Symposium
away discourtesy, who gives kindness ever and never gives unkindness;
the friend of the good, the wonder of the wise, the amazement of the
gods; desired by those who have no part in him, and precious to those
who have the better part in him; parent of delicacy, luxury, desire,
fondness, softness, grace; regardful of the good, regardless of the
evil: in every word, work, wish, fear--saviour, pilot, comrade, helper;
glory of gods and men, leader best and brightest: in whose footsteps
let every man follow, sweetly singing in his honour and joining in that
sweet strain with which love charms the souls of gods and men. Such
is the speech, Phaedrus, half-playful, yet having a certain measure of
seriousness, which, according to my ability, I dedicate to the god.
When Agathon had done speaking, Aristodemus said that there was a
general cheer; the young man was thought to have spoken in a manner
worthy of himself, and of the god. And Socrates, looking at Eryximachus,
said: Tell me, son of Acumenus, was there not reason in my fears? and
was I not a true prophet when I said that Agathon would make a wonderful
oration, and that I should be in a strait?
The part of the prophecy which concerns Agathon, replied Eryximachus,
appears to me to be true; but not the other part--that you will be in a
strait.
Why, my dear friend, said Socrates, must not I or any one be in a strait
who has to speak after he has heard such a rich and varied discourse? I
am especially struck with the beauty of the concluding words--who could
listen to them without amazement? When I reflected on the immeasurable
inferiority of my own powers, I was ready to run away for shame, if
there had been a possibility of escape. For I was reminded of Gorgias,
and at the end of his speech I fancied that Agathon was shaking at me
the Gorginian or Gorgonian head of the great master of rhetoric, which
was simply to turn me and my speech into stone, as Homer says (Odyssey),
and strike me dumb. And then I perceived how foolish I had been in
consenting to take my turn with you in praising love, and saying that
I too was a master of the art, when I really had no conception how
anything ought to be praised. For in my simplicity I imagined that the
topics of praise should be true, and that this being presupposed, out
of the true the speaker was to choose the best and set them forth in the
best manner. And I felt quite proud, thinking that I knew the nature of
true praise, and should speak well. Whereas I now see that the intention
was to attribute to Love every species of greatness and glory,
whether really belonging to him or not, without regard to truth or
falsehood--that was no matter; for the original proposal seems to have
been not that each of you should really praise Love, but only that
you should appear to praise him. And so you attribute to Love every
imaginable form of praise which can be gathered anywhere; and you say
that 'he is all this,' and 'the cause of all that,' making him appear
the fairest and best of all to those who know him not, for you cannot
impose upon those who know him. And a noble and solemn hymn of praise
have you rehearsed. But as I misunderstood the nature of the praise when
I said that I would take my turn, I must beg to be absolved from the
promise which I made in ignorance, and which (as Euripides would say
(Eurip. Hyppolytus)) was a promise of the lips and not of the mind.
Farewell then to such a strain: for I do not praise in that way; no,
indeed, I cannot. But if you like to hear the truth about love, I
am ready to speak in my own manner, though I will not make myself
ridiculous by entering into any rivalry with you. Say then, Phaedrus,
whether you would like to have the truth about love, spoken in any words
and in any order which may happen to come into my mind at the time. Will
that be agreeable to you?
Aristodemus said that Phaedrus and the company bid him speak in
any manner which he thought best. Then, he added, let me have your
permission first to ask Agathon a few more questions, in order that I
may take his admissions as the premisses of my discourse.
I grant the permission, said Phaedrus: put your questions. Socrates then
proceeded as follows:--
In the magnificent oration which you have just uttered, I think that you
were right, my dear Agathon, in proposing to speak of the nature of Love
first and afterwards of his works--that is a way of beginning which I
very much approve. And as you have spoken so eloquently of his nature,
may I ask you further, Whether love is the love of something or of
nothing? And here I must explain myself: I do not want you to say that
love is the love of a father or the love of a mother--that would be
ridiculous; but to answer as you would, if I asked is a father a father
of something? to which you would find no difficulty in replying, of a
son or daughter: and the answer would be right.
Very true, said Agathon.
And you would say the same of a mother?
He assented.
Yet let me ask you one more question in order to illustrate my meaning:
Is not a brother to be regarded essentially as a brother of something?
Certainly, he replied.
That is, of a brother or sister?
Yes, he said.
And now, said Socrates, I will ask about Love:--Is Love of something or
of nothing?
Of something, surely, he replied.
Keep in mind what this is, and tell me what I want to know--whether Love
desires that of which love is.
Yes, surely.
And does he possess, or does he not possess, that which he loves and
desires?
Probably not, I should say.
Nay, replied Socrates, I would have you consider whether 'necessarily'
is not rather the word. The inference that he who desires something
is in want of something, and that he who desires nothing is in want of
nothing, is in my judgment, Agathon, absolutely and necessarily true.
What do you think?
I agree with you, said Agathon.
Very good. Would he who is great, desire to be great, or he who is
strong, desire to be strong?
That would be inconsistent with our previous admissions.
True. For he who is anything cannot want to be that which he is?
Very true.
And yet, added Socrates, if a man being strong desired to be strong, or
being swift desired to be swift, or being healthy desired to be healthy,
in that case he might be thought to desire something which he already
has or is. I give the example in order that we may avoid misconception.
For the possessors of these qualities, Agathon, must be supposed to have
their respective advantages at the time, whether they choose or not; and
who can desire that which he has? Therefore, when a person says, I am
well and wish to be well, or I am rich and wish to be rich, and I desire
simply to have what I have--to him we shall reply: 'You, my friend,
having wealth and health and strength, want to have the continuance of
them; for at this moment, whether you choose or no, you have them. And
when you say, I desire that which I have and nothing else, is not your
meaning that you want to have what you now have in the future?' He must
agree with us--must he not?
He must, replied Agathon.
Then, said Socrates, he desires that what he has at present may be
preserved to him in the future, which is equivalent to saying that he
desires something which is non-existent to him, and which as yet he has
not got:
Very true, he said.
Then he and every one who desires, desires that which he has not
already, and which is future and not present, and which he has not, and
is not, and of which he is in want;--these are the sort of things which
love and desire seek?
Very true, he said.
Then now, said Socrates, let us recapitulate the argument. First, is not
love of something, and of something too which is wanting to a man?
Yes, he replied.
Remember further what you said in your speech, or if you do not remember
I will remind you: you said that the love of the beautiful set in
order the empire of the gods, for that of deformed things there is no
love--did you not say something of that kind?
Yes, said Agathon.
Yes, my friend, and the remark was a just one. And if this is true, Love
is the love of beauty and not of deformity?
He assented.
And the admission has been already made that Love is of something which
a man wants and has not?
True, he said.
Then Love wants and has not beauty?
Certainly, he replied.
And would you call that beautiful which wants and does not possess
beauty?
Certainly not.
Then would you still say that love is beautiful?
Agathon replied: I fear that I did not understand what I was saying.
You made a very good speech, Agathon, replied Socrates; but there is
yet one small question which I would fain ask:--Is not the good also the
beautiful?
Yes.
Then in wanting the beautiful, love wants also the good?
I cannot refute you, Socrates, said Agathon:--Let us assume that what
you say is true.
Say rather, beloved Agathon, that you cannot refute the truth; for
Socrates is easily refuted.
And now, taking my leave of you, I would rehearse a tale of love which I
heard from Diotima of Mantineia (compare 1 Alcibiades), a woman wise in
this and in many other kinds of knowledge, who in the days of old, when
the Athenians offered sacrifice before the coming of the plague, delayed
the disease ten years. She was my instructress in the art of love, and
I shall repeat to you what she said to me, beginning with the admissions
made by Agathon, which are nearly if not quite the same which I made
to the wise woman when she questioned me: I think that this will be
the easiest way, and I shall take both parts myself as well as I can
(compare Gorgias). As you, Agathon, suggested (supra), I must speak
first of the being and nature of Love, and then of his works. First I
said to her in nearly the same words which he used to me, that Love was
a mighty god, and likewise fair; and she proved to me as I proved to him
that, by my own showing, Love was neither fair nor good. 'What do you
mean, Diotima,' I said, 'is love then evil and foul?' 'Hush,' she cried;
'must that be foul which is not fair?' 'Certainly,' I said. 'And is that
which is not wise, ignorant? do you not see that there is a mean between
wisdom and ignorance?' 'And what may that be?' I said. 'Right opinion,'
she replied; 'which, as you know, being incapable of giving a reason,
is not knowledge (for how can knowledge be devoid of reason? nor again,
ignorance, for neither can ignorance attain the truth), but is clearly
something which is a mean between ignorance and wisdom.' 'Quite true,'
I replied. 'Do not then insist,' she said, 'that what is not fair is of
necessity foul, or what is not good evil; or infer that because love
is not fair and good he is therefore foul and evil; for he is in a mean
between them.' 'Well,' I said, 'Love is surely admitted by all to be a
great god.' 'By those who know or by those who do not know?' 'By all.'
'And how, Socrates,' she said with a smile, 'can Love be acknowledged to
be a great god by those who say that he is not a god at all?' 'And who
are they?' I said. 'You and I are two of them,' she replied. 'How can
that be?' I said. 'It is quite intelligible,' she replied; 'for you
yourself would acknowledge that the gods are happy and fair--of course
you would--would you dare to say that any god was not?' 'Certainly not,'
I replied. 'And you mean by the happy, those who are the possessors of
things good or fair?' 'Yes.' 'And you admitted that Love, because he
was in want, desires those good and fair things of which he is in want?'
'Yes, I did.' 'But how can he be a god who has no portion in what is
either good or fair?' 'Impossible.' 'Then you see that you also deny the
divinity of Love.'
'What then is Love?' I asked; 'Is he mortal?' 'No.' 'What then?' 'As in