Phaedo
by
Plato
Translated by Benjamin Jowett
Modified by Antihubris.com
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Phaedo, who is the
narrator of the dialogue to Echecrates of Phlius. Socrates,
Apollodorus, Simmias, Cebes, Crito and an Attendant of the
Prison.
SCENE: The Prison of Socrates.
PLACE OF THE NARRATION: Phlius.
ECHECRATES: Were you yourself, Phaedo, in the prison with
Socrates on the day when he drank the poison?
PHAEDO: Yes, Echecrates, I was.
ECHECRATES: I should so like to hear about his death. What
did he say in his last hours? We were informed that he died
by taking poison, but no one knew anything more; for no
Phliasian ever goes to Athens now, and it is a long time
since any stranger from Athens has found his way hither; so
that we had no clear account.
PHAEDO: Did you not hear of the proceedings at the trial?
ECHECRATES: Yes; some one told us about the trial, and we
could not understand why, having been condemned, he should
have been put to death, not at the time, but long
afterwards. What was the reason of this?
PHAEDO: An accident, Echecrates: the stern of the ship
which the Athenians send to Delos happened to have been
crowned on the day before he was tried.
ECHECRATES: What is this ship?
PHAEDO: It is the ship in which, according to Athenian
tradition, Theseus went to Crete when he took with him the
fourteen youths, and was the saviour of them and of
himself. And they were said to have vowed to Apollo at the
time, that if they were saved they would send a yearly
mission to Delos. Now this custom still continues, and the
whole period of the voyage to and from Delos, beginning
when the priest of Apollo crowns the stern of the ship, is
a holy season, during which the city is not allowed to be
polluted by public executions; and when the vessel is
detained by contrary winds, the time spent in going and
returning is very considerable. As I was saying, the ship
was crowned on the day before the trial, and this was the
reason why Socrates lay in prison and was not put to death
until long after he was condemned.
ECHECRATES: What was the manner of his death, Phaedo? What
was said or done? And which of his friends were with him?
Or did the authorities forbid them to be present--so that
he had no friends near him when he died?
PHAEDO: No; there were several of them with him.
ECHECRATES: If you have nothing to do, I wish that you
would tell me what passed, as exactly as you can.
PHAEDO: I have nothing at all to do, and will try to
gratify your wish. To be reminded of Socrates is always the
greatest delight to me, whether I speak myself or hear
another speak of him.
ECHECRATES: You will have listeners who are of the same
mind with you, and I hope that you will be as exact as you
can.
PHAEDO: I had a singular feeling at being in his company.
For I could hardly believe that I was present at the death
of a friend, and therefore I did not pity him, Echecrates;
he died so fearlessly, and his words and bearing were so
noble and gracious, that to me he appeared blessed. I
thought that in going to the other world he could not be
without a divine call, and that he would be happy, if any
man ever was, when he arrived there, and therefore I did
not pity him as might have seemed natural at such an hour.
But I had not the pleasure which I usually feel in
philosophical discourse (for philosophy was the theme of
which we spoke). I was pleased, but in the pleasure there
was also a strange admixture of pain; for I reflected that
he was soon to die, and this double feeling was shared by
us all; we were laughing and weeping by turns, especially
the excitable Apollodorus--you know the sort of man?
ECHECRATES: Yes.
PHAEDO: He was quite beside himself; and I and all of us
were greatly moved.
ECHECRATES: Who were present?
PHAEDO: Of native Athenians there were, besides
Apollodorus, Critobulus and his father Crito, Hermogenes,
Epigenes, Aeschines, Antisthenes; likewise Ctesippus of the
deme of Paeania, Menexenus, and some others; Plato, if I am
not mistaken, was ill.
ECHECRATES: Were there any strangers?
PHAEDO: Yes, there were; Simmias the Theban, and Cebes, and
Phaedondes; Euclid and Terpison, who came from Megara.
ECHECRATES: And was Aristippus there, and Cleombrotus?
PHAEDO: No, they were said to be in Aegina.
ECHECRATES: Any one else?
PHAEDO: I think that these were nearly all.
ECHECRATES: Well, and what did you talk about?
PHAEDO: I will begin at the beginning, and endeavour to
repeat the entire conversation. On the previous days we had
been in the habit of assembling early in the morning at the
court in which the trial took place, and which is not far
from the prison. There we used to wait talking with one
another until the opening of the doors (for they were not
opened very early); then we went in and generally passed
the day with Socrates. On the last morning we assembled
sooner than usual, having heard on the day before when we
quitted the prison in the evening that the sacred ship had
come from Delos, and so we arranged to meet very early at
the accustomed place. On our arrival the jailer who
answered the door, instead of admitting us, came out and
told us to stay until he called us. 'For the Eleven,' he
said, 'are now with Socrates; they are taking off his
chains, and giving orders that he is to die to-day.' He
soon returned and said that we might come in. On entering
we found Socrates just released from chains, and Xanthippe,
whom you know, sitting by him, and holding his child in her
arms. When she saw us she uttered a cry and said, as women
will: 'O Socrates, this is the last time that either you
will converse with your friends, or they with you.'
Socrates turned to Crito and said: 'Crito, let some one
take her home.' Some of Crito's people accordingly led her
away, crying out and beating herself. And when she was
gone, Socrates, sitting up on the couch, bent and rubbed
his leg, saying, as he was rubbing: How singular is the
thing called pleasure, and how curiously related to pain,
which might be thought to be the opposite of it; for they
are never present to a man at the same instant, and yet he
who pursues either is generally compelled to take the
other; their bodies are two, but they are joined by a
single head. And I cannot help thinking that if Aesop had
remembered them, he would have made a fable about God
trying to reconcile their strife, and how, when he could
not, he fastened their heads together; and this is the
reason why when one comes the other follows, as I know by
my own experience now, when after the pain in my leg which
was caused by the chain pleasure appears to succeed.
Upon this Cebes said: I am glad, Socrates, that you have
mentioned the name of Aesop. For it reminds me of a
question which has been asked by many, and was asked of me
only the day before yesterday by Evenus the poet --he will
be sure to ask it again, and therefore if you would like me
to have an answer ready for him, you may as well tell me
what I should say to him:--he wanted to know why you, who
never before wrote a line of poetry, now that you are in
prison are turning Aesop's fables into verse, and also
composing that hymn in honour of Apollo.
Tell him, Cebes, he replied, what is the truth--that I had
no idea of rivalling him or his poems; to do so, as I knew,
would be no easy task. But I wanted to see whether I could
purge away a scruple which I felt about the meaning of
certain dreams. In the course of my life I have often had
intimations in dreams 'that I should compose music.' The
same dream came to me sometimes in one form, and sometimes
in another, but always saying the same or nearly the same
words: 'Cultivate and make music,' said the dream. And
hitherto I had imagined that this was only intended to
exhort and encourage me in the study of philosophy, which
has been the pursuit of my life, and is the noblest and
best of music. The dream was bidding me do what I was
already doing, in the same way that the competitor in a
race is bidden by the spectators to run when he is already
running. But I was not certain of this, for the dream might
have meant music in the popular sense of the word, and
being under sentence of death, and the festival giving me a
respite, I thought that it would be safer for me to satisfy
the scruple, and, in obedience to the dream, to compose a
few verses before I departed. And first I made a hymn in
honour of the god of the festival, and then considering
that a poet, if he is really to be a poet, should not only
put together words, but should invent stories, and that I
have no invention, I took some fables of Aesop, which I had
ready at hand and which I knew--they were the first I came
upon--and turned them into verse. Tell this to Evenus,
Cebes, and bid him be of good cheer; say that I would have
him come after me if he be a wise man, and not tarry; and
that to-day I am likely to be going, for the Athenians say
that I must.
Simmias said: What a message for such a man! having been a
frequent companion of his I should say that, as far as I
know him, he will never take your advice unless he is
obliged.
Why, said Socrates,--is not Evenus a philosopher?
I think that he is, said Simmias.
Then he, or any man who has the spirit of philosophy, will
be willing to die, but he will not take his own life, for
that is held to be unlawful.
Here he changed his position, and put his legs off the
couch on to the ground, and during the rest of the
conversation he remained sitting.
Why do you say, enquired Cebes, that a man ought not to
take his own life, but that the philosopher will be ready
to follow the dying?
Socrates replied: And have you, Cebes and Simmias, who are
the disciples of Philolaus, never heard him speak of this?
Yes, but his language was obscure, Socrates.
My words, too, are only an echo; but there is no reason why
I should not repeat what I have heard: and indeed, as I am
going to another place, it is very meet for me to be
thinking and talking of the nature of the pilgrimage which
I am about to make. What can I do better in the interval
between this and the setting of the sun?
Then tell me, Socrates, why is suicide held to be unlawful?
as I have certainly heard Philolaus, about whom you were
just now asking, affirm when he was staying with us at
Thebes: and there are others who say the same, although I
have never understood what was meant by any of them.
Do not lose heart, replied Socrates, and the day may come
when you will understand. I suppose that you wonder why,
when other things which are evil may be good at certain
times and to certain persons, death is to be the only
exception, and why, when a man is better dead, he is not
permitted to be his own benefactor, but must wait for the
hand of another.
Very true, said Cebes, laughing gently and speaking in his
native Boeotian.
I admit the appearance of inconsistency in what I am
saying; but there may not be any real inconsistency after
all. There is a doctrine whispered in secret that man is a
prisoner who has no right to open the door and run away;
this is a great mystery which I do not quite understand.
Yet I too believe that the gods are our guardians, and that
we are a possession of theirs. Do you not agree?
Yes, I quite agree, said Cebes.
And if one of your own possessions, an ox or an ass, for
example, took the liberty of putting himself out of the way
when you had given no intimation of your wish that he
should die, would you not be angry with him, and would you
not punish him if you could?
Certainly, replied Cebes.
Then, if we look at the matter thus, there may be reason in
saying that a man should wait, and not take his own life
until God summons him, as he is now summoning me.
Yes, Socrates, said Cebes, there seems to be truth in what
you say. And yet how can you reconcile this seemingly true
belief that God is our guardian and we his possessions,
with the willingness to die which we were just now
attributing to the philosopher? That the wisest of men
should be willing to leave a service in which they are
ruled by the gods who are the best of rulers, is not
reasonable; for surely no wise man thinks that when set at
liberty he can take better care of himself than the gods
take of him. A fool may perhaps think so--he may argue that
he had better run away from his master, not considering
that his duty is to remain to the end, and not to run away
from the good, and that there would be no sense in his
running away. The wise man will want to be ever with him
who is better than himself. Now this, Socrates, is the
reverse of what was just now said; for upon this view the
wise man should sorrow and the fool rejoice at passing out
of life.
The earnestness of Cebes seemed to please Socrates. Here,
said he, turning to us, is a man who is always inquiring,
and is not so easily convinced by the first thing which he
hears.
And certainly, added Simmias, the objection which he is now
making does appear to me to have some force. For what can
be the meaning of a truly wise man wanting to fly away and
lightly leave a master who is better than himself? And I
rather imagine that Cebes is referring to you; he thinks
that you are too ready to leave us, and too ready to leave
the gods whom you acknowledge to be our good masters.
Yes, replied Socrates; there is reason in what you say. And
so you think that I ought to answer your indictment as if I
were in a court?
We should like you to do so, said Simmias.
Then I must try to make a more successful defence before
you than I did when before the judges. For I am quite ready
to admit, Simmias and Cebes, that I ought to be grieved at
death, if I were not persuaded in the first place that I am
going to other gods who are wise and good (of which I am as
certain as I can be of any such matters), and secondly
(though I am not so sure of this last) to men departed,
better than those whom I leave behind; and therefore I do
not grieve as I might have done, for I have good hope that
there is yet something remaining for the dead, and as has
been said of old, some far better thing for the good than
for the evil.
But do you mean to take away your thoughts with you,
Socrates? said Simmias. Will you not impart them to
us?--for they are a benefit in which we too are entitled to
share. Moreover, if you succeed in convincing us, that will
be an answer to the charge against yourself.
I will do my best, replied Socrates. But you must first let
me hear what Crito wants; he has long been wishing to say
something to me.
Only this, Socrates, replied Crito:--the attendant who is
to give you the poison has been telling me, and he wants me
to tell you, that you are not to talk much, talking, he
says, increases heat, and this is apt to interfere with the
action of the poison; persons who excite themselves are
sometimes obliged to take a second or even a third dose.
Then, said Socrates, let him mind his business and be
prepared to give the poison twice or even thrice if
necessary; that is all.
I knew quite well what you would say, replied Crito; but I
was obliged to satisfy him.
Never mind him, he said.
And now, O my judges, I desire to prove to you that the
real philosopher has reason to be of good cheer when he is
about to die, and that after death he may hope to obtain
the greatest good in the other world. And how this may be,
Simmias and Cebes, I will endeavour to explain. For I deem
that the true votary of philosophy is likely to be
misunderstood by other men; they do not perceive that he is
always pursuing death and dying; and if this be so, and he
has had the desire of death all his life long, why when his
time comes should he repine at that which he has been
always pursuing and desiring?
Simmias said laughingly: Though not in a laughing humour,
you have made me laugh, Socrates; for I cannot help
thinking that the many when they hear your words will say
how truly you have described philosophers, and our people
at home will likewise say that the life which philosophers
desire is in reality death, and that they have found them
out to be deserving of the death which they desire.
And they are right, Simmias, in thinking so, with the
exception of the words 'they have found them out'; for they
have not found out either what is the nature of that death
which the true philosopher deserves, or how he deserves or
desires death. But enough of them:--let us discuss the
matter among ourselves: Do we believe that there is such a
thing as death?
To be sure, replied Simmias.
Is it not the separation of soul and body? And to be dead
is the completion of this; when the soul exists in herself,
and is released from the body and the body is released from
the soul, what is this but death?
Just so, he replied.
There is another question, which will probably throw light
on our present inquiry if you and I can agree about
it:--Ought the philosopher to care about the pleasures--if
they are to be called pleasures--of eating and drinking?
Certainly not, answered Simmias.
And what about the pleasures of love--should he care for
them?
By no means.
And will he think much of the other ways of indulging the
body, for example, the acquisition of costly raiment, or
sandals, or other adornments of the body? Instead of caring
about them, does he not rather despise anything more than
nature needs? What do you say?
I should say that the true philosopher would despise them.
Would you not say that he is entirely concerned with the
soul and not with the body? He would like, as far as he
can, to get away from the body and to turn to the soul.
Quite true.
In matters of this sort philosophers, above all other men,
may be observed in every sort of way to dissever the soul
from the communion of the body.
Very true.
Whereas, Simmias, the rest of the world are of opinion that
to him who has no sense of pleasure and no part in bodily
pleasure, life is not worth having; and that he who is
indifferent about them is as good as dead.
That is also true.
What again shall we say of the actual acquirement of
knowledge?--is the body, if invited to share in the
enquiry, a hinderer or a helper? I mean to say, have sight
and hearing any truth in them? Are they not, as the poets
are always telling us, inaccurate witnesses? and yet, if
even they are inaccurate and indistinct, what is to be said
of the other senses?--for you will allow that they are the
best of them?
Certainly, he replied.
Then when does the soul attain truth?--for in attempting to
consider anything in company with the body she is obviously
deceived.
True.
Then must not true existence be revealed to her in thought,
if at all?
Yes.
And thought is best when the mind is gathered into herself
and none of these things trouble her--neither sounds nor
sights nor pain nor any pleasure,--when she takes leave of
the body, and has as little as possible to do with it, when
she has no bodily sense or desire, but is aspiring after
true being?
Certainly.
And in this the philosopher dishonours the body; his soul
runs away from his body and desires to be alone and by
herself?
That is true.
Well, but there is another thing, Simmias: Is there or is
there not an absolute justice?
Assuredly there is.
And an absolute beauty and absolute good?
Of course.
But did you ever behold any of them with your eyes?
Certainly not.
Or did you ever reach them with any other bodily
sense?--and I speak not of these alone, but of absolute
greatness, and health, and strength, and of the essence or
true nature of everything. Has the reality of them ever
been perceived by you through the bodily organs? or rather,
is not the nearest approach to the knowledge of their
several natures made by him who so orders his intellectual
vision as to have the most exact conception of the essence
of each thing which he considers?
Certainly.
And he attains to the purest knowledge of them who goes to
each with the mind alone, not introducing or intruding in
the act of thought sight or any other sense together with
reason, but with the very light of the mind in her own
clearness searches into the very truth of each; he who has
got rid, as far as he can, of eyes and ears and, so to
speak, of the whole body, these being in his opinion
distracting elements which when they infect the soul hinder
her from acquiring truth and knowledge--who, if not he, is
likely to attain the knowledge of true being?
What you say has a wonderful truth in it, Socrates, replied
Simmias.
And when real philosophers consider all these things, will
they not be led to make a reflection which they will
express in words something like the following? 'Have we not
found,' they will say, 'a path of thought which seems to
bring us and our argument to the conclusion, that while we
are in the body, and while the soul is infected with the
evils of the body, our desire will not be satisfied? and
our desire is of the truth. For the body is a source of
endless trouble to us by reason of the mere requirement of
food; and is liable also to diseases which overtake and
impede us in the search after true being: it fills us full
of loves, and lusts, and fears, and fancies of all kinds,
and endless foolery, and in fact, as men say, takes away
from us the power of thinking at all. Whence come wars, and
fightings, and factions? whence but from the body and the
lusts of the body? wars are occasioned by the love of
money, and money has to be acquired for the sake and in the
service of the body; and by reason of all these impediments
we have no time to give to philosophy; and, last and worst
of all, even if we are at leisure and betake ourselves to
some speculation, the body is always breaking in upon us,
causing turmoil and confusion in our enquiries, and so
amazing us that we are prevented from seeing the truth. It
has been proved to us by experience that if we would have
pure knowledge of anything we must be quit of the body--the
soul in herself must behold things in themselves: and then
we shall attain the wisdom which we desire, and of which we
say that we are lovers, not while we live, but after death;
for if while in company with the body, the soul cannot have
pure knowledge, one of two things follows--either knowledge
is not to be attained at all, or, if at all, after death.
For then, and not till then, the soul will be parted from
the body and exist in herself alone. In this present life,
I reckon that we make the nearest approach to knowledge
when we have the least possible intercourse or communion
with the body, and are not surfeited with the bodily
nature, but keep ourselves pure until the hour when God
himself is pleased to release us. And thus having got rid
of the foolishness of the body we shall be pure and hold
converse with the pure, and know of ourselves the clear
light everywhere, which is no other than the light of
truth.' For the impure are not permitted to approach the
pure. These are the sort of words, Simmias, which the true
lovers of knowledge cannot help saying to one another, and
thinking. You would agree; would you not?
Undoubtedly, Socrates.
But, O my friend, if this is true, there is great reason to
hope that, going whither I go, when I have come to the end
of my journey, I shall attain that which has been the
pursuit of my life. And therefore I go on my way rejoicing,
and not I only, but every other man who believes that his
mind has been made ready and that he is in a manner
purified.
Certainly, replied Simmias.
And what is purification but the separation of the soul
from the body, as I was saying before; the habit of the
soul gathering and collecting herself into herself from all
sides out of the body; the dwelling in her own place alone,
as in another life, so also in this, as far as she
can;--the release of the soul from the chains of the body?
Very true, he said.
And this separation and release of the soul from the body
is termed death?
To be sure, he said.
And the true philosophers, and they only, are ever seeking
to release the soul. Is not the separation and release of
the soul from the body their especial study?
That is true.
And, as I was saying at first, there would be a ridiculous
contradiction in men studying to live as nearly as they can
in a state of death, and yet repining when it comes upon
them.
Clearly.
And the true philosophers, Simmias, are always occupied in
the practice of dying, wherefore also to them least of all
men is death terrible. Look at the matter thus:--if they
have been in every way the enemies of the body, and are
wanting to be alone with the soul, when this desire of
theirs is granted, how inconsistent would they be if they
trembled and repined, instead of rejoicing at their
departure to that place where, when they arrive, they hope
to gain that which in life they desired--and this was
wisdom--and at the same time to be rid of the company of
their enemy. Many a man has been willing to go to the world
below animated by the hope of seeing there an earthly love,
or wife, or son, and conversing with them. And will he who
is a true lover of wisdom, and is strongly persuaded in
like manner that only in the world below he can worthily
enjoy her, still repine at death? Will he not depart with
joy? Surely he will, O my friend, if he be a true
philosopher. For he will have a firm conviction that there
and there only, he can find wisdom in her purity. And if
this be true, he would be very absurd, as I was saying, if
he were afraid of death.
He would, indeed, replied Simmias.
And when you see a man who is repining at the approach of
death, is not his reluctance a sufficient proof that he is
not a lover of wisdom, but a lover of the body, and
probably at the same time a lover of either money or power,
or both?
Quite so, he replied.
And is not courage, Simmias, a quality which is specially
characteristic of the philosopher?
Certainly.
There is temperance again, which even by the vulgar is
supposed to consist in the control and regulation of the
passions, and in the sense of superiority to them--is not
temperance a virtue belonging to those only who despise the
body, and who pass their lives in philosophy?
Most assuredly.
For the courage and temperance of other men, if you will
consider them, are really a contradiction.
How so?
Well, he said, you are aware that death is regarded by men
in general as a great evil.
Very true, he said.
And do not courageous men face death because they are
afraid of yet greater evils?
That is quite true.
Then all but the philosophers are courageous only from
fear, and because they are afraid; and yet that a man
should be courageous from fear, and because he is a coward,
is surely a strange thing.
Very true.
And are not the temperate exactly in the same case? They
are temperate because they are intemperate--which might
seem to be a contradiction, but is nevertheless the sort of
thing which happens with this foolish temperance. For there
are pleasures which they are afraid of losing; and in their
desire to keep them, they abstain from some pleasures,
because they are overcome by others; and although to be
conquered by pleasure is called by men intemperance, to
them the conquest of pleasure consists in being conquered
by pleasure. And that is what I mean by saying that, in a
sense, they are made temperate through intemperance.
Such appears to be the case.
Yet the exchange of one fear or pleasure or pain for
another fear or pleasure or pain, and of the greater for
the less, as if they were coins, is not the exchange of
virtue. O my blessed Simmias, is there not one true coin
for which all things ought to be exchanged?--and that is
wisdom; and only in exchange for this, and in company with
this, is anything truly bought or sold, whether courage or
temperance or justice. And is not all true virtue the
companion of wisdom, no matter what fears or pleasures or
other similar goods or evils may or may not attend her? But
the virtue which is made up of these goods, when they are
severed from wisdom and exchanged with one another, is a
shadow of virtue only, nor is there any freedom or health
or truth in her; but in the true exchange there is a
purging away of all these things, and temperance, and
justice, and courage, and wisdom herself are the purgation
of them. The founders of the mysteries would appear to have
had a real meaning, and were not talking nonsense when they
intimated in a figure long ago that he who passes
unsanctified and uninitiated into the world below will lie
in a slough, but that he who arrives there after initiation
and purification will dwell with the gods. For 'many,' as
they say in the mysteries, 'are the thyrsus- bearers, but
few are the mystics,'--meaning, as I interpret the words,
'the true philosophers.' In the number of whom, during my
whole life, I have been seeking, according to my ability,
to find a place;--whether I have sought in a right way or
not, and whether I have succeeded or not, I shall truly
know in a little while, if God will, when I myself arrive
in the other world--such is my belief. And therefore I
maintain that I am right, Simmias and Cebes, in not
grieving or repining at parting from you and my masters in
this world, for I believe that I shall equally find good
masters and friends in another world. But most men do not
believe this saying; if then I succeed in convincing you by
my defence better than I did the Athenian judges, it will
be well.
Cebes answered: I agree, Socrates, in the greater part of
what you say. But in what concerns the soul, men are apt to
be incredulous; they fear that when she has left the body
her place may be nowhere, and that on the very day of death
she may perish and come to an end--immediately on her
release from the body, issuing forth dispersed like smoke
or air and in her flight vanishing away into nothingness.
If she could only be collected into herself after she has
obtained release from the evils of which you are speaking,
there would be good reason to hope, Socrates, that what you
say is true. But surely it requires a great deal of
argument and many proofs to show that when the man is dead
his soul yet exists, and has any force or intelligence.
True, Cebes, said Socrates; and shall I suggest that we
converse a little of the probabilities of these things?
I am sure, said Cebes, that I should greatly like to know
your opinion about them.
I reckon, said Socrates, that no one who heard me now, not
even if he were one of my old enemies, the Comic poets,
could accuse me of idle talking about matters in which I
have no concern:--If you please, then, we will proceed with
the inquiry.
Suppose we consider the question whether the souls of men
after death are or are not in the world below. There comes
into my mind an ancient doctrine which affirms that they go
from hence into the other world, and returning hither, are
born again from the dead. Now if it be true that the living
come from the dead, then our souls must exist in the other
world, for if not, how could they have been born again? And
this would be conclusive, if there were any real evidence
that the living are only born from the dead; but if this is
not so, then other arguments will have to be adduced.
Very true, replied Cebes.
Then let us consider the whole question, not in relation to
man only, but in relation to animals generally, and to
plants, and to everything of which there is generation, and
the proof will be easier. Are not all things which have
opposites generated out of their opposites? I mean such
things as good and evil, just and unjust--and there are
innumerable other opposites which are generated out of
opposites. And I want to show that in all opposites there
is of necessity a similar alternation; I mean to say, for
example, that anything which becomes greater must become
greater after being less.
True.
And that which becomes less must have been once greater and
then have become less.
Yes.
And the weaker is generated from the stronger, and the
swifter from the slower.
Very true.
And the worse is from the better, and the more just is from
the more unjust.
Of course.
And is this true of all opposites? and are we convinced
that all of them are generated out of opposites?
Yes.
And in this universal opposition of all things, are there
not also two intermediate processes which are ever going
on, from one to the other opposite, and back again; where
there is a greater and a less there is also an intermediate
process of increase and diminution, and that which grows is
said to wax, and that which decays to wane?
Yes, he said.
And there are many other processes, such as division and
composition, cooling and heating, which equally involve a
passage into and out of one another. And this necessarily
holds of all opposites, even though not always expressed in
words--they are really generated out of one another, and
there is a passing or process from one to the other of
them?
Very true, he replied.
Well, and is there not an opposite of life, as sleep is the
opposite of waking?
True, he said.
And what is it?
Death, he answered.
And these, if they are opposites, are generated the one
from the other, and have there their two intermediate
processes also?
Of course.
Now, said Socrates, I will analyze one of the two pairs of
opposites which I have mentioned to you, and also its
intermediate processes, and you shall analyze the other to
me. One of them I term sleep, the other waking. The state
of sleep is opposed to the state of waking, and out of
sleeping waking is generated, and out of waking, sleeping;
and the process of generation is in the one case falling
asleep, and in the other waking up. Do you agree?
I entirely agree.
Then, suppose that you analyze life and death to me in the
same manner. Is not death opposed to life?
Yes.
And they are generated one from the other?
Yes.
What is generated from the living?
The dead.
And what from the dead?
I can only say in answer--the living.
Then the living, whether things or persons, Cebes, are
generated from the dead?
That is clear, he replied.
Then the inference is that our souls exist in the world
below?
That is true.
And one of the two processes or generations is visible--for
surely the act of dying is visible?
Surely, he said.
What then is to be the result? Shall we exclude the
opposite process? And shall we suppose nature to walk on
one leg only? Must we not rather assign to death some
corresponding process of generation?
Certainly, he replied.
And what is that process?
Return to life.
And return to life, if there be such a thing, is the birth
of the dead into the world of the living?
Quite true.
Then here is a new way by which we arrive at the conclusion
that the living come from the dead, just as the dead come
from the living; and this, if true, affords a most certain
proof that the souls of the dead exist in some place out of
which they come again.
Yes, Socrates, he said; the conclusion seems to flow
necessarily out of our previous admissions.
And that these admissions were not unfair, Cebes, he said,
may be shown, I think, as follows: If generation were in a
straight line only, and there were no compensation or
circle in nature, no turn or return of elements into their
opposites, then you know that all things would at last have
the same form and pass into the same state, and there would
be no more generation of them.
What do you mean? he said.
A simple thing enough, which I will illustrate by the case
of sleep, he replied. You know that if there were no
alternation of sleeping and waking, the tale of the
sleeping Endymion would in the end have no meaning, because
all other things would be asleep, too, and he would not be
distinguishable from the rest. Or if there were composition
only, and no division of substances, then the chaos of
Anaxagoras would come again. And in like manner, my dear
Cebes, if all things which partook of life were to die, and
after they were dead remained in the form of death, and did
not come to life again, all would at last die, and nothing
would be alive--what other result could there be? For if
the living spring from any other things, and they too die,
must not all things at last be swallowed up in death? (But
compare Republic.)
There is no escape, Socrates, said Cebes; and to me your
argument seems to be absolutely true.
Yes, he said, Cebes, it is and must be so, in my opinion;
and we have not been deluded in making these admissions;
but I am confident that there truly is such a thing as
living again, and that the living spring from the dead, and
that the souls of the dead are in existence, and that the
good souls have a better portion than the evil.
Cebes added: Your favorite doctrine, Socrates, that
knowledge is simply recollection, if true, also necessarily
implies a previous time in which we have learned that which
we now recollect. But this would be impossible unless our
soul had been in some place before existing in the form of
man; here then is another proof of the soul's immortality.
But tell me, Cebes, said Simmias, interposing, what
arguments are urged in favour of this doctrine of
recollection. I am not very sure at the moment that I
remember them.
One excellent proof, said Cebes, is afforded by questions.
If you put a question to a person in a right way, he will
give a true answer of himself, but how could he do this
unless there were knowledge and right reason already in
him? And this is most clearly shown when he is taken to a
diagram or to anything of that sort. (Compare Meno.)
But if, said Socrates, you are still incredulous, Simmias,
I would ask you whether you may not agree with me when you
look at the matter in another way;--I mean, if you are
still incredulous as to whether knowledge is recollection.
Incredulous, I am not, said Simmias; but I want to have
this doctrine of recollection brought to my own
recollection, and, from what Cebes has said, I am beginning
to recollect and be convinced; but I should still like to
hear what you were going to say.
This is what I would say, he replied:--We should agree, if
I am not mistaken, that what a man recollects he must have
known at some previous time.
Very true.
And what is the nature of this knowledge or recollection? I
mean to ask, Whether a person who, having seen or heard or
in any way perceived anything, knows not only that, but has
a conception of something else which is the subject, not of
the same but of some other kind of knowledge, may not be
fairly said to recollect that of which he has the
conception?
What do you mean?
I mean what I may illustrate by the following
instance:--The knowledge of a lyre is not the same as the
knowledge of a man?
True.
And yet what is the feeling of lovers when they recognize a
lyre, or a garment, or anything else which the beloved has
been in the habit of using? Do not they, from knowing the
lyre, form in the mind's eye an image of the youth to whom
the lyre belongs? And this is recollection. In like manner
any one who sees Simmias may remember Cebes; and there are
endless examples of the same thing.
Endless, indeed, replied Simmias.
And recollection is most commonly a process of recovering
that which has been already forgotten through time and
inattention.
Very true, he said.
Well; and may you not also from seeing the picture of a
horse or a lyre remember a man? and from the picture of
Simmias, you may be led to remember Cebes?
True.
Or you may also be led to the recollection of Simmias
himself?
Quite so.
And in all these cases, the recollection may be derived
from things either like or unlike?
It may be.
And when the recollection is derived from like things, then
another consideration is sure to arise, which is--whether
the likeness in any degree falls short or not of that which
is recollected?
Very true, he said.
And shall we proceed a step further, and affirm that there
is such a thing as equality, not of one piece of wood or
stone with another, but that, over and above this, there is
absolute equality? Shall we say so?
Say so, yes, replied Simmias, and swear to it, with all the
confidence in life.
And do we know the nature of this absolute essence?
To be sure, he said.
And whence did we obtain our knowledge? Did we not see
equalities of material things, such as pieces of wood and
stones, and gather from them the idea of an equality which
is different from them? For you will acknowledge that there
is a difference. Or look at the matter in another way:--Do
not the same pieces of wood or stone appear at one time
equal, and at another time unequal?
That is certain.
But are real equals ever unequal? or is the idea of
equality the same as of inequality?
Impossible, Socrates.
Then these (so-called) equals are not the same with the
idea of equality?
I should say, clearly not, Socrates.
And yet from these equals, although differing from the idea
of equality, you conceived and attained that idea?
Very true, he said.
Which might be like, or might be unlike them?
Yes.
But that makes no difference; whenever from seeing one
thing you conceived another, whether like or unlike, there
must surely have been an act of recollection?
Very true.
But what would you say of equal portions of wood and stone,
or other material equals? and what is the impression
produced by them? Are they equals in the same sense in
which absolute equality is equal? or do they fall short of
this perfect equality in a measure?
Yes, he said, in a very great measure too.
And must we not allow, that when I or any one, looking at
any object, observes that the thing which he sees aims at
being some other thing, but falls short of, and cannot be,
that other thing, but is inferior, he who makes this
observation must have had a previous knowledge of that to
which the other, although similar, was inferior?
Certainly.
And has not this been our own case in the matter of equals
and of absolute equality?
Precisely.
Then we must have known equality previously to the time
when we first saw the material equals, and reflected that
all these apparent equals strive to attain absolute
equality, but fall short of it?
Very true.
And we recognize also that this absolute equality has only
been known, and can only be known, through the medium of
sight or touch, or of some other of the senses, which are
all alike in this respect?
Yes, Socrates, as far as the argument is concerned, one of
them is the same as the other.
From the senses then is derived the knowledge that all
sensible things aim at an absolute equality of which they
fall short?
Yes.
Then before we began to see or hear or perceive in any way,
we must have had a knowledge of absolute equality, or we
could not have referred to that standard the equals which
are derived from the senses?--for to that they all aspire,
and of that they fall short.
No other inference can be drawn from the previous
statements.
And did we not see and hear and have the use of our other
senses as soon as we were born?
Certainly.
Then we must have acquired the knowledge of equality at
some previous time?
Yes.
That is to say, before we were born, I suppose?
True.
And if we acquired this knowledge before we were born, and
were born having the use of it, then we also knew before we
were born and at the instant of birth not only the equal or
the greater or the less, but all other ideas; for we are
not speaking only of equality, but of beauty, goodness,
justice, holiness, and of all which we stamp with the name
of essence in the dialectical process, both when we ask and
when we answer questions. Of all this we may certainly
affirm that we acquired the knowledge before birth?
We may.
But if, after having acquired, we have not forgotten what
in each case we acquired, then we must always have come
into life having knowledge, and shall always continue to
know as long as life lasts--for knowing is the acquiring
and retaining knowledge and not forgetting. Is not
forgetting, Simmias, just the losing of knowledge?
Quite true, Socrates.
But if the knowledge which we acquired before birth was
lost by us at birth, and if afterwards by the use of the
senses we recovered what we previously knew, will not the
process which we call learning be a recovering of the
knowledge which is natural to us, and may not this be
rightly termed recollection?
Very true.
So much is clear--that when we perceive something, either
by the help of sight, or hearing, or some other sense, from
that perception we are able to obtain a notion of some
other thing like or unlike which is associated with it but
has been forgotten. Whence, as I was saying, one of two
alternatives follows:--either we had this knowledge at
birth, and continued to know through life; or, after birth,
those who are said to learn only remember, and learning is
simply recollection.
Yes, that is quite true, Socrates.
And which alternative, Simmias, do you prefer? Had we the
knowledge at our birth, or did we recollect the things
which we knew previously to our birth?
I cannot decide at the moment.
At any rate you can decide whether he who has knowledge
will or will not be able to render an account of his
knowledge? What do you say?
Certainly, he will.
But do you think that every man is able to give an account
of these very matters about which we are speaking?
Would that they could, Socrates, but I rather fear that
to-morrow, at this time, there will no longer be any one
alive who is able to give an account of them such as ought
to be given.
Then you are not of opinion, Simmias, that all men know
these things?
Certainly not.
They are in process of recollecting that which they learned
before?
Certainly.
But when did our souls acquire this knowledge?--not since
we were born as men?
Certainly not.
And therefore, previously?
Yes.
Then, Simmias, our souls must also have existed without
bodies before they were in the form of man, and must have
had intelligence.
Unless indeed you suppose, Socrates, that these notions are
given us at the very moment of birth; for this is the only
time which remains.
Yes, my friend, but if so, when do we lose them? for they
are not in us when we are born--that is admitted. Do we
lose them at the moment of receiving them, or if not at
what other time?
No, Socrates, I perceive that I was unconsciously talking
nonsense.
Then may we not say, Simmias, that if, as we are always
repeating, there is an absolute beauty, and goodness, and
an absolute essence of all things; and if to this, which is
now discovered to have existed in our former state, we
refer all our sensations, and with this compare them,
finding these ideas to be pre-existent and our inborn
possession--then our souls must have had a prior existence,
but if not, there would be no force in the argument? There
is the same proof that these ideas must have existed before
we were born, as that our souls existed before we were
born; and if not the ideas, then not the souls.
Yes, Socrates; I am convinced that there is precisely the
same necessity for the one as for the other; and the
argument retreats successfully to the position that the
existence of the soul before birth cannot be separated from
the existence of the essence of which you speak. For there
is nothing which to my mind is so patent as that beauty,
goodness, and the other notions of which you were just now
speaking, have a most real and absolute existence; and I am
satisfied with the proof.
Well, but is Cebes equally satisfied? for I must convince
him too.
I think, said Simmias, that Cebes is satisfied: although he
is the most incredulous of mortals, yet I believe that he
is sufficiently convinced of the existence of the soul
before birth. But that after death the soul will continue
to exist is not yet proven even to my own satisfaction. I
cannot get rid of the feeling of the many to which Cebes
was referring--the feeling that when the man dies the soul
will be dispersed, and that this may be the extinction of
her. For admitting that she may have been born elsewhere,
and framed out of other elements, and was in existence
before entering the human body, why after having entered in
and gone out again may she not herself be destroyed and
come to an end?
Very true, Simmias, said Cebes; about half of what was
required has been proven; to wit, that our souls existed
before we were born:--that the soul will exist after death
as well as before birth is the other half of which the
proof is still wanting, and has to be supplied; when that
is given the demonstration will be complete.
But that proof, Simmias and Cebes, has been already given,
said Socrates, if you put the two arguments together--I
mean this and the former one, in which we admitted that
everything living is born of the dead. For if the soul
exists before birth, and in coming to life and being born
can be born only from death and dying, must she not after
death continue to exist, since she has to be born
again?--Surely the proof which you desire has been already
furnished. Still I suspect that you and Simmias would be
glad to probe the argument further. Like children, you are
haunted with a fear that when the soul leaves the body, the
wind may really blow her away and scatter her; especially
if a man should happen to die in a great storm and not when
the sky is calm.
Cebes answered with a smile: Then, Socrates, you must argue
us out of our fears--and yet, strictly speaking, they are
not our fears, but there is a child within us to whom death
is a sort of hobgoblin; him too we must persuade not to be
afraid when he is alone in the dark.
Socrates said: Let the voice of the charmer be applied
daily until you have charmed away the fear.
And where shall we find a good charmer of our fears,
Socrates, when you are gone?
Hellas, he replied, is a large place, Cebes, and has many
good men, and there are barbarous races not a few: seek for
him among them all, far and wide, sparing neither pains nor
money; for there is no better way of spending your money.
And you must seek among yourselves too; for you will not
find others better able to make the search.
The search, replied Cebes, shall certainly be made. And
now, if you please, let us return to the point of the
argument at which we digressed.
By all means, replied Socrates; what else should I please?
Very good.
Must we not, said Socrates, ask ourselves what that is
which, as we imagine, is liable to be scattered, and about
which we fear? and what again is that about which we have
no fear? And then we may proceed further to enquire whether
that which suffers dispersion is or is not of the nature of
soul--our hopes and fears as to our own souls will turn
upon the answers to these questions.
Very true, he said.
Now the compound or composite may be supposed to be
naturally capable, as of being compounded, so also of being
dissolved; but that which is uncompounded, and that only,
must be, if anything is, indissoluble.
Yes; I should imagine so, said Cebes.
And the uncompounded may be assumed to be the same and
unchanging, whereas the compound is always changing and
never the same.
I agree, he said.
Then now let us return to the previous discussion. Is that
idea or essence, which in the dialectical process we define
as essence or true existence--whether essence of equality,
beauty, or anything else--are these essences, I say, liable
at times to some degree of change? or are they each of them
always what they are, having the same simple self-existent
and unchanging forms, not admitting of variation at all, or
in any way, or at any time?
They must be always the same, Socrates, replied Cebes.
And what would you say of the many beautiful--whether men
or horses or garments or any other things which are named
by the same names and may be called equal or
beautiful,--are they all unchanging and the same always, or
quite the reverse? May they not rather be described as
almost always changing and hardly ever the same, either
with themselves or with one another?
The latter, replied Cebes; they are always in a state of
change.
And these you can touch and see and perceive with the
senses, but the unchanging things you can only perceive
with the mind--they are invisible and are not seen?
That is very true, he said.
Well, then, added Socrates, let us suppose that there are
two sorts of existences--one seen, the other unseen.
Let us suppose them.
The seen is the changing, and the unseen is the unchanging?
That may be also supposed.
And, further, is not one part of us body, another part
soul?
To be sure.
And to which class is the body more alike and akin?
Clearly to the seen--no one can doubt that.
And is the soul seen or not seen?
Not by man, Socrates.
And what we mean by 'seen' and 'not seen' is that which is
or is not visible to the eye of man?
Yes, to the eye of man.
And is the soul seen or not seen?
Not seen.
Unseen then?
Yes.
Then the soul is more like to the unseen, and the body to
the seen?
That follows necessarily, Socrates.
And were we not saying long ago that the soul when using
the body as an instrument of perception, that is to say,
when using the sense of sight or hearing or some other
sense (for the meaning of perceiving through the body is
perceiving through the senses)--were we not saying that the
soul too is then dragged by the body into the region of the
changeable, and wanders and is confused; the world spins
round her, and she is like a drunkard, when she touches
change?
Very true.
But when returning into herself she reflects, then she
passes into the other world, the region of purity, and
eternity, and immortality, and unchangeableness, which are
her kindred, and with them she ever lives, when she is by
herself and is not let or hindered; then she ceases from
her erring ways, and being in communion with the unchanging
is unchanging. And this state of the soul is called wisdom?
That is well and truly said, Socrates, he replied.
And to which class is the soul more nearly alike and akin,
as far as may be inferred from this argument, as well as
from the preceding one?
I think, Socrates, that, in the opinion of every one who
follows the argument, the soul will be infinitely more like
the unchangeable--even the most stupid person will not deny
that.
And the body is more like the changing?
Yes.
Yet once more consider the matter in another light: When
the soul and the body are united, then nature orders the
soul to rule and govern, and the body to obey and serve.
Now which of these two functions is akin to the divine? and
which to the mortal? Does not the divine appear to you to
be that which naturally orders and rules, and the mortal to
be that which is subject and servant?
True.
And which does the soul resemble?
The soul resembles the divine, and the body the
mortal--there can be no doubt of that, Socrates.
Then reflect, Cebes: of all which has been said is not this
the conclusion?--that the soul is in the very likeness of
the divine, and immortal, and intellectual, and uniform,
and indissoluble, and unchangeable; and that the body is in
the very likeness of the human, and mortal, and
unintellectual, and multiform, and dissoluble, and
changeable. Can this, my dear Cebes, be denied?
It cannot.
But if it be true, then is not the body liable to speedy
dissolution? and is not the soul almost or altogether
indissoluble?
Certainly.
And do you further observe, that after a man is dead, the
body, or visible part of him, which is lying in the visible
world, and is called a corpse, and would naturally be
dissolved and decomposed and dissipated, is not dissolved
or decomposed at once, but may remain for a for some time,
nay even for a long time, if the constitution be sound at
the time of death, and the season of the year favourable?
For the body when shrunk and embalmed, as the manner is in
Egypt, may remain almost entire through infinite ages; and
even in decay, there are still some portions, such as the
bones and ligaments, which are practically
indestructible:--Do you agree?
Yes.
And is it likely that the soul, which is invisible, in
passing to the place of the true Hades, which like her is
invisible, and pure, and noble, and on her way to the good
and wise God, whither, if God will, my soul is also soon to
go,--that the soul, I repeat, if this be her nature and
origin, will be blown away and destroyed immediately on
quitting the body, as the many say? That can never be, my
dear Simmias and Cebes. The truth rather is, that the soul
which is pure at departing and draws after her no bodily
taint, having never voluntarily during life had connection
with the body, which she is ever avoiding, herself gathered
into herself;--and making such abstraction her perpetual
study--which means that she has been a true disciple of
philosophy; and therefore has in fact been always engaged
in the practice of dying? For is not philosophy the
practice of death?--
Certainly--
That soul, I say, herself invisible, departs to the
invisible world--to the divine and immortal and rational:
thither arriving, she is secure of bliss and is released
from the error and folly of men, their fears and wild
passions and all other human ills, and for ever dwells, as
they say of the initiated, in company with the gods
(compare Apol.). Is not this true, Cebes?
Yes, said Cebes, beyond a doubt.
But the soul which has been polluted, and is impure at the
time of her departure, and is the companion and servant of
the body always, and is in love with and fascinated by the
body and by the desires and pleasures of the body, until
she is led to believe that the truth only exists in a
bodily form, which a man may touch and see and taste, and
use for the purposes of his lusts,--the soul, I mean,
accustomed to hate and fear and avoid the intellectual
principle, which to the bodily eye is dark and invisible,
and can be attained only by philosophy;--do you suppose
that such a soul will depart pure and unalloyed?
Impossible, he replied.
She is held fast by the corporeal, which the continual
association and constant care of the body have wrought into
her nature.
Very true.
And this corporeal element, my friend, is heavy and weighty
and earthy, and is that element of sight by which a soul is
depressed and dragged down again into the visible world,
because she is afraid of the invisible and of the world
below--prowling about tombs and sepulchres, near which, as
they tell us, are seen certain ghostly apparitions of souls
which have not departed pure, but are cloyed with sight and
therefore visible.
(Compare Milton, Comus:-- 'But when lust, By unchaste
looks, loose gestures, and foul talk, But most by lewd and
lavish act of sin, Lets in defilement to the inward parts,
The soul grows clotted by contagion, Imbodies, and
imbrutes, till she quite lose, The divine property of her
first being. Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp
Oft seen in charnel vaults and sepulchres, Lingering, and
sitting by a new made grave, As loath to leave the body
that it lov'd, And linked itself by carnal sensuality To a
degenerate and degraded state.')
That is very likely, Socrates.
Yes, that is very likely, Cebes; and these must be the
souls, not of the good, but of the evil, which are
compelled to wander about such places in payment of the
penalty of their former evil way of life; and they continue
to wander until through the craving after the corporeal
which never leaves them, they are imprisoned finally in
another body. And they may be supposed to find their
prisons in the same natures which they have had in their
former lives.
What natures do you mean, Socrates?
What I mean is that men who have followed after gluttony,
and wantonness, and drunkenness, and have had no thought of
avoiding them, would pass into asses and animals of that
sort. What do you think?
I think such an opinion to be exceedingly probable.
And those who have chosen the portion of injustice, and
tyranny, and violence, will pass into wolves, or into hawks
and kites;--whither else can we suppose them to go?
Yes, said Cebes; with such natures, beyond question.
And there is no difficulty, he said, in assigning to all of
them places answering to their several natures and
propensities?
There is not, he said.
Some are happier than others; and the happiest both in
themselves and in the place to which they go are those who
have practised the civil and social virtues which are
called temperance and justice, and are acquired by habit
and attention without philosophy and mind. (Compare
Republic.)
Why are they the happiest?
Because they may be expected to pass into some gentle and
social kind which is like their own, such as bees or wasps
or ants, or back again into the form of man, and just and
moderate men may be supposed to spring from them.
Very likely.
No one who has not studied philosophy and who is not
entirely pure at the time of his departure is allowed to
enter the company of the Gods, but the lover of knowledge
only. And this is the reason, Simmias and Cebes, why the
true votaries of philosophy abstain from all fleshly lusts,
and hold out against them and refuse to give themselves up
to them,--not because they fear poverty or the ruin of
their families, like the lovers of money, and the world in
general; nor like the lovers of power and honour, because
they dread the dishonour or disgrace of evil deeds.
No, Socrates, that would not become them, said Cebes.
No indeed, he replied; and therefore they who have any care
of their own souls, and do not merely live moulding and
fashioning the body, say farewell to all this; they will
not walk in the ways of the blind: and when philosophy
offers them purification and release from evil, they feel
that they ought not to resist her influence, and whither
she leads they turn and follow.
What do you mean, Socrates?
I will tell you, he said. The lovers of knowledge are
conscious that the soul was simply fastened and glued to
the body--until philosophy received her, she could only
view real existence through the bars of a prison, not in
and through herself; she was wallowing in the mire of every
sort of ignorance; and by reason of lust had become the
principal accomplice in her own captivity. This was her
original state; and then, as I was saying, and as the
lovers of knowledge are well aware, philosophy, seeing how
terrible was her confinement, of which she was to herself
the cause, received and gently comforted her and sought to
release her, pointing out that the eye and the ear and the
other senses are full of deception, and persuading her to
retire from them, and abstain from all but the necessary
use of them, and be gathered up and collected into herself,
bidding her trust in herself and her own pure apprehension
of pure existence, and to mistrust whatever comes to her
through other channels and is subject to variation; for
such things are visible and tangible, but what she sees in
her own nature is intelligible and invisible. And the soul
of the true philosopher thinks that she ought not to resist
this deliverance, and therefore abstains from pleasures and
desires and pains and fears, as far as she is able;
reflecting that when a man has great joys or sorrows or
fears or desires, he suffers from them, not merely the sort
of evil which might be anticipated--as for example, the
loss of his health or property which he has sacrificed to
his lusts--but an evil greater far, which is the greatest
and worst of all evils, and one of which he never thinks.
What is it, Socrates? said Cebes.
The evil is that when the feeling of pleasure or pain is
most intense, every soul of man imagines the objects of
this intense feeling to be then plainest and truest: but
this is not so, they are really the things of sight.
Very true.
And is not this the state in which the soul is most
enthralled by the body?
How so?
Why, because each pleasure and pain is a sort of nail which
nails and rivets the soul to the body, until she becomes
like the body, and believes that to be true which the body
affirms to be true; and from agreeing with the body and
having the same delights she is obliged to have the same
habits and haunts, and is not likely ever to be pure at her
departure to the world below, but is always infected by the
body; and so she sinks into another body and there
germinates and grows, and has therefore no part in the
communion of the divine and pure and simple.
Most true, Socrates, answered Cebes.
And this, Cebes, is the reason why the true lovers of
knowledge are temperate and brave; and not for the reason
which the world gives.
Certainly not.
Certainly not! The soul of a philosopher will reason in
quite another way; she will not ask philosophy to release
her in order that when released she may deliver herself up
again to the thraldom of pleasures and pains, doing a work
only to be undone again, weaving instead of unweaving her
Penelope's web. But she will calm passion, and follow
reason, and dwell in the contemplation of her, beholding
the true and divine (which is not matter of opinion), and
thence deriving nourishment. Thus she seeks to live while
she lives, and after death she hopes to go to her own
kindred and to that which is like her, and to be freed from
human ills. Never fear, Simmias and Cebes, that a soul
which has been thus nurtured and has had these pursuits,
will at her departure from the body be scattered and blown
away by the winds and be nowhere and nothing.
When Socrates had done speaking, for a considerable time
there was silence; he himself appeared to be meditating, as
most of us were, on what had been said; only Cebes and
Simmias spoke a few words to one another. And Socrates
observing them asked what they thought of the argument, and
whether there was anything wanting? For, said he, there are
many points still open to suspicion and attack, if any one
were disposed to sift the matter thoroughly. Should you be
considering some other matter I say no more, but if you are
still in doubt do not hesitate to say exactly what you
think, and let us have anything better which you can
suggest; and if you think that I can be of any use, allow
me to help you.
Simmias said: I must confess, Socrates, that doubts did
arise in our minds, and each of us was urging and inciting
the other to put the question which we wanted to have
answered and which neither of us liked to ask, fearing that
our importunity might be troublesome under present at such
a time.
Socrates replied with a smile: O Simmias, what are you
saying? I am not very likely to persuade other men that I
do not regard my present situation as a misfortune, if I
cannot even persuade you that I am no worse off now than at
any other time in my life. Will you not allow that I have
as much of the spirit of prophecy in me as the swans? For
they, when they perceive that they must die, having sung
all their life long, do then sing more lustily than ever,
rejoicing in the thought that they are about to go away to
the god whose ministers they are. But men, because they are
themselves afraid of death, slanderously affirm of the
swans that they sing a lament at the last, not considering
that no bird sings when cold, or hungry, or in pain, not
even the nightingale, nor the swallow, nor yet the hoopoe;
which are said indeed to tune a lay of sorrow, although I
do not believe this to be true of them any more than of the
swans. But because they are sacred to Apollo, they have the
gift of prophecy, and anticipate the good things of another
world, wherefore they sing and rejoice in that day more
than they ever did before. And I too, believing myself to
be the consecrated servant of the same God, and the
fellow-servant of the swans, and thinking that I have
received from my master gifts of prophecy which are not
inferior to theirs, would not go out of life less merrily
than the swans. Never mind then, if this be your only
objection, but speak and ask anything which you like, while
the eleven magistrates of Athens allow.
Very good, Socrates, said Simmias; then I will tell you my
difficulty, and Cebes will tell you his. I feel myself,
(and I daresay that you have the same feeling), how hard or
rather impossible is the attainment of any certainty about
questions such as these in the present life. And yet I
should deem him a coward who did not prove what is said
about them to the uttermost, or whose heart failed him
before he had examined them on every side. For he should
persevere until he has achieved one of two things: either
he should discover, or be taught the truth about them; or,
if this be impossible, I would have him take the best and
most irrefragable of human theories, and let this be the
raft upon which he sails through life-- not without risk,
as I admit, if he cannot find some word of God which will
more surely and safely carry him. And now, as you bid me, I
will venture to question you, and then I shall not have to
reproach myself hereafter with not having said at the time
what I think. For when I consider the matter, either alone
or with Cebes, the argument does certainly appear to me,
Socrates, to be not sufficient.
Socrates answered: I dare say, my friend, that you may be
right, but I should like to know in what respect the
argument is insufficient.
In this respect, replied Simmias:--Suppose a person to use
the same argument about harmony and the lyre--might he not
say that harmony is a thing invisible, incorporeal,
perfect, divine, existing in the lyre which is harmonized,
but that the lyre and the strings are matter and material,
composite, earthy, and akin to mortality? And when some one
breaks the lyre, or cuts and rends the strings, then he who
takes this view would argue as you do, and on the same
analogy, that the harmony survives and has not
perished--you cannot imagine, he would say, that the lyre
without the strings, and the broken strings themselves
which are mortal remain, and yet that the harmony, which is
of heavenly and immortal nature and kindred, has
perished--perished before the mortal. The harmony must
still be somewhere, and the wood and strings will decay
before anything can happen to that. The thought, Socrates,
must have occurred to your own mind that such is our
conception of the soul; and that when the body is in a
manner strung and held together by the elements of hot and
cold, wet and dry, then the soul is the harmony or due
proportionate admixture of them. But if so, whenever the
strings of the body are unduly loosened or overstrained
through disease or other injury, then the soul, though most
divine, like other harmonies of music or of works of art,
of course perishes at once, although the material remains
of the body may last for a considerable time, until they
are either decayed or burnt. And if any one maintains that
the soul, being the harmony of the elements of the body, is
first to perish in that which is called death, how shall we
answer him?
Socrates looked fixedly at us as his manner was, and said
with a smile: Simmias has reason on his side; and why does
not some one of you who is better able than myself answer
him? for there is force in his attack upon me. But perhaps,
before we answer him, we had better also hear what Cebes
has to say that we may gain time for reflection, and when
they have both spoken, we may either assent to them, if
there is truth in what they say, or if not, we will
maintain our position. Please to tell me then, Cebes, he
said, what was the difficulty which troubled you?
Cebes said: I will tell you. My feeling is that the
argument is where it was, and open to the same objections
which were urged before; for I am ready to admit that the
existence of the soul before entering into the bodily form
has been very ingeniously, and, if I may say so, quite
sufficiently proven; but the existence of the soul after
death is still, in my judgment, unproven. Now my objection
is not the same as that of Simmias; for I am not disposed
to deny that the soul is stronger and more lasting than the
body, being of opinion that in all such respects the soul
very far excels the body. Well, then, says the argument to
me, why do you remain unconvinced?--When you see that the
weaker continues in existence after the man is dead, will
you not admit that the more lasting must also survive
during the same period of time? Now I will ask you to
consider whether the objection, which, like Simmias, I will
express in a figure, is of any weight. The analogy which I
will adduce is that of an old weaver, who dies, and after
his death somebody says:--He is not dead, he must be
alive;--see, there is the coat which he himself wove and
wore, and which remains whole and undecayed. And then he
proceeds to ask of some one who is incredulous, whether a
man lasts longer, or the coat which is in use and wear; and
when he is answered that a man lasts far longer, thinks
that he has thus certainly demonstrated the survival of the
man, who is the more lasting, because the less lasting
remains. But that, Simmias, as I would beg you to remark,
is a mistake; any one can see that he who talks thus is
talking nonsense. For the truth is, that the weaver
aforesaid, having woven and worn many such coats, outlived
several of them, and was outlived by the last; but a man is
not therefore proved to be slighter and weaker than a coat.
Now the relation of the body to the soul may be expressed
in a similar figure; and any one may very fairly say in
like manner that the soul is lasting, and the body weak and
shortlived in comparison. He may argue in like manner that
every soul wears out many bodies, especially if a man live
many years. While he is alive the body deliquesces and
decays, and the soul always weaves another garment and
repairs the waste. But of course, whenever the soul
perishes, she must have on her last garment, and this will
survive her; and then at length, when the soul is dead, the
body will show its native weakness, and quickly decompose
and pass away. I would therefore rather not rely on the
argument from superior strength to prove the continued
existence of the soul after death. For granting even more
than you affirm to be possible, and acknowledging not only
that the soul existed before birth, but also that the souls
of some exist, and will continue to exist after death, and
will be born and die again and again, and that there is a
natural strength in the soul which will hold out and be
born many times--nevertheless, we may be still inclined to
think that she will weary in the labours of successive
births, and may at last succumb in one of her deaths and
utterly perish; and this death and dissolution of the body
which brings destruction to the soul may be unknown to any
of us, for no one of us can have had any experience of it:
and if so, then I maintain that he who is confident about
death has but a foolish confidence, unless he is able to
prove that the soul is altogether immortal and
imperishable. But if he cannot prove the soul's
immortality, he who is about to die will always have reason
to fear that when the body is disunited, the soul also may
utterly perish.
All of us, as we afterwards remarked to one another, had an
unpleasant feeling at hearing what they said. When we had
been so firmly convinced before, now to have our faith
shaken seemed to introduce a confusion and uncertainty, not
only into the previous argument, but into any future one;
either we were incapable of forming a judgment, or there
were no grounds of belief.
ECHECRATES: There I feel with you--by heaven I do, Phaedo,
and when you were speaking, I was beginning to ask myself
the same question: What argument can I ever trust again?
For what could be more convincing than the argument of
Socrates, which has now fallen into discredit? That the
soul is a harmony is a doctrine which has always had a
wonderful attraction for me, and, when mentioned, came back
to me at once, as my own original conviction. And now I
must begin again and find another argument which will
assure me that when the man is dead the soul survives. Tell
me, I implore you, how did Socrates proceed? Did he appear
to share the unpleasant feeling which you mention? or did
he calmly meet the attack? And did he answer forcibly or
feebly? Narrate what passed as exactly as you can.
PHAEDO: Often, Echecrates, I have wondered at Socrates, but
never more than on that occasion. That he should be able to
answer was nothing, but what astonished me was, first, the
gentle and pleasant and approving manner in which he
received the words of the young men, and then his quick
sense of the wound which had been inflicted by the
argument, and the readiness with which he healed it. He
might be compared to a general rallying his defeated and
broken army, urging them to accompany him and return to the
field of argument.
ECHECRATES: What followed?
PHAEDO: You shall hear, for I was close to him on his right
hand, seated on a sort of stool, and he on a couch which
was a good deal higher. He stroked my head, and pressed the
hair upon my neck--he had a way of playing with my hair;
and then he said: To-morrow, Phaedo, I suppose that these
fair locks of yours will be severed.
Yes, Socrates, I suppose that they will, I replied.
Not so, if you will take my advice.
What shall I do with them? I said.
To-day, he replied, and not to-morrow, if this argument
dies and we cannot bring it to life again, you and I will
both shave our locks; and if I were you, and the argument
got away from me, and I could not hold my ground against
Simmias and Cebes, I would myself take an oath, like the
Argives, not to wear hair any more until I had renewed the
conflict and defeated them.
Yes, I said, but Heracles himself is said not to be a match
for two.
Summon me then, he said, and I will be your Iolaus until
the sun goes down.
I summon you rather, I rejoined, not as Heracles summoning
Iolaus, but as Iolaus might summon Heracles.
That will do as well, he said. But first let us take care
that we avoid a danger.
Of what nature? I said.
Lest we become misologists, he replied, no worse thing can
happen to a man than this. For as there are misanthropists
or haters of men, there are also misologists or haters of
ideas, and both spring from the same cause, which is
ignorance of the world. Misanthropy arises out of the too
great confidence of inexperience;--you trust a man and
think him altogether true and sound and faithful, and then
in a little while he turns out to be false and knavish; and
then another and another, and when this has happened
several times to a man, especially when it happens among
those whom he deems to be his own most trusted and familiar
friends, and he has often quarreled with them, he at last
hates all men, and believes that no one has any good in him
at all. You must have observed this trait of character?
I have.
And is not the feeling discreditable? Is it not obvious
that such an one having to deal with other men, was clearly
without any experience of human nature; for experience
would have taught him the true state of the case, that few
are the good and few the evil, and that the great majority
are in the interval between them.
What do you mean? I said.
I mean, he replied, as you might say of the very large and
very small, that nothing is more uncommon than a very large
or very small man; and this applies generally to all
extremes, whether of great and small, or swift and slow, or
fair and foul, or black and white: and whether the
instances you select be men or dogs or anything else, few
are the extremes, but many are in the mean between them.
Did you never observe this?
Yes, I said, I have.
And do you not imagine, he said, that if there were a
competition in evil, the worst would be found to be very
few?
Yes, that is very likely, I said.
Yes, that is very likely, he replied; although in this
respect arguments are unlike men--there I was led on by you
to say more than I had intended; but the point of
comparison was, that when a simple man who has no skill in
dialectics believes an argument to be true which he
afterwards imagines to be false, whether really false or
not, and then another and another, he has no longer any
faith left, and great disputers, as you know, come to think
at last that they have grown to be the wisest of mankind;
for they alone perceive the utter unsoundness and
instability of all arguments, or indeed, of all things,
which, like the currents in the Euripus, are going up and
down in never-ceasing ebb and flow.
That is quite true, I said.
Yes, Phaedo, he replied, and how melancholy, if there be
such a thing as truth or certainty or possibility of
knowledge--that a man should have lighted upon some
argument or other which at first seemed true and then
turned out to be false, and instead of blaming himself and
his own want of wit, because he is annoyed, should at last
be too glad to transfer the blame from himself to arguments
in general: and for ever afterwards should hate and revile
them, and lose truth and the knowledge of realities.
Yes, indeed, I said; that is very melancholy.
Let us then, in the first place, he said, be careful of
allowing or of admitting into our souls the notion that
there is no health or soundness in any arguments at all.
Rather say that we have not yet attained to soundness in
ourselves, and that we must struggle manfully and do our
best to gain health of mind--you and all other men having
regard to the whole of your future life, and I myself in
the prospect of death. For at this moment I am sensible
that I have not the temper of a philosopher; like the
vulgar, I am only a partisan. Now the partisan, when he is
engaged in a dispute, cares nothing about the rights of the
question, but is anxious only to convince his hearers of
his own assertions. And the difference between him and me
at the present moment is merely this--that whereas he seeks
to convince his hearers that what he says is true, I am
rather seeking to convince myself; to convince my hearers
is a secondary matter with me. And do but see how much I
gain by the argument. For if what I say is true, then I do
well to be persuaded of the truth, but if there be nothing
after death, still, during the short time that remains, I
shall not distress my friends with lamentations, and my
ignorance will not last, but will die with me, and
therefore no harm will be done. This is the state of mind,
Simmias and Cebes, in which I approach the argument. And I
would ask you to be thinking of the truth and not of
Socrates: agree with me, if I seem to you to be speaking
the truth; or if not, withstand me might and main, that I
may not deceive you as well as myself in my enthusiasm, and
like the bee, leave my sting in you before I die.
And now let us proceed, he said. And first of all let me be
sure that I have in my mind what you were saying. Simmias,
if I remember rightly, has fears and misgivings whether the
soul, although a fairer and diviner thing than the body,
being as she is in the form of harmony, may not perish
first. On the other hand, Cebes appeared to grant that the
soul was more lasting than the body, but he said that no
one could know whether the soul, after having worn out many
bodies, might not perish herself and leave her last body
behind her; and that this is death, which is the
destruction not of the body but of the soul, for in the
body the work of destruction is ever going on. Are not
these, Simmias and Cebes, the points which we have to
consider?
They both agreed to this statement of them.
He proceeded: And did you deny the force of the whole
preceding argument, or of a part only?
Of a part only, they replied.
And what did you think, he said, of that part of the
argument in which we said that knowledge was recollection,
and hence inferred that the soul must have previously
existed somewhere else before she was enclosed in the body?
Cebes said that he had been wonderfully impressed by that
part of the argument, and that his conviction remained
absolutely unshaken. Simmias agreed, and added that he
himself could hardly imagine the possibility of his ever
thinking differently.
But, rejoined Socrates, you will have to think differently,
my Theban friend, if you still maintain that harmony is a
compound, and that the soul is a harmony which is made out
of strings set in the frame of the body; for you will
surely never allow yourself to say that a harmony is prior
to the elements which compose it.
Never, Socrates.
But do you not see that this is what you imply when you say
that the soul existed before she took the form and body of
man, and was made up of elements which as yet had no
existence? For harmony is not like the soul, as you
suppose; but first the lyre, and the strings, and the
sounds exist in a state of discord, and then harmony is
made last of all, and perishes first. And how can such a
notion of the soul as this agree with the other?
Not at all, replied Simmias.
And yet, he said, there surely ought to be harmony in a
discourse of which harmony is the theme.
There ought, replied Simmias.
But there is no harmony, he said, in the two propositions
that knowledge is recollection, and that the soul is a
harmony. Which of them will you retain?
I think, he replied, that I have a much stronger faith,
Socrates, in the first of the two, which has been fully
demonstrated to me, than in the latter, which has not been
demonstrated at all, but rests only on probable and
plausible grounds; and is therefore believed by the many. I
know too well that these arguments from probabilities are
impostors, and unless great caution is observed in the use
of them, they are apt to be deceptive --in geometry, and in
other things too. But the doctrine of knowledge and
recollection has been proven to me on trustworthy grounds;
and the proof was that the soul must have existed before
she came into the body, because to her belongs the essence
of which the very name implies existence. Having, as I am
convinced, rightly accepted this conclusion, and on
sufficient grounds, I must, as I suppose, cease to argue or
allow others to argue that the soul is a harmony.
Let me put the matter, Simmias, he said, in another point
of view: Do you imagine that a harmony or any other
composition can be in a state other than that of the
elements, out of which it is compounded?
Certainly not.
Or do or suffer anything other than they do or suffer?
He agreed.
Then a harmony does not, properly speaking, lead the parts
or elements which make up the harmony, but only follows
them.
He assented.
For harmony cannot possibly have any motion, or sound, or
other quality which is opposed to its parts.
That would be impossible, he replied.
And does not the nature of every harmony depend upon the
manner in which the elements are harmonized?
I do not understand you, he said.
I mean to say that a harmony admits of degrees, and is more
of a harmony, and more completely a harmony, when more
truly and fully harmonized, to any extent which is
possible; and less of a harmony, and less completely a
harmony, when less truly and fully harmonized.
True.
But does the soul admit of degrees? or is one soul in the
very least degree more or less, or more or less completely,
a soul than another?
Not in the least.
Yet surely of two souls, one is said to have intelligence
and virtue, and to be good, and the other to have folly and
vice, and to be an evil soul: and this is said truly?
Yes, truly.
But what will those who maintain the soul to be a harmony
say of this presence of virtue and vice in the soul?--will
they say that here is another harmony, and another discord,
and that the virtuous soul is harmonized, and herself being
a harmony has another harmony within her, and that the
vicious soul is inharmonical and has no harmony within her?
I cannot tell, replied Simmias; but I suppose that
something of the sort would be asserted by those who say
that the soul is a harmony.
And we have already admitted that no soul is more a soul
than another; which is equivalent to admitting that harmony
is not more or less harmony, or more or less completely a
harmony?
Quite true.
And that which is not more or less a harmony is not more or
less harmonized?
True.
And that which is not more or less harmonized cannot have
more or less of harmony, but only an equal harmony?
Yes, an equal harmony.
Then one soul not being more or less absolutely a soul than
another, is not more or less harmonized?
Exactly.
And therefore has neither more nor less of discord, nor yet
of harmony?
She has not.
And having neither more nor less of harmony or of discord,
one soul has no more vice or virtue than another, if vice
be discord and virtue harmony?
Not at all more.
Or speaking more correctly, Simmias, the soul, if she is a
harmony, will never have any vice; because a harmony, being
absolutely a harmony, has no part in the inharmonical.
No.
And therefore a soul which is absolutely a soul has no
vice?
How can she have, if the previous argument holds?
Then, if all souls are equally by their nature souls, all
souls of all living creatures will be equally good?
I agree with you, Socrates, he said.
And can all this be true, think you? he said; for these are
the consequences which seem to follow from the assumption
that the soul is a harmony?
It cannot be true.
Once more, he said, what ruler is there of the elements of
human nature other than the soul, and especially the wise
soul? Do you know of any?
Indeed, I do not.
And is the soul in agreement with the affections of the
body? or is she at variance with them? For example, when
the body is hot and thirsty, does not the soul incline us
against drinking? and when the body is hungry, against
eating? And this is only one instance out of ten thousand
of the opposition of the soul to the things of the body.
Very true.
But we have already acknowledged that the soul, being a
harmony, can never utter a note at variance with the
tensions and relaxations and vibrations and other
affections of the strings out of which she is composed; she
can only follow, she cannot lead them?
It must be so, he replied.
And yet do we not now discover the soul to be doing the
exact opposite-- leading the elements of which she is
believed to be composed; almost always opposing and
coercing them in all sorts of ways throughout life,
sometimes more violently with the pains of medicine and
gymnastic; then again more gently; now threatening, now
admonishing the desires, passions, fears, as if talking to
a thing which is not herself, as Homer in the Odyssee
represents Odysseus doing in the words--
'He beat his breast, and thus reproached his heart: Endure,
my heart; far worse hast thou endured!'
Do you think that Homer wrote this under the idea that the
soul is a harmony capable of being led by the affections of
the body, and not rather of a nature which should lead and
master them--herself a far diviner thing than any harmony?
Yes, Socrates, I quite think so.
Then, my friend, we can never be right in saying that the
soul is a harmony, for we should contradict the divine
Homer, and contradict ourselves.
True, he said.
Thus much, said Socrates, of Harmonia, your Theban goddess,
who has graciously yielded to us; but what shall I say,
Cebes, to her husband Cadmus, and how shall I make peace
with him?
I think that you will discover a way of propitiating him,
said Cebes; I am sure that you have put the argument with
Harmonia in a manner that I could never have expected. For
when Simmias was mentioning his difficulty, I quite
imagined that no answer could be given to him, and
therefore I was surprised at finding that his argument
could not sustain the first onset of yours, and not
impossibly the other, whom you call Cadmus, may share a
similar fate.
Nay, my good friend, said Socrates, let us not boast, lest
some evil eye should put to flight the word which I am
about to speak. That, however, may be left in the hands of
those above, while I draw near in Homeric fashion, and try
the mettle of your words. Here lies the point:--You want to
have it proven to you that the soul is imperishable and
immortal, and the philosopher who is confident in death
appears to you to have but a vain and foolish confidence,
if he believes that he will fare better in the world below
than one who has led another sort of life, unless he can
prove this; and you say that the demonstration of the
strength and divinity of the soul, and of her existence
prior to our becoming men, does not necessarily imply her
immortality. Admitting the soul to be longlived, and to
have known and done much in a former state, still she is
not on that account immortal; and her entrance into the
human form may be a sort of disease which is the beginning
of dissolution, and may at last, after the toils of life
are over, end in that which is called death. And whether
the soul enters into the body once only or many times, does
not, as you say, make any difference in the fears of
individuals. For any man, who is not devoid of sense, must
fear, if he has no knowledge and can give no account of the
soul's immortality. This, or something like this, I suspect
to be your notion, Cebes; and I designedly recur to it in
order that nothing may escape us, and that you may, if you
wish, add or subtract anything.
But, said Cebes, as far as I see at present, I have nothing
to add or subtract: I mean what you say that I mean.
Socrates paused awhile, and seemed to be absorbed in
reflection. At length he said: You are raising a tremendous
question, Cebes, involving the whole nature of generation
and corruption, about which, if you like, I will give you
my own experience; and if anything which I say is likely to
avail towards the solution of your difficulty you may make
use of it.
I should very much like, said Cebes, to hear what you have
to say.
Then I will tell you, said Socrates. When I was young,
Cebes, I had a prodigious desire to know that department of
philosophy which is called the investigation of nature; to
know the causes of things, and why a thing is and is
created or destroyed appeared to me to be a lofty
profession; and I was always agitating myself with the
consideration of questions such as these:--Is the growth of
animals the result of some decay which the hot and cold
principle contracts, as some have said? Is the blood the
element with which we think, or the air, or the fire? or
perhaps nothing of the kind-- but the brain may be the
originating power of the perceptions of hearing and sight
and smell, and memory and opinion may come from them, and
science may be based on memory and opinion when they have
attained fixity. And then I went on to examine the
corruption of them, and then to the things of heaven and
earth, and at last I concluded myself to be utterly and
absolutely incapable of these enquiries, as I will
satisfactorily prove to you. For I was fascinated by them
to such a degree that my eyes grew blind to things which I
had seemed to myself, and also to others, to know quite
well; I forgot what I had before thought self-evident
truths; e.g. such a fact as that the growth of man is the
result of eating and drinking; for when by the digestion of
food flesh is added to flesh and bone to bone, and whenever
there is an aggregation of congenial elements, the lesser
bulk becomes larger and the small man great. Was not that a
reasonable notion?
Yes, said Cebes, I think so.
Well; but let me tell you something more. There was a time
when I thought that I understood the meaning of greater and
less pretty well; and when I saw a great man standing by a
little one, I fancied that one was taller than the other by
a head; or one horse would appear to be greater than
another horse: and still more clearly did I seem to
perceive that ten is two more than eight, and that two
cubits are more than one, because two is the double of one.
And what is now your notion of such matters? said Cebes.
I should be far enough from imagining, he replied, that I
knew the cause of any of them, by heaven I should; for I
cannot satisfy myself that, when one is added to one, the
one to which the addition is made becomes two, or that the
two units added together make two by reason of the
addition. I cannot understand how, when separated from the
other, each of them was one and not two, and now, when they
are brought together, the mere juxtaposition or meeting of
them should be the cause of their becoming two: neither can
I understand how the division of one is the way to make
two; for then a different cause would produce the same
effect,--as in the former instance the addition and
juxtaposition of one to one was the cause of two, in this
the separation and subtraction of one from the other would
be the cause. Nor am I any longer satisfied that I
understand the reason why one or anything else is either
generated or destroyed or is at all, but I have in my mind
some confused notion of a new method, and can never admit
the other.
Then I heard some one reading, as he said, from a book of
Anaxagoras, that mind was the disposer and cause of all,
and I was delighted at this notion, which appeared quite
admirable, and I said to myself: If mind is the disposer,
mind will dispose all for the best, and put each particular
in the best place; and I argued that if any one desired to
find out the cause of the generation or destruction or
existence of anything, he must find out what state of being
or doing or suffering was best for that thing, and
therefore a man had only to consider the best for himself
and others, and then he would also know the worse, since
the same science comprehended both. And I rejoiced to think
that I had found in Anaxagoras a teacher of the causes of
existence such as I desired, and I imagined that he would
tell me first whether the earth is flat or round; and
whichever was true, he would proceed to explain the cause
and the necessity of this being so, and then he would teach
me the nature of the best and show that this was best; and
if he said that the earth was in the centre, he would
further explain that this position was the best, and I
should be satisfied with the explanation given, and not
want any other sort of cause. And I thought that I would
then go on and ask him about the sun and moon and stars,
and that he would explain to me their comparative
swiftness, and their returnings and various states, active
and passive, and how all of them were for the best. For I
could not imagine that when he spoke of mind as the
disposer of them, he would give any other account of their
being as they are, except that this was best; and I thought
that when he had explained to me in detail the cause of
each and the cause of all, he would go on to explain to me
what was best for each and what was good for all. These
hopes I would not have sold for a large sum of money, and I
seized the books and read them as fast as I could in my
eagerness to know the better and the worse.
What expectations I had formed, and how grievously was I
disappointed! As I proceeded, I found my philosopher
altogether forsaking mind or any other principle of order,
but having recourse to air, and ether, and water, and other
eccentricities. I might compare him to a person who began
by maintaining generally that mind is the cause of the
actions of Socrates, but who, when he endeavoured to
explain the causes of my several actions in detail, went on
to show that I sit here because my body is made up of bones
and muscles; and the bones, as he would say, are hard and
have joints which divide them, and the muscles are elastic,
and they cover the bones, which have also a covering or
environment of flesh and skin which contains them; and as
the bones are lifted at their joints by the contraction or
relaxation of the muscles, I am able to bend my limbs, and
this is why I am sitting here in a curved posture--that is
what he would say, and he would have a similar explanation
of my talking to you, which he would attribute to sound,
and air, and hearing, and he would assign ten thousand
other causes of the same sort, forgetting to mention the
true cause, which is, that the Athenians have thought fit
to condemn me, and accordingly I have thought it better and
more right to remain here and undergo my sentence; for I am
inclined to think that these muscles and bones of mine
would have gone off long ago to Megara or Boeotia--by the
dog they would, if they had been moved only by their own
idea of what was best, and if I had not chosen the better
and nobler part, instead of playing truant and running
away, of enduring any punishment which the state inflicts.
There is surely a strange confusion of causes and
conditions in all this. It may be said, indeed, that
without bones and muscles and the other parts of the body I
cannot execute my purposes. But to say that I do as I do
because of them, and that this is the way in which mind
acts, and not from the choice of the best, is a very
careless and idle mode of speaking. I wonder that they
cannot distinguish the cause from the condition, which the
many, feeling about in the dark, are always mistaking and
misnaming. And thus one man makes a vortex all round and
steadies the earth by the heaven; another gives the air as
a support to the earth, which is a sort of broad trough.
Any power which in arranging them as they are arranges them
for the best never enters into their minds; and instead of
finding any superior strength in it, they rather expect to
discover another Atlas of the world who is stronger and
more everlasting and more containing than the good;--of the
obligatory and containing power of the good they think
nothing; and yet this is the principle which I would fain
learn if any one would teach me. But as I have failed
either to discover myself, or to learn of any one else, the
nature of the best, I will exhibit to you, if you like,
what I have found to be the second best mode of enquiring
into the cause.
I should very much like to hear, he replied.
Socrates proceeded:--I thought that as I had failed in the
contemplation of true existence, I ought to be careful that
I did not lose the eye of my soul; as people may injure
their bodily eye by observing and gazing on the sun during
an eclipse, unless they take the precaution of only looking
at the image reflected in the water, or in some similar
medium. So in my own case, I was afraid that my soul might
be blinded altogether if I looked at things with my eyes or
tried to apprehend them by the help of the senses. And I
thought that I had better have recourse to the world of
mind and seek there the truth of existence. I dare say that
the simile is not perfect-- for I am very far from
admitting that he who contemplates existences through the
medium of thought, sees them only 'through a glass darkly,'
any more than he who considers them in action and
operation. However, this was the method which I adopted: I
first assumed some principle which I judged to be the
strongest, and then I affirmed as true whatever seemed to
agree with this, whether relating to the cause or to
anything else; and that which disagreed I regarded as
untrue. But I should like to explain my meaning more
clearly, as I do not think that you as yet understand me.
No indeed, replied Cebes, not very well.
There is nothing new, he said, in what I am about to tell
you; but only what I have been always and everywhere
repeating in the previous discussion and on other
occasions: I want to show you the nature of that cause
which has occupied my thoughts. I shall have to go back to
those familiar words which are in the mouth of every one,
and first of all assume that there is an absolute beauty
and goodness and greatness, and the like; grant me this,
and I hope to be able to show you the nature of the cause,
and to prove the immortality of the soul.
Cebes said: You may proceed at once with the proof, for I
grant you this.
Well, he said, then I should like to know whether you agree
with me in the next step; for I cannot help thinking, if
there be anything beautiful other than absolute beauty
should there be such, that it can be beautiful only in as
far as it partakes of absolute beauty--and I should say the
same of everything. Do you agree in this notion of the
cause?
Yes, he said, I agree.
He proceeded: I know nothing and can understand nothing of
any other of those wise causes which are alleged; and if a
person says to me that the bloom of colour, or form, or any
such thing is a source of beauty, I leave all that, which
is only confusing to me, and simply and singly, and perhaps
foolishly, hold and am assured in my own mind that nothing
makes a thing beautiful but the presence and participation
of beauty in whatever way or manner obtained; for as to the
manner I am uncertain, but I stoutly contend that by beauty
all beautiful things become beautiful. This appears to me
to be the safest answer which I can give, either to myself
or to another, and to this I cling, in the persuasion that
this principle will never be overthrown, and that to myself
or to any one who asks the question, I may safely reply,
That by beauty beautiful things become beautiful. Do you
not agree with me?
I do.
And that by greatness only great things become great and
greater greater, and by smallness the less become less?
True.
Then if a person were to remark that A is taller by a head
than B, and B less by a head than A, you would refuse to
admit his statement, and would stoutly contend that what
you mean is only that the greater is greater by, and by
reason of, greatness, and the less is less only by, and by
reason of, smallness; and thus you would avoid the danger
of saying that the greater is greater and the less less by
the measure of the head, which is the same in both, and
would also avoid the monstrous absurdity of supposing that
the greater man is greater by reason of the head, which is
small. You would be afraid to draw such an inference, would
you not?
Indeed, I should, said Cebes, laughing.
In like manner you would be afraid to say that ten exceeded
eight by, and by reason of, two; but would say by, and by
reason of, number; or you would say that two cubits exceed
one cubit not by a half, but by magnitude?-for there is the
same liability to error in all these cases.
Very true, he said.
Again, would you not be cautious of affirming that the
addition of one to one, or the division of one, is the
cause of two? And you would loudly asseverate that you know
of no way in which anything comes into existence except by
participation in its own proper essence, and consequently,
as far as you know, the only cause of two is the
participation in duality--this is the way to make two, and
the participation in one is the way to make one. You would
say: I will let alone puzzles of division and
addition--wiser heads than mine may answer them;
inexperienced as I am, and ready to start, as the proverb
says, at my own shadow, I cannot afford to give up the sure
ground of a principle. And if any one assails you there,
you would not mind him, or answer him, until you had seen
whether the consequences which follow agree with one
another or not, and when you are further required to give
an explanation of this principle, you would go on to assume
a higher principle, and a higher, until you found a
resting-place in the best of the higher; but you would not
confuse the principle and the consequences in your
reasoning, like the Eristics--at least if you wanted to
discover real existence. Not that this confusion signifies
to them, who never care or think about the matter at all,
for they have the wit to be well pleased with themselves
however great may be the turmoil of their ideas. But you,
if you are a philosopher, will certainly do as I say.
What you say is most true, said Simmias and Cebes, both
speaking at once.
ECHECRATES: Yes, Phaedo; and I do not wonder at their
assenting. Any one who has the least sense will acknowledge
the wonderful clearness of Socrates' reasoning.
PHAEDO: Certainly, Echecrates; and such was the feeling of
the whole company at the time.
ECHECRATES: Yes, and equally of ourselves, who were not of
the company, and are now listening to your recital. But
what followed?
PHAEDO: After all this had been admitted, and they had that
ideas exist, and that other things participate in them and
derive their names from them, Socrates, if I remember
rightly, said:--
This is your way of speaking; and yet when you say that
Simmias is greater than Socrates and less than Phaedo, do
you not predicate of Simmias both greatness and smallness?
Yes, I do.
But still you allow that Simmias does not really exceed
Socrates, as the words may seem to imply, because he is
Simmias, but by reason of the size which he has; just as
Simmias does not exceed Socrates because he is Simmias, any
more than because Socrates is Socrates, but because he has
smallness when compared with the greatness of Simmias?
True.
And if Phaedo exceeds him in size, this is not because
Phaedo is Phaedo, but because Phaedo has greatness
relatively to Simmias, who is comparatively smaller?
That is true.
And therefore Simmias is said to be great, and is also said
to be small, because he is in a mean between them,
exceeding the smallness of the one by his greatness, and
allowing the greatness of the other to exceed his
smallness. He added, laughing, I am speaking like a book,
but I believe that what I am saying is true.
Simmias assented.
I speak as I do because I want you to agree with me in
thinking, not only that absolute greatness will never be
great and also small, but that greatness in us or in the
concrete will never admit the small or admit of being
exceeded: instead of this, one of two things will happen,
either the greater will fly or retire before the opposite,
which is the less, or at the approach of the less has
already ceased to exist; but will not, if allowing or
admitting of smallness, be changed by that; even as I,
having received and admitted smallness when compared with
Simmias, remain just as I was, and am the same small
person. And as the idea of greatness cannot condescend ever
to be or become small, in like manner the smallness in us
cannot be or become great; nor can any other opposite which
remains the same ever be or become its own opposite, but
either passes away or perishes in the change.
That, replied Cebes, is quite my notion.
Hereupon one of the company, though I do not exactly
remember which of them, said: In heaven's name, is not this
the direct contrary of what was admitted before--that out
of the greater came the less and out of the less the
greater, and that opposites were simply generated from
opposites; but now this principle seems to be utterly
denied.
Socrates inclined his head to the speaker and listened. I
like your courage, he said, in reminding us of this. But
you do not observe that there is a difference in the two
cases. For then we were speaking of opposites in the
concrete, and now of the essential opposite which, as is
affirmed, neither in us nor in nature can ever be at
variance with itself: then, my friend, we were speaking of
things in which opposites are inherent and which are called
after them, but now about the opposites which are inherent
in them and which give their name to them; and these
essential opposites will never, as we maintain, admit of
generation into or out of one another. At the same time,
turning to Cebes, he said: Are you at all disconcerted,
Cebes, at our friend's objection?
No, I do not feel so, said Cebes; and yet I cannot deny
that I am often disturbed by objections.
Then we are agreed after all, said Socrates, that the
opposite will never in any case be opposed to itself?
To that we are quite agreed, he replied.
Yet once more let me ask you to consider the question from
another point of view, and see whether you agree with
me:--There is a thing which you term heat, and another
thing which you term cold?
Certainly.
But are they the same as fire and snow?
Most assuredly not.
Heat is a thing different from fire, and cold is not the
same with snow?
Yes.
And yet you will surely admit, that when snow, as was
before said, is under the influence of heat, they will not
remain snow and heat; but at the advance of the heat, the
snow will either retire or perish?
Very true, he replied.
And the fire too at the advance of the cold will either
retire or perish; and when the fire is under the influence
of the cold, they will not remain as before, fire and cold.
That is true, he said.
And in some cases the name of the idea is not only attached
to the idea in an eternal connection, but anything else
which, not being the idea, exists only in the form of the
idea, may also lay claim to it. I will try to make this
clearer by an example:--The odd number is always called by
the name of odd?
Very true.
But is this the only thing which is called odd? Are there
not other things which have their own name, and yet are
called odd, because, although not the same as oddness, they
are never without oddness?--that is what I mean to
ask--whether numbers such as the number three are not of
the class of odd. And there are many other examples: would
you not say, for example, that three may be called by its
proper name, and also be called odd, which is not the same
with three? and this may be said not only of three but also
of five, and of every alternate number--each of them
without being oddness is odd, and in the same way two and
four, and the other series of alternate numbers, has every
number even, without being evenness. Do you agree?
Of course.
Then now mark the point at which I am aiming:--not only do
essential opposites exclude one another, but also concrete
things, which, although not in themselves opposed, contain
opposites; these, I say, likewise reject the idea which is
opposed to that which is contained in them, and when it
approaches them they either perish or withdraw. For
example; Will not the number three endure annihilation or
anything sooner than be converted into an even number,
while remaining three?
Very true, said Cebes.
And yet, he said, the number two is certainly not opposed
to the number three?
It is not.
Then not only do opposite ideas repel the advance of one
another, but also there are other natures which repel the
approach of opposites.
Very true, he said.
Suppose, he said, that we endeavour, if possible, to
determine what these are.
By all means.
Are they not, Cebes, such as compel the things of which
they have possession, not only to take their own form, but
also the form of some opposite?
What do you mean?
I mean, as I was just now saying, and as I am sure that you
know, that those things which are possessed by the number
three must not only be three in number, but must also be
odd.
Quite true.
And on this oddness, of which the number three has the
impress, the opposite idea will never intrude?
No.
And this impress was given by the odd principle?
Yes.
And to the odd is opposed the even?
True.
Then the idea of the even number will never arrive at
three?
No.
Then three has no part in the even?
None.
Then the triad or number three is uneven?
Very true.
To return then to my distinction of natures which are not
opposed, and yet do not admit opposites--as, in the
instance given, three, although not opposed to the even,
does not any the more admit of the even, but always brings
the opposite into play on the other side; or as two does
not receive the odd, or fire the cold--from these examples
(and there are many more of them) perhaps you may be able
to arrive at the general conclusion, that not only
opposites will not receive opposites, but also that nothing
which brings the opposite will admit the opposite of that
which it brings, in that to which it is brought. And here
let me recapitulate--for there is no harm in repetition.
The number five will not admit the nature of the even, any
more than ten, which is the double of five, will admit the
nature of the odd. The double has another opposite, and is
not strictly opposed to the odd, but nevertheless rejects
the odd altogether. Nor again will parts in the ratio 3:2,
nor any fraction in which there is a half, nor again in
which there is a third, admit the notion of the whole,
although they are not opposed to the whole: You will agree?
Yes, he said, I entirely agree and go along with you in
that.
And now, he said, let us begin again; and do not you answer
my question in the words in which I ask it: let me have not
the old safe answer of which I spoke at first, but another
equally safe, of which the truth will be inferred by you
from what has been just said. I mean that if any one asks
you 'what that is, of which the inherence makes the body
hot,' you will reply not heat (this is what I call the safe
and stupid answer), but fire, a far superior answer, which
we are now in a condition to give. Or if any one asks you
'why a body is diseased,' you will not say from disease,
but from fever; and instead of saying that oddness is the
cause of odd numbers, you will say that the monad is the
cause of them: and so of things in general, as I dare say
that you will understand sufficiently without my adducing
any further examples.
Yes, he said, I quite understand you.
Tell me, then, what is that of which the inherence will
render the body alive?
The soul, he replied.
And is this always the case?
Yes, he said, of course.
Then whatever the soul possesses, to that she comes bearing
life?
Yes, certainly.
And is there any opposite to life?
There is, he said.
And what is that?
Death.
Then the soul, as has been acknowledged, will never receive
the opposite of what she brings.
Impossible, replied Cebes.
And now, he said, what did we just now call that principle
which repels the even?
The odd.
And that principle which repels the musical, or the just?
The unmusical, he said, and the unjust.
And what do we call the principle which does not admit of
death?
The immortal, he said.
And does the soul admit of death?
No.
Then the soul is immortal?
Yes, he said.
And may we say that this has been proven?
Yes, abundantly proven, Socrates, he replied.
Supposing that the odd were imperishable, must not three be
imperishable?
Of course.
And if that which is cold were imperishable, when the warm
principle came attacking the snow, must not the snow have
retired whole and unmelted--for it could never have
perished, nor could it have remained and admitted the heat?
True, he said.
Again, if the uncooling or warm principle were
imperishable, the fire when assailed by cold would not have
perished or have been extinguished, but would have gone
away unaffected?
Certainly, he said.
And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal
is also imperishable, the soul when attacked by death
cannot perish; for the preceding argument shows that the
soul will not admit of death, or ever be dead, any more
than three or the odd number will admit of the even, or
fire or the heat in the fire, of the cold. Yet a person may
say: 'But although the odd will not become even at the
approach of the even, why may not the odd perish and the
even take the place of the odd?' Now to him who makes this
objection, we cannot answer that the odd principle is
imperishable; for this has not been acknowledged, but if
this had been acknowledged, there would have been no
difficulty in contending that at the approach of the even
the odd principle and the number three took their
departure; and the same argument would have held good of
fire and heat and any other thing.
Very true.
And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal
is also imperishable, then the soul will be imperishable as
well as immortal; but if not, some other proof of her
imperishableness will have to be given.
No other proof is needed, he said; for if the immortal,
being eternal, is liable to perish, then nothing is
imperishable.
Yes, replied Socrates, and yet all men will agree that God,
and the essential form of life, and the immortal in
general, will never perish.
Yes, all men, he said--that is true; and what is more,
gods, if I am not mistaken, as well as men.
Seeing then that the immortal is indestructible, must not
the soul, if she is immortal, be also imperishable?
Most certainly.
Then when death attacks a man, the mortal portion of him
may be supposed to die, but the immortal retires at the
approach of death and is preserved safe and sound?
True.
Then, Cebes, beyond question, the soul is immortal and
imperishable, and our souls will truly exist in another
world!
I am convinced, Socrates, said Cebes, and have nothing more
to object; but if my friend Simmias, or any one else, has
any further objection to make, he had better speak out, and
not keep silence, since I do not know to what other season
he can defer the discussion, if there is anything which he
wants to say or to have said.
But I have nothing more to say, replied Simmias; nor can I
see any reason for doubt after what has been said. But I
still feel and cannot help feeling uncertain in my own
mind, when I think of the greatness of the subject and the
feebleness of man.
Yes, Simmias, replied Socrates, that is well said: and I
may add that first principles, even if they appear certain,
should be carefully considered; and when they are
satisfactorily ascertained, then, with a sort of hesitating
confidence in human reason, you may, I think, follow the
course of the argument; and if that be plain and clear,
there will be no need for any further enquiry.
Very true.
But then, O my friends, he said, if the soul is really
immortal, what care should be taken of her, not only in
respect of the portion of time which is called life, but of
eternity! And the danger of neglecting her from this point
of view does indeed appear to be awful. If death had only
been the end of all, the wicked would have had a good
bargain in dying, for they would have been happily quit not
only of their body, but of their own evil together with
their souls. But now, inasmuch as the soul is manifestly
immortal, there is no release or salvation from evil except
the attainment of the highest virtue and wisdom. For the
soul when on her progress to the world below takes nothing
with her but nurture and education; and these are said
greatly to benefit or greatly to injure the departed, at
the very beginning of his journey thither.
For after death, as they say, the genius of each
individual, to whom he belonged in life, leads him to a
certain place in which the dead are gathered together,
whence after judgment has been given they pass into the
world below, following the guide, who is appointed to
conduct them from this world to the other: and when they
have there received their due and remained their time,
another guide brings them back again after many revolutions
of ages. Now this way to the other world is not, as
Aeschylus says in the Telephus, a single and straight
path--if that were so no guide would be needed, for no one
could miss it; but there are many partings of the road, and
windings, as I infer from the rites and sacrifices which
are offered to the gods below in places where three ways
meet on earth. The wise and orderly soul follows in the
straight path and is conscious of her surroundings; but the
soul which desires the body, and which, as I was relating
before, has long been fluttering about the lifeless frame
and the world of sight, is after many struggles and many
sufferings hardly and with violence carried away by her
attendant genius, and when she arrives at the place where
the other souls are gathered, if she be impure and have
done impure deeds, whether foul murders or other crimes
which are the brothers of these, and the works of brothers
in crime--from that soul every one flees and turns away; no
one will be her companion, no one her guide, but alone she
wanders in extremity of evil until certain times are
fulfilled, and when they are fulfilled, she is borne
irresistibly to her own fitting habitation; as every pure
and just soul which has passed through life in the company
and under the guidance of the gods has also her own proper
home.
Now the earth has divers wonderful regions, and is indeed
in nature and extent very unlike the notions of
geographers, as I believe on the authority of one who shall
be nameless.
What do you mean, Socrates? said Simmias. I have myself
heard many descriptions of the earth, but I do not know,
and I should very much like to know, in which of these you
put faith.
And I, Simmias, replied Socrates, if I had the art of
Glaucus would tell you; although I know not that the art of
Glaucus could prove the truth of my tale, which I myself
should never be able to prove, and even if I could, I fear,
Simmias, that my life would come to an end before the
argument was completed. I may describe to you, however, the
form and regions of the earth according to my conception of
them.
That, said Simmias, will be enough.
Well, then, he said, my conviction is, that the earth is a
round body in the centre of the heavens, and therefore has
no need of air or any similar force to be a support, but is
kept there and hindered from falling or inclining any way
by the equability of the surrounding heaven and by her own
equipoise. For that which, being in equipoise, is in the
centre of that which is equably diffused, will not incline
any way in any degree, but will always remain in the same
state and not deviate. And this is my first notion.
Which is surely a correct one, said Simmias.
Also I believe that the earth is very vast, and that we who
dwell in the region extending from the river Phasis to the
Pillars of Heracles inhabit a small portion only about the
sea, like ants or frogs about a marsh, and that there are
other inhabitants of many other like places; for everywhere
on the face of the earth there are hollows of various forms
and sizes, into which the water and the mist and the lower
air collect. But the true earth is pure and situated in the
pure heaven--there are the stars also; and it is the heaven
which is commonly spoken of by us as the ether, and of
which our own earth is the sediment gathering in the
hollows beneath. But we who live in these hollows are
deceived into the notion that we are dwelling above on the
surface of the earth; which is just as if a creature who
was at the bottom of the sea were to fancy that he was on
the surface of the water, and that the sea was the heaven
through which he saw the sun and the other stars, he having
never come to the surface by reason of his feebleness and
sluggishness, and having never lifted up his head and seen,
nor ever heard from one who had seen, how much purer and
fairer the world above is than his own. And such is exactly
our case: for we are dwelling in a hollow of the earth, and
fancy that we are on the surface; and the air we call the
heaven, in which we imagine that the stars move. But the
fact is, that owing to our feebleness and sluggishness we
are prevented from reaching the surface of the air: for if
any man could arrive at the exterior limit, or take the
wings of a bird and come to the top, then like a fish who
puts his head out of the water and sees this world, he
would see a world beyond; and, if the nature of man could
sustain the sight, he would acknowledge that this other
world was the place of the true heaven and the true light
and the true earth. For our earth, and the stones, and the
entire region which surrounds us, are spoilt and corroded,
as in the sea all things are corroded by the brine, neither
is there any noble or perfect growth, but caverns only, and
sand, and an endless slough of mud: and even the shore is
not to be compared to the fairer sights of this world. And
still less is this our world to be compared with the other.
Of that upper earth which is under the heaven, I can tell
you a charming tale, Simmias, which is well worth hearing.
And we, Socrates, replied Simmias, shall be charmed to
listen to you.
The tale, my friend, he said, is as follows:--In the first
place, the earth, when looked at from above, is in
appearance streaked like one of those balls which have
leather coverings in twelve pieces, and is decked with
various colours, of which the colours used by painters on
earth are in a manner samples. But there the whole earth is
made up of them, and they are brighter far and clearer than
ours; there is a purple of wonderful lustre, also the
radiance of gold, and the white which is in the earth is
whiter than any chalk or snow. Of these and other colours
the earth is made up, and they are more in number and
fairer than the eye of man has ever seen; the very hollows
(of which I was speaking) filled with air and water have a
colour of their own, and are seen like light gleaming amid
the diversity of the other colours, so that the whole
presents a single and continuous appearance of variety in
unity. And in this fair region everything that
grows--trees, and flowers, and fruits--are in a like degree
fairer than any here; and there are hills, having stones in
them in a like degree smoother, and more transparent, and
fairer in colour than our highly-valued emeralds and
sardonyxes and jaspers, and other gems, which are but
minute fragments of them: for there all the stones are like
our precious stones, and fairer still (compare Republic).
The reason is, that they are pure, and not, like our
precious stones, infected or corroded by the corrupt briny
elements which coagulate among us, and which breed foulness
and disease both in earth and stones, as well as in animals
and plants. They are the jewels of the upper earth, which
also shines with gold and silver and the like, and they are
set in the light of day and are large and abundant and in
all places, making the earth a sight to gladden the
beholder's eye. And there are animals and men, some in a
middle region, others dwelling about the air as we dwell
about the sea; others in islands which the air flows round,
near the continent: and in a word, the air is used by them
as the water and the sea are by us, and the ether is to
them what the air is to us. Moreover, the temperament of
their seasons is such that they have no disease, and live
much longer than we do, and have sight and hearing and
smell, and all the other senses, in far greater perfection,
in the same proportion that air is purer than water or the
ether than air. Also they have temples and sacred places in
which the gods really dwell, and they hear their voices and
receive their answers, and are conscious of them and hold
converse with them, and they see the sun, moon, and stars
as they truly are, and their other blessedness is of a
piece with this.
Such is the nature of the whole earth, and of the things
which are around the earth; and there are divers regions in
the hollows on the face of the globe everywhere, some of
them deeper and more extended than that which we inhabit,
others deeper but with a narrower opening than ours, and
some are shallower and also wider. All have numerous
perforations, and there are passages broad and narrow in
the interior of the earth, connecting them with one
another; and there flows out of and into them, as into
basins, a vast tide of water, and huge subterranean streams
of perennial rivers, and springs hot and cold, and a great
fire, and great rivers of fire, and streams of liquid mud,
thin or thick (like the rivers of mud in Sicily, and the
lava streams which follow them), and the regions about
which they happen to flow are filled up with them. And
there is a swinging or see-saw in the interior of the earth
which moves all this up and down, and is due to the
following cause:--There is a chasm which is the vastest of
them all, and pierces right through the whole earth; this
is that chasm which Homer describes in the words,--
'Far off, where is the inmost depth beneath the earth;'
and which he in other places, and many other poets, have
called Tartarus. And the see-saw is caused by the streams
flowing into and out of this chasm, and they each have the
nature of the soil through which they flow. And the reason
why the streams are always flowing in and out, is that the
watery element has no bed or bottom, but is swinging and
surging up and down, and the surrounding wind and air do
the same; they follow the water up and down, hither and
thither, over the earth--just as in the act of respiration
the air is always in process of inhalation and
exhalation;--and the wind swinging with the water in and
out produces fearful and irresistible blasts: when the
waters retire with a rush into the lower parts of the
earth, as they are called, they flow through the earth in
those regions, and fill them up like water raised by a
pump, and then when they leave those regions and rush back
hither, they again fill the hollows here, and when these
are filled, flow through subterranean channels and find
their way to their several places, forming seas, and lakes,
and rivers, and springs. Thence they again enter the earth,
some of them making a long circuit into many lands, others
going to a few places and not so distant; and again fall
into Tartarus, some at a point a good deal lower than that
at which they rose, and others not much lower, but all in
some degree lower than the point from which they came. And
some burst forth again on the opposite side, and some on
the same side, and some wind round the earth with one or
many folds like the coils of a serpent, and descend as far
as they can, but always return and fall into the chasm. The
rivers flowing in either direction can descend only to the
centre and no further, for opposite to the rivers is a
precipice.
Now these rivers are many, and mighty, and diverse, and
there are four principal ones, of which the greatest and
outermost is that called Oceanus, which flows round the
earth in a circle; and in the opposite direction flows
Acheron, which passes under the earth through desert places
into the Acherusian lake: this is the lake to the shores of
which the souls of the many go when they are dead, and
after waiting an appointed time, which is to some a longer
and to some a shorter time, they are sent back to be born
again as animals. The third river passes out between the
two, and near the place of outlet pours into a vast region
of fire, and forms a lake larger than the Mediterranean
Sea, boiling with water and mud; and proceeding muddy and
turbid, and winding about the earth, comes, among other
places, to the extremities of the Acherusian Lake, but
mingles not with the waters of the lake, and after making
many coils about the earth plunges into Tartarus at a
deeper level. This is that Pyriphlegethon, as the stream is
called, which throws up jets of fire in different parts of
the earth. The fourth river goes out on the opposite side,
and falls first of all into a wild and savage region, which
is all of a dark-blue colour, like lapis lazuli; and this
is that river which is called the Stygian river, and falls
into and forms the Lake Styx, and after falling into the
lake and receiving strange powers in the waters, passes
under the earth, winding round in the opposite direction,
and comes near the Acherusian lake from the opposite side
to Pyriphlegethon. And the water of this river too mingles
with no other, but flows round in a circle and falls into
Tartarus over against Pyriphlegethon; and the name of the
river, as the poets say, is Cocytus.
Such is the nature of the other world; and when the dead
arrive at the place to which the genius of each severally
guides them, first of all, they have sentence passed upon
them, as they have lived well and piously or not. And those
who appear to have lived neither well nor ill, go to the
river Acheron, and embarking in any vessels which they may
find, are carried in them to the lake, and there they dwell
and are purified of their evil deeds, and having suffered
the penalty of the wrongs which they have done to others,
they are absolved, and receive the rewards of their good
deeds, each of them according to his deserts. But those who
appear to be incurable by reason of the greatness of their
crimes--who have committed many and terrible deeds of
sacrilege, murders foul and violent, or the like--such are
hurled into Tartarus which is their suitable destiny, and
they never come out. Those again who have committed crimes,
which, although great, are not irremediable--who in a
moment of anger, for example, have done violence to a
father or a mother, and have repented for the remainder of
their lives, or, who have taken the life of another under
the like extenuating circumstances--these are plunged into
Tartarus, the pains of which they are compelled to undergo
for a year, but at the end of the year the wave casts them
forth--mere homicides by way of Cocytus, parricides and
matricides by Pyriphlegethon--and they are borne to the
Acherusian lake, and there they lift up their voices and
call upon the victims whom they have slain or wronged, to
have pity on them, and to be kind to them, and let them
come out into the lake. And if they prevail, then they come
forth and cease from their troubles; but if not, they are
carried back again into Tartarus and from thence into the
rivers unceasingly, until they obtain mercy from those whom
they have wronged: for that is the sentence inflicted upon
them by their judges. Those too who have been pre-eminent
for holiness of life are released from this earthly prison,
and go to their pure home which is above, and dwell in the
purer earth; and of these, such as have duly purified
themselves with philosophy live henceforth altogether
without the body, in mansions fairer still which may not be
described, and of which the time would fail me to tell.
Wherefore, Simmias, seeing all these things, what ought not
we to do that we may obtain virtue and wisdom in this life?
Fair is the prize, and the hope great!
A man of sense ought not to say, nor will I be very
confident, that the description which I have given of the
soul and her mansions is exactly true. But I do say that,
inasmuch as the soul is shown to be immortal, he may
venture to think, not improperly or unworthily, that
something of the kind is true. The venture is a glorious
one, and he ought to comfort himself with words like these,
which is the reason why I lengthen out the tale. Wherefore,
I say, let a man be of good cheer about his soul, who
having cast away the pleasures and ornaments of the body as
alien to him and working harm rather than good, has sought
after the pleasures of knowledge; and has arrayed the soul,
not in some foreign attire, but in her own proper jewels,
temperance, and justice, and courage, and nobility, and
truth--in these adorned she is ready to go on her journey
to the world below, when her hour comes. You, Simmias and
Cebes, and all other men, will depart at some time or
other. Me already, as the tragic poet would say, the voice
of fate calls. Soon I must drink the poison; and I think
that I had better repair to the bath first, in order that
the women may not have the trouble of washing my body after
I am dead.
When he had done speaking, Crito said: And have you any
commands for us, Socrates--anything to say about your
children, or any other matter in which we can serve you?
Nothing particular, Crito, he replied: only, as I have
always told you, take care of yourselves; that is a service
which you may be ever rendering to me and mine and to all
of us, whether you promise to do so or not. But if you have
no thought for yourselves, and care not to walk according
to the rule which I have prescribed for you, not now for
the first time, however much you may profess or promise at
the moment, it will be of no avail.
We will do our best, said Crito: And in what way shall we
bury you?
In any way that you like; but you must get hold of me, and
take care that I do not run away from you. Then he turned
to us, and added with a smile:--I cannot make Crito believe
that I am the same Socrates who have been talking and
conducting the argument; he fancies that I am the other
Socrates whom he will soon see, a dead body--and he asks,
How shall he bury me? And though I have spoken many words
in the endeavour to show that when I have drunk the poison
I shall leave you and go to the joys of the blessed,--
these words of mine, with which I was comforting you and
myself, have had, as I perceive, no effect upon Crito. And
therefore I want you to be surety for me to him now, as at
the trial he was surety to the judges for me: but let the
promise be of another sort; for he was surety for me to the
judges that I would remain, and you must be my surety to
him that I shall not remain, but go away and depart; and
then he will suffer less at my death, and not be grieved
when he sees my body being burned or buried. I would not
have him sorrow at my hard lot, or say at the burial, Thus
we lay out Socrates, or, Thus we follow him to the grave or
bury him; for false words are not only evil in themselves,
but they infect the soul with evil. Be of good cheer, then,
my dear Crito, and say that you are burying my body only,
and do with that whatever is usual, and what you think
best.
When he had spoken these words, he arose and went into a
chamber to bathe; Crito followed him and told us to wait.
So we remained behind, talking and thinking of the subject
of discourse, and also of the greatness of our sorrow; he
was like a father of whom we were being bereaved, and we
were about to pass the rest of our lives as orphans. When
he had taken the bath his children were brought to him--(he
had two young sons and an elder one); and the women of his
family also came, and he talked to them and gave them a few
directions in the presence of Crito; then he dismissed them
and returned to us.
Now the hour of sunset was near, for a good deal of time
had passed while he was within. When he came out, he sat
down with us again after his bath, but not much was said.
Soon the jailer, who was the servant of the Eleven, entered
and stood by him, saying:--To you, Socrates, whom I know to
be the noblest and gentlest and best of all who ever came
to this place, I will not impute the angry feelings of
other men, who rage and swear at me, when, in obedience to
the authorities, I bid them drink the poison--indeed, I am
sure that you will not be angry with me; for others, as you
are aware, and not I, are to blame. And so fare you well,
and try to bear lightly what must needs be--you know my
errand. Then bursting into tears he turned away and went
out.
Socrates looked at him and said: I return your good wishes,
and will do as you bid. Then turning to us, he said, How
charming the man is: since I have been in prison he has
always been coming to see me, and at times he would talk to
me, and was as good to me as could be, and now see how
generously he sorrows on my account. We must do as he says,
Crito; and therefore let the cup be brought, if the poison
is prepared: if not, let the attendant prepare some.
Yet, said Crito, the sun is still upon the hill-tops, and I
know that many a one has taken the draught late, and after
the announcement has been made to him, he has eaten and
drunk, and enjoyed the society of his beloved; do not
hurry--there is time enough.
Socrates said: Yes, Crito, and they of whom you speak are
right in so acting, for they think that they will be
gainers by the delay; but I am right in not following their
example, for I do not think that I should gain anything by
drinking the poison a little later; I should only be
ridiculous in my own eyes for sparing and saving a life
which is already forfeit. Please then to do as I say, and
not to refuse me.
Crito made a sign to the servant, who was standing by; and
he went out, and having been absent for some time, returned
with the jailer carrying the cup of poison. Socrates said:
You, my good friend, who are experienced in these matters,
shall give me directions how I am to proceed. The man
answered: You have only to walk about until your legs are
heavy, and then to lie down, and the poison will act. At
the same time he handed the cup to Socrates, who in the
easiest and gentlest manner, without the least fear or
change of colour or feature, looking at the man with all
his eyes, Echecrates, as his manner was, took the cup and
said: What do you say about making a libation out of this
cup to any god? May I, or not? The man answered: We only
prepare, Socrates, just so much as we deem enough. I
understand, he said: but I may and must ask the gods to
prosper my journey from this to the other world--even
so--and so be it according to my prayer. Then raising the
cup to his lips, quite readily and cheerfully he drank off
the poison. And hitherto most of us had been able to
control our sorrow; but now when we saw him drinking, and
saw too that he had finished the draught, we could no
longer forbear, and in spite of myself my own tears were
flowing fast; so that I covered my face and wept, not for
him, but at the thought of my own calamity in having to
part from such a friend. Nor was I the first; for Crito,
when he found himself unable to restrain his tears, had got
up, and I followed; and at that moment, Apollodorus, who
had been weeping all the time, broke out in a loud and
passionate cry which made cowards of us all. Socrates alone
retained his calmness: What is this strange outcry? he
said. I sent away the women mainly in order that they might
not misbehave in this way, for I have been told that a man
should die in peace. Be quiet, then, and have patience.
When we heard his words we were ashamed, and refrained our
tears; and he walked about until, as he said, his legs
began to fail, and then he lay on his back, according to
the directions, and the man who gave him the poison now and
then looked at his feet and legs; and after a while he
pressed his foot hard, and asked him if he could feel; and
he said, No; and then his leg, and so upwards and upwards,
and showed us that he was cold and stiff. And he felt them
himself, and said: When the poison reaches the heart, that
will be the end. He was beginning to grow cold about the
groin, when he uncovered his face, for he had covered
himself up, and said--they were his last words--he said:
Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius; will you remember to pay
the debt? The debt shall be paid, said Crito; is there
anything else? There was no answer to this question; but in
a minute or two a movement was heard, and the attendants
uncovered him; his eyes were set, and Crito closed his eyes
and mouth.
Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend; concerning
whom I may truly say, that of all the men of his time whom
I have known, he was the wisest and justest and best.