The Republic
of the human understanding—there is the beauty of them—and the apparent
greater or less, or more or heavier, no longer have the mastery over
us, but give way before calculation and measure and weight?
Most true.
And this, surely, must be the work of the calculating and rational
principle in the soul?
To be sure.
And when this principle measures and certifies that some things are
equal, or that some are greater or less than others, there occurs an
apparent contradiction?
True.
But were we not saying that such a contradiction is impossible—the same
faculty cannot have contrary opinions at the same time about the same
thing?
Very true.
Then that part of the soul which has an opinion contrary to measure is
not the same with that which has an opinion in accordance with measure?
True.
And the better part of the soul is likely to be that which trusts to
measure and calculation?
Certainly.
And that which is opposed to them is one of the inferior principles of
the soul?
No doubt.
This was the conclusion at which I was seeking to arrive when I said
that painting or drawing, and imitation in general, when doing their
own proper work, are far removed from truth, and the companions and
friends and associates of a principle within us which is equally
removed from reason, and that they have no true or healthy aim.
Exactly.
The imitative art is an inferior who marries an inferior, and has
inferior offspring.
Very true.
And is this confined to the sight only, or does it extend to the
hearing also, relating in fact to what we term poetry?
Probably the same would be true of poetry.
Do not rely, I said, on a probability derived from the analogy of
painting; but let us examine further and see whether the faculty with
which poetical imitation is concerned is good or bad.
By all means.
We may state the question thus:—Imitation imitates the actions of men,
whether voluntary or involuntary, on which, as they imagine, a good or
bad result has ensued, and they rejoice or sorrow accordingly. Is there
anything more?
No, there is nothing else.
But in all this variety of circumstances is the man at unity with
himself—or rather, as in the instance of sight there was confusion and
opposition in his opinions about the same things, so here also is there
not strife and inconsistency in his life? Though I need hardly raise
the question again, for I remember that all this has been already
admitted; and the soul has been acknowledged by us to be full of these
and ten thousand similar oppositions occurring at the same moment?
And we were right, he said.
Yes, I said, thus far we were right; but there was an omission which
must now be supplied.
What was the omission?
Were we not saying that a good man, who has the misfortune to lose his
son or anything else which is most dear to him, will bear the loss with
more equanimity than another?
Yes.
But will he have no sorrow, or shall we say that although he cannot
help sorrowing, he will moderate his sorrow?
The latter, he said, is the truer statement.
Tell me: will he be more likely to struggle and hold out against his
sorrow when he is seen by his equals, or when he is alone?
It will make a great difference whether he is seen or not.
When he is by himself he will not mind saying or doing many things
which he would be ashamed of any one hearing or seeing him do?
True.
There is a principle of law and reason in him which bids him resist, as
well as a feeling of his misfortune which is forcing him to indulge his
sorrow?
True.
But when a man is drawn in two opposite directions, to and from the
same object, this, as we affirm, necessarily implies two distinct
principles in him?
Certainly.
One of them is ready to follow the guidance of the law?
How do you mean?
The law would say that to be patient under suffering is best, and that
we should not give way to impatience, as there is no knowing whether
such things are good or evil; and nothing is gained by impatience;
also, because no human thing is of serious importance, and grief stands
in the way of that which at the moment is most required.
What is most required? he asked.
That we should take counsel about what has happened, and when the dice
have been thrown order our affairs in the way which reason deems best;
not, like children who have had a fall, keeping hold of the part struck
and wasting time in setting up a howl, but always accustoming the soul
forthwith to apply a remedy, raising up that which is sickly and
fallen, banishing the cry of sorrow by the healing art.
Yes, he said, that is the true way of meeting the attacks of fortune.
Yes, I said; and the higher principle is ready to follow this
suggestion of reason?
Clearly.
And the other principle, which inclines us to recollection of our
troubles and to lamentation, and can never have enough of them, we may
call irrational, useless, and cowardly?
Indeed, we may.
And does not the latter—I mean the rebellious principle—furnish a great
variety of materials for imitation? Whereas the wise and calm
temperament, being always nearly equable, is not easy to imitate or to
appreciate when imitated, especially at a public festival when a
promiscuous crowd is assembled in a theatre. For the feeling
represented is one to which they are strangers.
Certainly.
Then the imitative poet who aims at being popular is not by nature
made, nor is his art intended, to please or to affect the rational
principle in the soul; but he will prefer the passionate and fitful
temper, which is easily imitated?
Clearly.
And now we may fairly take him and place him by the side of the
painter, for he is like him in two ways: first, inasmuch as his
creations have an inferior degree of truth—in this, I say, he is like
him; and he is also like him in being concerned with an inferior part
of the soul; and therefore we shall be right in refusing to admit him
into a well-ordered State, because he awakens and nourishes and
strengthens the feelings and impairs the reason. As in a city when the
evil are permitted to have authority and the good are put out of the
way, so in the soul of man, as we maintain, the imitative poet implants
an evil constitution, for he indulges the irrational nature which has
no discernment of greater and less, but thinks the same thing at one
time great and at another small—he is a manufacturer of images and is
very far removed from the truth.
Exactly.
But we have not yet brought forward the heaviest count in our
accusation:—the power which poetry has of harming even the good (and
there are very few who are not harmed), is surely an awful thing?
Yes, certainly, if the effect is what you say.
Hear and judge: The best of us, as I conceive, when we listen to a
passage of Homer, or one of the tragedians, in which he represents some
pitiful hero who is drawling out his sorrows in a long oration, or
weeping, and smiting his breast—the best of us, you know, delight in
giving way to sympathy, and are in raptures at the excellence of the
poet who stirs our feelings most.
Yes, of course I know.
But when any sorrow of our own happens to us, then you may observe that
we pride ourselves on the opposite quality—we would fain be quiet and
patient; this is the manly part, and the other which delighted us in
the recitation is now deemed to be the part of a woman.
Very true, he said.
Now can we be right in praising and admiring another who is doing that
which any one of us would abominate and be ashamed of in his own
person?
No, he said, that is certainly not reasonable.
Nay, I said, quite reasonable from one point of view.
What point of view?
If you consider, I said, that when in misfortune we feel a natural
hunger and desire to relieve our sorrow by weeping and lamentation, and
that this feeling which is kept under control in our own calamities is
satisfied and delighted by the poets;—the better nature in each of us,
not having been sufficiently trained by reason or habit, allows the
sympathetic element to break loose because the sorrow is another’s; and
the spectator fancies that there can be no disgrace to himself in
praising and pitying any one who comes telling him what a good man he
is, and making a fuss about his troubles; he thinks that the pleasure
is a gain, and why should he be supercilious and lose this and the poem
too? Few persons ever reflect, as I should imagine, that from the evil
of other men something of evil is communicated to themselves. And so
the feeling of sorrow which has gathered strength at the sight of the
misfortunes of others is with difficulty repressed in our own.
How very true!
And does not the same hold also of the ridiculous? There are jests
which you would be ashamed to make yourself, and yet on the comic
stage, or indeed in private, when you hear them, you are greatly amused
by them, and are not at all disgusted at their unseemliness;—the case
of pity is repeated;—there is a principle in human nature which is
disposed to raise a laugh, and this which you once restrained by
reason, because you were afraid of being thought a buffoon, is now let
out again; and having stimulated the risible faculty at the theatre,
you are betrayed unconsciously to yourself into playing the comic poet
at home.
Quite true, he said.
And the same may be said of lust and anger and all the other
affections, of desire and pain and pleasure, which are held to be
inseparable from every action—in all of them poetry feeds and waters
the passions instead of drying them up; she lets them rule, although
they ought to be controlled, if mankind are ever to increase in
happiness and virtue.
I cannot deny it.
Therefore, Glaucon, I said, whenever you meet with any of the eulogists
of Homer declaring that he has been the educator of Hellas, and that he
is profitable for education and for the ordering of human things, and
that you should take him up again and again and get to know him and
regulate your whole life according to him, we may love and honour those
who say these things—they are excellent people, as far as their lights
extend; and we are ready to acknowledge that Homer is the greatest of
poets and first of tragedy writers; but we must remain firm in our
conviction that hymns to the gods and praises of famous men are the
only poetry which ought to be admitted into our State. For if you go
beyond this and allow the honeyed muse to enter, either in epic or
lyric verse, not law and the reason of mankind, which by common consent
have ever been deemed best, but pleasure and pain will be the rulers in
our State.
That is most true, he said.
And now since we have reverted to the subject of poetry, let this our
defence serve to show the reasonableness of our former judgment in
sending away out of our State an art having the tendencies which we
have described; for reason constrained us. But that she may not impute
to us any harshness or want of politeness, let us tell her that there
is an ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry; of which there are
many proofs, such as the saying of ‘the yelping hound howling at her
lord,’ or of one ‘mighty in the vain talk of fools,’ and ‘the mob of
sages circumventing Zeus,’ and the ‘subtle thinkers who are beggars
after all’; and there are innumerable other signs of ancient enmity
between them. Notwithstanding this, let us assure our sweet friend and
the sister arts of imitation, that if she will only prove her title to
exist in a well-ordered State we shall be delighted to receive her—we
are very conscious of her charms; but we may not on that account betray
the truth. I dare say, Glaucon, that you are as much charmed by her as
I am, especially when she appears in Homer?
Yes, indeed, I am greatly charmed.