The Republic
beauty, nor can follow any guide who points the way thither; who see
the many just, and not absolute justice, and the like,—such persons may
be said to have opinion but not knowledge?
That is certain.
But those who see the absolute and eternal and immutable may be said to
know, and not to have opinion only?
Neither can that be denied.
The one love and embrace the subjects of knowledge, the other those of
opinion? The latter are the same, as I dare say you will remember, who
listened to sweet sounds and gazed upon fair colours, but would not
tolerate the existence of absolute beauty.
Yes, I remember.
Shall we then be guilty of any impropriety in calling them lovers of
opinion rather than lovers of wisdom, and will they be very angry with
us for thus describing them?
I shall tell them not to be angry; no man should be angry at what is
true.
But those who love the truth in each thing are to be called lovers of
wisdom and not lovers of opinion.
Assuredly.
BOOK VI.
And thus, Glaucon, after the argument has gone a weary way, the true
and the false philosophers have at length appeared in view.
I do not think, he said, that the way could have been shortened.
I suppose not, I said; and yet I believe that we might have had a
better view of both of them if the discussion could have been confined
to this one subject and if there were not many other questions awaiting
us, which he who desires to see in what respect the life of the just
differs from that of the unjust must consider.
And what is the next question? he asked.
Surely, I said, the one which follows next in order. Inasmuch as
philosophers only are able to grasp the eternal and unchangeable, and
those who wander in the region of the many and variable are not
philosophers, I must ask you which of the two classes should be the
rulers of our State?
And how can we rightly answer that question?
Whichever of the two are best able to guard the laws and institutions
of our State—let them be our guardians.
Very good.
Neither, I said, can there be any question that the guardian who is to
keep anything should have eyes rather than no eyes?
There can be no question of that.
And are not those who are verily and indeed wanting in the knowledge of
the true being of each thing, and who have in their souls no clear
pattern, and are unable as with a painter’s eye to look at the absolute
truth and to that original to repair, and having perfect vision of the
other world to order the laws about beauty, goodness, justice in this,
if not already ordered, and to guard and preserve the order of them—are
not such persons, I ask, simply blind?
Truly, he replied, they are much in that condition.
And shall they be our guardians when there are others who, besides
being their equals in experience and falling short of them in no
particular of virtue, also know the very truth of each thing?
There can be no reason, he said, for rejecting those who have this
greatest of all great qualities; they must always have the first place
unless they fail in some other respect.
Suppose then, I said, that we determine how far they can unite this and
the other excellences.
By all means.
In the first place, as we began by observing, the nature of the
philosopher has to be ascertained. We must come to an understanding
about him, and, when we have done so, then, if I am not mistaken, we
shall also acknowledge that such an union of qualities is possible, and
that those in whom they are united, and those only, should be rulers in
the State.
What do you mean?
Let us suppose that philosophical minds always love knowledge of a sort
which shows them the eternal nature not varying from generation and
corruption.
Agreed.
And further, I said, let us agree that they are lovers of all true
being; there is no part whether greater or less, or more or less
honourable, which they are willing to renounce; as we said before of
the lover and the man of ambition.
True.
And if they are to be what we were describing, is there not another
quality which they should also possess?
What quality?
Truthfulness: they will never intentionally receive into their mind
falsehood, which is their detestation, and they will love the truth.
Yes, that may be safely affirmed of them.
‘May be,’ my friend, I replied, is not the word; say rather ‘must be
affirmed:’ for he whose nature is amorous of anything cannot help
loving all that belongs or is akin to the object of his affections.
Right, he said.
And is there anything more akin to wisdom than truth?
How can there be?
Can the same nature be a lover of wisdom and a lover of falsehood?
Never.
The true lover of learning then must from his earliest youth, as far as
in him lies, desire all truth?
Assuredly.
But then again, as we know by experience, he whose desires are strong
in one direction will have them weaker in others; they will be like a
stream which has been drawn off into another channel.
True.
He whose desires are drawn towards knowledge in every form will be
absorbed in the pleasures of the soul, and will hardly feel bodily
pleasure—I mean, if he be a true philosopher and not a sham one.
That is most certain.
Such an one is sure to be temperate and the reverse of covetous; for
the motives which make another man desirous of having and spending,
have no place in his character.
Very true.
Another criterion of the philosophical nature has also to be
considered.
What is that?
There should be no secret corner of illiberality; nothing can be more
antagonistic than meanness to a soul which is ever longing after the
whole of things both divine and human.
Most true, he replied.
Then how can he who has magnificence of mind and is the spectator of
all time and all existence, think much of human life?
He cannot.
Or can such an one account death fearful?
No indeed.
Then the cowardly and mean nature has no part in true philosophy?
Certainly not.
Or again: can he who is harmoniously constituted, who is not covetous
or mean, or a boaster, or a coward—can he, I say, ever be unjust or
hard in his dealings?
Impossible.
Then you will soon observe whether a man is just and gentle, or rude
and unsociable; these are the signs which distinguish even in youth the
philosophical nature from the unphilosophical.
True.
There is another point which should be remarked.
What point?
Whether he has or has not a pleasure in learning; for no one will love
that which gives him pain, and in which after much toil he makes little
progress.
Certainly not.
And again, if he is forgetful and retains nothing of what he learns,
will he not be an empty vessel?
That is certain.
Labouring in vain, he must end in hating himself and his fruitless
occupation? Yes.
Then a soul which forgets cannot be ranked among genuine philosophic
natures; we must insist that the philosopher should have a good memory?
Certainly.
And once more, the inharmonious and unseemly nature can only tend to
disproportion?
Undoubtedly.
And do you consider truth to be akin to proportion or to disproportion?
To proportion.
Then, besides other qualities, we must try to find a naturally
well-proportioned and gracious mind, which will move spontaneously
towards the true being of everything.
Certainly.
Well, and do not all these qualities, which we have been enumerating,
go together, and are they not, in a manner, necessary to a soul, which
is to have a full and perfect participation of being?
They are absolutely necessary, he replied.
And must not that be a blameless study which he only can pursue who has
the gift of a good memory, and is quick to learn,—noble, gracious, the
friend of truth, justice, courage, temperance, who are his kindred?
The god of jealousy himself, he said, could find no fault with such a
study.
And to men like him, I said, when perfected by years and education, and
to these only you will entrust the State.
Here Adeimantus interposed and said: To these statements, Socrates, no
one can offer a reply; but when you talk in this way, a strange feeling
passes over the minds of your hearers: They fancy that they are led
astray a little at each step in the argument, owing to their own want
of skill in asking and answering questions; these littles accumulate,
and at the end of the discussion they are found to have sustained a
mighty overthrow and all their former notions appear to be turned
upside down. And as unskilful players of draughts are at last shut up
by their more skilful adversaries and have no piece to move, so they
too find themselves shut up at last; for they have nothing to say in
this new game of which words are the counters; and yet all the time
they are in the right. The observation is suggested to me by what is
now occurring. For any one of us might say, that although in words he
is not able to meet you at each step of the argument, he sees as a fact
that the votaries of philosophy, when they carry on the study, not only
in youth as a part of education, but as the pursuit of their maturer
years, most of them become strange monsters, not to say utter rogues,
and that those who may be considered the best of them are made useless
to the world by the very study which you extol.
Well, and do you think that those who say so are wrong?
I cannot tell, he replied; but I should like to know what is your
opinion.
Hear my answer; I am of opinion that they are quite right.
Then how can you be justified in saying that cities will not cease from
evil until philosophers rule in them, when philosophers are
acknowledged by us to be of no use to them?
You ask a question, I said, to which a reply can only be given in a
parable.
Yes, Socrates; and that is a way of speaking to which you are not at
all accustomed, I suppose.
I perceive, I said, that you are vastly amused at having plunged me
into such a hopeless discussion; but now hear the parable, and then you
will be still more amused at the meagreness of my imagination: for the
manner in which the best men are treated in their own States is so
grievous that no single thing on earth is comparable to it; and
therefore, if I am to plead their cause, I must have recourse to
fiction, and put together a figure made up of many things, like the
fabulous unions of goats and stags which are found in pictures. Imagine
then a fleet or a ship in which there is a captain who is taller and
stronger than any of the crew, but he is a little deaf and has a
similar infirmity in sight, and his knowledge of navigation is not much
better. The sailors are quarrelling with one another about the
steering—every one is of opinion that he has a right to steer, though
he has never learned the art of navigation and cannot tell who taught
him or when he learned, and will further assert that it cannot be
taught, and they are ready to cut in pieces any one who says the
contrary. They throng about the captain, begging and praying him to
commit the helm to them; and if at any time they do not prevail, but
others are preferred to them, they kill the others or throw them
overboard, and having first chained up the noble captain’s senses with
drink or some narcotic drug, they mutiny and take possession of the
ship and make free with the stores; thus, eating and drinking, they
proceed on their voyage in such manner as might be expected of them.
Him who is their partisan and cleverly aids them in their plot for
getting the ship out of the captain’s hands into their own whether by
force or persuasion, they compliment with the name of sailor, pilot,
able seaman, and abuse the other sort of man, whom they call a
good-for-nothing; but that the true pilot must pay attention to the