Obras Completas de Platón

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Phaedo

by Plato

Translated by Benjamin Howett

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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.