The Republic
infer that Homer and all the poets are only imitators, who do but
imitate the appearances of things. For as a painter by a knowledge of
figure and colour can paint a cobbler without any practice in cobbling,
so the poet can delineate any art in the colours of language, and give
harmony and rhythm to the cobbler and also to the general; and you know
how mere narration, when deprived of the ornaments of metre, is like a
face which has lost the beauty of youth and never had any other. Once
more, the imitator has no knowledge of reality, but only of appearance.
The painter paints, and the artificer makes a bridle and reins, but
neither understands the use of them—the knowledge of this is confined
to the horseman; and so of other things. Thus we have three arts: one
of use, another of invention, a third of imitation; and the user
furnishes the rule to the two others. The flute-player will know the
good and bad flute, and the maker will put faith in him; but the
imitator will neither know nor have faith—neither science nor true
opinion can be ascribed to him. Imitation, then, is devoid of
knowledge, being only a kind of play or sport, and the tragic and epic
poets are imitators in the highest degree.
And now let us enquire, what is the faculty in man which answers to
imitation. Allow me to explain my meaning: Objects are differently seen
when in the water and when out of the water, when near and when at a
distance; and the painter or juggler makes use of this variation to
impose upon us. And the art of measuring and weighing and calculating
comes in to save our bewildered minds from the power of appearance;
for, as we were saying, two contrary opinions of the same about the
same and at the same time, cannot both of them be true. But which of
them is true is determined by the art of calculation; and this is
allied to the better faculty in the soul, as the arts of imitation are
to the worse. And the same holds of the ear as well as of the eye, of
poetry as well as painting. The imitation is of actions voluntary or
involuntary, in which there is an expectation of a good or bad result,
and present experience of pleasure and pain. But is a man in harmony
with himself when he is the subject of these conflicting influences? Is
there not rather a contradiction in him? Let me further ask, whether he
is more likely to control sorrow when he is alone or when he is in
company. ‘In the latter case.’ Feeling would lead him to indulge his
sorrow, but reason and law control him and enjoin patience; since he
cannot know whether his affliction is good or evil, and no human thing
is of any great consequence, while sorrow is certainly a hindrance to
good counsel. For when we stumble, we should not, like children, make
an uproar; we should take the measures which reason prescribes, not
raising a lament, but finding a cure. And the better part of us is
ready to follow reason, while the irrational principle is full of
sorrow and distraction at the recollection of our troubles.
Unfortunately, however, this latter furnishes the chief materials of
the imitative arts. Whereas reason is ever in repose and cannot easily
be displayed, especially to a mixed multitude who have no experience of
her. Thus the poet is like the painter in two ways: first he paints an
inferior degree of truth, and secondly, he is concerned with an
inferior part of the soul. He indulges the feelings, while he enfeebles
the reason; and we refuse to allow him to have authority over the mind
of man; for he has no measure of greater and less, and is a maker of
images and very far gone from truth.
But we have not yet mentioned the heaviest count in the indictment—the
power which poetry has of injuriously exciting the feelings. When we
hear some passage in which a hero laments his sufferings at tedious
length, you know that we sympathize with him and praise the poet; and
yet in our own sorrows such an exhibition of feeling is regarded as
effeminate and unmanly (Ion). Now, ought a man to feel pleasure in
seeing another do what he hates and abominates in himself? Is he not
giving way to a sentiment which in his own case he would control?—he is
off his guard because the sorrow is another’s; and he thinks that he
may indulge his feelings without disgrace, and will be the gainer by
the pleasure. But the inevitable consequence is that he who begins by
weeping at the sorrows of others, will end by weeping at his own. The
same is true of comedy,—you may often laugh at buffoonery which you
would be ashamed to utter, and the love of coarse merriment on the
stage will at last turn you into a buffoon at home. Poetry feeds and
waters the passions and desires; she lets them rule instead of ruling
them. And therefore, when we hear the encomiasts of Homer affirming
that he is the educator of Hellas, and that all life should be
regulated by his precepts, we may allow the excellence of their
intentions, and agree with them in thinking Homer a great poet and
tragedian. But we shall continue to prohibit all poetry which goes
beyond hymns to the Gods and praises of famous men. Not pleasure and
pain, but law and reason shall rule in our State.
These are our grounds for expelling poetry; but lest she should charge
us with discourtesy, let us also make an apology to her. We will remind
her that there is an ancient quarrel between poetry and philosophy, of
which there are many traces in the writings of the poets, such as the
saying of ‘the she-dog, yelping at her mistress,’ and ‘the philosophers
who are ready to circumvent Zeus,’ and ‘the philosophers who are
paupers.’ Nevertheless we bear her no ill-will, and will gladly allow
her to return upon condition that she makes a defence of herself in
verse; and her supporters who are not poets may speak in prose. We
confess her charms; but if she cannot show that she is useful as well
as delightful, like rational lovers, we must renounce our love, though
endeared to us by early associations. Having come to years of
discretion, we know that poetry is not truth, and that a man should be
careful how he introduces her to that state or constitution which he
himself is; for there is a mighty issue at stake—no less than the good
or evil of a human soul. And it is not worth while to forsake justice
and virtue for the attractions of poetry, any more than for the sake of
honour or wealth. ‘I agree with you.’
And yet the rewards of virtue are greater far than I have described.
‘And can we conceive things greater still?’ Not, perhaps, in this brief
span of life: but should an immortal being care about anything short of
eternity? ‘I do not understand what you mean?’ Do you not know that the
soul is immortal? ‘Surely you are not prepared to prove that?’ Indeed I
am. ‘Then let me hear this argument, of which you make so light.’
You would admit that everything has an element of good and of evil. In
all things there is an inherent corruption; and if this cannot destroy
them, nothing else will. The soul too has her own corrupting
principles, which are injustice, intemperance, cowardice, and the like.
But none of these destroy the soul in the same sense that disease
destroys the body. The soul may be full of all iniquities, but is not,
by reason of them, brought any nearer to death. Nothing which was not
destroyed from within ever perished by external affection of evil. The
body, which is one thing, cannot be destroyed by food, which is
another, unless the badness of the food is communicated to the body.
Neither can the soul, which is one thing, be corrupted by the body,
which is another, unless she herself is infected. And as no bodily evil
can infect the soul, neither can any bodily evil, whether disease or
violence, or any other destroy the soul, unless it can be shown to
render her unholy and unjust. But no one will ever prove that the souls
of men become more unjust when they die. If a person has the audacity
to say the contrary, the answer is—Then why do criminals require the
hand of the executioner, and not die of themselves? ‘Truly,’ he said,
‘injustice would not be very terrible if it brought a cessation of
evil; but I rather believe that the injustice which murders others may
tend to quicken and stimulate the life of the unjust.’ You are quite
right. If sin which is her own natural and inherent evil cannot destroy
the soul, hardly will anything else destroy her. But the soul which
cannot be destroyed either by internal or external evil must be
immortal and everlasting. And if this be true, souls will always exist
in the same number. They cannot diminish, because they cannot be
destroyed; nor yet increase, for the increase of the immortal must come
from something mortal, and so all would end in immortality. Neither is
the soul variable and diverse; for that which is immortal must be of
the fairest and simplest composition. If we would conceive her truly,
and so behold justice and injustice in their own nature, she must be
viewed by the light of reason pure as at birth, or as she is reflected
in philosophy when holding converse with the divine and immortal and
eternal. In her present condition we see her only like the sea-god
Glaucus, bruised and maimed in the sea which is the world, and covered
with shells and stones which are incrusted upon her from the
entertainments of earth.
Thus far, as the argument required, we have said nothing of the rewards
and honours which the poets attribute to justice; we have contented
ourselves with showing that justice in herself is best for the soul in
herself, even if a man should put on a Gyges’ ring and have the helmet
of Hades too. And now you shall repay me what you borrowed; and I will
enumerate the rewards of justice in life and after death. I granted,
for the sake of argument, as you will remember, that evil might perhaps
escape the knowledge of Gods and men, although this was really
impossible. And since I have shown that justice has reality, you must
grant me also that she has the palm of appearance. In the first place,
the just man is known to the Gods, and he is therefore the friend of
the Gods, and he will receive at their hands every good, always
excepting such evil as is the necessary consequence of former sins. All
things end in good to him, either in life or after death, even what
appears to be evil; for the Gods have a care of him who desires to be
in their likeness. And what shall we say of men? Is not honesty the
best policy? The clever rogue makes a great start at first, but breaks
down before he reaches the goal, and slinks away in dishonour; whereas
the true runner perseveres to the end, and receives the prize. And you
must allow me to repeat all the blessings which you attributed to the
fortunate unjust—they bear rule in the city, they marry and give in
marriage to whom they will; and the evils which you attributed to the
unfortunate just, do really fall in the end on the unjust, although, as
you implied, their sufferings are better veiled in silence.
But all the blessings of this present life are as nothing when compared
with those which await good men after death. ‘I should like to hear
about them.’ Come, then, and I will tell you the story of Er, the son
of Armenius, a valiant man. He was supposed to have died in battle, but
ten days afterwards his body was found untouched by corruption and sent
home for burial. On the twelfth day he was placed on the funeral pyre
and there he came to life again, and told what he had seen in the world
below. He said that his soul went with a great company to a place, in
which there were two chasms near together in the earth beneath, and two
corresponding chasms in the heaven above. And there were judges sitting
in the intermediate space, bidding the just ascend by the heavenly way
on the right hand, having the seal of their judgment set upon them