, and does the man who plays the tyrant live a life still harder than the man you judged to have the hardest life of all?

Quite so, he said.

So it is in truth, even if it does not seem so to some, that the man who is really a tyrant is really a slave, reduced to the greatest fawning and servility and a flatterer of the basest men, and that, since he satisfies his desires not in the least, he appears, to anyone able to view the whole of his soul, most in want of very many things and truly poor, and full of fear throughout the whole of his life, full of convulsions and pains, if indeed he resembles the condition of the city he rules. And he does resemble it; is that not so?

Very much so, he said.

Shall we not, then, in addition to this, further assign to the man what we said before, that of necessity he is — and on account of his rule becomes even more than before — envious, faithless, unjust, friendless, impious, a host and nurse of every vice, and that as a result of all this he is above all unlucky himself, and moreover makes those near him such as well?

No one, he said, who has any sense will contradict you.

Come now, tell me, I said — just as a judge who weighs everything renders his verdict, so you too declare who is first in happiness in your opinion and who second, and judge the rest, five in number, in order: kingly, timocratic, oligarchic, democratic, tyrannical.

But the judgment is easy, he said. For just as they came on, so I judge them, as though they were choruses, by virtue and vice and by happiness and its opposite.

Shall we hire a herald, then, I said, or shall I myself proclaim that the son of Ariston judged the best and most just man to be happiest , and that this man is the most kingly and reigns as king over himself, while the worst and most unjust man is the most wretched, and that this in turn happens to be whoever, being most tyrannical, plays the tyrant most of all over himself and over the city?

Let it be proclaimed by you, he said.

Shall I add to the proclamation, then, I said — whether or not they escape the notice of all men and gods in being such?

Proclaim it, he said.

Very well then, I said; this then would be one proof for us, but look now at this second one, to see whether there seems to be anything in it.

Second Proof: Three Parts, Three Pleasures, Three Lives

What is this?

Since, I said, just as a city is divided into three kinds, so too the soul of each individual is threefold — [the rational part] — and, as it seems to me, will also admit of another proof.

Which proof do you mean?

This one. Since there are three parts, three pleasures too appear to me to exist, one peculiar to each; and likewise desires and ruling principles.

How do you mean? He said.

The one, we say, was that by which a person learns, the other that by which he feels anger, and the third — because of its many forms — we had no single name of its own to call it by, but named it after what was greatest and strongest in it; for we have called it appetitive, because of the intensity of its desires for food and drink and sex and whatever else follows on these, and indeed money-loving too, since it is chiefly by means of money that such desires are fulfilled.

And rightly so, he said.

So then, if we should say that its pleasure and its love too are for gain, would we best fix it under one heading in our account, so as to make something clear to ourselves whenever we speak of this part of the soul, and would we be right to call it money-loving and gain-loving?

So it seems to me at least, he said.

What next? Do we not say that the spirited part is wholly and always set upon mastering and conquering and winning good repute ?

Very much so.

If then we were to call it victory-loving and honor-loving, would that be fitting?

Most fitting indeed.

But surely, as for the part by which we learn, it is clear to everyone that it is always wholly bent on knowing the truth, whatever its nature, and that of money and reputation this part cares least of all.

Very much indeed.

Then we would be naming it aptly if we called it learning-loving and philosophic?

How could we not?

Then, I said, in the souls of some this part rules, and in the souls of others one or the other of the remaining two, whichever it happens to be?

So it is, he said.

Is it for this reason then that we say there are three primary kinds of people: philosophic, victory-loving, and gain-loving?

Quite so.

And three forms of pleasure too, one underlying each of these?

Certainly.

Do you know then, I said, that if you were willing to ask each of three such people in turn which of these lives is pleasantest, each would praise his own most highly? And the money-maker will say that, set beside the pleasure of gain, the pleasure of being honored or that of learning is worth nothing, unless either of them actually brings in money?

True, he said.

But what of the honor-lover? I said — does he not think the pleasure from money something vulgar, and in turn the pleasure from learning, unless the study brings honor, mere smoke and nonsense?

That is how it is, he said.

But the philosopher, I said, what do we think he reckons the other pleasures worth, compared with that of knowing the truth however it stands, and of always being engaged in learning something of that kind? Very far from [pleasure], would he not say? And does he not truly call them necessary, since he would have no need of the rest, were there no necessity?

Yes, he said, one must know that well, must one not?

Since, then, I said, the pleasures of each kind and life itself are disputed — not merely with regard to living more nobly or basely, nor more badly or better, but as to which is actually the more pleasant and the less painful — how could we know which of them speaks most truly?

I myself am not at all able to say, he said.

But look at it this way: by what must things be judged, if they are to be judged well? Is it not by experience and practical wisdom and argument? Or could one find a better criterion than these?

And how could there be one? He said.

Consider, then: of the three men, which is most experienced in all the pleasures we have mentioned? Does the gain-lover, in learning what the truth itself is like, seem to you more experienced in the pleasure that comes from knowing, than the philosopher is in the pleasure that comes from gaining?

There is a great difference, he said. For the one, starting from childhood, has necessarily tasted the other pleasures; but the gain-lover, though he learns the nature of the things that are, is under no necessity to taste this pleasure and know how sweet it is, or to become experienced in it — rather, even if he were eager, it would not be easy.

The philosopher, then, I said, differs greatly from the gain-lover in experience of both pleasures .

Very much so indeed.

And what of the honor-lover? Is the philosopher any more inexperienced in the pleasure that comes from being honored than that man is in the pleasure that comes from exercising practical wisdom?

But honor, he said, follows all of them alike, provided each accomplishes what he has set out to do — for the rich man too is honored by many, and so is the courageous man, and the wise man — so that, from being honored at least, all of them are experienced in what that pleasure is like; but of the vision of what truly is, and what pleasure it holds, none but the philosopher can possibly have tasted .

So, as far as experience goes, I said, he is the best judge among these men.

By far.

And moreover, he alone will have come to be experienced together with practical wisdom.

Why would it not be so?

Moreover, the instrument by which judgment must be made is not the instrument of the gain-lover nor of the honor-lover, but of the philosopher.

Which one?

We said, I think, that judgment must be made through argument. Did we not?

Yes.

And argument is above all his instrument.

How could it not be?

So then, if the matters in question were best judged by wealth and gain, whatever the gain-lover praised and blamed would necessarily be the truest.

There would be every necessity.

And if by honor and victory and courage, would it not be whatever the honor-lover and victory-lover praised?

Clearly.

But since it is by experience and practical wisdom and argument?

It is necessary, he said, that whatever the philosopher and the lover of argument praises be truest .

There being three pleasures, then, would the pleasure of that part of the soul by which we learn be the pleasantest, and would the life of the one in whom this part rules be the pleasantest life?

How could it not? So he said; the man of practical wisdom, being the authoritative judge, praises his own life.

And which life does the judge say is second, I said, and which pleasure is second?

Clearly that of the warlike man and the honor-lover; for it is closer to his own than that of the money-maker.

Last, then, it seems, comes that of the gain-lover.

Why should it not be so? He said.

Third Proof: Pleasure, Pain, and the State Between

So then, these would be two victories in a row, the just man twice victorious over the unjust; but for the third — in Olympic fashion, to the Savior and to Olympian Zeus — consider that the pleasure of everyone but the man of practical wisdom is not even wholly true, nor pure, but is a kind of shadow-painting, as I think I have heard from one of the wise. And yet this would be the greatest and most decisive of the falls.

Very much so — but what do you mean?

I will find it out this way, I said — searching it out while you answer.

Ask, then, he said.

Tell me then, I said — do we not say that pain is the opposite of pleasure?

Very much so.

And is there not also something which is neither rejoicing nor being pained?

There is indeed.

Is it not something between these two, lying in the middle — a kind of stillness of the soul in regard to these matters? Or is that not how you describe it?

Just so, he said.

Do you remember, then, I said, the talk of sick people — what they say whenever they are ill?

What things?

That nothing, after all, is more pleasant than being healthy, but it had escaped their notice, before they fell ill, that this was the most pleasant thing of all.

I remember, he said.

And do you also hear those gripped by some intense pain saying that nothing is more pleasant than the ceasing of pain?

I hear it.

And in many other such cases too, I think, you notice people falling into this condition, in which, whenever they are in pain, they praise not being in pain, and the stillness that comes with it, as the most pleasant thing — not rejoicing itself.

For that, he said, is what then becomes pleasant, perhaps, and welcome — stillness.

And so when someone ceases rejoicing, I said, the stillness that follows the pleasure will be painful.

Perhaps, he said.

So the thing we just now said was between the two — the stillness — will sometimes be both of them, both pain and pleasure.

So it seems.

But is it even possible for what is neither to become both?

It does not seem so to me.

And surely what is pleasant, arising in the soul, and what is painful, are both a kind of motion — or are they not?

Yes.

But did not what is neither painful nor pleasant just now appear to be stillness — and in the middle of these two?

It did appear so.

How then can it be correct to consider not being in pain as pleasant, or not rejoicing as distressing?

Not at all.

This, then, is not really so, I said, but at such a moment the stillness merely appears pleasant beside what is painful and painful beside what is pleasant, and none of these appearances is sound in relation to the truth of pleasure, but rather a kind of sorcery.

So the argument indicates, at any rate, he said.

Look, then, I said, at pleasures that do not arise from pains, so that you may not too readily suppose, for the moment, that this is how things naturally stand — that pleasure is simply the cessation of pain, and pain the cessation of pleasure.

Where, then, he said, and what sort do you mean?

There are many others, I said, but especially, if you care to consider them, the pleasures of smell. For these, without any prior pain, suddenly become immeasurably great, and once they cease, they leave no pain behind at all.

Most true, he said.

Let us not, then, be persuaded that release from pain is pure pleasure, or release from pleasure pure pain.

No, let us not.

But nevertheless, I said, the pleasures that pass through the body to reach the soul, the ones we call by that name — most of them, and the greatest — are of this kind: certain releases from pains.

They are, indeed.

And do not the anticipatory pleasures and pains too, which arise out of expectation before such things actually come, stand in the same way?

In the same way.

Do you know, then, I said, what sort of pleasures these are, and what they most resemble?

What? He said.

Do you think, I said, that there is something in nature that is up, something that is down, and something in the middle?

I do.

Do you think, then, that someone being carried from below toward the middle would suppose anything other than that he is being carried upward? And that, standing in the middle and looking back at the place he has been carried from, he would suppose he was anywhere else than in the upper region — never having seen the truly upper region?

By Zeus, he said, I do not think such a man could suppose otherwise.

But if he were carried back again, I said, would he not think he was being carried downward, and think truly?

How could he not?

Would he not undergo all this because he has no experience of what is truly up, and in the middle, and down?

Clearly, indeed.

Filling the Soul: Which Pleasures Are True

Would you be surprised, then, if those with no experience of truth also hold unhealthy opinions about many other things, and are disposed toward pleasure and pain and the state between them in such a way that, whenever they are carried toward the painful, they believe it is true and really are in pain, but whenever they move from pain to the state between, they firmly believe they are approaching fullness and pleasure — just as those who, from inexperience of white, look at gray against black, so too these, from inexperience of pleasure, look at pain against the painless and are deceived?

By Zeus, he said, I would not be surprised — rather I would be far more surprised if it were not so.

Consider it this way, then, I said: aren't hunger and thirst and things of that sort a kind of emptying of the body's condition?

What else?

And ignorance and folly — are they not, in turn, a kind of emptiness of the soul's condition?

Very much so.

So wouldn't both the one who partakes of nourishment and the one who acquires understanding be filled?

How could it not be?

And which filling is truer — that with what is less real, or that with what is more real?

Clearly, with what is more real.

Which classes, then, do you think partake more of pure being: those such as grain, drink, relish and food in general, or the kind that includes true opinion, knowledge, intellect and, in sum, all virtue? Judge it this way: does what clings to what is always the same, to the immortal, and to truth — being itself of that nature and coming to be within it — seem to you to be more real than what never clings to the same thing but to the mortal, and is itself of that nature and comes to be within it?

What holds to what is always the same, he said, is far superior.

Does the reality of what is always the same, then, partake any more of being than of knowledge?

Not at all.

And what then? Of truth?

Not that either.

And if it partakes less of truth, does it not also partake less of being?

Necessarily.

So, on the whole, do the classes concerned with the care of the body partake less of truth and being than the classes concerned with the care of the soul?

Yes, much less.

And do you not think that the body itself stands the same way to the soul?

I do.

So isn't what is filled with things that are more real, and is itself more real, filled more truly than what is filled with things that are less real and is itself less real?

How could it not be?

So if being filled with what is fitting by nature is pleasant, then what is really filled, and filled more with what is real, would make one rejoice more truly and more really with true pleasure, whereas what partakes of what is less real would be filled less truly and less securely, and would partake of a less trustworthy and less true pleasure.

Most necessarily, he said.

Those, then, who have no experience of practical wisdom and virtue, but who are always occupied with feasting and things of that sort, are carried downward, it seems, and back up only as far as the state between, and wander about there their whole life long, but they have never once looked up beyond this toward what is truly above, nor been carried there, nor have they ever been filled with what really is, nor tasted a secure and pure pleasure, but, like cattle, always looking downward and with heads bent to the ground and to their tables, they feed, fattening themselves and breeding, and for the sake of getting more of these things they kick and butt one another with iron horns and hooves, and kill each other from insatiable greed, since it is not with what really is that they fill either the real part of themselves or the part of themselves that can hold it.

That is altogether right, Glaucon said; you are prophesying the life of the many, Socrates.

Is it not necessary, then, that such people also live amid pleasures mixed with pains, mere images of true pleasure, shadow-painted and tinged by being set beside one another so that each appears intense, and that they breed frenzied erotic loves for themselves in the foolish, and become things fought over — just as Stesichorus says the image of Helen became a thing fought over by those at Troy, through ignorance of the truth?

It is quite necessary, he said, that it be something of that sort.

And what of this? As for the spirited part, is it not necessary that other such things happen to whoever pursues this same goal — whether through envy because of love of honor, or through violence because of love of victory, or through anger because of a difficult temper, pursuing a surfeit of honor, victory, and anger, without reasoning or intellect?

It is necessary, he said, that things of that sort happen concerning this too.

What then, I said — may we say with confidence that, of all the desires concerned with love of gain and love of victory, those which follow knowledge and reason, and pursue along with these the pleasures that the practically wise part directs, will obtain the truest pleasures, so far as it is possible for them to obtain true ones, since they follow truth, and will obtain the pleasures proper to themselves — if indeed what is best for each thing is also most proper to it?

But of course, he said — most proper of all.

So when the whole soul follows the philosophic part and is not in conflict with itself, it becomes possible for each part, besides doing its own work in other respects and being just, also to enjoy its own pleasures — the best pleasures and, so far as possible, the truest.

Quite so.

But whenever one of the other parts gains mastery, the result for it is that it does not find its own pleasure, and it compels the other parts as well to pursue a pleasure that is alien and not true.

So it is, he said.

So would the things that stand furthest from philosophy and reason be most likely to produce such effects?

Very much so.

And is not what stands furthest from reason the very thing that stands furthest from law and order too?

Clearly so.

And did not the erotic and tyrannical desires appear to stand furthest removed of all?

By How Much the King Lives More Pleasantly

Very much so.

And the kingly and orderly desires least?

Yes.

Then I think the tyrant will stand furthest from true pleasure, the pleasure proper to him, and the king least of all.

Necessarily.

And so the tyrant, I said, will live most unpleasantly, and the king most pleasantly.

It certainly must.

Do you know, then, I said, by how much more unpleasantly a tyrant lives than a king?

Only if you tell me, he said.

There being three kinds of pleasure, as it seems — one genuine and two spurious — the tyrant, having overleapt even the spurious ones into the region beyond, in flight from law and reason, lives with certain slavish pleasures that serve as his bodyguard; and by how much he falls short it is not at all easy to say, except perhaps in this way.

How? He said.

The tyrant was, I suppose, third in remove from the oligarchic man; for the democratic man was between them.

Yes.

Then would he not also dwell with a pleasure that is a third-removed image of the truth, counting from him, if what was said before is true?

That is so.

And the oligarchic man, in turn, is third from the kingly man, if we count the aristocratic and the kingly as one.

Yes, for he is third.

Then, I said, the tyrant is removed from true pleasure by a number: the triple of the triple.

So it appears.

Then, as it seems, I said, the image of tyrannical pleasure would be a plane figure, according to the number of its length.

Quite so.

But by the square and the third increase, it becomes clear how great a distance he comes to stand removed.

Clear, he said, to the rational part, at least.

Then if someone, turning it around, should say by how much the king stands removed from the tyrant in the truth of pleasure, he will find, once the multiplication is carried through, that he lives seven hundred and twenty-nine times more pleasantly, and the tyrant more distressingly by this same distance.

You have poured down on us, he said, an overwhelming calculation of the difference between the two men, the just and the unjust, with respect to pleasure and pain.

And indeed, I said, a true number too, and a fitting one for lives, if days and nights and months and years do indeed belong to them.

Why, of course they do, he said.

Then if the good and just man surpasses the bad and unjust man by so much in pleasure, by how immeasurably greater a margin will he surpass him in grace of life, and in beauty, and in virtue?

By an immeasurable margin indeed, by Zeus, he said.

Man, Lion, and Beast: The City Laid Up in Heaven

Well then, I said, since we have come this far in the argument, let us take up again the first things that were said, on account of which we have come here. It was said, I believe, that acting unjustly profits the man who is completely unjust yet reputed to be just; or was that not how it was said?

Just so.

Now then, I said, let us discuss this with him, since we have agreed on the power each of them has, both doing injustice and doing just things.

How? He said.

By fashioning in speech an image of the soul, so that the one who says those things may know what sort of thing he was saying.

What sort? He said.

One of that sort, I said, like the natures that are told of in old myths as having come to be — that of the Chimera and Scylla and Cerberus — and a good many others too are said to have grown together, many forms into one.

So they are said to be, he said.

Mold, then, one form of a beast, many-colored and many-headed, having heads of tame animals in a circle and of wild ones too, and capable of changing and of growing all of these out of itself.

That is the task of a skillful modeler, he said; still, since speech is more easily molded than wax and such things, let it be molded.

Now mold one further form, that of a lion, and one of a man; and let the first be by far the largest, and the second next in size.

These are easier, he said, and they have been molded.

Now join the three of them into one, so that they somehow grow together with one another.

They have been joined, he said.

Now mold around them, on the outside, the image of one being, that of a man, so that to whoever cannot see what is within but sees only the outer shell, it appears to be a single living creature, a man.

It has been molded around them, he said.

Let us say, then, to the man who claims that it profits this person to act unjustly, while acting justly does not benefit him, that he is saying nothing other than that it profits him to feast the beast of every kind and make it strong, and the lion too and what surrounds the lion, but to starve the man and make him weak, so that he is dragged wherever either of them leads him, and to accustom neither to the other, nor make them friends, but to let them bite each other and, fighting, devour one another.

Yes indeed, he said, that is what the one who praises injustice would say.

Then would not the one who declares that just things profit say that one must act and speak in the way from which the man within the man will be most in command, and will care for the many-headed creature as a farmer does — nurturing and taming the tame parts, but preventing the wild ones from growing — having made the lion's nature his ally, and caring for all of them together, having made them friends with one another and with himself — will he not nurture it in this way?

Yes, that is exactly what the one who praises justice says.

In every way, then, the one who extols just things would speak the truth, while the one who extols unjust things would be lying. For considering it in terms of pleasure, good repute, and benefit alike, the one who praises the just tells the truth, while the one who blames it does so without any soundness or knowledge of what he is blaming.

It does not seem so to me, he said, not in the least.

Let us persuade him gently, then — for he does not err willingly — by asking: My good man, would we not say that the customary distinctions of noble and shameful have arisen on account of things such as these: the noble being what places the beastlike parts of our nature under the man — or rather, perhaps, under the divine — while the shameful is what enslaves the tame to the wild? He will agree — or how else?

If he is persuaded by me, he said.

Is there, then, I said, by this argument, anyone for whom it profits to take gold unjustly, if some such thing as this results — that in taking the gold he at the same time enslaves the best part of himself to the most depraved? Or, if by taking gold he were enslaving a son or a daughter, and to wild and evil men at that, it would not profit him even to take a very great deal for it; but if he enslaves what is most divine in himself to what is most godless and most defiled, and pities nothing, is he not then wretched, and does he not accept gold as a bribe for a far more terrible ruin than Eriphyle did when she took the necklace in exchange for her husband's life?

Far more indeed, said Glaucon; for I will answer you on his behalf.

Then do you not think that licentiousness, too, has long been blamed for reasons such as these — because in a person of that kind the terrible thing, that great, many-formed creature, is let loose beyond what it should be?

Clearly, he said.

And are not self-will and ill temper blamed whenever the lion-like and the snake-like grow and are strained out of harmony?

Certainly.

And are not luxury and softness blamed for the slackening and relaxing of this same part, when it produces cowardice in it?

Of course.

And are not flattery and meanness blamed whenever someone subjects this same thing, the spirited part, to the unruly beast, and for the sake of money and that beast's insatiable greed accustoms it, mistreated from youth onward, to become an ape instead of a lion?

Very much so, he said.

And why do you think that the vulgar trades and manual crafts bring reproach? Or shall we say it is for any reason other than this — that someone has by nature a weak form of the best part, so that he cannot rule the creatures within him but must serve them, and can learn only how to flatter them?

So it seems, he said.

Then, so that a person of this sort too may be ruled by something like what rules the best man, do we not say that he must be a slave to that best man , who also has the divine element ruling within himself — not supposing that he must be ruled to the slave's own harm, as Thrasymachus supposed of the ruled, but on the ground that it is better for everyone to be ruled by what is divine and practically wise, best of all having it as his own within himself, but failing that, set over him from outside — so that as far as possible we may all be alike and friends, governed by the same thing?

And rightly so, he said.

And the law too shows, I said, that it wants something of this sort, being an ally to everyone in the city; and so does the governance of children — not letting them be free — until we establish in them, as in a city, a constitution, and, having cultivated the best part in them with the corresponding part in us, set up in its place within them a guardian and ruler like it, and then, indeed, we release them as free.

Yes, it shows this, he said.

In what way, then, and by what argument shall we say, Glaucon, that it profits one to act unjustly, or to be licentious, or to do anything shameful — actions from which he will become more corrupt, even if he acquires more money or some other power?

In no way, he said.

But in what way does it profit one who acts unjustly to escape notice and not pay the penalty? Or is it not true that the one who escapes notice becomes even more corrupt, while for the one who does not escape notice and is punished, the bestial part is lulled to sleep and tamed, and the tame part is set free, and the whole soul, settling into its best nature, acquires a more honorable condition, gaining moderation and justice together with practical wisdom, than a body does in gaining strength and beauty together with health — more honorable by as much as soul is more honorable than body?

Certainly, he said.

Then will not the man who has understanding live his whole life directing all that is his toward this end — honoring, first of all, the studies that will render his soul of this kind, and holding the rest in low regard?

Clearly, he said.

Next, I said, as for the condition and nourishment of the body, he will not live devoted to it so as to surrender himself to bestial and irrational pleasure, nor will he even look to health, nor give first place to becoming strong or healthy or handsome, unless he is also going to become moderate as a result — but he will always be seen tuning the harmony in his body for the sake of the concord in his soul.

Certainly, he said, if he is indeed to be truly musical.

Then will he not also maintain order and concord, I said, in the acquisition of wealth? And, not dazzled by what the many count as happiness, will he swell the bulk of his possessions without limit, and so have troubles without end?

I do not think so, he said.

But rather, I said, keeping his eye on the constitution within himself, and guarding against anything there being disturbed by too much or too little wealth, he will, steering himself in this way, add to and spend from his property so far as he is able.

Quite so, he said.

And moreover, as for honors too, keeping his eye on the same thing, he will willingly share in and taste those he believes will make him better, but those that would undo his existing condition he will avoid, both in private and in public life.

Then he will not be willing, he said, to engage in politics — at any rate, if he cares about this.

By the dog, I said, in his own city he certainly will, though perhaps not in his native land, unless some divine stroke of fortune happens to befall it.

I understand, he said; you mean the city we have just been founding in our discussion, the one laid up in words, since I do not think it exists anywhere on earth.

But, I said, perhaps a pattern is laid up in heaven for the one who wishes to see it, and, seeing it, to found himself by it. It makes no difference whether it exists anywhere or ever will; for he would order his actions by this city alone, and by no other.

That is likely, he said.

Book X

Imitation: Three Removes From the Truth

And indeed, I said, many other things about it make me think that we founded the city altogether rightly, and not least do I say so when I reflect on poetry.

What sort of thing? He said.

Our refusing to admit any of it that is imitative; for now, more than ever and more plainly, as it seems to me, it is clear that it must not be admitted, since the kinds of the soul have each been distinguished separately.

How do you mean?

Speaking just among you here — for you will not report me to the tragic poets and all the other imitators — all such things seem to be a maiming of the understanding of those who hear them, of all who lack the remedy of knowing what they really are.

And with what in mind, he said, do you say that?

It must be said, I replied; and yet a certain affection and reverence for Homer, which I have had since childhood, holds me back from saying it. For he seems to have been the first teacher and leader of all these fine tragic poets. But a man must not be honored above the truth, so, as I say, it must be said.

Quite so, he said.

Listen, then — or rather, answer.

Ask.

Could you tell me at all what imitation actually is? For I do not altogether grasp, myself, what it is supposed to be.

So I'm the one who will grasp it, he said.

That's nothing strange, I said, since in many cases those who see more dimly have seen things sooner than those whose sight is keener.

That is so, he said; but with you present, I would not even be able to bring myself to say what appears to me, if anything does — so look at it yourself.

Do you want us, then, to begin our inquiry here, from our usual method? For we are accustomed to positing some single form for each set of many things to which we apply the same name. Or don't you follow?

I follow.

Let us, then, posit now whichever of the many things you like. For instance, if you like, there are surely many beds and tables.

Of course.

But there are, I think, two forms for these implements — one of a bed, one of a table.

Yes.

And don't we also usually say that the craftsman of each implement, with his eye on the form, makes in that way the things we use — the one beds, the other tables — and likewise for everything else? For surely no craftsman makes the form itself — how could he?

Not at all.

But consider this other craftsman too — say what you would call him.

Which one?

The one who makes everything that each and every artisan makes.

That's an extraordinary and amazing man you're talking about.

Not yet, but soon you will say so even more. For this same artisan is able to make not only all implements, but also everything that grows out of the earth; and he fashions all living creatures, himself along with the rest, and besides these he fashions earth and sky and gods and everything in the sky and everything under the earth in Hades.

That's an utterly amazing sophist you're talking about, he said.

You don't believe me? I said. Tell me — does it seem to you that there could be no such craftsman at all, or that he might become the maker of all these things in one way, but not in another? Or don't you realize that you yourself would be able to make all these things too, in a certain way?

And what, he said, is this way?

It's not difficult, I said — in fact it can be produced in many ways, and quickly, but the quickest way, I suppose, is this: if you're willing to take a mirror and carry it around everywhere, you will quickly make the sun and the things in the sky, quickly the earth, and quickly yourself and the other animals and implements and plants and everything else that was just mentioned.

Yes, he said, things that appear, but surely not things that really are, in truth.

Good, I said, and you come exactly to the point that was needed. For the painter too, I think, is one of these sorts of craftsmen. Isn't he?

Of course he is.

But you will say, I think, that what he makes is not true. And yet in a certain way the painter too makes a bed — or does he not?

Yes, he said, he too makes only an apparent one.

And what about the bed-maker? Weren't you just saying that he does not make the form, which we say is what a bed is, but rather a particular bed?

Yes, I did say that.

So if he does not make what really is, he would not be making that which is, but something like that which is, though not itself a thing that is — and if someone were to say that the bed-maker's work, or that of any other artisan, is completely real, wouldn't he risk speaking untruly?

He would not be, he said, at least as it would seem to those who spend their time on arguments of this kind.

Then let us not be surprised if this too turns out to be something dim in relation to truth.

No, let's not.

Do you want us, then, I said, to use these very examples to investigate this imitator — what exactly he is?

If you like, he said.

So these turn out to be three beds in all: one that exists in nature, which we would say, I think, god made. Or who else?

No one, I think.

And one that the carpenter made.

Yes, he said.

And one that the painter made. Isn't that so?

Let it be so.

Painter, bed-maker, god — these three preside over three forms of beds.

Yes, three.

Now god, whether because he did not wish it, or because some necessity lay upon him not to produce more than one bed in nature, made in just this way that one alone, the very thing that a bed is; and two or more such were neither planted by god, nor will they ever grow.

How so? He asked.

Because, I said, if he made only two, then once again a single one would appear, whose form both of those two would in turn possess, and that one would be what a bed is, and not the two.

Right, he said.

So god, I think, knowing this, and wanting to be really the maker of a bed that really is, and not the maker of some particular bed nor some particular bed-maker, made it grow as one by nature.

It seems so.

Do you want us, then, to call him the grower of this, or something of that sort?

That's fair, he said, at least since it is by nature that he has made this and everything else too.

And what about the carpenter? Isn't he a craftsman of a bed?

Yes.

And is the painter too a craftsman and maker of that kind of thing?

Not at all.

Then what will you say he is, in relation to a bed?

This, he said, seems to me the most fitting name for him — an imitator of what those others are craftsmen of.

Very well, I said; so you call an imitator the one who is third in generation from nature?

Certainly, he said.

Then the tragic poet too will be this, if indeed he is an imitator — third by nature from the king and from the truth — and so will all the other imitators.

So it seems.

We have, then, agreed about the imitator. But tell me this about the painter: does he seem to you to try to imitate each of those things themselves as they are in nature, or the works of the craftsmen?

The works of the craftsmen, he said.

As they are, or as they appear? That, too, you must still determine.

What do you mean? He asked.

Like this: does a bed, whether you view it from the side or straight on or from any angle at all, become in any way different from itself, or does it not differ at all, but only look different? And likewise for everything else?

Just so, he said; it appears different, but it does not differ at all.

Consider this very point: which of the two is painting directed at, in each case? Is it to imitate the thing as it is, in reality, or the thing as it appears — is it an imitation of appearance, or of truth?

Of appearance, he said.

The imitative craft, then, is far removed from the truth, and it seems that this is why it produces everything — because it grasps only a small part of each thing, and that part is a mere image. For instance, we say, the painter will paint us a shoemaker, a carpenter, the other craftsmen, without understanding anything of any of their crafts — but nevertheless, if he were a good painter, by painting a carpenter and showing it from a distance, he could deceive children and foolish people into thinking it was truly a carpenter.

Of course he could.

But here, my friend, is what I think we must bear in mind about all such cases: whenever someone reports to us that he has met a man who knows all the crafts, and everything else that each individual person knows, with nothing that he does not know more precisely than anyone, we must suppose that the person telling us this is rather naive, and that, it seems, he has been deceived by meeting some wizard and imitator, so that the man seemed to him to be all-wise, because he himself was unable to distinguish knowledge, ignorance, and imitation.

The Imitator Knows Nothing

Most true, he said.

Then, I said, after this we must examine tragedy and its leader, Homer, since we hear from some that these men know all crafts, and all human matters relating to virtue and vice, and even the divine things; for the good poet, if he is to compose well about the things he composes, must necessarily compose with knowledge, or else be unable to compose at all. So we must examine whether, in encountering these imitators, they have been deceived and, seeing their works, do not perceive that these are three removes from reality and easy to produce for one who does not know the truth — for they produce phantoms, not realities — or whether there is also something in what they say, and the good poets really do know the things about which they seem, to the many, to speak well.

Yes indeed, he said, it must be examined.

Do you think, then, that if someone were able to make both things — the thing to be imitated and the image of it — he would let himself take the making of images seriously and set that up as the best thing in his own life?

I do not.

But surely, I think, if he really had knowledge of the truth about the very things he imitates, he would be far more serious about the deeds themselves than about the imitations, and would try to leave behind many fine achievements of his own as monuments, and would be more eager to be the one praised than the one praising.

I think so, he said; for the honor and the benefit are not equal.

So then, let us not require an account from Homer or any other of the poets about the other matters, asking whether any of them was actually a doctor and not merely an imitator of doctors' talk, or whom any poet, old or new, is said to have made healthy, as Asclepius did, or what pupils in medicine he left behind, as Asclepius left his descendants; nor again let us ask them about the other crafts, but let all that go — yet about the greatest and finest things Homer undertakes to speak of, wars and generalship and the governance of cities, and the education of man, it is surely fair to question him, asking: dear Homer, if you are not third from the truth where virtue is concerned — a maker of an image, which is what we defined an imitator to be — but are second, and were able to recognize what practices make men better or worse, in private and in public life, tell us which city was better governed because of you, as Sparta was because of Lycurgus, and as many cities, great and small, were because of many other men? But what city credits you with having been a good lawgiver and having benefited it? Italy and Sicily credit Charondas, and we credit Solon; but you — who credits you? Will he be able to name anyone?

I do not think so, said Glaucon; at any rate nothing of the sort is told, even by the Homeridae themselves.

But is any war in Homer's time remembered as having been well fought under his command or his counsel?

None.

But what of the many shrewd and inventive ideas for the crafts or for other undertakings that are told of a wise man's practical work, as again in the case of Thales of Miletus and Anacharsis the Scythian?

Nothing of the sort at all.

But then, if not in public life, is Homer, while he was alive, said to have been a leader in education for certain people in private, who loved him for his company and handed down to those after them a certain Homeric way of life — just as Pythagoras himself was especially loved for this, and his successors, even now, calling their way of life Pythagorean, seem somehow to stand out from the rest?

Nor is anything of that sort said either, he said. For Creophylus, Socrates, Homer's companion, would perhaps appear even more laughable than his name where education is concerned, if what is said about Homer is true. For it is said that Homer was much neglected by that very man, while he was alive.

So it is indeed said, I replied. But do you think, Glaucon, that if Homer had really been able to educate men and make them better — being able, in these matters, not merely to imitate but to know — he would not have made many companions and been honored and loved by them, given that Protagoras of Abdera, and Prodicus of Ceos, and a great many others, are able to convince their contemporaries, by meeting with them privately, that they will not be able to manage even their own household or city unless these men themselves oversee their education, and are so intensely loved for this wisdom that their companions all but carry them around on their heads — whereas his own contemporaries would have let Homer, if he really had been able to benefit men in respect of virtue, or Hesiod, go about merely reciting their verses, rather than clinging to them more than to gold, and compelling them to stay at home with them, or, if they could not persuade them, following them about themselves wherever they went as attendants, until they had received a sufficient share of education?

In every way, he said, you seem to me, Socrates, to speak the truth.

Then shall we lay it down, beginning from Homer, that all the poetic imitators are imitators of images of virtue and of the other things they compose about, and do not touch the truth, but, as we were just saying, the painter will make something that seems to be a shoemaker, though he himself understands nothing of shoemaking — and he makes it for people who understand no more than he does, and who judge only from colors and shapes?

Yes indeed.

So too, I think, we shall say that the poet, understanding nothing but only imitating, lays a kind of coloring, in names and phrases, over each of the crafts, so that to others just like him, who judge from the words alone, it seems — whether someone speaks about shoemaking in meter and rhythm and harmony, or about generalship, or about anything else whatsoever — that it is very well spoken; so great by nature is the enchantment these very things possess. For I think you know how the poets' works appear when stripped of the colors of music and spoken just by themselves. For you have surely seen it.

I have, he said.

Then, said I, it is like the faces of people who are youthful but not beautiful, the way they appear once their bloom has faded?

Very much so, he said.

Come now, consider this: the maker of the image, the imitator, we say, understands nothing of what is, but only of what appears — is that not so?

Yes.

Then let us not leave the matter half-stated, but look at it properly.

Speak, he said.

A painter, we say, will paint reins and a bit?

Yes.

But a leatherworker and a smith will make them?

Certainly.

Does the painter, then, understand what the reins and the bit ought to be like? Or not even the makers, the smith and the leatherworker, but only the one who knows how to use them, the horseman?

Most true.

Shall we not say, then, that this holds for everything?

How so?

That for each thing there are these three crafts — one that will use it, one that will make it, one that will imitate it?

Yes.

Then the virtue and beauty and rightness of each implement and living creature and action are relative to nothing other than the use for which each has been made or has naturally arisen?

So it is.

It is quite necessary, then, that the one who uses each thing be the most experienced with it, and that he report to the maker what good or bad effects it has in the use he puts it to; just as, I suppose, a flute player reports to the flute maker about the flutes that serve him well in playing, and will instruct him what sort to make, and the other will comply.

How could it not?

So the one who knows reports about good and bad flutes, while the other will make them, trusting him?

Yes.

Then, regarding the same implement, the maker will have correct belief about what is fine and bad in it, from associating with the one who knows and being compelled to listen to the one who knows, while the user has knowledge.

Certainly.

But the imitator — will he have knowledge, from using them, about the things he depicts, whether they are fine and correct or not; or correct opinion, from being necessarily in the company of the one who knows and instructed in what he ought to depict?

Neither.

So the imitator will neither know nor have correct opinion about the things he imitates, with respect to what is fine or bad in them.

It seems not.

The one who imitates in poetry would be a fine one indeed, as regards wisdom about the things he composes.

Not entirely.

But he will imitate all the same, not knowing about each thing in what way it is bad or good; but, as it seems, whatever appears fine to the many, who know nothing, this is what he will imitate.

What else?

This much, then, as it appears, has been fairly well agreed between us: that the one who imitates knows nothing worth mentioning about the things he imitates, but that imitation is a kind of play and not a serious matter, and that those who take up tragic poetry, in iambics and in epic verse, are all imitators to the greatest degree possible.

Yes indeed.

Imitation Appeals to the Inferior Part

By Zeus, I said, is this business of imitating not concerned with something a third remove from the truth? Is that not so?

Yes.

And in relation to what element in a human being does it have the power that it has?

What sort of thing do you mean?

This sort of thing: the same magnitude, I suppose, does not appear equal to us through sight when seen from nearby and from far off.

No, it doesn't.

And the same things appear bent and straight when seen in water and out of it, and concave and convex too, owing to the eye's wandering, again, over colors, and it is plain that this whole disturbance is present in our soul; and it is this very affection of our nature that scene-painting exploits and, in doing so, falls nothing short of sorcery, as do conjuring and the many other such devices.

True.

Then didn't measuring and counting and weighing prove to be the most welcome aids against these things, so that what rules in us is not what appears larger or smaller or more or heavier, but what has calculated and measured — or indeed weighed?

How could it be otherwise?

But this, at least, would be the work of the rational part in the soul.

Yes, of that.

But to this part, often, when it has measured and declared that some things are larger or smaller than others, or equal, the opposite appears at the same time about the same things.

Yes.

Now didn't we say that it is impossible for the same thing to hold contrary opinions about the same things at the same time?

And we were right to say so.

Then the part of the soul that judges contrary to measure could not be the same as the part that judges according to measure.

No, indeed it could not.

But surely the part that trusts in measure and calculation would be the best part of the soul.

Of course.

Then whatever opposes this must be one of the inferior things in us.

Necessarily.

Wanting, then, to secure agreement on this point, I was saying that painting, and imitation generally, produces its work far from the truth, and further, that it keeps company with that in us which is far from practical wisdom, and is its comrade and friend for no healthy or true purpose.

Absolutely, he said.

Then imitation, itself inferior, consorting with what is inferior, begets inferior offspring.

So it seems.

Which imitation, I said — the kind concerned only with sight, or also the kind concerned with hearing, which we call poetry?

Likely this one too, he said.

Then let us not rely, I said, on the mere likelihood we draw from painting, but let us go once more to that very part of the mind with which poetry's imitation keeps company, and see whether it is inferior or worth taking seriously.

We must indeed.

Let us set it out this way: we say that imitation imitates people performing actions, whether forced or voluntary, and, as a result of what they do, thinking they have fared well or badly, and in all this feeling either pain or joy. Was there anything besides this?

Nothing.

Is a person, then, of one mind in all these situations? Or, just as in the case of sight he was at odds with himself and held opposing opinions about the same things at the same time, does he likewise, in his actions, quarrel and fight with himself? But I recall that there is no need for us to reach agreement on this point now; for in our earlier discussions we agreed sufficiently on all this — that our soul is full of countless such contradictions occurring at once.

Rightly, he said.

Rightly so, I said; but what we left aside then now seems to me necessary to examine fully.

What is that? He said.

A decent man, I said, who meets with a misfortune of this kind — losing a son, say, or something else he values most — will bear it, as we said even then, I believe, more easily than other men.

Certainly.

But now let us examine this — whether he will feel no distress at all, or whether that is impossible, and he will instead be measured somehow in his grief.

That is closer to the truth, he said.

Now tell me this about him: do you think he will fight and resist his grief more when he is seen by his equals, or when he is by himself, alone in some deserted place?

There will be a great difference, he said, when he is seen.

But when he is alone, I imagine, he will dare to say many things that would shame him if someone heard him, and will do many things he would not want anyone to see him doing.

That is so, he said.

Now isn't it reason and law that bid him resist, while it is the suffering itself that draws him toward grief?

True.

And since opposite pulls arise in a person about the same thing at the same time, we say that these must be two things.

How could it be otherwise?

Is not one of them ready to obey the law, wherever the law directs?

How so?

The law says, I believe, that it is best to keep as calm as possible amid misfortunes and not to be indignant, since it is not clear what is good and what is bad in such things, nor does taking it hard get one anywhere, nor is anything human worthy of great seriousness, while grief stands in the way of the very thing that must come to our aid as quickly as possible in such cases.

What, he asked, do you mean by that?

I mean, I said, deliberating about what has happened, and — as in a throw of dice — arranging one's affairs according to how they have fallen, in whatever way reason determines would be best, rather than, like children who have stumbled, clinging to the hurt place and wasting time in crying out; but always habituating the soul to turn as quickly as possible to healing and setting right what has fallen and grown sick, banishing lament by the physician's craft.

That, at any rate, he said, would be the most correct way to face one's misfortunes.

Then, we say, the best part of us is willing to follow this reasoning.

Clearly.

And the part that draws us toward remembering our suffering and toward lamentation, and can never get enough of it, shall we not say is irrational, idle, and a friend of cowardice?

We shall indeed say so.

Then the indignant type surely admits of much and varied imitation, while the prudent and quiet character — being always nearly the same as itself — is neither easy to imitate, nor, when it is imitated, easy to grasp, especially for a festival crowd, men of all kinds gathered together in theaters; for the imitation, I suppose, is then of a feeling foreign to them.

Absolutely.

It is clear, then, that the imitative poet is not naturally suited to this part of the soul, and that his wisdom is not set on pleasing it, if he means to win a good reputation among the many, but is suited rather to the indignant and variable character, because it is easy to imitate.

Clearly.

So we might now justly lay hold of him, and set him down as the counterpart of the painter — for he resembles him both in producing work that is inferior with respect to truth, and in keeping company with a similarly inferior part of the soul rather than with the best part, and in this too he has become like him. And so we would now be right not to admit him into a city that is to be well governed, because he rouses this part of the soul and nourishes it, and by making it strong destroys the rational part — just as in a city, when someone makes wicked men powerful and hands the city over to them while ruining the more decent; in the same way, we shall say, the imitative poet implants a bad constitution privately in each person's soul, by gratifying the mindless part of it, which discerns neither the greater nor the less, but regards the same things now as great, now as small, fashioning images of images and standing very far indeed from the truth.