The Republic
Shall I propose, then, that she be allowed to return from exile, but
upon this condition only—that she make a defence of herself in lyrical
or some other metre?
Certainly.
And we may further grant to those of her defenders who are lovers of
poetry and yet not poets the permission to speak in prose on her
behalf: let them show not only that she is pleasant but also useful to
States and to human life, and we will listen in a kindly spirit; for if
this can be proved we shall surely be the gainers—I mean, if there is a
use in poetry as well as a delight?
Certainly, he said, we shall be the gainers.
If her defence fails, then, my dear friend, like other persons who are
enamoured of something, but put a restraint upon themselves when they
think their desires are opposed to their interests, so too must we
after the manner of lovers give her up, though not without a struggle.
We too are inspired by that love of poetry which the education of noble
States has implanted in us, and therefore we would have her appear at
her best and truest; but so long as she is unable to make good her
defence, this argument of ours shall be a charm to us, which we will
repeat to ourselves while we listen to her strains; that we may not
fall away into the childish love of her which captivates the many. At
all events we are well aware that poetry being such as we have
described is not to be regarded seriously as attaining to the truth;
and he who listens to her, fearing for the safety of the city which is
within him, should be on his guard against her seductions and make our
words his law.
Yes, he said, I quite agree with you.
Yes, I said, my dear Glaucon, for great is the issue at stake, greater
than appears, whether a man is to be good or bad. And what will any one
be profited if under the influence of honour or money or power, aye, or
under the excitement of poetry, he neglect justice and virtue?
Yes, he said; I have been convinced by the argument, as I believe that
any one else would have been.
And yet no mention has been made of the greatest prizes and rewards
which await virtue.
What, are there any greater still? If there are, they must be of an
inconceivable greatness.
Why, I said, what was ever great in a short time? The whole period of
three score years and ten is surely but a little thing in comparison
with eternity?
Say rather ‘nothing,’ he replied.
And should an immortal being seriously think of this little space
rather than of the whole?
Of the whole, certainly. But why do you ask?
Are you not aware, I said, that the soul of man is immortal and
imperishable?
He looked at me in astonishment, and said: No, by heaven: And are you
really prepared to maintain this?
Yes, I said, I ought to be, and you too—there is no difficulty in
proving it.
I see a great difficulty; but I should like to hear you state this
argument of which you make so light.
Listen then.
I am attending.
There is a thing which you call good and another which you call evil?
Yes, he replied.
Would you agree with me in thinking that the corrupting and destroying
element is the evil, and the saving and improving element the good?
Yes.
And you admit that every thing has a good and also an evil; as
ophthalmia is the evil of the eyes and disease of the whole body; as
mildew is of corn, and rot of timber, or rust of copper and iron: in
everything, or in almost everything, there is an inherent evil and
disease?
Yes, he said.
And anything which is infected by any of these evils is made evil, and
at last wholly dissolves and dies?
True.
The vice and evil which is inherent in each is the destruction of each;
and if this does not destroy them there is nothing else that will; for
good certainly will not destroy them, nor again, that which is neither
good nor evil.
Certainly not.
If, then, we find any nature which having this inherent corruption
cannot be dissolved or destroyed, we may be certain that of such a
nature there is no destruction?
That may be assumed.
Well, I said, and is there no evil which corrupts the soul?
Yes, he said, there are all the evils which we were just now passing in
review: unrighteousness, intemperance, cowardice, ignorance.
But does any of these dissolve or destroy her?—and here do not let us
fall into the error of supposing that the unjust and foolish man, when
he is detected, perishes through his own injustice, which is an evil of
the soul. Take the analogy of the body: The evil of the body is a
disease which wastes and reduces and annihilates the body; and all the
things of which we were just now speaking come to annihilation through
their own corruption attaching to them and inhering in them and so
destroying them. Is not this true?
Yes.
Consider the soul in like manner. Does the injustice or other evil
which exists in the soul waste and consume her? Do they by attaching to
the soul and inhering in her at last bring her to death, and so
separate her from the body?
Certainly not.
And yet, I said, it is unreasonable to suppose that anything can perish
from without through affection of external evil which could not be
destroyed from within by a corruption of its own?
It is, he replied.
Consider, I said, Glaucon, that even the badness of food, whether
staleness, decomposition, or any other bad quality, when confined to
the actual food, is not supposed to destroy the body; although, if the
badness of food communicates corruption to the body, then we should say
that the body has been destroyed by a corruption of itself, which is
disease, brought on by this; but that the body, being one thing, can be
destroyed by the badness of food, which is another, and which does not
engender any natural infection—this we shall absolutely deny?
Very true.
And, on the same principle, unless some bodily evil can produce an evil
of the soul, we must not suppose that the soul, which is one thing, can
be dissolved by any merely external evil which belongs to another?
Yes, he said, there is reason in that.
Either, then, let us refute this conclusion, or, while it remains
unrefuted, let us never say that fever, or any other disease, or the
knife put to the throat, or even the cutting up of the whole body into
the minutest pieces, can destroy the soul, until she herself is proved
to become more unholy or unrighteous in consequence of these things
being done to the body; but that the soul, or anything else if not
destroyed by an internal evil, can be destroyed by an external one, is
not to be affirmed by any man.
And surely, he replied, no one will ever prove that the souls of men
become more unjust in consequence of death.
But if some one who would rather not admit the immortality of the soul
boldly denies this, and says that the dying do really become more evil
and unrighteous, then, if the speaker is right, I suppose that
injustice, like disease, must be assumed to be fatal to the unjust, and
that those who take this disorder die by the natural inherent power of
destruction which evil has, and which kills them sooner or later, but
in quite another way from that in which, at present, the wicked receive
death at the hands of others as the penalty of their deeds?
Nay, he said, in that case injustice, if fatal to the unjust, will not
be so very terrible to him, for he will be delivered from evil. But I
rather suspect the opposite to be the truth, and that injustice which,
if it have the power, will murder others, keeps the murderer alive—aye,
and well awake too; so far removed is her dwelling-place from being a
house of death.
True, I said; if the inherent natural vice or evil of the soul is
unable to kill or destroy her, hardly will that which is appointed to
be the destruction of some other body, destroy a soul or anything else
except that of which it was appointed to be the destruction.
Yes, that can hardly be.
But the soul which cannot be destroyed by an evil, whether inherent or
external, must exist for ever, and if existing for ever, must be
immortal?
Certainly.
That is the conclusion, I said; and, if a true conclusion, then the
souls must always be the same, for if none be destroyed they will not
diminish in number. Neither will they increase, for the increase of the
immortal natures must come from something mortal, and all things would
thus end in immortality.
Very true.
But this we cannot believe—reason will not allow us—any more than we
can believe the soul, in her truest nature, to be full of variety and
difference and dissimilarity.
What do you mean? he said.
The soul, I said, being, as is now proven, immortal, must be the
fairest of compositions and cannot be compounded of many elements?
Certainly not.
Her immortality is demonstrated by the previous argument, and there are
many other proofs; but to see her as she really is, not as we now
behold her, marred by communion with the body and other miseries, you
must contemplate her with the eye of reason, in her original purity;
and then her beauty will be revealed, and justice and injustice and all
the things which we have described will be manifested more clearly.
Thus far, we have spoken the truth concerning her as she appears at
present, but we must remember also that we have seen her only in a
condition which may be compared to that of the sea-god Glaucus, whose
original image can hardly be discerned because his natural members are
broken off and crushed and damaged by the waves in all sorts of ways,
and incrustations have grown over them of seaweed and shells and
stones, so that he is more like some monster than he is to his own
natural form. And the soul which we behold is in a similar condition,
disfigured by ten thousand ills. But not there, Glaucon, not there must
we look.
Where then?
At her love of wisdom. Let us see whom she affects, and what society
and converse she seeks in virtue of her near kindred with the immortal
and eternal and divine; also how different she would become if wholly
following this superior principle, and borne by a divine impulse out of
the ocean in which she now is, and disengaged from the stones and
shells and things of earth and rock which in wild variety spring up
around her because she feeds upon earth, and is overgrown by the good
things of this life as they are termed: then you would see her as she
is, and know whether she have one shape only or many, or what her
nature is. Of her affections and of the forms which she takes in this
present life I think that we have now said enough.
True, he replied.
And thus, I said, we have fulfilled the conditions of the argument; we
have not introduced the rewards and glories of justice, which, as you
were saying, are to be found in Homer and Hesiod; but justice in her
own nature has been shown to be best for the soul in her own nature.
Let a man do what is just, whether he have the ring of Gyges or not,
and even if in addition to the ring of Gyges he put on the helmet of
Hades.
Very true.
And now, Glaucon, there will be no harm in further enumerating how many
and how great are the rewards which justice and the other virtues
procure to the soul from gods and men, both in life and after death.
Certainly not, he said.
Will you repay me, then, what you borrowed in the argument?
What did I borrow?
The assumption that the just man should appear unjust and the unjust
just: for you were of opinion that even if the true state of the case
could not possibly escape the eyes of gods and men, still this
admission ought to be made for the sake of the argument, in order that
pure justice might be weighed against pure injustice. Do you remember?
I should be much to blame if I had forgotten.
Then, as the cause is decided, I demand on behalf of justice that the