I 
 went down yesterday to the Peiraeus with
 Glaucon, the son of Ariston, to pay my devotions to the Goddess, and also
 because I wished to see how they would conduct the festival since this
 was its inauguration. I thought the
 procession of the citizens very fine, but it was no better than the
 show, made by the marching of the Thracian contingent.

After we had said our
 prayers and seen the spectacle we were starting for town when
 Polemarchus, the son of Cephalus, caught sight of us from a distance as
 we were hastening homeward and ordered his boy run and bid us to wait for him, and the boy caught hold of my himation from behind and said, “Polemarchus
 wants you to wait.” And I turned around and asked where his master was. “There he is,” he said,
 “behind you, coming this way. Wait for him.” “So we will,” said Glaucon,

and shortly after Polemarchus came up and Adeimantus,
 the brother of Glaucon, and Niceratus, the son of Nicias, and a few
 others apparently from the procession. Whereupon Polemarchus said,
 “Socrates, you appear to have turned your faces townward and to be going
 to leave us.” “Not a bad guess,” said I. “But you see how many we are?”
 he said. “Surely.” “You must either then prove yourselves the better
 men or
 stay here.” “Why, is there not left,” said I, “the alternative of our
 persuading you
 that you ought to let us go?” “But could you persuade us,” said he, “if
 we refused to listen?” “Nohow,” said Glaucon. “Well, we won’t listen,
 and you might as well make up your minds to it.” “Do you mean to say,”
 interposed Adeimantus,

“that you haven’t heard that there is to be a
 torchlight race this evening on horseback in honor of the Goddess?”
 “On horseback?” said I. “That is a new idea. Will they carry torches and
 pass them along to one another as they race with the horses, or how do
 you mean?” “That’s the way of it,” said Polemarchus, “and, besides,
 there is to be a night festival which will be worth seeing. For after
 dinner we will get up 
 and go out and see the sights and meet a lot of the lads there and have
 good talk. So stay

and do as we ask.” “It looks as if we should have to stay,” said Glaucon.
 “Well,” said I, “if it so be, so be it.” So we went with them to Polemarchus’s house, and there we found Lysias
 and Euthydemus, the brothers of Polemarchus, yes, and Thrasymachus, too, of Chalcedon, and
 Charmantides of the deme of Paeania, and Kleitophon the son of
 Aristonymus. And the father of Polemarchus, Cephalus, was also at
 home. And I thought him much aged,

for it was a long time since I had seen him. He was
 sitting on a sort of couch with cushions and he had a chaplet on his head, for he
 had just finished sacrificing in the court. So we went and sat down
 beside him, for there were seats there disposed in a circle. As
 soon as he saw me Cephalus greeted me and said, “You are not a very
 frequent visitor,
 Socrates. You don’t often come down to the Peiraeus to see us. That is
 not right. For if I were still able to make the journey up to town
 easily there would be no need of your resorting hither,

but we would go to visit you. But as it is you should
 not space too widely your visits here. For I would have you know that,
 for my part, as the satisfactions of the body decay, in the same measure my desire for the pleasures of good
 talk and my delight in them increase. Don’t refuse then, but be yourself
 a companion to these lads and make our house your resort and regard us
 as your very good friends and intimates.” “Why, yes, Cephalus,” said I,
 “and I enjoy talking with the very aged.

For to my thinking we have to learn of them as it were
 from wayfarers who have
 preceded us on a road on which we too, it may be, must some time
 fare—what it
 is like—is it rough and hard going
 or easy and pleasant to travel. And so now I would fain learn of you
 what you think of this thing, now that your time has come to it, the
 thing that the poets call ‘the threshold of old age.’ Is it a
 hard part of life to bear or what report have you to make of
 it?” “Yes, indeed, Socrates,” he said,
 “I will tell you my own feeling about it.

For it often happens that some of us elders of about
 the same age come together and verify the old saw of like to
 like. At these reunions most of us make lament, longing for the lost
 joys of youth and recalling to mind the pleasures of wine, women, and
 feasts, and other things thereto appertaining, and they repine in the
 belief that the greatest things have been taken from them and that then
 they lived well and now it is no life at all. 
 And some of them

complain of the indignities that friends and kinsmen
 put upon old age and thereto recite a doleful litany of all the miseries for which they blame old
 age. But in my opinion, Socrates, they do not put the blame on the real
 cause. For if it were the cause I too should have
 had the same experience so far as old age is concerned, and so would all
 others who have come to this time of life. But in fact I have ere now
 met with others who do not feel in this way, and in particular I
 remember hearing Sophocles the poet greeted by a fellow who
 asked,

’How about your service of Aphrodite, Sophocles—is your
 natural force still unabated?’ And he replied, ’Hush, man, most gladly
 have I escaped this thing you talk of, as if I had run away from a
 raging and savage beast of a master.’ I thought it a good answer then and
 now I think so still more. For in very truth there comes to old age a
 great tranquillity in such matters and a blessed release. When the
 fierce tensions of the passions and desires relax,
 then is the word of Sophocles approved,

and we are rid of many and mad masters. But indeed in respect of these
 complaints and in the matter of our relations with kinsmen and friends
 there is just one cause, Socrates—not old age, but the character of the
 man. For if men are temperate and cheerful even old age is only
 moderately burdensome. But if the reverse, old age, Socrates, and youth
 are hard for such dispositions.” And I was
 filled with admiration for the man by these words, and desirous of hearing
 more I tried to draw him out and said, “I fancy,

Cephalus, that most people, when they hear you talk in
 this way, are not convinced but think that you bear old age lightly not
 because of your character but because of your wealth. ‘For the rich,’
 they say, ‘have many consolations.’” “You are right,” he
 said. “They don’t accept my view and there is something in their
 objection, though not so much as they suppose. But the retort of
 Themistocles comes in pat here, who, when a man from the little island
 of Seriphus grew abusive and told him that he owed his fame not
 to himself

but to the city from which he came, replied that
 neither would he himself ever have made a name if he had been born in
 Seriphus nor the other if he had been an Athenian. And the same
 principle applies excellently to those who not being rich take old age
 hard; for neither would the reasonable man find it altogether easy to
 endure old age conjoined with poverty, nor would the unreasonable man by
 the attainment of riches ever attain to self-contentment and a cheerful
 temper.” “May I ask, Cephalus,” said I, “whether you inherited most of
 your possessions or acquired them yourself?” “Acquired, eh?” he
 said.

“As a moneymaker, I hold a place somewhere halfway
 between my grandfather and my father. For my grandfather and
 namesake inherited
 about as much property as I now possess and multiplied it many times, my
 father Lysanias reduced it below the present amount, and I am content if
 I shall leave the estate to these boys not less but by some slight
 measure more than my inheritance.” “The reason I asked,” I said, is that
 you appear to me not to be over-fond of money.

And that is generally the case with those who have not
 earned it themselves. But those who have themselves acquired it have
 a double reason in comparison with other men for loving it. For just as
 poets feel complacency about their own poems and fathers about their own
 sons, so men who have made money take this money
 seriously as their own creation and they also value it for its uses as
 other people do. So they are hard to talk to since they are unwilling to
 commend anything except wealth.”

“You are right,” he
 replied. “I assuredly am,” said I. “But tell me further this. What do
 you regard as the greatest benefit you have enjoyed from the possession
 of property?” “Something,” he said, “which I might not easily bring many
 to believe if I told them. For let me tell you, Socrates,” he said, “that when a
 man begins to realize that he is going to die, he is filled with
 apprehensions and concern about matters that before did not occur to
 him. The tales that are told of the world below and how the men who have
 done wrong here must pay the penalty there, though he may have laughed them down hitherto,

then begin to torture his soul with the doubt that
 there may be some truth in them. And apart from that the man
 himself either from
 the weakness of old age or possibly as being now nearer to the things
 beyond has a somewhat clearer view of them. Be that as it may, he is
 filled with doubt, surmises, and alarms and begins to reckon up and
 consider whether he has ever wronged anyone. Now he to whom the ledger
 of his life shows an account of many evil deeds starts up 
 even from his dreams like children again and again in affright and his
 days are haunted by anticipations of worse to come. But on him who is
 conscious of no wrong

that he has done a sweet hope ever attends and a
 goodly to be nurse of his old age, as Pindar too says. For a beautiful saying it is, Socrates, of
 the poet that when a man lives out his days in justice and piety 
 sweet companion with him, to cheer his heart and
 nurse his old age, accompanies 
 Hope, who chiefly rules the changeful mind of mortals. 
 
 Pindar Frag. 214, Loeb That is a
 fine saying and an admirable. It is for this, then, that I affirm that
 the possession of wealth is of most value

not it may be to every man but to the good man. Not to
 cheat any man even unintentionally or play him false, not remaining in
 debt to a god for some sacrifice or to a man for money, so to
 depart in fear to that other world—to this result the possession of
 property contributes not a little. It has also many other uses. But,
 setting one thing against another, I would lay it down, Socrates, that
 for a man of sense this is the chief service of wealth.” “An admirable
 sentiment, Cephalus,”

said I. “But speaking of this very thing, justice, are
 we to affirm thus without qualification that it is
 truth-telling and paying back what one has received from anyone, or may
 these very actions sometimes be just and sometimes unjust? I mean, for
 example, as everyone I presume would admit, if one took over weapons
 from a friend who was in his right mind and then the lender should go
 mad and demand them back, that we ought not to return them in that case
 and that he who did so return them would not be acting justly—nor yet
 would he who chose to speak nothing but the truth

to one who was in that state.” “You are right,” he
 replied. “Then this is not the definition of justice: to tell the truth
 and return what one has received.” “Nay, but it is, Socrates,” said
 Polemarchus breaking in, “if indeed we are to put any faith in
 Simonides.” “Very well,” said Cephalus, “indeed I make over the whole
 argument to you. For it is time for me to attend the sacrifices.”
 “Well,” said I, “is not Polemarchus the heir of everything that is
 yours?” “Certainly,” said he with a laugh, and at the same time went out
 to the sacred rites.

“Tell me, then, you the
 inheritor of the argument, what it is that you affirm that Simonides
 says and rightly says about justice.” “That it is just,” he replied, “to
 render to each his due. In
 saying this I think he speaks well.” “I must admit,” said I, “that it is
 not easy to disbelieve Simonides. For he is a wise and inspired
 man. But just what he may mean by this you, Polemarchus,
 doubtless know, but I do not. Obviously he does not mean what we were
 just speaking of, this return of a deposit to anyone whatsoever even if he
 asks it back when not in his right mind. And yet what the man deposited

is due to him in a sense, is it not?” “Yes.” “But
 rendered to him it ought not to be by any manner of means when he
 demands it not being his right mind.” “True,” said he. “It is then
 something other than this that Simonides must, as it seems, mean by the
 saying that it is just to render back what is due.” “Something else in
 very deed,” he replied, “for he believes that friends owe it to friends
 to do them some good and no evil.” “I see,” said I; “you mean that he does not render what is
 due or owing who returns a deposit of gold

if this return and the acceptance prove harmful and the
 returner and the recipient are friends. Isn’t that what you say
 Simonides means?” “Quite so.” “But how about this—should one not render
 to enemies what is their due?” “By all means,” he said, “what is
 due and owing to them, and there is due and owing from
 an enemy to an enemy what also is proper for him, some evil.” “It was a riddling definition of justice, then, that Simonides gave after
 the manner of poets; for while his meaning,

it seems, was that justice is rendering to each what
 befits him, the name that he gave to this was the due.’” “What else do
 you suppose?” said he. “In heaven’s name!” said I, “suppose someone had questioned him thus: ’Tell me,
 Simonides, the art that renders what that is due and befitting to what
 is called the art of medicine.’ What do you take it would
 have been his answer?” “Obviously,” he said, “the art that renders to
 bodies drugs, foods, and drinks.” “And the art that renders to what
 things what that is due and befitting is called the culinary
 art?”

“Seasoning to meats.” “Good. In the same way tell me
 the art that renders what to whom would be denominated justice.” “If we
 are to follow the previous examples, Socrates, it is that which renders benefits and harms to
 friends and enemies.” “To do good to friends and evil to enemies, then, is justice in his meaning?” “I think
 so.” “Who then is the most able when they are ill to benefit friends and
 harm enemies in respect to disease and health?” “The physician.”

“And who navigators in respect of the perils of the
 sea?” “The pilot.” “Well then, the just man, in what action and for what
 work is he the most competent to benefit friends and harm enemies?” “In
 making war and as an ally, I should say.” “Very well. But now if they
 are not sick, friend Polemarchus, the physician is useless to them.”
 “True.” “And so to those who are not at sea the pilot.” “Yes.” “Shall we
 also say this that for those who are not at war the just man is
 useless?” “By no means.” “There is a use then even in peace for
 justice?”

“Yes, it is useful.” “But so is agriculture, isn’t it?”
 “Yes.” “Namely, for the getting of a harvest?” “Yes.” “But likewise the
 cobbler’s art?” “Yes.” “Namely, I presume you would say, for the getting
 of shoes.” “Certainly.” “Then tell me, for the service and getting of
 what would you say that justice is useful in time of peace?” “In
 engagements and dealings, Socrates.” “And by dealings do you mean
 associations, partnerships, or something else?” “Associations, of
 course.” “Is it the just man,

then, who is a good and useful associate and partner in
 the placing of draughts or the draught-player?” “The player.” “And in
 the placing of bricks and stones is the just man a more useful and
 better associate than the builder?” “By no means.” “Then what is the
 association in which the just man is a better
 partner than the harpist as an harpist is better than the just man for
 striking the chords?” “For money-dealings, I think.” “Except, I presume,
 Polemarchus, for the use of money when there is occasion to buy in
 common

or sell a horse. Then, I take it, the man who knows
 horses, isn’t it so?” “Apparently.” “And again, if it is a vessel, the
 shipwright or the pilot.” “It would seem so.” “What then is the use of
 money in common for which a just man is the better partner?” “When it is
 to be deposited and kept safe, Socrates.” “You mean when it is to be put
 to no use but is to lie idle ?” “Quite so.” “Then it is when money is useless that
 justice is useful in relation to it?”

“It looks that way.” “And similarly when a scythe is to
 be kept safe, then justice is useful both in public and private. But
 when it is to be used, the vinedresser’s art is useful?” “Apparently.”
 “And so you will have to say that when a shield and a lyre are to be
 kept and put to no use, justice is useful, but when they are to be made
 use of, the military art and music.” “Necessarily.” “And so in all other
 cases, in the use of each thing, justice is useless but in its
 uselessness useful?” “It looks that way.”

“Then, my friend,
 justice cannot be a thing of much worth if it is
 useful only for things out of use and useless. But let us consider this
 point. Is not the man who is most skilful to strike or inflict a blow in
 a fight, whether as a boxer or elsewhere, also the most wary to guard
 against a blow?”
 “Assuredly.” “Is it not also true that he who best knows how to guard
 against disease is also most cunning to communicate it and escape
 detection?” “I think so.” “But again

the very same man is a good guardian of an army who is
 good at stealing a march 
 upon the enemy in respect of their designs and proceedings generally.”
 “Certainly.” “Of whatsoever, then, anyone is a skilful guardian, of that
 he is also a skilful thief?” “It seems so.” “If then the just man is an
 expert in guarding money he is an expert in stealing it.” “The argument
 certainly points that way.” “A kind of thief then the just man it seems has turned
 out to be, and it is likely that you acquired this idea from Homer. For he regards with
 complacency Autolycus,

the maternal uncle of Odysseus, and says ‘he was gifted beyond all men in thievery
 and perjury.’ 
 Hom.
 Od. 19.395 So justice, according to you and Homer and
 Simonides, seems to be a kind of stealing, with the qualification that
 it is for the benefit of friends and the harm of enemies. Isn’t that
 what you meant?” “No, by Zeus,” he replied. “I no longer know what I did
 mean. Yet this I
 still believe, that justice benefits friends and harms enemies.”

“May I ask whether by friends you mean those who
 seem to a man to be worthy or
 those who really are so, even if they do not seem, and similarly of
 enemies?” “It is likely,” he said, “that men will love those whom they
 suppose to be good and dislike those whom they deem bad.” “Do not men
 make mistakes in this matter so that many seem good to them who are not
 and the reverse?” “They do.” “For those, then, who thus err the good are
 their enemies and the bad their friends?” “Certainly.” “But all the same
 is then just for them to benefit the bad

and injure the good?” “It would seem so.” “But again
 the good are just and incapable of injustice.” “True.” “On your
 reasoning then it is just to wrong those who do no injustice.” “Nay,
 nay, Socrates,” he said, “the reasoning can’t be right.” “Then,” said I, “it is just to harm the
 unjust and benefit the just.” “That seems a better conclusion than the
 other.” “It will work out, then, for many, Polemarchus, who have
 misjudged men that it is just to harm their friends,

for they have got bad ones, and to benefit their
 enemies, for they are good. And so we shall find ourselves saying the
 very opposite of what we affirmed Simonides to mean.” “Most certainly,”
 he said, “it does work out so. But let us change our ground; for it
 looks as if we were wrong in the notion we took up about the friend and
 the enemy.” “What notion, Polemarchus?” “That the man who seems to us
 good is the friend.” “And to what shall we change it now?” said I. “That
 the man who both seems and is good is the friend, but that he who seems

but is not really so seems but is not really the
 friend. And there will be the same assumption about the enemy.” “Then on
 this view it appears the friend will be the good man and the bad the
 enemy.” “Yes.” “So you would have us qualify our former notion of the
 just man by an addition. We then said it was just to do good to a friend
 and evil to an enemy, but now we are to add that it is just to benefit
 the friend if he is good and harm the enemy if he is bad?”

“By all means,” he said, “that, I think, would be the
 right way to put it.” “Is it then,” said
 I, “the part of a good man to harm anybody whatsoever?” “Certainly it is,” he replied; “a man ought to harm
 those who are both bad and his enemies.” “When horses are harmed
 does it make them better or worse?” “Worse.” “In respect of the
 excellence or virtue of dogs or that of horses?” “Of horses.” “And do
 not also dogs when harmed become worse in respect of canine and not of
 equine virtue?” “Necessarily.”

“And men, my dear fellow, must we not say that when
 they are harmed it is in respect of the distinctive excellence or virtue
 of man that they become worse?” “Assuredly.” “And is not justice the
 specific virtue of man?” “That too must be granted.” “Then it must also be
 admitted, my friend, that men who are harmed become more unjust.” “It
 seems so.” “Do musicians then make men unmusical by the art of music?”
 “Impossible.” “Well, do horsemen by horsemanship unfit men for dealing
 with horses?” “No.” “By justice then do the just make men unjust,

or in sum do the good by virtue make men bad?” “Nay, it
 is impossible.” “It is not, I take it, the function 
 of heat to chill but of its opposite.” “Yes.” “Nor of dryness to moisten
 but of its opposite.” “Assuredly.” “Nor yet of the good to harm but of
 its opposite.” “So it appears.” “But the just man is good?” “Certainly.”
 “It is not then the function of the just man, Polemarchus, to harm
 either friend or anyone else, but of his opposite.” “I think you are
 altogether right,

Socrates.” “If, then, anyone affirms that it is just to
 render to each his due and he means by this, that injury and harm is
 what is due to his enemies from the just man and benefits to his
 friends, he was no truly wise man who said it. For what he meant was not
 true. For it has been made clear to us that in no case is it just to
 harm anyone.” “I concede it,” he said. “We will take up arms against
 him, then,” said I, “you and I together, if anyone affirms that either
 Simonides or Bias or Pittacus or any other
 of the wise and blessed said such a thing.” “I, for my part,” he said,
 “am ready to join in the battle with you.”

“Do you know,” said I, “to whom I think the saying
 belongs—this statement that it is just to benefit friends and harm
 enemies?” “To whom?” he said. “I think it was the saying of Periander or
 Perdiccas or Xerxes or Ismenias the Theban or some other rich man who had great
 power in his own conceit.” “That is most true,”
 he replied. “Very well,” said I, “since it has been made clear that this
 too is not justice and the just, what else is there that we might say
 justice to be?”

Now Thrasymachus, even while we were conversing, had been trying
 several times to break in and lay hold of the discussion but he was
 restrained by those who sat by him who wished to hear the argument out.
 But when we came to a pause after I had said this, he couldn’t any
 longer hold his peace. But gathering himself up like a wild beast he
 hurled himself upon us as if he would tear us to pieces. And Polemarchus
 and I were frightened and fluttered apart, and he bawled out into our
 midst,

“What balderdash is this that you have been talking,
 and why do you Simple Simons truckle and give way to one another? But if
 you really wish, Socrates, to know what the just is, don’t merely ask
 questions or plume yourself upon controverting any answer that anyone
 gives—since your acumen has perceived that it is easier to ask questions
 than to answer them, but do you yourself answer and tell

what you say the just is. And don’t you be telling
 me that it is that which ought to be, or the beneficial
 or the profitable or the gainful or the advantageous, but express
 clearly and precisely whatever you say. For I won’t take from you any
 such drivel as that!” And I, when I heard him, was dismayed, and looking
 upon him was filled with fear, and I believe that if I had not looked at
 him before he did at me I should have lost my voice. But as it is, at the very moment when he began to
 be exasperated by the course of the argument

I glanced at him first, so that I became capable of
 answering him and said with a light tremor: “Thrasymachus, don’t be
 harsh with
 us. If I and my friend have made mistakes in the consideration of the
 question, rest assured that it is unwillingly that we err. For you
 surely must not suppose that while if our quest were for gold we would never
 willingly truckle to one another and make concessions in the search and
 so spoil our chances of finding it, yet that when we are searching for
 justice, a thing more precious than much fine gold, we should then be so
 foolish as to give way to one another and not rather do our serious best
 to have it discovered. You surely must not suppose that, my friend. But
 you see it is our lack of ability that is at fault. It is pity then that
 we should far more reasonably receive

from clever fellows like you than severity.” And he on hearing this gave a great guffaw and
 laughed sardonically and said, “Ye gods! here we have the well-known
 irony of Socrates, and I knew it
 and predicted that when it came to replying you would refuse and
 dissemble and do anything rather than answer any question that anyone
 asked you.” “That’s because you are wise, Thrasymachus, and so you knew
 very well that if you asked a man how many are twelve,

and in putting the question warned him: don’t you be
 telling me, fellow, that twelve is twice six or three times four or six
 times two or four times three, for I won’t accept any such drivel as
 that from you as an answer—it was obvious I fancy to you that no one
 could give an answer to a question framed in that fashion. Suppose he
 had said to you, ’Thrasymachus, what do you mean? Am I not to give any
 of the prohibited answers, not even, do you mean to say, if the thing
 really is one of these, but must I say something different from the
 truth,

or what do you mean?’ What would have been your answer
 to him?” “Humph!” said he, “how very like the two cases are!” “There is
 nothing to prevent,” said I; “yet even granted that they are not alike,
 yet if it appears to the person asked the question that they are alike,
 do you suppose that he will any the less answer what appears to him,
 whether we forbid him or whether we don’t?” “Is that, then,” said he,
 “what you are going to do? Are you going to give one of the forbidden
 answers?” “I shouldn’t be surprised,” I said, “if on reflection that
 would be my view.” “What then,”

he said, “if I show you another answer about justice
 differing from all these, a better one—what penalty do you think you
 deserve?” “Why, what else,” said I, “than that which it befits anyone
 who is ignorant to suffer? It befits him, I presume, to learn from the
 one who does know. That then is what I propose that I should suffer.” “I
 like your simplicity,” said he; “but in
 addition to ’learning’ you must pay a fine of money.” “Well, I will when
 I have got it,” I said. “It is there,” said Glaucon: “if money is all
 that stands in the way, Thrasymachus, go on with your speech. We will
 all contribute for Socrates.” “Oh yes, of course,”

said he, “so that Socrates may contrive, as he always
 does, to evade answering himself but may cross-examine the other man and
 refute his replies.” “Why, how,” I said, “my dear fellow, could anybody
 answer if in the first place he did not know and did not even profess to
 know, and secondly even if he had some notion of the matter, he had been
 told by a man of weight that he mustn’t give any of his suppositions as
 an answer?

Nay, it is more reasonable that you should be the
 speaker. For you do affirm that you know and are able to tell. Don’t be
 obstinate, but do me the favor to reply and don’t be chary of your wisdom, and instruct
 Glaucon here and the rest of us.” When I
 had spoken thus Glaucon and the others urged him not to be obstinate. It
 was quite plain that Thrasymachus was eager to speak in order that he
 might do himself credit, since he believed that he had a most excellent
 answer to our question. But he demurred and pretended to make a point of
 my being the respondent. Finally he gave way and then said,

“Here you have the wisdom of Socrates, to refuse
 himself to teach, but go about and learn from others and not even pay
 thanks therefor.” “That I learn
 from others,” I said, “you said truly, Thrasymachus. But in saying that
 I do not pay thanks you are mistaken. I pay as much as I am able. And I
 am able only to bestow praise. For money I lack. But that I
 praise right willingly those who appear to speak well you will well know
 forthwith as soon as you have given your answer.

For I think that you will speak well.” “Hearken and
 hear then,” said he. “I affirm that the just is nothing else than the advantage of the stronger. 
 WeIl , why don’t you applaud?
 Nay, you’ll do anything but that.” “Provided only I first understand
 your meaning,” said I; “for I don’t yet apprehend it. The advantage of
 the stronger is what you affirm the just to be. But what in the world do
 you mean by this? I presume you don’t intend to affirm this, that if
 Polydamas the pancratiast is stronger than we are and the flesh of
 beeves is advantageous for him,

for his body, this viand is also for us who are weaker
 than he both advantageous and just.” “You’re a buffoon, Socrates,
 and take my statement in the most
 detrimental sense.” “Not at all, my dear fellow” said I; “I only want
 you to make your meaning plainer.” “Don’t you know then,”
 said he, “that some cities are governed by tyrants, in others democracy
 rules, in others aristocracy?” “Assuredly.” “And is not this the
 thing that is strong and has the mastery in each—the ruling party?” “Certainly.”

“And each form of government enacts the laws with a
 view to its own advantage, a democracy democratic laws and tyranny
 autocratic and the others likewise, and by so legislating they proclaim
 that the just for their subjects is that which is for their—the
 rulers’—advantage and the man who deviates from this law
 they chastise as a law-breaker and a wrongdoer. This, then, my good sir,
 is what I understand as the identical principle of justice that obtains
 in all states

—the advantage of the established government. This I
 presume you will admit holds power and is strong, so that, if one
 reasons rightly, it works out that the just is the same thing
 everywhere, the advantage of the stronger.” “Now,” said I, “I
 have learned your meaning, but whether it is true or not I have to try
 to learn. The advantageous, then, is also your reply, Thrasymachus, to
 the question, what is the just—though you forbade me to give that
 answer.

But you add thereto that of the stronger.” “A trifling
 addition perhaps you think it,” he
 said. “It is not yet clear whether it is a big one either; but that we must inquire
 whether what you say is true, is clear. For since I too admit that the just is something that is
 of advantage —but you are for
 making an addition and affirm it to be the advantage of the stronger,
 while I don’t profess to know, we must pursue the inquiry.”
 “Inquire away,” he said. “I will do so,”
 said I. “Tell me, then; you affirm also, do you not, that obedience to
 rulers is just?”

“I do.” “May I ask whether the rulers in the various
 states are infallible or capable sometimes of error?”
 “Surely,” he said, “they are liable to err.” “Then in their attempts at
 legislation they enact some laws rightly and some not rightly, do they
 not?” “So I suppose.” “And by rightly we are to understand for their
 advantage, and by wrongly to their disadvantage? Do you mean that or
 not?” “That.” “But whatever they enact must be performed by their subjects and is justice?” “Of
 course.”

“Then on your theory it is just not only to do what is
 the advantage of the stronger but also the opposite, what is not to his
 advantage.” “What’s that you’re saying?” he replied. “What you
 yourself are saying, I think.
 Let us consider it more closely. Have we not agreed that the rulers in
 giving orders to the ruled sometimes mistake their own advantage, and
 that whatever the rulers enjoin is just for the subjects to perform? Was
 not that admitted?” “I think it was,” he replied.

“Then you will have to think,” I said, “that to do what is disadvantageous to the
 rulers and the stronger has been admitted by you to be just in the case
 when the rulers unwittingly enjoin what is bad for themselves, while you
 affirm that it is just for the others to do what they enjoined. In that
 way does not this conclusion inevitably follow, my most sapient Thrasymachus, that it is
 just to do the very opposite of what you say? For it is in
 that case surely the disadvantage of the stronger or superior that the
 inferior

are commanded to perform.” “Yes, by Zeus, Socrates,”
 said Polemarchus, “nothing could be more conclusive.” “Of course,” said
 Cleitophon, breaking in, “if you are his witness.” “What need is
 there of a witness?” Polemarchus said. “Thrasymachus himself admits that
 the rulers sometimes enjoin what is evil for themselves and yet says
 that it is just for the subjects to do this.” “That, Polemarchus, is
 because Thrasymachus laid it down that it is just to obey the
 orders of the rulers.” “Yes, Cleitophon, but he also took the
 position that the advantage of the stronger is just.

And after these two assumptions he again admitted that
 the stronger sometimes bid the inferior and their subjects do what is to
 the disadvantage of the rulers. And from these admissions the just would
 no more be the advantage of the stronger than the contrary.” “O well,”
 said Cleitophon, “by the advantage of the superior he meant what the
 superior supposed to be for his advantage. This was what the inferior
 had to do, and that this is the just was his position.” “That isn’t what
 he said,”

replied Polemarchus. “Never mind, Polemarchus,” said I,
 “but if that is Thrasymachus’s present meaning, let us take it from
 him in that
 sense. “XIV. So tell me, Thrasymachus,
 was this what you intended to say, that the just is the advantage of the
 superior as it appears to the superior whether it really is or not? Are
 we to say this was your meaning?” “Not in the least,” he said. “Do you suppose that I call one who is in error a
 superior when he errs?” “I certainly did suppose that you meant that,” I
 replied, “when you agreed that rulers are not infallible

but sometimes make mistakes.” “That is because you
 argue like a pettifogger, Socrates. Why, to take the nearest example, do
 you call one who is mistaken about the sick a physician in respect of
 his mistake or one who goes wrong in a calculation a calculator when he
 goes wrong and in respect of this error? Yet that is what we say
 literally—we say that the physician erred and the calculator and the
 schoolmaster. But the truth, I take it, is, that each of these

in so far as he is that which we entitle him never
 errs; so that, speaking precisely, since you are such a stickler for
 precision, no craftsman errs. For it is when his
 knowledge abandons him that he who goes wrong goes wrong—when he is not
 a craftsman. So that no craftsman, wise man, or ruler makes a mistake
 then when he is a ruler, though everybody would use the expression that
 the physician made a mistake and the ruler erred. It is in this loose
 way of speaking, then, that you must take the answer I gave you a little
 while ago. But the most precise statement is that other, that the ruler

in so far forth as ruler does not err, and not erring
 he enacts what is best for himself, and this the subject must do, so
 that, even as I meant from the start, I say the just is to do what is
 for the advantage of the stronger.” “So
 then, Thrasymachus,” said I, “my manner of argument seems to you
 pettifogging?” “It does,” he said. “You think, do you, that it was with
 malice aforethought and trying to get the better of you unfairly that I
 asked that question?” “I don’t think it, I know it,” he said, “and you
 won’t make anything by it, for you won’t get the better of me by stealth
 and

, failing stealth, you are not of the force to
 beat me in debate.” “Bless your soul,” said I, “I wouldn’t even attempt
 such a thing. But that nothing of the sort may spring up between us
 again, define in which sense you take the ruler and stronger. Do you
 mean the so-called ruler or that ruler in the precise sense of whom you
 were just now telling us, and for whose advantage as being the superior
 it will be just for the inferior to act?” “I mean the ruler in the very
 most precise sense of the word,” he said. “Now bring on against this
 your cavils and your shyster’s tricks if you are able.

I ask no quarter. But you’ll find yourself unable.”
 “Why, do you suppose,” I said, “that I am so mad to try to try to beard
 a lion and try the pettifogger on
 Thrasymachus?” “You did try it just now,” he said, “paltry fellow though
 you be.” “Something too much of this sort of thing,”
 said I. “But tell me, your physician in the precise sense of whom you
 were just now speaking, is he a moneymaker, an earner of fees, or a
 healer of the sick? And remember to speak of the physician who is really
 such.” “A healer of the sick,” he replied. “And what of the lot—the
 pilot rightly so called—is he a ruler of sailors or a sailor?”

“A ruler of sailors.” “We don’t, I fancy, have to take
 into account the fact that he actually sails in the ship, nor is he to
 be denominated a sailor. For it is not in respect of his sailing that he
 is called a pilot but in respect of his art and his ruling of the
 sailors.” “True,” he said. “Then for each of them is there not a something that is for his advantage?”
 “Quite so.” “And is it not also true,” said I, “that the art naturally
 exists for this, to discover and provide for each his advantage?” “Yes,
 for this.” “Is there, then, for each of the arts any other advantage
 than to be perfect as possible ?”

“What do you mean by that question?” “Just as if,” I
 said, “you should ask me whether it is enough for the body to be the
 body or whether it stands in need of something else, I would reply, ’By
 all means it stands in need. That is the reason why the art of medicine
 has now been invented, because the body is defective and such defect is
 unsatisfactory. To provide for this, then, what is advantageous, that is
 the end for which the art was devised.’ Do you think that would be a
 correct answer, or not?”

“Correct,” he said. “But how about this? Is the medical
 art itself defective or faulty, or has any other art any need of some
 virtue, quality, or excellence—as the eyes of vision, the ears of
 hearing, and for this reason is there need of some art over them that
 will consider and provide what is advantageous for these very ends—does
 there exist in the art itself some defect and does each art require
 another art to consider its advantage and is there need of still another
 for the considering art and so on ad infinitum, or will the art look out
 for its own advantage?

Or is it a fact that it needs neither itself nor
 another art to consider its advantage and provide against its
 deficiency? For there is no defect or error at all that dwells in any
 art. Nor does it befit an art to seek the advantage of anything else
 than that of its object. But the art itself is free from all harm and
 admixture of evil, and is right so long as each art is precisely and
 entirely that which it is. And consider the matter in that precise way
 of speaking. Is it so or not?” “It appears to be so,” he said. “Then
 medicine,” said I,

“does not consider the advantage of medicine but of the
 body?” “Yes.” “Nor horsemanship of horsemanship but of horses, nor does
 any other art look out for itself—for it has no need—but for that of
 which it is the art.” “So it seems,” he replied. “But surely, Thrasymachus, the arts do hold
 rule and are stronger than that of which they are the arts.” He conceded
 this but it went very hard. “Then no art considers or enjoins the
 advantage of the stronger but every art that of the weaker

which is ruled by it.” This too he was finally brought
 to admit though he tried to contest it. But when he had agreed—“Can we
 deny, then,” said I, “that neither does any physician in so far as he is
 a physician seek or enjoin the advantage of the physician but that of
 the patient? For we have agreed that the physician, ’precisely’
 speaking, is a ruler and governor of bodies and not a moneymaker. Did we
 agree on that?” He assented. “And so the ’precise’ pilot is a ruler of
 sailors,

not a sailor?” That was admitted. “Then that sort of a
 pilot and ruler will not consider and enjoin the advantage of the pilot
 but that of the sailor whose ruler he is.” He assented reluctantly.
 “Then,” said I, “Thrasymachus, neither does anyone in any office of rule
 in so far as he is a ruler consider and enjoin his own advantage but
 that of the one whom he rules and for whom he exercises his craft, and
 he keeps his eyes fixed on that and on what is advantageous and suitable
 to that in all that he says and does.”

When we had come to this
 point in the discussion and it was apparent to everybody that his
 formula of justice had suffered a reversal of form, Thrasymachus,
 instead of replying, 
 said, “Tell me, Socrates, have you got a nurse?” “What do you mean?”
 said I. “Why didn’t you answer me instead of asking such a question?”
 “Because,” he said, “she lets her little ’snotty’ run about
 drivelling and doesn’t wipe your face
 clean, though you need it badly, if she can’t get you to know the difference between the shepherd and the sheep.” “And
 what, pray, makes you think that?” said I. “Because you think that the
 shepherds

and the neat-herds are considering the good of the
 sheep and the cattle and fatten and tend them with anything else in view
 than the good of their masters and themselves; and by the same token you
 seem to suppose that the rulers in our cities, I mean the real
 rulers, differ at all in
 their thoughts of the governed from a man’s attitude towards his
 sheep or that they think of anything else night and day
 than

the sources of their own profit. And you are so far
 out concerning the just and
 justice and the unjust and injustice that you don’t know that justice
 and the just are literally the other fellow’s good —the advantage of the stronger and the ruler, but a
 detriment that is all his own of the subject who obeys and serves; while
 injustice is the contrary and rules those who are simple in every sense
 of the word and just, and they being thus ruled do what is for his
 advantage who is the stronger and make him happy

in serving him, but themselves by no manner of means.
 And you must look at the matter, my simple-minded Socrates, in this way:
 that the just man always comes out at a disadvantage in his relation
 with the unjust. To begin with, in their business dealings in any joint
 undertaking of the two you will never find that the just man has the
 advantage over the unjust at the dissolution of the partnership but that
 he always has the worst of it. Then again, in their relations with the
 state, if there are direct taxes or contributions to be paid, the just
 man contributes more from an equal estate and the other less, and when
 there is a distribution

the one gains much and the other nothing. And so when
 each holds office, apart from any other loss the just man must count on
 his own affairs falling into
 disorder through neglect, while because of his justice makes no profit
 from the state, and thereto he will displease his friends and his
 acquaintances by his unwillingness to serve them unjustly. But to the
 unjust man all the opposite advantages accrue. I mean, of course, the
 one I was just speaking of,

the man who has the ability to overreach on a large
 scale. Consider this type of man, then, if you wish to judge how much
 more profitable it is to him personally to be unjust than to be just.
 And the easiest way of all to understand this matter will be to turn to
 the most consummate form of injustice which makes the man who has done
 the wrong most happy and those who are wronged and who would not
 themselves willingly do wrong most miserable. And this is tyranny, which
 both by stealth and by force takes away what belongs to others, both
 sacred and profane, both private and public, not little by little but at
 one swoop.

For each several part of such wrongdoing the malefactor
 who fails to escape detection is fined and incurs the extreme of
 contumely; for temple-robbers, kidnappers, burglars, swindlers, and
 thieves the appellations of those who commit these partial forms of
 injustice. But when in addition to the property of the citizens men
 kidnap and enslave the citizens themselves, instead of these opprobrious
 names they are pronounced happy and blessed not only by their fellow-citizens

but by all who hear the story of the man who has
 committed complete and entire injustice. For it is not the fear of doing but of suffering wrong that
 calls forth the reproaches of those who revile injustice. Thus,
 Socrates, injustice on a sufficiently large scale is a stronger, freer,
 and a more masterful thing than justice, and, as I said in the
 beginning, it is the advantage of the stronger that is the just, while
 the unjust is what profits man’s self and is for his advantage.”

After this Thrasymachus
 was minded to depart when like a bathman he had poured his speech in a sudden flood over our
 ears. But the company would not suffer him and were insistent that he
 should remain and render an account of what he had said. And I was
 particularly urgent and said, “I am surprised at you, Thrasymachus;
 after hurling such a doctrine at us,
 can it be that you propose to depart without staying to teach us
 properly or learn yourself whether this thing is so or not? Do you think
 it is a small matter that you are attempting to determine

and not the entire conduct of life that for each of us
 would make living most worth while?” “Well, do I deny it?” said
 Thrasymachus. “You seem to,” said I, “or else to care
 nothing for us and so feel no concern whether we are going to live worse
 or better lives in our ignorance of what you affirm that you know. Nay,
 my good fellow, do your best to make the matter clear to us also:

it will be no bad investment for you—any benefit that you bestow on such company
 as this. For I tell you for my part that I am not convinced, neither do
 I think that injustice is more profitable than justice, not even if one gives it
 free scope and does not hinder it of its will. But, suppose, sir, a man to
 be unjust and to be able to act unjustly either because he is not
 detected or can maintain it by violence, all the same he
 does not convince me that it is more profitable than justice.

Now it may be that there is someone else among us who
 feels in this way and that I am not the only one. Persuade us, then, my
 dear fellow, convince us satisfactorily that we are ill advised in
 preferring justice to injustice.” “And how am I to persuade you?” he said. “If you are not convinced by what I
 just now was saying, what more can I do for you? Shall I take the
 argument and ram it into your head?” “Heaven forbid!” I said,
 “don’t do that. But in the first place when you have said a thing stand
 by it, or if you shift your ground
 change openly and don’t try to deceive us.

But, as it is, you see, Thrasymachus—let us return to
 the previous examples—you see that while you began by taking the
 physician in the true sense of the word, you did not think fit
 afterwards to be consistent and maintain with precision the notion of
 the true shepherd, but you apparently think that he herds his sheep in
 his quality of shepherd not with regard to what is best for the sheep
 but as if he were a banqueter about to be feasted with regard to the
 good cheer or again with a view to the sale of them

as if he were a money-maker and not a shepherd. But the
 art of the shepherd surely
 is concerned with nothing else than how to provide what is best for that
 over which is set, since its own affairs, its own best estate, are
 entirely sufficiently provided for so long as it in nowise fails of
 being the shepherd’s art. And in like manner I supposed that we just now
 were constrained to acknowledge that every form of rule in so far as it is rule considers
 what is best for nothing else than that which is governed and cared for
 by it,

alike in political and private rule. Why, do you think
 that the rulers and holders of office in our cities—the true rulers —willingly hold office and
 rule?” “I don’t think,” he said, “I know right well they do.” “But what of other forms of rule, Thrasymachus?
 Do you not perceive that no one chooses of his own will to hold the
 office of rule, but they demand pay, which implies that not to them will
 benefit accrue from their holding office but to those whom they rule?

For tell me this: we ordinarily say, do we not, that
 each of the arts is different from others because its power or function
 is different? And, my dear fellow, in order that we may reach some
 result, don’t answer counter to your real belief. ” “Well, yes,” he said, “that
 is what renders it different.” And does not each art also yield us
 benefit that is peculiar to
 itself and not general, as for example medicine health, the pilot’s art safety
 at sea, and the other arts similarly?” “Assuredly.” “And does not the
 wage-earner’s art yield wage? For that is its function.

Would you identify medicine and the pilot’s art? Or if
 you please to discriminate ’precisely’ as you proposed, none the more if
 a pilot regains his health because a sea voyage is good for him, no whit
 the more, I say, for this reason do you call his art medicine, do you?”
 “Of course not,” he said. “Neither, I take it, do you call wage-earning
 medicine if a man earning wages is in health.” “ Surely not.”

“But what of this? Do you call medicine wage-earning,
 if a man when giving treatment earns wages?” “No,” he said. “And did we
 not agree that the benefit derived from each art is peculiar to it?” “So
 be it,” he said. “Any common or general benefit that all craftsmen
 receive, then, they obviously derive from their common use of some
 further identical thing.” “It seems so,” he said. “And we say that the
 benefit of earning wages accrues to the craftsmen from their further
 exercise of the wage-earning art.” He assented reluctantly. “Then the
 benefit,

the receiving of wages does not accrue to each from his
 own art. But if we are to consider it ’precisely’ medicine produces
 health but the fee-earning art the pay, and architecture a house but the
 fee-earning art accompanying it the fee, and so with all the others,
 each performs its own task and benefits that over which it is set, but
 unless pay is added to it is there any benefit which the craftsman
 receives from the craft?” “Apparently not,” he said. “Does he then
 bestow no benefit either

when he works for nothing?” “I’ll say he does.” “Then,
 Thrasymachus, is not this immediately apparent, that no art or office
 provides what is beneficial for itself—but as we said long ago it
 provides and enjoins what is beneficial to its subject, considering the
 advantage of that, the weaker, and not the advantage the stronger? That
 was why, friend Thrasymachus, I was just now saying that no one of his
 own will chooses to hold rule and office and take other people’s
 troubles in hand to straighten
 them out, but everybody expects pay for that,

because he who is to exercise the art rightly never
 does what is best for himself or enjoins it when he gives commands
 according to the art, but what is best for the subject. That is the
 reason, it seems, why pay must
 be provided for those who are to consent to rule, either in form of
 money or honor or a penalty if they refuse.” “What do you mean by that, Socrates?” said Glaucon.
 “The two wages I recognize, but the penalty you speak of and described
 as a form of wage I don’t understand. ” “Then,” said
 I, “you don’t understand the wages of the best men

for the sake of which the finest spirits hold office
 and rule when they consent to do so. Don’t you know that to be covetous
 of honor and covetous of money is said to be and is a reproach?” “I do,”
 he said. “Well, then,” said I, “that is why the good are not willing to
 rule either for the sake of money or of honor. They do not wish to
 collect pay openly for their service of rule and be styled hirelings nor
 to take it by stealth from their office and be called thieves, nor yet
 for the sake of honor,

for they are not covetous of honor. So there must be
 imposed some compulsion and penalty to constrain them to rule if they
 are to consent to hold office. That is perhaps why to seek office
 oneself and not await compulsion is thought disgraceful. But the chief
 penalty is to be governed by someone worse if a man will not himself hold office
 and rule. It is from fear of this, as it appears to me, that the better
 sort hold office when they do, and then they go to it not in the
 expectation of enjoyment nor as to a good thing, 
 but as to a necessary evil and because they are unable to turn it over
 to better men than themselves

or to their like. For we may venture to say that, if
 there should be a city of good men only, immunity from office-holding
 would be as eagerly contended for as office is now, and there it would be made plain
 that in very truth the true ruler does not naturally seek his own
 advantage but that of the ruled; so that every man of understanding
 would rather choose to be benefited by another than to be bothered with
 benefiting him. This point then I

by no means concede to Thrasymachus, that justice is
 the advantage of the superior. But that we will reserve for another
 occasion. 
 A far weightier matter seems to me Thrasymachus’s present statement, his
 assertion that the life of the unjust man is better than that of the
 just. Which now do you choose, Glaucon?” said I, “and which seems to you
 to be the truer statement?” “That the life of the just man is more
 profitable, I say,” he replied.

“Did you hear,” said I, “all the goods that
 Thrasymachus just now enumerated for the life of the unjust man?” “I
 heard,” he said, “but I am not convinced.” “Do you wish us then to try
 to persuade him, supposing we can find a way, that what he says is not
 true?” “Of course I wish it,” he said. “If then we oppose him in a set speech
 enumerating in turn the advantages of being just and he replies and we
 rejoin, we shall have to count up and measure the goods listed in the
 respective speeches

and we shall forthwith be in need of judges to decide
 between us. But if, as in the preceding discussion, we come to terms
 with one another as to what we admit in the inquiry, we shall be
 ourselves both judges and pleaders.” “Quite so,” he said. “Which method
 do you like best?” said I. “This one,” he said. “Come then, Thrasymachus,” I said, “go back to the
 beginning and answer us. You affirm that perfect and complete injustice
 is more profitable than justice that is complete.”

“I affirm it,” he said, “and have told you my reasons.”
 “Tell me then how you would express yourself on this point about them.
 You call one of them, I presume, a virtue and the other a vice?” “Of
 course.” “Justice the virtue and injustice the vice?” “It is
 likely, you innocent, when I say
 that injustice pays and justice doesn’t pay.” “But what then, pray?”
 “The opposite,” he replied. “What! justice vice?” “No, but a most noble
 simplicity or goodness of
 heart.” “Then do you call injustice badness of heart?”

“No, but goodness of judgement.” “Do you also,
 Thrasymachus, regard the unjust as intelligent and good?” “Yes, if they
 are capable of complete injustice,” he said, “and are able to subject to
 themselves cities and tribes of men. But you probably suppose that I
 mean those who take purses. There is profit to be sure even in that sort
 of thing,” he said, “if it goes undetected. But such things are not
 worth taking into the account,

but only what I just described.” “I am not unaware of
 your meaning in that,” I said; “but this is what surprised me, that you should range injustice under the
 head of virtue and wisdom, and justice in the opposite class.” “Well, I
 do so class them,” he said. “That,” said I, “is a stiffer
 proposition, my friend, and
 if you are going as far as that it is hard to know what to answer. For
 if your position were that injustice is profitable yet you conceded it
 to be vicious and disgraceful as some other disputants do, there would be a chance for an argument on
 conventional principles. But, as it is, you obviously are going to
 affirm that it is honorable and strong and you will attach to it all the
 other qualities

that we were assigning to the just, since you don’t
 shrink from putting it in the category of virtue and wisdom.” “You are a
 most veritable prophet,” he replied. “Well,” said I, “I mustn’t flinch
 from following out the logic of the inquiry, so long as I conceive you
 to be saying what you think. For now, Thrasymachus, I
 absolutely believe that you are not ’mocking’ us but telling us your
 real opinions about the truth. ” “What difference does it make to you,”
 he said, “whether I believe it or not?” “Why don’t you test the
 argument?”

“No difference,” said I, “but here is something I want
 you to tell me in addition to what you have said. Do you think the just
 man would want to overreach or exceed another just man?” “By no means,” he said;
 “otherwise he would not be the delightful simpleton that he is.” “And
 would he exceed or overreach or go beyond the just action?” “Not that
 either,” he replied. “But how would he treat the unjust man—would he
 deem it proper and just to outdo, overreach, or go beyond him or would
 he not?” “He would,” he said, “but he wouldn’t be able to.” “That is not
 my question,” I said,

“but whether it is not the fact that the just man does
 not claim and wish to outdo the just man but only the unjust?” “That is
 the case,” he replied. “How about the unjust then? Does he claim to
 overreach and outdo the just man and the just action?” “Of course,” he
 said, “since he claims to overreach and get the better of everything.”
 “Then the unjust man will overreach and outdo also both the unjust man
 and the unjust action, and all his endeavor will be to get the most in
 everything for himself.” “That is so.” “Let us put it in this way,” I said; “the just man does not seek to
 take advantage of his like but of his unlike, but the unjust man

of both.” “Admirably put,” he said. “But the unjust man
 is intelligent and good and the just man neither.” “That, too, is
 right,” he said. “Is it not also true,” I said, “that the unjust man is
 like the intelligent and good and the just man is not?” “Of course,” he
 said, “being such he will be like to such and the other not.”
 “Excellent. Then each is such as
 that to which he is like.” “What else do you suppose?” he said. “Very
 well, Thrasymachus,

but do you recognize that one man is a musician and another
 unmusical?” “I do.” “Which is the intelligent and which the
 unintelligent?” “The musician, I presume, is the intelligent and the
 unmusical the unintelligent.” “And is he not good in the things in which
 he is intelligent 
 and bad in the things in which he is unintelligent?” “Yes.” “And the
 same of the physician?” “The same.” “Do you think then, my friend, that
 any musician in the tuning of a lyre would want to overreach 
 another musician in the tightening and relaxing of the strings or would
 claim and think fit to exceed or outdo him?” “I do not.” “But would the
 the unmusical man?” “Of necessity,” he said. “And how about the medical
 man?

In prescribing food and drink would he want to outdo
 the medical man or the medical procedure?” “Surely not.” “But he would
 the unmedical man?” “Yes.” “Consider then with regard to all forms of knowledge and ignorance
 whether you think that anyone who knows would choose to do or say other
 or more than what another who knows would do or say, and not rather
 exactly what his like would do in the same action.” “Why, perhaps it
 must be so,” he said, “in such cases.” “But what of the ignorant man—of
 him who does not know? Would he not overreach or outdo equally

the knower and the ignorant?” “It may be.” “But the one
 who knows is wise?” “I’ll say so.” “And the wise is good?” “I’ll say
 so.” “Then he who is good and wise will not wish to overreach his like
 but his unlike and opposite.” “It seems so,” he said. “But the bad man
 and the ignoramus will overreach both like and unlike?” “So it appears.”
 “And does not our unjust man, Thrasymachus, overreach both unlike and
 like? Did you not say that?” “I did,” he replied.

“But the just man will not overreach his like but only
 his unlike?” “Yes.” “Then the just man is like the wise and good, and
 the unjust is like the bad and the ignoramus.” “It seems likely.” “But
 furthermore we agreed that such is each as that to which he is like.”
 “Yes, we did.” “Then the just man has turned out on our hands to be
 good and wise and the unjust man bad and ignorant.” Thrasymachus made all these admissions

not as I now lightly narrate them, but with much
 baulking and reluctance and
 prodigious sweating, it being summer, and it was then I beheld what I
 had never seen before—Thrasymachus blushing. But when we did reach our
 conclusion that justice is virtue and wisdom and injustice vice and
 ignorance, “Good,” said I, “let this be taken as established. But we were also affirming
 that injustice is a strong and potent thing. Don’t you remember,
 Thrasymachus?” “I remember,” he said; “but I don’t agree with what you
 are now saying either and I have an answer to it,

but if I were to attempt to state it, I know very well
 that you would say that I was delivering a harangue. Either then allow me to
 speak at such length as I desire, 
 or, if you prefer to ask questions, go on questioning and I, as we do
 for old wives telling their tales, will
 say ’Very good’ and will nod assent and dissent.” “No, no,” said I, “not
 counter to your own belief.” “Yes, to please you,” he said, “since you
 don’t allow me freedom of speech. And yet what more do you want?”
 “Nothing, indeed,” said I; “but if this is what you propose to do, do it
 and I will ask the questions.” “Ask on, then.” “This, then, is the
 question I ask, the same as before, so that our inquiry may proceed in
 sequence.

What is the nature of injustice as compared with
 justice? For the statement made, I believe, was that injustice is a more
 potent and stronger thing than justice. But now,” I said, “if justice is
 wisdom and virtue, it will easily, I take it, be shown to be also a
 stronger thing than injustice, since injustice is ignorance—no one could
 now fail to recognize that—but what I want is not quite so simple as that. I wish,
 Thrasymachus, to consider it in some such fashion as this. A city, you
 would say, may be unjust and

try to enslave other cities unjustly, have them
 enslaved and hold many of them in subjection.” “Certainly,” he said;
 “and this is what the best state will chiefly do, the state whose
 injustice is most complete.” “I understand,” I said, “that this was your
 view. But the point that I am considering is this, whether the city that
 thus shows itself superior to another will have this power without
 justice or whether she must of necessity combine it with justice.”

“If, ” he replied, “what you were just now saying
 holds good, that justice is wisdom, with justice; if it is as I said,
 with injustice.” “Admirable, Thrasymachus,” I said; “you not only nod
 assent and dissent, but give excellent answers.” “I am trying to please
 you,” he replied. “Very kind of you. But
 please me in one thing more and tell me this: do you think that a
 city, an army, or bandits, or thieves, or
 any other group that attempted any action in common, could accomplish
 anything if they wronged one another?”

“Certainly not,” said he. “But if they didn’t, wouldn’t
 they be more likely to?” “Assuredly.” “For factions, Thrasymachus, are
 the outcome of injustice, and hatreds and internecine conflicts, but
 justice brings oneness of mind and love. Is it not so?” “So be it,” he
 replied, “not to differ from you.” “That is good of you, my friend; but
 tell me this: if it is the business of injustice to engender hatred
 wherever it is found, will it not, when it springs up either among
 freemen or slaves, cause them to hate and be at strife with one another,
 and make them incapable

of effective action in common?” “By all means.”
 “Suppose, then, it springs up between two, will they not be at outs with
 and hate each other and be enemies both to one another and to the just?”
 “They will,” he said. “And then will you tell me that if injustice
 arises in one it will lose its force and function or will it none
 the less keep it?” “Have it that it keeps it,” he said. “And is it not
 apparent that its force is such that wherever it is found in city,
 family, camp, or in anything else

it first renders the thing incapable of cooperation
 with itself owing to faction and difference, and secondly an enemy to
 itself and to
 its opposite in every case, the just? Isn’t that so?” “By all means.”
 “Then in the individual too, I presume, its presence will operate all
 these effects which it is its nature to produce. It will in the first
 place make him incapable of accomplishing anything because of inner
 faction and lack of self-agreement, and then an enemy to himself and to
 the just. Is it not so?” “Yes.” “But, my friend,

the gods too are just.” “Have it that they are,” he
 said. “So to the gods also, it seems, the unjust man will be hateful,
 but the just man dear.” “Revel in your discourse,” he said, “without
 fear, for I shall not oppose you, so as not to offend your partisans
 here.” “Fill up the measure of my feast, then, and complete it for me,” I said, “by
 continuing to answer as you have been doing. Now that the just appear to
 be wiser and better and more capable of action and the unjust incapable
 of any common action,

and that if we ever say that any men who are unjust
 have vigorously combined to put something over, our statement is not
 altogether true, for they would not have kept their hands from one
 another if they had been thoroughly unjust, but it is obvious that there
 was in them some justice which prevented them from wronging at the same
 time one another too as well as those whom they attacked; and by dint of
 this they accomplished whatever they did and set out to do injustice
 only half corrupted by injustice, since
 utter rascals completely unjust

are completely incapable of effective action—all this I
 understand to be the truth, and not what you originally laid down. But
 whether it is also true 
 that the just have a better life than the unjust and are happier, which
 is the question we afterwards proposed for examination, is what we now
 have to consider. It appears even now that they are, I think, from what
 has already been said. But all the same we must examine it more
 carefully. 
 For it is no ordinary matter that we
 are discussing, but the right conduct of life.” “Proceed with your
 inquiry,” he said. “I proceed,” said I. “Tell me then—would you
 say

that a horse has a specific work or function?” “I would.”
 “Would you be willing to define the work of a horse or of anything else
 to be that which one can do only with it or best with it?” “I don’t
 understand,” he replied. “Well, take it this way: is there anything else
 with which you can see except the eyes?” “Certainly not.” “Again, could
 you hear with anything but ears?” “By no means.” “Would you not rightly
 say that these are the functions of these (organs)?” “By all means.”
 “Once more,

you could use a dirk to trim vine branches and a knife
 and many other instruments.” “Certainly.” “But nothing so well, I take
 it, as a pruning-knife fashioned for this purpose.” “That is true.”
 “Must we not then assume this to be the work or function of that?” “We
 must.” “You will now, then, I fancy,
 better apprehend the meaning of my question when I asked whether that is
 not the work of a thing which it only or it better than anything else
 can perform.” “Well,” he said, “I do understand, and agree

that the work of anything is that.” “Very good,” said
 I. “Do you not also think that there is a specific virtue or excellence
 of everything for which a specific work or function is appointed? Let us
 return to the same examples. The eyes we say have a function?” “They
 have.” “Is there also a virtue of the eyes?” “There is.” “And was there
 not a function of the ears?” “Yes.” “And so also a virtue?” “Also a
 virtue.” “And what of all other things? Is the case not the same?” “The
 same.” “Take note now. Could the eyes possibly fulfil their function
 well

if they lacked their own proper excellence and had in
 its stead the defect?” “How could they?” he said; “for I presume you
 meant blindness instead of vision.” “Whatever,” said I, “the excellence
 may be. For I have not yet come to that question, but
 am only asking whether whatever operates will not do its own work well
 by its own virtue and badly by its own defect.” “That much,” he said,
 “you may affirm to be true.” “Then the ears, too, if deprived of their
 own virtue will do their work ill?” “Assuredly.” “And do we then apply

the same principle to all things?” “I think so.” “Then
 next consider this. The soul, has it a work which you couldn’t
 accomplish with anything else in the world, as for example, management,
 rule, deliberation, and the like, is there anything else than soul to
 which you could rightly assign these and say that they were its peculiar
 work?” “Nothing else.” “And again life? Shall we say that too is the
 function of the soul?” “Most certainly,” he said. “And do we not also
 say that there is an excellence virtue of the soul?”

“We do.” “Will the soul ever accomplish its own work
 well if deprived of its own virtue, or is this impossible?” “It is
 impossible.” “Of necessity, then, a bad soul will govern and manage
 things badly while the good soul will in all these things do well. ” “Of necessity.” “And did we
 not agree that the excellence or virtue of soul is justice and its
 defect injustice?” “Yes, we did.” “The just soul and the just man then
 will live well and the unjust ill?” “So it appears,” he said, “by your
 reasoning.”

“But furthermore, he who lives well is blessed and
 happy, and he who does not the contrary.” “Of course.” “Then the just is
 happy and the unjust miserable.” “So be it,” he said. “But it surely
 does not pay to be miserable, but to be happy.” “Of course not.” “Never,
 then, most worshipful Thrasymachus, can injustice be more profitable
 than justice.” “Let this complete your entertainment, Socrates, at the
 festival of Bendis.” “A feast furnished by you, Thrasymachus,” I said,
 “now that you have become gentle with me and are no longer angry. I have not dined well, however—

by my own fault, not yours. But just as gluttons snatch
 at every dish that is handed along and taste it before they have
 properly enjoyed the preceding, so I, methinks, before finding the first
 object of our inquiry—what justice is—let go of that and set out to
 consider something about it, namely whether it is vice and ignorance or
 wisdom and virtue; and again, when later the view was sprung upon us
 that injustice is more profitable than justice I could not refrain from
 turning to that from the other topic. So that for me

the present outcome of the discussion is that I know nothing. For if I don’t know what the just is, I shall hardly know whether
 it is a virtue or not, and whether its possessor is or is not
 happy.”

When I had said this I
 supposed that I was done with the subject, but it all turned out to be
 only a prelude. For Glaucon, who is always an intrepid enterprising
 spirit in everything, would not on this occasion acquiesce in
 Thrasymachus’s abandonment of his
 case, but said, “Socrates, is it your desire to seem to have persuaded
 us

or really to persuade us that it is without exception
 better to be just than unjust?” “Really,” I said, “if the choice rested
 with me.” “Well, then, you are not doing what you wish. For tell me: do
 you agree that there is a kind of good which we would choose
 to possess, not from desire for its after effects, but welcoming it for
 its own sake? As, for example, joy and such pleasures are harmless and nothing results from them afterwards save to
 have and to hold the enjoyment.”

“I recognise that kind,” said I. “And again a kind that
 we love both for its own sake and for its consequences, such as
 understanding, sight, and
 health? For these presume we
 welcome for both reasons.” “Yes,” I said. “And can you discern a third
 form of good under which falls exercise and being healed when sick and
 the art of healing and the making of money generally? For of them we
 would say that they are laborious and painful yet beneficial, and for
 their own sake

we would not accept them, but only for the rewards and
 other benefits that accrue from them.” “Why yes,” I said, “I must admit
 this third class also. But what of it?” “In which of these classes do
 you place justice?” he said.

“In my opinion,” I said, “it belongs in the fairest
 class, that which a man who is to be happy must love both for its own
 sake and for the results.” “Yet the multitude,” he said, “do not think
 so, but that it belongs to the toilsome class of things that must be
 practised for the sake of rewards and repute due to opinion but that in
 itself is to be shunned as an affliction.” “I am aware,” said I, “that that is the general opinion and
 Thrasymachus has for some time been disparaging it as such and praising
 injustice. But I, it seems, am somewhat slow to learn.” “Come
 now,”

he said, “hear what I too have to say and see if you
 agree with me. For Thrasymachus seems to me to have given up to you too
 soon, as if he were a serpent that you had charmed, but I am
 not yet satisfied with the proof that has been offered about justice and
 injustice. For what I desire is to hear what each of them is and what
 potency and effect it has in and of itself dwelling in the soul, 
 but to dismiss their rewards and consequences. This, then, is what I
 propose to do, with your concurrence. I will renew

the argument of Thrasymachus and will first state what
 men say is the nature and origin of justice; secondly, that all who
 practise it do so reluctantly, regarding it as something necessary 
 and not as a good; and thirdly, that they have plausible grounds for
 thus acting, since forsooth the life of the unjust man is far better
 than that of the just man—as they say; though I, Socrates, don’t believe
 it. Yet I am disconcerted when my ears are dinned by the arguments of
 Thrasymachus and innumerable others. But the case for justice,

to prove that it is better than injustice, I have never
 yet heard stated by any as I desire to hear it. What I desire is to hear
 an encomium on justice in and by itself. And I think I am most likely to
 get that from you. For which reason I will lay myself out in praise of
 the life of injustice, and in so speaking will give you an example of
 the manner in which I desire to hear from you in turn the dispraise of
 injustice and the praise of justice. Consider whether my proposal
 pleases you.” “Nothing could please me more,” said I;

“for on what subject would a man of sense rather
 delight to hold and hear discourse again and again?” “That is
 excellent,” he said; “and now listen to what I said would be the first
 topic—the nature and origin of justice. By nature, they say, to commit
 injustice is a good and to suffer it is an evil, but that the excess of
 evil in being wronged is greater than the excess of good in doing wrong.
 So that when men do wrong and are wronged by one another and taste of
 both, those who lack the power

to avoid the one and take the other determine that it
 is for their profit to make a compact with one another neither to commit
 nor to suffer injustice; and that this is the beginning of legislation
 and covenants between men, and that they name the commandment of the law
 the lawful and the just, and that this is the genesis and essential
 nature of justice—a compromise between the best, which is to do wrong
 with impunity, and the worst, which is to be wronged and be impotent to
 get one’s revenge. Justice, they tell us, being mid-way between the two,
 is accepted and approved,

not as a real good, but as a thing honored in the lack
 of vigor to do injustice, since anyone who had the power to do it and
 was in reality ’a man’ would never make a compact with anybody either to
 wrong nor to be wronged; for he would be mad. The nature, then, of
 justice is this and such as this, Socrates, and such are the conditions
 in which it originates, according to the theory. “But as for the second point, that those who practise
 it do so unwillingly and from want of power to commit injustice—we shall
 be most likely to apprehend that if we entertain some such supposition
 as this in thought:

if we grant to each, the just and the unjust, licence
 and power to do whatever he pleases, and then accompany them in
 imagination and see whither his desire will conduct each. We should then
 catch the just man in the very act of resorting to the same conduct as
 the unjust man because of the self-advantage which every creature by its
 nature pursues as a good, while by the convention of law it is forcibly diverted to paying
 honor to ’equality.’ The
 licence that I mean would be most nearly such as would result from
 supposing them to have the power

which men say once came to the ancestor of Gyges the
 Lydian. They relate that he was a shepherd in the service of
 the ruler at that time of Lydia , and that after a great deluge of rain and an
 earthquake the ground opened and a chasm appeared in the place where he
 was pasturing; and they say that he saw and wondered and went down into
 the chasm; and the story goes that he beheld other marvels there and a
 hollow bronze horse with little doors, and that he peeped in and saw a
 corpse within, as it seemed, of more than mortal stature,

and that there was nothing else but a gold ring on its
 hand, which he took off and went forth. And when the shepherds held
 their customary assembly to make their monthly report to the king about
 the flocks, he also attended wearing the ring. So as he sat there it
 chanced that he turned the collet of the ring towards himself, towards
 the inner part of his hand, and when this took place they say that he
 became invisible

to those who sat by him and they spoke of him as absent
 and that he was amazed, and again fumbling with the ring turned the
 collet outwards and so became visible. On noting this he experimented
 with the ring to see if it possessed this virtue, and he found the
 result to be that when he turned the collet inwards he became invisible,
 and when outwards visible; and becoming aware of this, he immediately
 managed things so that he became one of the messengers

who went up to the king, and on coming there he seduced
 the king’s wife and with her aid set upon the king and slew him and
 possessed his kingdom. If now there should be two such rings, and the
 just man should put on one and the unjust the other, no one could be
 found, it would seem, of such adamantine temper as to persevere in
 justice and endure to refrain his hands from the possessions of others
 and not touch them, though he might with impunity take what he wished
 even from the marketplace,

and enter into houses and lie with whom he pleased, and
 slay and loose from bonds whomsoever he would, and in all other things
 conduct himself among mankind as the equal of a god. And in so acting he
 would do no differently from the other man, but both would pursue the
 same course. And yet this is a great proof, one might argue, that no one
 is just of his own will but only from constraint, in the belief that
 justice is not his personal good, inasmuch as every man, when he
 supposes himself to have the power to do wrong, does wrong.

For that there is far more profit for him personally in
 injustice than in justice is what every man believes, and believes
 truly, as the proponent of this theory will maintain. For if anyone who
 had got such a licence within his grasp should refuse to do any wrong or
 lay his hands on others’ possessions, he would be regarded as most
 pitiable and a great fool by all
 who took note of it, though they would praise him before one
 another’s faces, deceiving one another because of their fear of
 suffering injustice. So much for this point.

“But to come now to the
 decision between our two kinds
 of life, if we separate the most completely just and the most completely
 unjust man, we shall be able to decide rightly, but if not, not. How,
 then, is this separation to be made? Thus: we must subtract nothing of
 his injustice from the unjust man or of his justice from the just, but
 assume the perfection of each in his own mode of conduct. In the first
 place, the unjust man must act as clever craftsmen do: a first-rate
 pilot or physician, for example, feels the difference between
 impossibilities and possibilities in his art

and attempts the one and lets the others go; and then,
 too, if he does happen to trip, he is equal to correcting his error.
 Similarly, the unjust man who attempts injustice rightly must be
 supposed to escape detection if he is to be altogether unjust, and we
 must regard the man who is caught as a bungler. For the height of injustice is to seem just without being so. To the perfectly
 unjust man, then, we must assign perfect injustice and withhold nothing
 of it, but we must allow him, while committing the greatest wrongs, to
 have secured for himself the greatest reputation for justice;

and if he does happen to trip, we must concede to him
 the power to correct his mistakes by his ability to speak persuasively
 if any of his misdeeds come to light, and when force is needed, to
 employ force by reason of his manly spirit and vigor and his provision
 of friends and money; and when we have set up an unjust man of this
 character, our theory must set the just man at his side—a simple and
 noble man, who, in the phrase of Aeschylus, does not wish to seem but be
 good. Then we must deprive him of the seeming. For
 if he is going to be thought just

he will have honors and gifts because of that esteem.
 We cannot be sure in that case whether he is just for justice’ sake or
 for the sake of the gifts and the honors. So we must strip him bare of
 everything but justice and make his state the opposite of his imagined
 counterpart. 
 Though doing no wrong he must have the repute of the greatest injustice,
 so that he may be put to the test as regards justice through not
 softening because of ill repute and the consequences thereof. But let
 him hold on his course unchangeable even unto death,

seeming all his life to be unjust though being just,
 that so, both men attaining to the limit, the one of injustice, the
 other of justice, we may pass judgement which of the two is the
 happier.” “Bless me, my dear Glaucon,”
 said I, “how strenuously you polish off each of your two men for the
 competition for the prize as if it were a statue. ” “To the best of
 my ability,” he replied, “and if such is the nature of the two, it
 becomes an easy matter, I fancy, to unfold the tale of the sort of life
 that awaits each.

We must tell it, then; and even if my language is
 somewhat rude and brutal, you must not suppose, Socrates, that it
 is I who speak thus, but those who commend injustice above justice. What
 they will say is this: that such being his disposition the just man will
 have to endure the lash, the rack, chains,

the branding-iron in his eyes, and finally, after every
 extremity of suffering, he will be crucified, and so will learn his lesson that not to be
 but to seem just is what we ought to desire. And the saying of
 Aeschylus was, it seems, far more correctly applicable to the unjust man.
 For it is literally true, they will say, that the unjust man, as
 pursuing what clings closely to reality, to truth, and not regulating
 his life by opinion, desires not to seem but to be unjust, 
 Exploiting the deep furrows of his wit

From which there grows the fruit of counsels
 shrewd, 
 
 Aesch. Seven 592-594 
 first office and rule in the state because of his reputation for
 justice, then a wife from any family he chooses, and the giving of his
 children in marriage to whomsoever he pleases, dealings and partnerships
 with whom he will, and in all these transactions advantage and profit
 for himself because he has no squeamishness about committing injustice;
 and so they say that if he enters into lawsuits, public or private, he
 wins and gets the better of his opponents, and, getting the better, is rich and benefits his friends

and harms his enemies ; and he performs sacrifices
 and dedicates votive offerings to the gods adequately and
 magnificently, and he serves and pays
 court to men whom he favors and to the
 gods far better than the just man, so that he may reasonably expect the
 favor of heaven also to fall rather to him than to the
 just. So much better they say, Socrates, is the life that is prepared
 for the unjust man from gods and men than that which awaits the
 just.” When Glaucon had thus spoken, I
 had a mind

to make some reply thereto, but his brother Adeimantus
 said, “You surely don’t suppose, Socrates, that the statement of the
 case is complete?” “Why, what else?” I said. “The very most essential
 point,” said he, “has not been mentioned.” “Then,” said I, “as the
 proverb has it, ’Let a brother help a man’ —and so, if Glaucon omits
 any word or deed, do you come to his aid. Though for my part what he has
 already said is quite enough to overthrow me and

incapacitate me for coming to the rescue of justice.”
 “Nonsense,” he said, “but listen to this further point. We must set
 forth the reasoning and the language of the opposite party, of those who
 commend justice and dispraise injustice, if what I conceive to be
 Glaucon’s meaning is to be made more clear. Fathers, when they address
 exhortations to their sons, and all those who have others in their
 charge,

urge the necessity of being just, not by praising
 justice itself, but the good repute with mankind that accrues from it,
 the object that they hold before us being that by seeming to be just the
 man may get from the reputation office and alliances and all the good
 things that Glaucon just now enumerated as coming to the unjust man from
 his good name. But those people draw out still further this topic of
 reputation. For, throwing in good standing with the gods, they have no
 lack of blessings to describe, which they affirm the gods give to pious
 men, even as the worthy Hesiod and Homer declare,

the one that the gods make the oaks bear for the just:
 ‘Acorns on topmost branches and
 swarms of bees on their mid-trunks,’ and he tells how the ‘Flocks of
 the fleece-bearing sheep are laden and weighted with soft
 wool,’ 
 Hes. WD
 232ff. and of many other blessings akin to these; and
 similarly the other poet: 
 Even as when a good king, who rules in the fear of
 the high gods, 
 Upholds justice and right, and the black earth yields him her
 foison,

Barley and wheat, and his trees are laden and
 weighted with fair fruits, 
 Increase comes to his flocks and the ocean is teeming with
 fishes. 
 
 Hom. Od. 19.109 
 
 And Musaeus and his son have a more excellent song than these
 of the blessings that the gods bestow on the righteous. For they conduct
 them to the house of Hades in their tale and arrange a symposium of the
 saints, where, reclined on couches crowned
 with wreaths,

they entertain the time henceforth with wine, as if the
 fairest meed of virtue were an everlasting drunk. And others extend
 still further the rewards of virtue from the gods. For they say that the
 children’s children of the pious and oath-keeping
 man and his race thereafter never fail. Such and such-like are their
 praises of justice. But the impious and the unjust they bury in mud in the
 house of Hades and compel them to fetch water in a sieve, and, while they
 still live,

they bring them into evil repute, and all the
 sufferings that Glaucon enumerated as befalling just men who are thought
 to be unjust, these they recite about the unjust, but they have nothing
 else to say. Such is the praise and
 the censure of the just and of the unjust. “Consider further, Socrates, another kind of language about justice
 and injustice

employed by both laymen and poets. All with one accord
 reiterate that soberness and righteousness are fair and honorable, to be
 sure, but unpleasant and laborious, while licentiousness and injustice
 are pleasant and easy to win and are only in opinion and by convention
 disgraceful. They say that injustice pays better than justice, for the
 most part, and they do not scruple to felicitate bad men who are rich or
 have other kinds of power to do them honor in public and private, and to
 dishonor

and disregard those who are in any way weak or poor,
 even while admitting that they are better men than the others. But the
 strangest of all these speeches are the things they say about the
 gods and virtue, how so it is that the gods themselves
 assign to many good men misfortunes and an evil life but to their
 opposites a contrary lot; and begging priests and soothsayers go to rich men’s doors and make them
 believe that they by means of sacrifices and incantations have
 accumulated a treasure of power from the gods that can expiate and cure
 with pleasurable festivals

any misdeed of a man or his ancestors, and that if a
 man wishes to harm an enemy, at slight cost he will be enabled to injure
 just and unjust alike, since they are masters of spells and
 enchantments that constrain the gods to serve their end. And for all
 these sayings they cite the poets as witnesses, with regard to the ease
 and plentifulness of vice, quoting: 
 Evil-doing in plenty a man shall find for the
 seeking;

Smooth is the way and it lies near at hand and is
 easy to enter; 
 But on the pathway of virtue the gods put sweat from the
 first step, 
 
 Hes. WD 287-289 
 and a certain long and uphill road. And others cite Homer as a
 witness to the beguiling of gods by men, since he too said: 
 The gods themselves are moved by prayers, 
 And men by sacrifice and soothing vows,

And incense and libation turn their wills 
 Praying, whenever they have sinned and made
 transgression. 
 
 Hom. Il. 9.497 
 And they produce a bushel of books of Musaeus and Orpheus, the offspring of the
 Moon and of the Muses, as
 they affirm, and these books they use in their ritual, and make not only
 ordinary men but states believe that there really are remissions of sins
 and purifications for deeds of injustice, by means of sacrifice and
 pleasant sport for the living,

and that there are also special rites for the defunct,
 which they call functions, that deliver us from evils in that other
 world, while terrible things await those who have neglected to
 sacrifice. “What, Socrates, do we
 suppose is the effect of all such sayings about the esteem in which men
 and gods hold virtue and vice upon the souls that hear them, the souls
 of young men who are quick-witted and capable of flitting, as it were,
 from one expression of opinion to another and inferring from them

all the character and the path whereby a man would lead
 the best life? Such a youth would
 most likely put to himself the question Pindar asks, ‘Is it by justice or by crooked deceit that
 I the higher tower shall scale and so live my life out in fenced and
 guarded security?’ 
 Pindar, Fr. 
 The consequences of my being just are, unless I likewise seem so, not
 assets, they say, but
 liabilities, labor and total loss; but if I am unjust and have procured
 myself a reputation for justice a godlike life is promised. Then

since it is the ‘seeming’ 
 Simonides, Fr. 76 Bergk, and
 Eur. Orest. 236 as the wise men show me, that ‘masters the reality’ and is lord of
 happiness, to this I must devote myself without reserve. For a front and
 a show I must draw about myself a
 shadow-line of virtue, but trail behind me the fox of most sage
 Archilochus, shifty
 and bent on gain. Nay, ’tis objected, it is not easy for a wrong-doer
 always to lie hid. Neither is any
 other big thing facile,

we shall reply. But all the same if we expect to be
 happy, we must pursue the path to which the footprints of our arguments
 point. For with a view to lying hid we will organize societies and
 political clubs, and there are teachers of
 cajolery who impart the arts of the popular assembly and the
 court-room. So that, partly by persuasion, partly by force, we shall
 contrive to overreach with impunity. But against the gods, it may be
 said, neither secrecy nor force can avail. Well, if there are no gods,
 or they do not concern themselves with the doings of men,

neither need we concern ourselves with eluding their
 observation. If
 they do exist and pay heed, we know and hear of them only from such
 discourses and from the poets who have described their pedigrees. But
 these same authorities tell us that the gods are capable of being
 persuaded and swerved from their course by ‘sacrifice and soothing vows’
 and dedications. We must believe them in both or neither. And if we are
 to believe them, the thing to do is to commit injustice and offer
 sacrifice

from fruits of our wrongdoing. For if we are just, we shall, it is true, be
 unscathed by the gods, but we shall be putting away from us the profits
 of injustice; but if we are unjust, we shall win those profits, and, by
 the importunity of our prayers, when we transgress and sin, we shall
 persuade them and escape scot-free. Yes, it will be objected, but we
 shall be brought to judgement in the world below for our unjust deeds
 here, we or our children’s children. ’Nay, my dear sir,’ our calculating
 friend will say,
 ’here again the rites for the dead have much efficacy, and
 the absolving divinities,

as the greatest cities declare, and the sons of gods,
 who became the poets and prophets of the gods, and
 who reveal that this is the truth. “On
 what further ground, then, could we prefer justice to supreme injustice?
 If we combine this with a counterfeit decorum, we shall prosper to our
 heart’s desire, with gods and men in life and death, as the words of the
 multitude and of men of the highest authority declare. In consequence,
 then, of all that has been said, what possibility is there, Socrates,
 that any man

who has the power of any resources of mind, money,
 body, or family should consent to honor justice and not rather
 laugh when he hears her praised? In
 sooth, if anyone is able to show the falsity of these arguments, and has
 come to know with sufficient assurance that justice is best, he feels
 much indulgence for the unjust, and is not angry with them, but is aware
 that except a man by inborn divinity of his nature disdains injustice,
 or, having won to knowledge, refrains from it,

no one else is willingly just, but that it is from lack
 of manly spirit or from old age or some other weakness that men dispraise
 injustice, lacking the power to practise it. The fact is patent. For no
 sooner does such one come into the power than he works injustice to the
 extent of his ability. And the sole cause of all this is the fact that
 was the starting-point of this entire plea of my friend here and of
 myself to you, Socrates, pointing out how strange it is that of all you

self-styled advocates of justice, from the heroes of
 old whose discourses survive to the men of the present day, not one has
 ever censured injustice or commended justice otherwise than in respect
 of the repute, the honors, and the gifts that accrue from each. But what
 each one of them is in itself, by its own inherent force, when it is
 within the soul of the possessor and escapes the eyes of both gods and
 men, no one has ever adequately set forth in poetry or prose—the proof
 that the one is the greatest of all evils that the soul contains within
 itself, while justice is the greatest good.

For if you had all spoken in this way from the
 beginning and from our youth up had sought to convince us, we should not
 now be guarding against one another’s injustice, but each would be his
 own best guardian, for fear lest by working injustice he should dwell in
 communion with the greatest of evils. This, Socrates, and perhaps
 even more than this, Thrasymachus and haply another might say in pleas
 for and against justice and injustice, inverting their true potencies,
 as I believe, grossly. But I—

for I have no reason to hide anything from you—am
 laying myself out to the utmost on the theory, because I wish to hear
 its refutation from you. Do not merely show us by argument that justice
 is superior to injustice, but make clear to us what each in and of
 itself does to its possessor, whereby the one is evil and the other
 good. But do away with the repute of both, as Glaucon urged. For, unless
 you take away from either the true repute and attach to each the false,
 we shall say that it is not justice that you are praising but the
 semblance,

nor injustice that you censure, but the seeming, and
 that you really are exhorting us to be unjust but conceal it, and that
 you are at one with Thrasymachus in the opinion that justice is other
 man’s good, the advantage of the other, and that injustice is
 advantageous and profitible to oneself but disadvantageous to the
 inferior. Since, then, you have admitted that justice belongs to the
 class of those highest goods which are desirable both for their
 consequences and still more for their own sake, as sight, hearing,
 intelligence, yes and health too,

and all other goods that are productive by
 their very nature and not by opinion, this is what I would have you
 praise about justice—the benefit which it and the harm which injustice
 inherently works upon its possessor. But the rewards and the honors that
 depend on opinion, leave to others to praise. For while I would listen
 to others who thus commended justice and disparaged injustice, bestowing
 their praise and their blame on the reputation and the rewards of
 either, I could not accept that sort of thing from you unless you say I
 must, because you have passed

your entire life in the consideration of this
 very matter. Do not then, I repeat, merely prove to us in argument the
 superiority of justice to injustice, but show us what it is that each
 inherently does to its possessor—whether he does or does not escape the
 eyes of gods and men—whereby the one is good and the other
 evil.” While I had always admired the
 natural parts of Glaucon and Adeimantus, I was especially

pleased by their words on this occasion, and
 said: 
 It was excellently spoken of you, sons of the man
 we know, 
 
 in the beginning of the elegy which the
 admirer of Glaucon wrote when you distinguished
 yourselves in the battle of Megara 
 —’Sons of Ariston, whose race from a glorious sire is god-like.’ This, my
 friends, I think, was well said. For there must indeed be a touch of the
 god-like in your disposition if you are not convinced that injustice is
 preferable to justice though you can plead its case in such fashion.

And I believe that you are really not convinced. I
 infer this from your general character since from your words alone I
 should have distrusted you. But the more I trust you the more I am at a
 loss what to make of the matter. I do not know how I can come to the
 rescue. For I doubt my ability by reason that you have not accepted the
 arguments whereby I thought I proved against Thrasymachus that justice
 is better than injustice. Nor yet again do I know how I can refuse to
 come to the rescue. For I fear lest

it be actually impious to stand idly by when justice is
 reviled and be faint-hearted and not defend her so long as one has
 breath and can utter his voice. The best thing, then, is to aid her as
 best I can.” Glaucon, then, and the rest besought me by all means to
 come to the rescue and not to drop the argument but to pursue to the end
 the investigation as to the nature of each and the truth about their
 respective advantages. I said then as I thought: “The inquiry we are
 undertaking is no easy one but

calls for keen vision, as it seems to me. So, since we
 are not clever persons, I think we should employ the method of search
 that we should use if we, with not very keen vision, were bidden to read
 small letters from a distance, and then someone had observed that these
 same letters exist elsewhere larger and on a larger surface. We should
 have accounted it a godsend, I fancy, to be allowed to read those
 letters first, and examine the smaller, if they are the same.” “Quite
 so,” said Adeimantus;

“but what analogy to do you detect in the inquiry about
 justice?” “I will tell you,” I said: “there is a justice of one man, we
 say, and, I suppose, also of an entire city.” “Assuredly,” said he. “Is
 not the city larger than the man?” “It is larger,” he
 said. “Then, perhaps, there would be more justice in the larger object
 and more easy to apprehend. If it please you, then,

let us first look for its quality in states, and then
 only examine it also in the individual, looking for the likeness of the
 greater in the form of the less.” “I think that is a good suggestion,”
 he said. “If, then,” said I, “our argument should observe the
 origin of a state, we should see also the origin of justice
 and injustice in it.” “It may be,” said he. “And if this is done, we may
 expect to find more easily what we are seeking?”

“Much more.” “Shall we try it, then, and go through
 with it? I fancy it is no slight task. Reflect, then.” “We have
 reflected, ” said Adeimantus; “proceed and don’t
 refuse.” “The origin of the city,
 then,” said I, “in my opinion, is to be found in the fact that we do not
 severally suffice for our own needs, but each of
 us lacks many things. Do you think any other principle establishes the
 state?” “No other,” said he. “As a result of this,

then, one man calling in another for one service and
 another for another, we, being in need of many things, gather many into
 one place of abode as associates and helpers, and to this dwelling
 together we give the name city or state, do we not?” “By all means.”
 “And between one man and another there is an interchange of giving, if
 it so happens, and taking, because each supposes this to be better for
 himself.” “Certainly.” “Come, then, let us create a city from the
 beginning, in our theory. Its real creator, as it appears, will be our
 needs.” “Obviously.”

“Now the first and chief of our needs is the provision
 of food for existence and life.” “Assuredly.” “The second is
 housing and the third is raiment and that sort of thing.” “That is so.”
 “Tell me, then,” said I, “how our city will suffice for the provision of
 all these things. Will there not be a farmer for one, and a builder, and
 then again a weaver? And shall we add thereto a cobbler and some other
 purveyor for the needs of body?” “Certainly.” “The indispensable minimum
 of a city, then, would consist of four or

five men.” “Apparently.” “What of this, then? Shall
 each of these contribute his work for the common use of all? I mean
 shall the farmer, who is one, provide food for four and spend fourfold
 time and toil on the production of food and share it with the others, or
 shall he take no thought for them and provide a fourth portion

of the food for himself alone in a quarter of the time
 and employ the other three-quarters, the one in the provision of a
 house, the other of a garment, the other of shoes, and not have the
 bother of associating with other people, but, himself for himself, mind
 his own affairs?” And Adeimantus said, “But, perhaps,
 Socrates, the former way is easier.” “It would not, by Zeus, be at all
 strange,” said I; “for now that you have mentioned it, it occurs to me
 myself that, to begin with, our several natures are not

all alike but different. One man is naturally fitted
 for one task, and another for another. Don’t you think so?” “I do.”
 “Again, would one man do better working at many tasks or one at one?”
 “One at one,” he said. “And, furthermore, this, I fancy, is obvious—that
 if one lets slip the right season, the favorable moment in any task, the
 work is spoiled.” “Obvious.” “That, I take it, is because the business
 will not wait upon the leisure of the workman, but the workman must

attend to it as his main affair, and not as a by-work.”
 “He must indeed.” “The result, then, is that more things are produced,
 and better and more easily when one man performs one task according to
 his nature, at the right moment, and at leisure from other occupations.”
 “By all means.” “Then, Adeimantus, we need more than four citizens for
 the provision of the things we have mentioned. For the farmer, it
 appears, will not make his own plough if it is to be a good one,

nor his hoe, nor his other agricultural implements, nor
 will the builder, who also needs many; and similarly the weaver and
 cobbler.” “True.” “Carpenters, then, and smiths and many similar
 craftsmen, associating themselves with our hamlet, will enlarge it
 considerably.” “Certainly.” “Yet it still wouldn’t be very large even if
 we should add to them neat-herds and shepherds and other herders,

so that the farmers might have cattle for
 ploughing, and the builders
 oxen to use with the farmers for transportation, and the weavers and
 cobblers hides and fleeces for their use.” “It wouldn’t be a small city,
 either, if it had all these.” “But further,” said I, “it is practically
 impossible to establish the city in a region where it will not need
 imports.” “It is.” “There will be a further need, then, of those who
 will bring in from some other city what it requires.” “There will.” “And
 again, if our servitor goes forth empty-handed, not taking with him any
 of the things needed by those

from whom they procure what they themselves require, he
 will come back with empty hands, will he not?” “I think so.” “Then their
 home production must not merely suffice for themselves but in quality
 and quantity meet the needs of those of whom they have need.” “It must.”
 “So our city will require more farmers and other craftsmen.” “Yes,
 more.” “And also of other ministrants who are to export and import the
 merchandise. These are traders, are they not? “ “Yes.” “We shall also
 need traders, then.” “Assuredly.” “And if the trading is carried on by
 sea,

we shall need quite a number of others who are expert
 in maritime business.” “Quite a number.” “But again, within the city itself how will they share with one
 another the products of their labor? This was the very purpose of our
 association and establishment of a state.” “Obviously,” he said, “by
 buying and selling.” “A market-place, then, and money as a token for the purpose of
 exchange will be the result of this.”

“By all means.” “If, then, the farmer or any other
 craftsman taking his products to the market-place does not arrive at the
 same time with those who desire to exchange with him, is he to sit idle
 in the market-place and lose time from his own work?” “By no means,” he
 said, “but there are men who see this need and appoint themselves for
 this service—in well-conducted cities they are generally those who are
 weakest in body and those
 who are useless for any other task. They must wait there in the
 agora

and exchange money for goods with those who wish to
 sell, and goods for money with as many as desire to buy.” “This need,
 then,” said I, “creates the class of shopkeepers in our city. Or is not
 shopkeepers the name we give to those who, planted in the agora, serve
 us in buying and selling, while we call those who roam from city to city
 merchants?” “Certainly.” “And there are, furthermore, I believe, other
 servitors who in the things of the mind

are not altogether worthy of our fellowship, but whose
 strength of body is sufficient for toil; so they, selling the use of
 this strength and calling the price wages, are designated, I believe,
 wage-earners, are they not?” “Certainly.” “Wage-earners, then, it seems,
 are the complement that helps to fill up the state.” “I think so.” “Has our
 city, then, Adeimantus, reached its full growth and is it complete?”
 “Perhaps.” “Where, then, can justice and injustice be found in it? And
 along with which of the constituents that we have considered does it
 come into the state?”

“I cannot conceive, Socrates,” he said, “unless it be
 in some need that those very constituents have of one another.” “Perhaps
 that is a good suggestion,” said I; “we must examine it and not hold
 back. First of all, then, let us consider what will be the manner of
 life of men thus provided. Will they not make bread and wine and
 garments and shoes? And they will build themselves houses and carry on
 their work in summer for the most part unclad and unshod and in winter
 clothed and

shod sufficiently? And for their nourishment they will
 provide meal from their barley and flour from their wheat, and kneading
 and cooking these they will serve noble cakes and loaves on some
 arrangement of reeds or clean leaves, and, reclined on rustic beds
 strewn with bryony and myrtle, they will feast with their children,
 drinking of their wine thereto, garlanded and singing hymns to the gods
 in pleasant fellowship, not begetting offspring beyond their means

lest they fall into poverty or war?” Here Glaucon broke in: “No relishes apparently,” he said, “for the men you
 describe as feasting.” “True” said I; “I forgot that they will also have
 relishes—salt, of course, and olives and cheese and onions and greens,
 the sort of things they boil in the country, they will boil up together.
 But for dessert we will serve them figs and chickpeas and beans,

and they will toast myrtle-berries and acorns before
 the fire, washing them down with moderate potations and so, living in
 peace and health, they will probably die in old age and hand on a like
 life to their offspring.” And he said, “If you were founding a city of
 pigs, 
 Socrates, what other fodder than this would you provide?” “Why, what
 would you have, Glaucon?” said I. “What is customary,” he replied; “They
 must recline on couches, I presume, if they are not to be uncomfortable,

and dine from tables and have made dishes and
 sweetmeats such as are now in use.” “Good,” said I, “I understand. It is
 not merely the origin of a city, it seems, that we are considering but
 the origin of a luxurious city. Perhaps that isn’t such a bad
 suggestion, either. For by observation of such a city it may be we could
 discern the origin of justice and injustice in states. The true state I
 believe to be the one we have described—the healthy state, as it were.
 But if it is your pleasure that we contemplate also a fevered state,
 there is nothing to hinder.

For there are some, it appears, who will not be
 contented with this sort of fare or with this way of life; but couches
 will have to be added thereto and tables and other furniture, yes, and
 relishes and myrrh and incense and girls and cakes—all sorts of all of
 them. And the requirements we first mentioned, houses and garments and
 shoes, will no longer be confined to necessities, but we must set
 painting to work and embroidery, and procure gold and ivory and similar
 adornments, must we not?”

“Yes,” he said. “Then we shall have to enlarge the city
 again. For that healthy state is no longer sufficient, but we must
 proceed to swell out its bulk and fill it up with a multitude of things
 that exceed the requirements of necessity in states, as, for example,
 the entire class of huntsmen, and the imitators, many of them occupied with
 figures and colors and many with music—the poets and their assistants,
 rhapsodists, actors, chorus-dancers, contractors —and

the manufacturers of all kinds of articles, especially
 those that have to do with women’s adornment. And so we shall also want
 more servitors. Don’t you think that we shall need tutors, nurses
 wet and dry, beauty-shop ladies,
 barbers and yet again cooks and chefs? And
 we shall have need, further, of swineherds; there were none of these
 creatures in our
 former city, for we had no need of them, but in this city there will be
 this further need; and we shall also require other cattle in great
 numbers if they are to be eaten,

shall we not?” “Yes.” “Doctors, too, are something
 whose services we shall be much more likely to require if we live
 thus than as before?” “Much.” “And the
 territory, I presume, that was then sufficient to feed the then
 population, from being adequate will become too small. Is that so or
 not?” “It is.” “Then we shall have to cut out a cantle of our neighbor’s land if we are to have enough for
 pasture and ploughing, and they in turn of ours if they too abandon
 themselves to the unlimited acquisition of wealth,

disregarding the limit set by our necessary wants.”
 “Inevitably, Socrates.” “We shall go to war as
 the next step, Glaucon—or what will happen?” “What you say,” he said.
 “And we are not yet to speak,” said I, “of any evil or good effect of
 war, but only to affirm that we have further discovered the origin of war, namely, from
 those things from which the greatest
 disasters, public and private, come to states when they come.”
 “Certainly.” “Then, my friend, we must still further enlarge our city

by no small increment, but by a whole army, that will
 march forth and fight it out with assailants in defence of all our
 wealth and the luxuries we have just described.” “How so?” he said; “are
 the citizens themselves not sufficient for it?” “Not if
 you,” said I, “and we all were right in the admission we made when we
 were molding our city. We surely agreed, if you remember, that it is
 impossible for one man to do the work of many arts well.” “True,” he
 said. “Well, then,” said I,

“don’t you think that the business of fighting is an
 art and a profession?” “It is indeed,” he said. “Should our concern be
 greater, then, for the cobbler’s art than for the art of war?” “By no
 means.” “Can we suppose, then, that while we were at pains to prevent the cobbler
 from attempting to be at the same time a farmer, a weaver, or a builder
 instead of just a cobbler, to the end that we might have the cobbler’s
 business well done, and similarly assigned to each and every one man one
 occupation, for which he was fit and naturally adapted and at which he
 was to work all his days,

at leisure from other pursuits and not
 letting slip the right moments for doing the work well, and that yet we
 are in doubt whether the right accomplishment of the business of war is
 not of supreme moment? Is it so easy that a man who is cultivating the soil
 will be at the same time a soldier and one who is practising cobbling or
 any other trade, though no man in the world could make himself a
 competent expert at draughts or the dice who did not practise that and
 nothing else from childhood but treated it as an
 occasional business? And are we to believe that a man who

takes in hand a shield or any other instrument of war
 springs up on that very day a competent combatant in heavy armor or in
 any other form of warfare—though no other tool will make a man be an
 artist or an athlete by his taking it in hand, nor will it be of any
 service to those who have neither acquired the science of it nor sufficiently practised themselves
 in its use?” “Great indeed,” he said, “would be the value of tools in
 that case. “ “Then,”
 said I, “in the same degree that the task of our guardians is the greatest of all,

it would require more leisure than any other business
 and the greatest science and training.” “I think so,” said he. “Does it
 not also require a nature adapted to that very pursuit?” “Of course.”
 “It becomes our task, then, it seems, if we are able, to select which
 and what kind of natures are suited for the guardianship of a state.”
 “Yes, ours.” “Upon my word,” said I, “it is no light task that we have
 taken upon ourselves. But we must not faint

so far as our strength allows.” “No, we mustn’t.” “Do
 you think,” said I, “that there is any difference between the nature of
 a well-bred hound for this watch-dog’s work and of a well-born lad?”
 “What point have you in mind?” “I mean that each of them must be keen of
 perception, quick in pursuit of what it has apprehended, and strong too if it
 has to fight it out with its captive.” “Why, yes,” said he, “there is
 need of all these qualities.” “And it must, further, be brave if it is to fight well.” “Of course.” “And will
 a creature be ready to be brave that is not high-spirited, whether horse
 or dog or

anything else? Have you never observed what an
 irresistible and invincible thing is spirit, the
 presence of which makes every soul in the face of everything fearless
 and unconquerable?” “I have.” “The physical qualities of the guardian,
 then, are obvious.” “Yes.” “And also those of his soul, namely that he
 must be of high spirit.” “Yes, this too.” “How then, Glaucon,” said I,
 “will they escape being savage to one another and to the
 other citizens if this is to be their nature?” “Not easily, by Zeus,”
 said he. “And yet

we must have them gentle to their friends and harsh to
 their enemies; otherwise they will not await their destruction at the
 hands of others, but will be first themselves in bringing it about.”
 “True,” he said. “What, then, are we to do?” “said I. “Where shall we
 discover a disposition that is at once gentle and great-spirited? For
 there appears to be an opposition 
 between the spirited type and the gentle nature.” “There does.” “But yet
 if one lacks either of these qualities, a good guardian he never can be.
 But these requirements resemble impossibilities, and so

the result is that a good guardian is impossible.” “It
 seems likely,” he said. And I was at a standstill, and after
 reconsidering what we had been saying, I said, “We deserve to be at a
 loss, my friend, for we have lost sight of the comparison that we set
 before ourselves. ” “What do you mean?” “We failed to
 note that there are after all such natures as we thought impossible,
 endowed with these opposite qualities.” “Where?” “It may be observed in
 other animals, but especially in that which we

likened to the guardian. You surely have observed in
 well-bred hounds that their natural disposition is to be most gentle to
 their familiars and those whom they recognize, but the contrary to those
 whom they do not know.” “I am aware of that.” “The thing is possible,
 then,” said I, “and it is not an unnatural requirement that we are
 looking for in our guardian.” “It seems not.” “And does it seem to you that our guardian-to-be will
 also need, in addition to the being high-spirited, the further quality
 of having the love of wisdom in his nature?” “How so?” he said; “I don’t
 apprehend your meaning.”

“This too,” said I, “is something that you will
 discover in dogs and which is worth our wonder in the creature.” “What?”
 “That the sight of an unknown person angers him before he has suffered
 any injury, but an acquaintance he will fawn upon though he has never
 received any kindness from him. Have you never marvelled at that?” “I
 never paid any attention to the matter before now, but that he acts in
 some such way is obvious.” “But surely that is an exquisite

trait of his nature and one that shows a true love of
 wisdom. ” “In what respect, pray?” “In respect,”
 said I, “that he distinguishes a friendly from a hostile aspect by
 nothing save his apprehension of the one and his failure to recognize
 the other. How, I ask you, can the love of learning be denied to
 a creature whose criterion of the friendly and the alien is intelligence
 and ignorance?” “It certainly cannot,” he said. “But you will admit,”
 said I, “that the love of learning and the love of wisdom are the same?”
 “The same,” he said. “Then may we not confidently lay it down in the
 case of man too, that if he is to be

in some sort gentle to friends and familiars he must be
 by nature a lover of wisdom and of learning?” “Let us so assume,” he
 replied. “The love of wisdom, then, and high spirit and quickness and
 strength will be combined for us in the nature of him who is to be a
 good and true guardian of the state.” “By all means,” he said. “Such,
 then,” I said, “would be the basis of his character. But the rearing of these men and
 their education, how shall we manage that? And will the consideration of
 this topic advance us

in any way towards discerning what is the object of our
 entire inquiry—the origin of justice and injustice in a state—our aim
 must be to omit nothing of a sufficient discussion, and yet not to draw
 it out to tiresome length?” And Glaucon’s brother replied, “Certainly, I
 expect that this inquiry will bring us nearer to that end.” “Certainly,
 then, my dear Adeimantus,” said I, “we must not abandon it even if it
 prove to be rather long.” “No, we must not.” “Come, then, just as if we
 were telling stories or fables and

had ample leisure, let us educate these
 men in our discourse.” “So we must.” “What, then, is our education? Or is it hard to find a better than
 that which long time has discovered? Which is, I suppose, gymnastics for the body and for the soul music.” “It is.” “And shall we not
 begin education in music earlier than in gymnastics?” “Of course.” “And
 under music you include tales, do you not?” “I do.” “And tales are of
 two species, the one true and the other false ?” “Yes.” “And education must make use

of both, but first of the false?” “I don’t understand
 your meaning.” “Don’t you understand,” I said, “that we begin by telling
 children fables, and the fable is, taken as a whole, false, but there is
 truth in it also? And we make use of fable with children before
 gymnastics.” “That is so.” “That, then, is what I meant by saying that
 we must take up music before gymnastics.” “You were right,” he said. “Do
 you not know, then, that the beginning in every task is the chief
 thing, especially for any creature that is young and
 tender ?

For it is then that it is best molded and takes the
 impression that one wishes to stamp upon it.” “Quite
 so.” “Shall we, then, thus lightly suffer our
 children to listen to any chance stories fashioned by any chance
 teachers and so to take into their minds opinions for the most part
 contrary to those that we shall think it desirable for them to hold when
 they are grown up?” “By no manner of means will we allow it.” “We must
 begin, then, it seems, by a censorship

over our storymakers, and what they do well we must
 pass and what not, reject. And the stories on the accepted list we will
 induce nurses and mothers to tell to the children and so shape their
 souls by these stories far rather than their bodies by their hands. But
 most of the stories they now tell we must reject.” “What sort of
 stories?” he said. “The example of the greater stories,” I said, “will
 show us the lesser also. For surely the pattern must be the same and the
 greater and the less

must have a like tendency. Don’t you think so?” “I do,”
 he said; “but I don’t apprehend which you mean by the greater, either.”
 “Those,” I said, “that Hesiod and
 Homer and the other poets related. These, methinks, composed false
 stories which they told and still tell to mankind.” “Of what sort?” he
 said; “and what in them do you find fault?” “With that,” I said, “which
 one ought first and chiefly to blame, especially if the lie is not a
 pretty one.”

“What is that?” “When anyone images badly in his speech
 the true nature of gods and heroes, like a painter whose portraits bear
 no resemblance to his models.” “It is certainly right to condemn things
 like that,” he said; “but just what do we mean and what particular
 things?” “There is, first of all,” I said, “the greatest lie about the
 things of greatest concernment, which was no pretty invention of him who
 told how Uranus did what Hesiod says he did to Cronos, and how Cronos in
 turn took his revenge;

and then there are the doings and sufferings of Cronos
 at the hands of his son. Even if they were true I should not think that
 they ought to be thus lightly told to thoughtless young persons. But the
 best way would be to bury them in silence, and if there were some
 necessity for relating them, that only a very small audience
 should be admitted under pledge of secrecy and after sacrificing, not a
 pig, but some huge and
 unprocurable victim, to the end that as few as possible should have
 heard these tales.” “Why, yes,” said he, “such stories are hard
 sayings.” “Yes, and they are not to be told,

Adeimantus, in our city, nor is it to be said in the
 hearing of a young man, that in doing the utmost wrong he would do
 nothing to surprise anybody, nor again in punishing his father’s wrong-doings
 to the limit, but would only be following the example of the first and
 greatest of the gods. ” “No, by heaven,” said he, “I do not myself think
 that they are fit to be told.” “Neither must we admit at all,” said I,
 “that gods war with gods and plot against one
 another and contend—for it is not true either—

if we wish our future guardians to deem nothing more
 shameful than lightly to fall out with one another; still less must we
 make battles of gods and giants the subject for them of stories and
 embroideries, and other enmities many and manifold of gods and
 heroes toward their kith and kin. But if there is any likelihood of our
 persuading them that no citizen ever quarrelled with his fellow-citizen
 and that the very idea of it is an impiety,

that is the sort of thing that ought rather to be said
 by their elders, men and women, to children from the beginning and as
 they grow older, and we must compel the poets to keep close to this in
 their compositions. But Hera’s fetterings by her son and the hurling out of heaven
 of Hephaestus by his father when he was trying to save his mother from a
 beating, and the battles of the gods in Homer’s verse are things
 that we must not admit into our city either wrought in allegory or without
 allegory. For the young are not able to distinguish what is and what is
 not allegory, but whatever opinions are taken into the mind at that age
 are wont to prove

indelible and unalterable. For which reason, maybe, we
 should do our utmost that the first stories that they hear should be so
 composed as to bring the fairest lessons of virtue to their
 ears.” “Yes, that is reasonable,” he
 said; “but if again someone should ask us to be specific and say what
 these compositions may be and what are the tales, what could we name?”
 And I replied, “Adeimantus, we are not poets, you and I at present,

but founders of a state. And to founders it pertains to
 know the patterns on which poets must compose their fables and from
 which their poems must not be allowed to deviate; but the founders are
 not required themselves to compose fables.” “Right,” he said; “but this
 very thing—the patterns or norms of right speech about the gods, what
 would they be?” “Something like this,” I said. “The true quality of God
 we must always surely attribute to him whether we compose in epic,
 melic, or tragic verse.” “We must.” “And is not God of course good in reality

and always to be spoken of as such?” “Certainly.” “But further, no good thing
 is harmful, is it?” “I think not.” “Can what is not harmful harm?” “By
 no means.” “Can that which does not harm do any evil?” “Not that
 either.” “But that which does no evil would not be cause of any evil
 either?” “How could it?” “Once more, is the good beneficent?” “Yes.” “It
 is the cause, then, of welfare?” “Yes.” “Then the good is not the cause
 of all things, but of things that are well it the cause—of things that
 are ill it is blameless.” “Entirely so,”

he said. “Neither, then, could God,” said I, “since he
 is good, be, as the multitude say, the cause of all things, but for
 mankind he is the cause of few things, but of many things not the
 cause. For good things are far fewer 
 with us than evil, and for the good we must assume no other cause than
 God, but the cause of evil we must look for in other things and not in
 God.” “What you say seems to me most true,” he replied. “Then,” said I,
 “we must not accept

from Homer or any other poet the folly of such error as
 this about the gods when he says 
 Two urns stand on the floor of the palace of Zeus
 and are filled with 
 Dooms he allots, one of blessings, the other of gifts that are
 evil, 
 
 Hom. Il.
 24.527-8 and to whomsoever Zeus gives of both
 commingled— 
 Now upon evil he chances and now again good is his
 portion, 
 
 Hom. Il.
 24.530 but the man for whom he does not blend the lots, but to
 whom he gives unmixed evil— 
 Hunger devouring drives him, a wanderer over the
 wide world, 
 
 Hom. Il. 24.532

nor will we tolerate the saying that 
 Zeus is dispenser alike of good and of evil to
 mortals. 
 
 
 “But as to the
 violation of the oaths and the truce by Pandarus, if anyone
 affirms it to have been brought about by the action of Athena and Zeus,
 we will not approve, nor that the strife and contention of the
 gods

was the doing of Themis and Zeus; nor again must we
 permit our youth to hear what Aeschylus says— 
 A god implants the guilty cause in men 
 When he would utterly destroy a house, 
 
 Aesch. 
 but if any poets compose
 a ’Sorrows of Niobe,’ the poem that contains these iambics, or a tale of
 the Pelopidae or of Troy , or
 anything else of the kind, we must either forbid them to say that these
 woes are the work of God, or they must devise some such interpretation
 as we now require, and must declare that what God

did was righteous and good, and they were
 benefited by their chastisement. But that they were
 miserable who paid the penalty, and that the doer of this was God, is a
 thing that the poet must not be suffered to say; if on the other hand he
 should say that for needing chastisement the wicked were miserable and
 that in paying the penalty they were benefited by God, that we must
 allow. But as to saying that God, who is good, becomes the cause of evil
 to anyone, we must contend in every way that neither should anyone
 assert this in his own city if it is to be well governed, nor anyone
 hear it,

neither younger nor older, neither telling a story in
 meter or without meter; for neither would the saying of such things, if
 they are said, be holy, nor would they be profitable to us or concordant
 with themselves.” “I cast my vote with yours for this law,” he said,
 “and am well pleased with it.” “This, then,” said I, “will be one of the
 laws and patterns concerning the gods 
 to which speakers and poets will be required to conform, that God is not
 the cause of all things, but only of the good.” “And an entirely
 satisfactory one,” he said.

“And what of this, the second. Do you think that God is
 a wizard and capable of manifesting himself by design, now in one
 aspect, now in another, at one time himself changing and altering his shape in many
 transformations and at another deceiving us and causing us to believe
 such things about him; or that he is simple and less likely than
 anything else to depart from his own form?” “I cannot say offhand,” he
 replied. “But what of this: If anything went out from its own form, would it not be displaced and changed,
 either by itself

or by something else?” “Necessarily.” “Is it not true
 that to be altered and moved by something else happens
 least to things that are in the best condition, as, for example, a body
 by food and drink and toil, and plants by the
 heat of the sun and winds and similar influences—is it not true that the
 healthiest and strongest is least altered?”

“Certainly.” “And is it not the soul that is bravest
 and most intelligent, that would be least disturbed 
 and altered by any external affection?” “Yes.” “And, again, it is surely
 true of all composite implements, edifices, and habiliments, by parity
 of reasoning, that those which are well made and in good condition are
 least liable to be changed by time and other influences.” “That is so.”
 “It is universally true, then, that that
 which is in the best state by nature or

art or both admits least alteration by something else.”
 “So it seems.” “But God, surely, and everything that belongs to God is
 in every way in the best possible state.” “Of course.” “From this point
 of view, then, it would be least of all likely that there would be many
 forms in God.” “Least indeed.” “But would
 he transform and alter himself?” “Obviously,” he said, “if he is
 altered.” “Then does he change himself for the better and to something
 fairer, or for the worse and to something uglier
 than himself?”

“It must necessarily,” said he, “be for the worse if he
 is changed. For we surely will not say that God is deficient in either
 beauty or excellence.” “Most rightly spoken,” said I. “And if that were
 his condition, do you think, Adeimantus, that any one god or man would
 of his own will worsen himself in any way?” “Impossible,” he replied.
 “It is impossible then,” said I, “even for a god to wish to alter
 himself, but, as it appears, each of them being the fairest and best
 possible abides for ever simply in his own form.” “An absolutely
 necessary conclusion to my thinking.” “No poet then,”

I said, “my good friend, must be allowed to tell us
 that 
 The gods, in the likeness of strangers, 
 Many disguises assume as they visit the cities of mortals. 
 
 Hom. Od.
 17.485-486 
 Nor must anyone tell falsehoods
 about Proteus 
 and Thetis, nor in any tragedy or in other poems bring in Hera disguised
 as a priestess collecting alms 
 for the life-giving sons of Inachus, the Argive stream. 
 
 Aesch.

And many similar falsehoods they must not tell. Nor
 again must mothers under the influence of such poets terrify their
 children with harmful tales, how that there are
 certain gods whose apparitions haunt the night in the likeness of many
 strangers from all manner of lands, lest while they speak evil of the
 gods they at the same time make cowards of children.” “They must not,”
 he said. “But,” said I, “may we suppose that while the gods themselves
 are incapable of change they cause us to fancy that they appear in many
 shapes deceiving and practising magic upon us?” “Perhaps,” said he.
 “Consider,”

said I; “would a god wish to deceive, or lie, by
 presenting in either word or action what is only appearance?” “I don’t
 know,” said he. “Don’t you know,” said I, “that the veritable lie, if
 the expression is permissible, is a thing that all gods and men abhor?”
 “What do you mean?” he said. “This,” said I, “that falsehood in the most
 vital part of themselves, and about their most vital concerns, is
 something that no one willingly accepts, but it is there above all that
 everyone fears it.” “I don’t understand yet either.” “That is because
 you suspect me of some grand meaning,”

I said; “but what I mean is, that deception in the soul
 about realities, to have been deceived and to be blindly ignorant and to
 have and hold the falsehood there, is what all men would least of all
 accept, and it is in that case that they loathe it most of all.” “Quite
 so,” he said. “But surely it would be most wholly right, as I was just
 now saying, to describe this as in very truth falsehood—ignorance namely
 in the soul of the man deceived. For the falsehood in words is a
 copy of the affection in the soul,

an after-rising image of it and not an altogether
 unmixed falsehood. Is not that so?” “By all means.” “Essential falsehood, then, is hated not only by gods
 but by men.” “I agree.” “But what of the falsehood in words, when and
 for whom is it serviceable so as not to merit abhorrence? Will it not be
 against enemies? And when any of those whom we call friends owing to
 madness or folly attempts to do some wrong, does it not then become
 useful

to avert the evil—as a medicine? And also in the fables
 of which we were just now speaking owing to our ignorance of the truth
 about antiquity, we liken the false to the true as far as we may and so
 make it edifying. ” “We most certainly do,” he said. “Tell me,
 then, on which of these grounds falsehood would be serviceable to God.
 Would he because of his ignorance of antiquity make false likenesses of
 it?” “An absurd supposition, that,” he said. “Then there is no lying
 poet in God.” “I think not.”

“Well then, would it be through fear of his enemies
 that he would lie?” “Far from it.” “Would it be because of the folly or
 madness of his friends?” “Nay, no fool or madman is a friend of God.”
 “Then there is no motive for God to deceive.” “None.” “From every point
 of view the divine and the divinity are free from
 falsehood.” “By all means.” “Then God is altogether simple and true in
 deed and word, and neither changes himself nor deceives others by
 visions or words or the sending of signs

in waking or in dreams.” “I myself think so,” he said,
 “when I hear you say it.” “You concur then,” I said, “this as our second
 norm or canon for speech and poetry about the gods,—that they are
 neither wizards in shape-shifting nor do they mislead us by falsehoods
 in words or deed?” “I concur.” “Then, though there are many other things
 that we praise in Homer, this we will not applaud, the sending of the
 dream by Zeus to Agamemnon, nor shall
 we approve of Aeschylus when his Thetis 
 avers that

Apollo singing at her wedding, ‘foretold the happy fortunes of her
 issue’ 
 Hom. Il.
 2.1 — 
 Their days prolonged, from pain and sickness
 free, 
 And rounding out the tale of heaven’s blessings, 
 Raised the proud paean, making glad my heart. 
 And I believed that Phoebus’ mouth divine, 
 Filled with the breath of prophecy, could not lie. 
 But he himself, the singer, himself who sat 
 At meat with us, himself who promised all, 
 Is now himself the slayer of my son. 
 
 Aesch. Frag. 350

When anyone says that sort of thing about the gods, we
 shall be wroth with him, we will refuse him a chorus, neither will we
 allow teachers to use him for the education of the young if our
 guardians are to be god-fearing men and god-like in so far as that is
 possible for humanity.” “By all means,” he said, “I accept these norms
 and would use them as canons and laws.”

“Concerning the gods
 then,” said I, “this is the sort of thing that we must allow or not
 allow them to hear from childhood up, if they are to honor the gods and their fathers and mothers,
 and not to hold their friendship with one another in light esteem.”
 “That was our view and I believe it right.” “What then of this? If they
 are to be brave, must we not extend our prescription to include also the
 sayings that will make them least likely

to fear death? Or do you suppose that anyone could ever
 become brave who had that dread in his heart?” “No indeed, I do not,” he
 replied. “And again if he believes in the reality of the underworld and
 its terrors, do you think that any man
 will be fearless of death and in battle will prefer death to defeat and
 slavery?” “By no means.” “Then it seems we must exercise
 supervision also, in the matter of such tales as these, over those
 who undertake to supply them and request them not to dispraise in this
 undiscriminating fashion the life in Hades but rather praise it,

since what they now tell us is neither true nor
 edifying to men who are destined to be warriors.” “Yes, we must,” he
 said. “Then,” said I, “beginning with this verse we will expunge
 everything of the same kind: 
 Liefer were I in the fields up above to be serf to
 another 
 Tiller of some poor plot which yields him a scanty
 subsistence, 
 Than to be ruler and king over all the dead who have
 perished, 
 
 Aesch. Frag.
 350 
 and this:

Lest unto men and immortals the homes of the dead
 be uncovered 
 Horrible, noisome, dank, that the gods too hold in
 abhorrence, 
 
 Hom. Il.
 20.64 
 
 and: 
 Ah me! so it is true that e’en in the dwellings of
 Hades 
 Spirit there is and wraith, but within there is no
 understanding, 
 
 Hom. Il.
 10.495 
 and this: 
 Sole to have wisdom and wit, but the others are
 shadowy phantoms, 
 
 Hom. Il.
 23.103 
 and: 
 Forth from his limbs unwilling his spirit flitted
 to Hades, 
 Wailing its doom and its lustihood lost and the May of its
 manhood, 
 
 Hom. Il.
 16.856

and: 
 Under the earth like a vapor vanished the
 gibbering soul, 
 
 Hom. Il.
 23.100 and: 
 Even as bats in the hollow of some mysterious
 grotto 
 Fly with a flittermouse shriek when one of them falls from the
 cluster 
 Whereby they hold to the rock and are clinging the one to the
 other, 
 Flitted their gibbering ghosts. 
 
 Hom. Od.
 24.6-10

We will beg Homer and the other poets not to be angry
 if we cancel those and all similar passages, not that they are not
 poetic and pleasing to most hearers, but
 because the more poetic they are the less are they suited to the ears of
 boys and men who are destined to be free and to be more afraid of
 slavery than of death.” “By all means.” “Then we must further taboo in these matters the entire vocabulary of
 terror and fear, Cocytus

named of lamentation loud, abhorred Styx , the flood of deadly hate, the
 people of the infernal pit and of the charnel-house, and all other terms
 of this type, whose very names send a shudder through all the hearers every year.
 And they may be excellent for other purposes, but we are in fear for our guardians
 lest the habit of such thrills make them more sensitive and
 soft than we would have them.” “And we are right in so fearing.” “We
 must remove those things then?” “Yes.” “And the opposite type to them is
 what we must require in speech and in verse?” “Obviously.” “And shall we
 also do away with the

wailings and lamentations of men of repute?” “That
 necessarily follows,” he said, “from the other.” “Consider,” said I,
 “whether we shall be right in thus getting rid of them or not. What we
 affirm is that a good man will
 not think that for a good man, whose friend he also is, death is a
 terrible thing.” “Yes, we say that.” “Then it would not be for his
 friend’s sake as if he had suffered something dreadful that
 he would make lament.” “Certainly not.” “But we also say this, that such
 a one is most of all men sufficient unto himself

for a good life and is distinguished from other men in
 having least need of anybody else.” “True,” he replied. “Least of all
 then to him is it a terrible thing to lose son or brother or his wealth or
 anything of the sort.” “Least of all.” “Then he makes the least lament
 and bears it most moderately when any such misfortune overtakes him.”
 “Certainly.” “Then we should be right in doing away with the
 lamentations of men of note and in attributing them to women,

and not to the most worthy of them either, and to
 inferior men, in that those whom we say we are breeding for the
 guardianship of the land may disdain to act like these.” “We should be
 right,” said he. “Again then we shall request Homer and the other poets
 not to portray Achilles, the son of a goddess, as, 
 Lying now on his side, and then again on his
 back, 
 And again on his face, 
 
 Hom. Il.
 24.10-12 
 and then rising up and ‘Drifting distraught on the shore of the
 waste unharvested ocean,’ 
 Hom. Il. 24.10-12

nor “clutching with both
 hands the sooty dust and strewing it over his head,” 
 nor as weeping and lamenting in the
 measure and manner attributed to him by the poet; nor yet Priam, near kinsman of the gods, making
 supplication and rolling in the dung, 
 Calling aloud unto each, by name to each man
 appealing. 
 
 Hom. Il.
 22.414-415 And yet more than this shall we beg of them at
 least not to describe the gods as lamenting and crying,

Ah, woe is me, woeful mother who bore to my sorrow
 the bravest, 
 
 Hom. Il.
 18.54 
 and if they will so picture the gods at least not to
 have the effrontery to present so unlikely a likeness of
 the supreme god as to make him say: 
 Out on it, dear to my heart is the man whose
 pursuit around Troy-town 
 I must behold with my eyes while my spirit is grieving within
 me, 
 
 Hom. Il.
 22.168 
 and: 
 Ah, woe is me! of all men to me is Sarpedon the
 dearest,

Fated to fall by the hands of Patroclus, Menoitius’
 offspring. 
 
 Hom. Il. 16.433-434 
 
 
 “For if, dear Adeimantus, our young men should
 seriously incline to listen to such tales and not laugh at them as
 unworthy utterances, still less surely would any man be to think such
 conduct unworthy of himself and to rebuke himself if it occurred to him
 to do or say anything of that kind, but without shame or restraint full
 many a dirge for trifles would he chant and many
 a lament.”

“You say most truly,” he replied. “But that must not
 be, as our reasoning but now showed us, in which we must put our trust
 until someone convinces with a better reason.” “No, it must not be.”
 “Again, they must not be prone to laughter. For ordinarily when one abandons himself to
 violent laughter his condition provokes a violent reaction. ” “I think so,” he
 said. “Then if anyone represents men of worth as overpowered

by laughter we must accept it, much less if gods.”
 “Much indeed,” he replied. “Then we must not accept from Homer such
 sayings as these either about the gods: 
 Quenchless then was the laughter that
 rose from the blessed immortals 
 When they beheld Hephaestus officiously puffing and panting. 
 
 Hom. Il.
 1.599-600 —we must not accept it on your view.” “If it pleases
 you

to call it mine, ” he said; “at any rate we
 must not accept it.” “But further we must surely prize truth most
 highly. For if we were right in what we were just saying and falsehood
 is in very deed useless to gods, but to men useful as a remedy or form
 of medicine, it is obvious that such a thing must be assigned to
 physicians and laymen should have nothing to do with it.” “Obviously,”
 he replied. “The rulers then of the city may, if anybody, fitly lie on
 account of enemies or citizens for the benefit of the state; no others may have anything to do with it,

but for a layman to lie to rulers of that kind we shall
 affirm to be as great a sin, nay a greater, than it is for a patient not
 to tell physician or an athlete his trainer the truth about his bodily
 condition, or for a man to deceive the pilot about the ship and the
 sailors as to the real condition of himself or a fellow-sailor, and how
 they fare.” “Most true,” he replied. “If then

the ruler catches anybody else in the city lying, any
 of the craftsmen 
 Whether a prophet or healer of sickness or joiner
 of timbers, 
 
 Hom. Od.
 17.383-384 he will chastise him for introducing a practice as
 subversive and destructive of
 a state as it is of a ship.” “He will,” he said, “if deed follows upon
 word. ” “Again,
 will our lads not need the virtue of self-control?” “Of course.” “And
 for the multitude are not the main points
 of self-control these—to be obedient to their rulers and themselves to
 be rulers

over the bodily appetites and pleasures of food, drink,
 and the rest?” “I think so.” “Then, I take it, we will think well said
 such sayings as that of Homer’s Diomede: 
 Friend, sit down and be silent and hark to the
 word of my bidding, 
 
 Hom. Il.
 4.412 
 and what follows: 
 Breathing high spirit the Greeks marched silently
 fearing their captains, 
 
 Hom. Il. 3.8

and all similar passages.” “Yes, well said.” “But what
 of this sort of thing? 
 Heavy with wine with the eyes of a dog and the
 heart of a fleet deer, 
 
 Hom. Il.
 1.225 
 and the lines that follow, are these well—and other impertinences in prose or verse of
 private citizens to their rulers?” “They are not well.” “They certainly
 are not suitable for youth to hear for the inculcation of self-control.
 But if from another point of view they yield some pleasure we must not
 be surprised, or what is your view of it?” “This,” he said. “Again, to represent the wisest man as saying
 that this seems to him the fairest thing in the world, 
 When the bounteous tables are standing

Laden with bread and with meat and the cupbearer
 ladles the sweet wine 
 Out of the mixer and bears it and empties it into the
 beakers. 
 
 Hom. Od. 9.8-10 
 
 —do you think the hearing of that sort of thing will
 conduce to a young man’s temperance or self-control? or this: 
 Hunger is the most piteous death that a mortal may
 suffer. 
 
 Hom. Od.
 12.342 
 Or to hear how Zeus lightly
 forgot all the designs which he devised,

watching while the other gods slept, because of the
 excitement of his passions, and was so overcome by the sight of Hera
 that he is not even willing to go to their chamber, but wants to lie
 with her there on the ground and says that he is possessed by a fiercer
 desire than when they first consorted with one another, ‘Deceiving their dear parents.’ 
 Hom. Il. 14.296 Nor will
 it profit them to hear of Hephaestus’s fettering Ares and Aphrodite for a like motive.”
 “No, by Zeus,” he said,

“I don’t think it will.” “But any words or deeds of
 endurance in the face of all odds 
 attributed to famous men are suitable for our youth to see represented
 and to hear, such as: 
 He smote his breast and chided thus his heart, 
 “Endure, my heart, for worse hast thou endured.” 
 
 Hom. Od.
 20.17-18 
 “By all means,”
 he said. “It is certain that we cannot allow our men to be acceptors of
 bribes or greedy for gain.”

“By no means.” “Then they must not chant: 
 Gifts move the gods and gifts persuade dread
 kings. 
 
 unknown 
 Nor should we approve Achilles’
 attendant Phoenix as speaking fairly when he counselled
 him if he received gifts for it to defend the Achaeans, but without
 gifts not to lay aside his wrath; nor shall we think it proper nor admit
 that Achilles himself was so greedy as to accept gifts from
 Agamemnon and again to give up a dead body after receiving payment

but otherwise to refuse.” “It is not right,” he said,
 “to commend such conduct.” “But, for Homer’s sake,” said I, “I hesitate
 to say that it is positively impious to affirm such things of
 Achilles and to believe them when told by others; or again to believe
 that he said to Apollo 
 Me thou hast baulked, Far-darter, the most
 pernicious of all gods, 
 Mightily would I requite thee if only my hands had the power. 
 
 Hom. Il.
 22.15

And how he was disobedient to the river, who was a god and was ready to fight with him,
 and again that he said of the locks of his hair, consecrated to her
 river Spercheius: ‘This let me give to
 take with him my hair to the hero, Patroclus,’ 
 Hom. Il. 23.151 
 who was a dead body, and that he did so we
 must believe. And again the trailings of Hector ’s body round the grave of Patroclus and the
 slaughter of the living captives upon his
 pyre, all these we will affirm to be lies,

nor will we suffer our youth to believe that Achilles,
 the son of a goddess and of Peleus the most chaste of men,
 grandson of Zeus, and himself bred under the
 care of the most sage Cheiron, was of so perturbed a spirit as to be
 affected with two contradictory maladies, the greed that becomes no free
 man and at the same time overweening arrogance towards gods and men.”
 “You are right,” he said. “Neither, then,”
 said I, “must we believe this or suffer it to be said, that Theseus, the
 son of Poseidon,

and Peirithous, the son of Zeus, attempted such
 dreadful rapes, nor
 that any other child of a god and hero would have brought himself to
 accomplish the terrible and impious deeds that they now falsely relate
 of him. But we must constrain the poets either to deny that these are
 their deeds or that they are the children of gods, but not to make both
 statements or attempt to persuade our youth that the gods are the
 begetters of evil, and that heroes are no better than men.

For, as we were saying, such utterances are both
 impious and false. For we proved, I take it, that for evil to arise from
 gods is an impossibility.” “Certainly.” “And they are furthermore
 harmful to those that hear them. For every man will be very lenient with
 his own misdeeds if he is convinced that such are and were the actions
 of 
 The near-sown seed of gods, 
 Close kin to Zeus, for whom on Ida’s top 
 Ancestral altars flame to highest heaven, 
 Nor in their life-blood fails the fire divine. 
 
 Aesch. Niobe Fr. For which cause we
 must put down such fables, lest they breed

in our youth great laxity in turpitude.”
 “Most assuredly.” “What type of discourse remains for our definition of
 our prescriptions and proscriptions?” “We have declared the right way of
 speaking about gods and daemons and heroes and that other world.” “We
 have.” “Speech, then, about men would be the remainder.” “Obviously.”
 “It is impossible for us, my friend, to place this here. ” “Why?” “Because
 I presume we are going to say that so it is that both poets

and writers of prose speak wrongly about men in matters
 of greatest moment, saying that there are many examples of men who,
 though unjust, are happy, and of just men who are wretched, and that
 there is profit in injustice if it be concealed, and that justice is the
 other man’s good and your own loss; and I presume that we shall forbid
 them to say this sort of thing and command them to sing and fable the
 opposite. Don’t you think so?” “Nay, I well know it,” he said. “Then, if
 you admit that I am right, I will say that you have conceded the
 original point of our inquiry?”

“Rightly apprehended,” he said. “Then, as regards men
 that speech must be of this kind, that is a point that we will agree
 upon when we have discovered the nature of justice and the proof that it
 is profitable to its possessor whether he does or does not appear to be
 just.” “Most true,” he replied. “So this
 concludes the topic of tales. That of diction, I take it, is to be considered
 next. So we shall have completely examined both the matter and the
 manner of speech.” And Adeimantus said, “I don’t understand what

you mean by this.” “Well,” said I, “we must have you
 understand. Perhaps you will be more likely to apprehend it thus. Is not
 everything that is said by fabulists or poets a narration of past,
 present, or future things?” “What else could it be?” he said. “Do not
 they proceed either by pure narration
 or by a narrative that is effected through imitation, or by both?” “This too,” he said, “I still need to
 have made plainer.” “I seem to be a ridiculous and obscure teacher, ” I said; “so like men who are unable to express
 themselves

I won’t try to speak in wholes and universals but will separate off
 a particular part and by the example of that try to show you my meaning.
 Tell me. Do you know the first lines if the Iliad in which the poet says that Chryses implored Agamemnon
 to release his daughter, and that the king was angry and that Chryses,

failing of his request, imprecated curses on the
 Achaeans in his prayers to the god?” “I do.” “You know then that as far
 as these verses, 
 And prayed unto all the Achaeans, 
 Chiefly to Atreus’ sons, twin leaders who marshalled the
 people, 
 
 Hom. Il. 1.15 the
 poet himself is the speaker and does not even attempt to suggest to us
 that anyone but himself is speaking.

But what follows he delivers as if he were himself
 Chryses and tries as far as may be to make us feel that not Homer is the
 speaker, but the priest, an old man. And in this manner he has carried
 in nearly all the rest of his narration about affairs in Ilion , all that happened in Ithaca , and the entire
 Odyssey .” “Quite so,” he said. “Now, it is narration,
 is it not, both when he presents the several speeches and the matter
 between the speeches?” “Of course.” “But when he delivers a speech

as if he were someone else, shall we not say that he
 then assimilates thereby his own diction is far as possible to that of
 the person whom he announces as about to speak?” “We shall obviously.”
 “And is not likening one’s self to another speech or bodily bearing an
 imitation of him to whom one likens one’s self?” “Surely.” “In such case
 then it appears he and the other poets effect their narration through
 imitation.” “Certainly.” “But if the poet should conceal himself
 nowhere, then his entire poetizing and narration would have been
 accomplished without imitation.

And lest you may say again that you don’t understand, I
 will explain to you how this would be done. If Homer, after telling us
 that Chryses came with the ransom of his daughter and as a suppliant of
 the Achaeans but chiefly of the kings, had gone on speaking not as if
 made or being Chryses but still as
 Homer, you are aware that it would not be imitation but narration, pure
 and simple. It would have been somewhat in this wise. I will state it
 without meter for I am not a poet:

the priest came and prayed that to them the gods should
 grant to take Troy and come
 safely home, but that they should accept the ransom and release his
 daughter, out of reverence for the god, and when he had thus spoken the
 others were of reverent mind and approved, but Agamemnon was angry and
 bade him depart and not come again lest the scepter and the fillets of
 the god should not avail him. And ere his daughter should be released,
 he said, she would grow old in Argos with himself, and he ordered him to be off and
 not vex him if he wished to get home safe.

And the old man on hearing this was frightened and
 departed in silence, and having gone apart from the camp he prayed at
 length to Apollo, invoking the appellations of the god, and reminding
 him of and asking requital for any of his gifts that had found favor
 whether in the building of temples or the sacrifice of victims. In
 return for these things he prayed that the Achaeans should suffer for
 his tears by the god’s shafts. It is in this way, my dear fellow,” I
 said, “that

without imitation simple narration results.” “I
 understand,” he said. “Understand then,”
 said I, “that the opposite of this arises when one removes the words of
 the poet between and leaves the alternation of speeches.” “This too I
 understand,” he said, “—it is what happens in tragedy.” “You have
 conceived me most rightly,” I said, “and now I think I can make plain to
 you what I was unable to before, that there is one kind of poetry and
 tale-telling which works wholly through imitation,

as you remarked, tragedy and comedy; and another which
 employs the recital of the poet himself, best exemplified, I presume, in
 the dithyramb ; and there is again that which employs both, in
 epic poetry and in many other places, if you apprehend me.” “I
 understand now,” he said, “what you then meant.” “Recall then also the
 preceding statement that we were done with the ’what’ of speech and
 still had to consider the ’how.’” “I remember.”

“What I meant then was just this, that we must reach a
 decision whether we are to suffer our poets to narrate as imitators or
 in part as imitators and in part not, and what sort of things in each
 case, or not allow them to imitate at
 all.” “I divine,” he said, “that you are considering whether we shall
 admit tragedy and comedy into our city or not.” “Perhaps,” said I, “and
 perhaps even more than that. For I
 certainly do not yet know myself, but whithersoever the wind, as it
 were, of the argument blows, there lies our course.”

“Well said,” he replied. “This then, Adeimantus, is the
 point we must keep in view, do we wish our guardians to be good mimics
 or not? Or is this also a consequence of what we said before, that each
 one could practise well only one pursuit and not many, but if he
 attempted the latter, dabbling in many things, he would fail of
 distinction in all?” “Of course it is.” “And does not the same rule hold
 for imitation, that the same man is not able to imitate many things well
 as he can one?” “No, he is not.” “Still less, then, will he be able to
 combine

the practice of any worthy pursuit with the imitation
 of many things and the quality of a mimic; since, unless I mistake, the
 same men cannot practise well at once even the two forms of imitation
 that appear most nearly akin, as the writing of tragedy and comedy ?
 Did you not just now call these two imitations?” “I did, and you are
 right in saying that the same men are not able to succeed in both, nor
 yet to be at once good rhapsodists 
 and actors.” “True.” “But

neither can the same men be actors for tragedies and
 comedies —and all these are imitations,
 are they not?” “Yes, imitations.” “And to still smaller coinage than this, in my opinion, Adeimantus, proceeds the
 fractioning of human faculty, so as to be incapable of imitating many
 things or of doing the things themselves of which the imitations are
 likenesses.” “Most true,” he replied. “If,
 then, we are to maintain our original principle, that our guardians,
 released from all other crafts,

are to be expert craftsmen of civic liberty, and pursue
 nothing else that does not conduce to this, it would not be fitting for
 these to do nor yet to imitate anything else. But if they imitate they
 should from childhood up imitate what is appropriate to
 them —men, that is, who are brave, sober,
 pious, free and all things of that kind; but things unbecoming the free
 man they should neither do nor be clever at imitating, nor yet any other
 shameful thing, lest from the imitation

they imbibe the reality. Or have you not observed
 that imitations, if continued from youth far into life, settle down into
 habits and (second) nature in the body, the
 speech, and the thought?” “Yes, indeed,” said he. “We will not then
 allow our charges, whom we expect to prove good men, being men, to play
 the parts of women and imitate a woman young or old wrangling with her
 husband, defying heaven, loudly boasting, fortunate in her own conceit,
 or involved in misfortune

and possessed by grief and lamentation—still less a
 woman that is sick, in love, or in labor.” “Most certainly not,” he
 replied. “Nor may they imitate slaves, female and male, doing the
 offices of slaves.” “No, not that either.” “Nor yet, as it seems, bad
 men who are cowards and who do the opposite of the things we just now
 spoke of, reviling and lampooning one another, speaking foul words in
 their cups or when sober

and in other ways sinning against themselves and others
 in word and deed after the fashion of such men. And I take it they must
 not form the habit of likening themselves to madmen either in words nor
 yet in deeds. For while knowledge they must have both of mad and bad men and women, they must do and
 imitate nothing of this kind.” “Most true,” he said. “What of this?” I
 said, “—are they to imitate smiths and other craftsmen or the rowers of
 triremes and those who call the time to them or other things

connected therewith?” “How could they,” he said, “since
 it will be forbidden them even to pay any attention to such things?”
 “Well, then, neighing horses and lowing bulls, and the noise of rivers and the
 roar of the sea and the thunder and everything of that kind—will they
 imitate these?” “Nay, they have been forbidden,” he said, “to be mad or
 liken themselves to madmen.” “If, then, I understand your meaning,” said
 I, “there is a form of diction and narrative in which

the really good and true man would narrate anything
 that he had to say, and another form unlike this to which the man of the
 opposite birth and breeding would cleave and which he would tell his
 story.” “What are these forms?” he said. “A man of the right sort, I
 think, when he comes in the course of his narrative to some word or act
 of a good man will be willing to impersonate the other in reporting it,
 and will feel no shame at that kind of mimicry, by preference imitating
 the good man

when he acts steadfastly and sensibly, and less and
 more reluctantly when he is upset by sickness or love or drunkenness or
 any other mishap. But when he comes to someone unworthy of himself, he
 will not wish to liken himself in earnest to one who is inferior, except in the few cases where he is doing something
 good, but will be embarrassed both because he is unpractised in the
 mimicry of such characters, and also because he shrinks in distaste from
 molding and fitting himself the types of baser things.

His mind disdains them, unless it be for jest. ” “Naturally,” he said. “Then the narrative that he will employ will be the kind that we just
 now illustrated by the verses of Homer, and his diction will be one that
 partakes of both, of imitation and simple narration, but there will be a
 small portion of imitation in a long discourse—or is there nothing in
 what I say?” “Yes, indeed, ” he said, that is the type and pattern of such a
 speaker.” “Then,” said I,

“the other kind speaker, the more debased he is the
 less will he shrink from imitating anything and everything. He will
 think nothing unworthy of himself, so that he will attempt, seriously
 and in the presence of many, to imitate all things, including those we just now
 mentioned—claps of thunder, and the noise of wind and hail and axles and
 pulleys, and the notes of trumpets and flutes and pan-pipes, and the
 sounds of all instruments, and the cries of dogs, sheep, and birds; and
 so his style will depend wholly on imitation

in voice and gesture, or will contain but a little of
 pure narration.” “That too follows of necessity,” he said. “These,
 then,” said I, “were the two types of diction of which I was aking.”
 “There are those two,” he replied. “Now does not one of the two involve
 slight variations, and
 if we assign a suitable pitch and rhythm to the diction, is not the
 result that the right speaker speaks almost on the same note and in one
 cadence—for the changes are slight—

and similarly in a rhythm of nearly the same kind?”
 “Quite so.” “But what of the other type? Does it not require the
 opposite, every kind of pitch and all rhythms, if it too is to have
 appropriate expression, since it involves manifold forms of variation?”
 “Emphatically so.” “And do all poets and speakers hit upon one type or
 the other of diction or some blend which they combine of both?”

“They must,” he said. “What, then,” said I, are we to
 do? Shall we admit all of these into the city, or one of the unmixed
 types, or the mixed type?” “If my vote prevails,” he said, “the unmixed
 imitator of the good.” “Nay, but the mixed type also is pleasing,
 Adeimantus, and far most pleasing to boys and their tutors and the great
 mob is the opposite of your choice.” “Most pleasing it is.” “But
 perhaps,” said I, “you would affirm it to be ill-suited

to our polity, because there is no twofold or manifold
 man among us,
 since every man does one thing.” “It is not suited.” “And is this not
 the reason why such a city is the only one in which we shall find the
 cobbler a cobbler and not a pilot in addition to his cobbling, and the
 farmer a farmer and not a judge added to his farming, and the soldier a
 soldier and not a money-maker in addition to his soldiery, and so of all
 the rest?” “True,” he said. “If a man, then, it
 seems,

who was capable by his cunning of assuming every kind
 of shape and imitating all things should arrive in our city, bringing
 with himself the poems
 which he wished to exhibit, we should fall down and worship him as a
 holy and wondrous and delightful creature, but should say to him that
 there is no man of that kind among us in our city, nor is it lawful for
 such a man to arise among us, and we should send him away to another
 city, after pouring myrrh down over his head and crowning him with
 fillets of wool, but we ourselves, for our souls’ good, should continue
 to employ

the more austere and less delightful poet and tale-teller,
 who would imitate the diction of the good man and would tell his tale in
 the patterns which we prescribed in the beginning, when we set out
 to educate our soldiers.” “We certainly should do that if it rested with
 us.” “And now, my friend,” said I, “we may say that we have completely
 finished the part of music that concerns speeches and tales. For we have
 set forth what is to be said and how it is to be said.” “I think so
 too,” he replied.

“After this, then,” said
 I, “comes the manner of song and tunes?” “Obviously.” “And having gone
 thus far, could not everybody discover what we must say of their
 character in order to conform to what has already been said?” “I am
 afraid that ’everybody’ does not include me,” laughed Glaucon ; “I cannot sufficiently divine off-hand what we
 ought to say, though I have a suspicion.” “You certainly, I presume,”
 said I,

“have sufficient a understanding of this—that the
 song is composed
 of three things, the words, the tune, and the rhythm?” “Yes,” said he,
 “that much.” “And so far as it is words, it surely in no manner differs
 from words not sung in the requirement of conformity to the patterns and
 manner that we have prescribed?” “True,” he said. “And again, the music
 and the rhythm must follow the speech. ” “Of course.” “But we said we did not require dirges
 and lamentations in words.” “We do not.” “What, then,

are the dirge-like modes of music? Tell me, for you are
 a musician.” “The mixed Lydian, ” he said, “and the
 tense or higher Lydian, and similar modes.” “These, then,” said I, “we
 must do away with. For they are useless even to women 
 who are to make the best of themselves, let alone to men.” “Assuredly.”
 “But again, drunkenness is a thing most unbefitting guardians, and so is
 softness and sloth.” “Yes.” “What, then, are the soft and convivial
 modes?” “There are certain Ionian and also Lydian modes

that are called lax.” “Will you make any use of them
 for warriors?” “None at all,” he said; “but it would seem that you have
 left the Dorian and the
 Phrygian.” “I don’t know 
 the musical modes,” I said, “but leave us that mode that would fittingly imitate the utterances and the
 accents of a brave man who is engaged in warfare or in any enforced
 business, and who, when he has failed, either meeting wounds or death or
 having fallen into some other mishap,

in all these conditions confronts fortune with
 steadfast endurance and repels her strokes. And another for such a man
 engaged in works of peace, not enforced but voluntary, either trying to persuade
 somebody of something and imploring him—whether it be a god, through
 prayer, or a man, by teaching and admonition—or contrariwise yielding
 himself to another who petitioning or teaching him or trying to change
 his opinions, and in consequence faring according to his wish, and not
 bearing himself arrogantly, but in all this acting modestly and
 moderately

and acquiescing in the outcome. Leave us these two
 modes—the forced and the voluntary—that will best imitate the utterances
 of men failing or succeeding, the temperate, the brave—leave us these.”
 “Well,” said he, “you are asking me to leave none other than those I
 just spoke of.” “Then,” said I, “we shall not need in our songs and airs
 instruments of many strings or whose compass includes all the
 harmonies.” “Not in my opinion,” said he. “Then we shall not maintain
 makers of triangles and harps and all other

many stringed and poly-harmonic instruments.”
 “Apparently not.” “Well, will you admit to the city flute-makers and
 flute-players? Or is not the flute the most ’many-stringed’ of
 instruments and do not the pan-harmonics themselves imitate it?” “Clearly,” he
 said. “You have left,” said I, “the lyre and the cither. These are
 useful 
 in the city, and in the fields the shepherds would have a little piccolo
 to pipe on. ”
 “So our argument indicates,” he said.

“We are not innovating, my friend, in preferring Apollo
 and the instruments of Apollo to Marsyas and his instruments.” “No, by
 heaven!” he said, “I think not.” “And by the dog, ” said I, “we have all unawares
 purged the city which a little while ago we said was wanton. ” “In that we show our good
 sense,” he said. “Come then, let us
 complete the purification. For upon harmonies would follow the
 consideration of rhythms: we must not pursue complexity nor great
 variety in the basic movements, but must observe
 what are the rhythms of a life that is orderly and brave, and after
 observing them

require the foot and the air to conform to that kind of
 man’s speech and not the speech to the foot and the tune. What those
 rhythms would be, it is for you to tell us as you did the musical
 modes.” “Nay, in faith,” he said, “I cannot tell. For that there are
 some three forms from which the feet are combined, just as there are
 four in the notes of the voice whence come all
 harmonies, is a thing that I have observed and could tell. But which are
 imitations of which sort of life, I am unable to say. ”

“Well,” said I, “on this point we will take counsel
 with Damon , too, as to which are the feet appropriate to illiberality,
 and insolence or madness or other evils, and what rhythms we must leave
 for their opposites; and I believe I have heard him obscurely
 speaking of a foot
 that he called the enoplios, a composite foot, and a dactyl and an
 heroic foot, which he arranged, I know not how,
 to be equal up and down 
 in the interchange of long and short, and unless I am mistaken he used the term iambic, and
 there was another foot that he called the trochaic,

and he added the quantities long and short. And in some
 of these, I believe, he censured and commended the tempo of the foot no
 less than the rhythm itself, or else some combination of the two; I
 can’t say. But, as I said, let this matter be postponed for Damon ’s consideration. For to
 determine the truth of these would require no little discourse. Do you
 think otherwise?” “No, by heaven, I do not.” “But this you are able to
 determine—that seemliness and unseemliness are attendant upon the good
 rhythm and the bad.” “Of course.” “And, further, that

good rhythm and bad rhythm accompany, the one fair
 diction, assimilating itself thereto, and the other the opposite, and so
 of the apt and the unapt, if, as we were just now saying, the rhythm and
 harmony follow the words and not the words these.” “They certainly must
 follow the speech,” he said. “And what of the manner of the diction, and
 the speech?” said I. “Do they not follow and conform to the disposition
 of the soul?” “Of course.” “And all the rest to the diction?” “Yes.”
 “Good speech, then, good accord, and good grace,

and good rhythm wait upon good disposition, not that
 weakness of head which we euphemistically style goodness of heart, but
 the truly good and fair disposition of the character and the mind. ” “By all means,” he said. “And must not our
 youth pursue these everywhere if they are to do what it
 is truly theirs to do ?” “They must indeed.” “And there is surely much of these
 qualities in painting

and in all similar craftsmanship —weaving is full of them
 and embroidery and architecture and likewise the manufacture of
 household furnishings and thereto the natural bodies of animals and
 plants as well. For in all these there is grace or gracelessness. And
 gracelessness and evil rhythm and disharmony are akin to evil speaking
 and the evil temper but the opposites are the symbols and the kin of the
 opposites, the sober and good disposition.” “Entirely so,” he said.

“Is it, then, only the
 poets that we must supervise and compel to embody in their poems the
 semblance of the good character or else not write poetry among us, or
 must we keep watch over the other craftsmen, and forbid them to
 represent the evil disposition, the licentious, the illiberal, the
 graceless, either in the likeness of living creatures or in buildings or
 in any other product of their art, on penalty, if unable to obey, of
 being forbidden to practise their art among us, that our guardians may
 not be bred among symbols of evil, as it were

in a pasturage of poisonous herbs, lest grazing freely
 and cropping from many such day by day they little by little and all
 unawares accumulate and build up a huge mass of evil in their own souls.
 But we must look for those craftsmen who by the happy gift of nature are
 capable of following the trail of true beauty and grace, that our young
 men, dwelling as it were in a salubrious region, may receive benefit
 from all things about them, whence the influence that emanates from
 works of beauty may waft itself to eye or ear like a breeze that brings
 from wholesome places health,

and so from earliest childhood insensibly guide them to
 likeness, to friendship, to harmony with beautiful reason.” “Yes,” he
 said, “that would be far the best education for them.” “And is it not
 for this reason, Glaucon,” said I, “that education in music is most
 sovereign, because
 more than anything else rhythm and harmony find their way to the inmost
 soul and take strongest hold upon it, bringing with them and imparting
 grace, if one is rightly trained,

and otherwise the contrary? And further, because
 omissions and the failure of beauty in things badly made or grown would
 be most quickly perceived by one who was properly educated in music, and
 so, feeling distaste rightly, he would praise beautiful things and
 take delight in them and receive them into his soul to foster its growth
 and become himself beautiful and good.

The ugly he would rightly disapprove of and hate while
 still young and yet unable to apprehend the reason, but when reason
 came the man thus nurtured would be the first to
 give her welcome, for by this affinity he would know her.” “I certainly
 think,” he said, “that such is the cause of education in music.” “It is,
 then,” said I, “as it was when we learned our letters and felt that we
 knew them sufficiently only when the separate letters did not elude us,
 appearing as few elements in all the combinations that convey them, and
 when we did not disregard them

in small things or great and think it
 unnecessary to recognize them, but were eager to distinguish them
 everywhere, in the belief that we should never be literate and
 letter-perfect till we could do this.” “True.” “And is it not also true
 that if there are any likenesses of letters reflected in water or mirrors,
 we shall never know them until we know the originals, but such knowledge
 belongs to the same art and discipline ?” “By all means.” “Then, by heaven, am I not right in
 saying that by the same token we shall never be true musicians, either—

neither we nor the guardians that we have undertaken to
 educate—until we are able to recognize the forms of soberness, courage,
 liberality, and
 high-mindedness and all their kindred and their opposites, too, in all
 the combinations that contain and convey them, and to apprehend them and
 their images wherever found, disregarding them neither in trifles nor in
 great things, but believing the knowledge of them to belong to the same
 art and discipline?” “The conclusion is inevitable,” he said.

“Then,” said I, “when there is a coincidence of a beautiful disposition in the soul and corresponding
 and harmonious beauties of the same type in the bodily form—is not this
 the fairest spectacle for one who is capable of its contemplation ?” “Far the fairest.” “And
 surely the fairest is the most lovable.” “Of course.” “The true
 musician, then, would love by preference persons of this sort; but if
 there were disharmony he would not love this.” “No,” he said, “not if
 there was a defect in the soul; but if it were in the body he would bear
 with it and still be willing to bestow his love.”

“I understand,” I said, “that you have or have had
 favorites of this sort and I grant your distinction. But tell me
 this—can there be any communion between soberness and extravagant
 pleasure ?” “How could there be,” he said, “since such pleasure
 puts a man beside himself

no less than pain?” “Or between it and virtue
 generally?” “By no means.” “But is there between pleasure and insolence
 and licence?” “Most assuredly.” “Do you know of greater or keener
 pleasure than that associated with Aphrodite?” “I don’t,” he said, “nor
 yet of any more insane.” “But is not the right love a sober and
 harmonious love of the orderly and the beautiful?” “It is indeed,” said
 he. “Then nothing of madness, nothing akin to licence, must be allowed
 to come nigh the right love?” “No.” “Then this kind of pleasure

may not come nigh, nor may lover and beloved who
 rightly love and are loved have anything to do with it?” “No, by heaven,
 Socrates,” he said, “it must not come nigh them.” “Thus, then, as it
 seems, you will lay down the law in the city that we are founding, that
 the lover may kiss and pass the time with and touch the beloved as
 a father would a son, for honorable ends, if he persuade him. But
 otherwise he must so associate with the objects of his care that there
 should never be any suspicion of anything further,

on penalty of being stigmatized for want of taste and
 true musical culture.” “Even so,” he said. “Do you not agree, then, that
 our discourse on music has come to an end? It has certainly made a
 fitting end, for surely the end and consummation of culture be love of
 the beautiful.” “I concur,” he said. “After music our youth are to be educated by gymnastics?” “Certainly.”
 “In this too they must be carefully trained

from boyhood through life, and the way of it is this, I
 believe; but consider it yourself too. For I, for my part, do not
 believe that a sound body by its excellence makes the soul good, but on
 the contrary that a good soul by its virtue renders the body the best
 that is possible. What is your opinion?” “I think so too.” “Then if we
 should sufficiently train the mind and turn over to it the minutiae of
 the care of the body,

and content ourselves with merely indicating the norms
 or patterns, not to make a long story of it, we should acting rightly?”
 “By all means.” “From intoxication we said that they must
 abstain. For a guardian is surely the last person in the world to whom
 it is allowable to get drunk and not know where on earth he is.” “Yes,”
 he said, “it would absurd that a guardian should need a guard.” “What next about their
 food? These men are athletes in the greatest of contests, are they not?” “Yes.” “Is, then, the
 bodily habit of the athletes we see about us suitable for such?”

“Perhaps.” “Nay,” said I, “that is a drowsy habit and
 precarious for health. Don’t you observe that they sleep away their
 lives, and that if they depart ever so little from
 their prescribed regimen these athletes are liable to great and violent
 diseases?” “I do.” “Then,” said I, “we need some more ingenious form of
 training for our athletes of war, since these must be as it were
 sleepless hounds, and have the keenest possible perceptions of sight and
 hearing, and in their campaigns undergo many changes

in their drinking water, their food, and in exposure to
 the heat of the sun and to storms, without
 disturbance of their health.” “I think so.” “Would not, then, the best
 gymnastics be akin to the music that we were just now describing?” “What
 do you mean?” “It would be a simple and flexible gymnastic,
 and especially so in the training for war.” “In what way?” “One could
 learn that,” said I, “even from Homer. For you are aware that in the banqueting of the
 heroes on campaign he does not

feast them on fish, nor on
 boiled meat, but only on roast, which is what soldiers could most easily
 procure. For everywhere, one may say, it is of easier provision to use
 the bare fire than to convey pots and pans 
 along.” “Indeed it is.” “Neither, as I believe, does Homer ever make
 mention of sweet meats. Is not that something which all men in training
 understand—that if one is to keep his body in good condition he must
 abstain from such things altogether?” “They are right,”

he said, “in that they know it and do abstain.” “Then,
 my friend, if you think this is the right way, you apparently do not
 approve of a Syracusan table and Sicilian variety
 of made dishes.” “I think not.” “You would frown, then, on a little
 Corinthian maid as the chère amie of
 men who were to keep themselves fit?” “Most certainly.” “And also on the
 seeming delights of Attic pastry?” “Inevitably.” “In general, I take it,
 if we likened that kind of food and regimen to music and song expressed
 in the pan-harmonic mode and

in every variety of rhythm it would be a fair
 comparison.” “Quite so.” “And here variety engendered licentiousness,
 did it not, but here disease? While simplicity in music begets sobriety
 in the souls, and in gymnastic training it begets health in bodies.”
 “Most true,” he said. “And when licentiousness

and disease multiply in a city, are not many courts of
 law and dispensaries opened, and the arts of chicane and
 medicine give themselves airs when even free men in great numbers take
 them very seriously?” “How can they help it?” he said. “Will you be able to find a surer proof of an evil and
 shameful state of education in a city than the necessity of first-rate
 physicians and judges, not only for the base and mechanical, but for
 those who claim to have been bred in the fashion of free men? Do you not
 think

it disgraceful and a notable mark of bad breeding to
 have to make use of a justice imported from others, who thus become your
 masters and judges, from lack of such qualities in yourself ?” “The most shameful thing in
 the world.” “Is it?” said I, “or is this still more shameful —when a man only wears out the better part of his
 days in the courts of law as defendant or accuser, but from the lack of
 all true sense of values is led to plume himself on this very thing, as
 being a smart fellow to ’put over’ an unjust act

and cunningly to try every dodge and practice, every evasion, and wriggle out of every hold in
 defeating justice, and that too for trifles and worthless things,
 because he does not know how much nobler and better it is to arrange his
 life so as to have no need of a nodding juryman?” “That is,” said
 he, “still more shameful than the other.” “And to require medicine,”
 said I, “not merely for wounds or the incidence of some seasonal
 maladies,

but, because of sloth and such a regimen as we
 described, to fill one’s body up with winds and humors like a marsh and
 compel the ingenious sons of Aesculapius to invent for diseases such
 names as fluxes and flatulences—don’t you think that disgraceful? ” “Those surely are,” he said,
 “new-fangled and monstrous strange names of diseases.” “There was
 nothing of the kind, I fancy,” said I, “in the days of Aesculapius. I
 infer this from the fact that at Troy his sons

did not find fault with the damsel who gave to the
 wounded Eurypylus to drink a
 posset of Pramnian wine plentifully sprinkled with barley and gratings
 of cheese,

inflammatory ingredients of a surety, nor did they
 censure Patroclus, who was in charge of the case.” “It was indeed,” said
 he, “a strange potion for a man in that condition.” “Not strange,” said
 I, “if you reflect that the former Asclepiads made no use of our modern
 coddling medication of diseases
 before the time of Herodicus. But Herodicus was a
 trainer and became a valetudinarian, and blended

gymnastics and medicine, for the torment first and
 chiefly of himself and then of many successors.” “How so?” he said. “By
 lingering out his death,” said I; “for living in perpetual observance of
 his malady, which was incurable, he was not able to effect a cure, but
 lived through his days unfit for the business of life, suffering the
 tortures of the damned if he departed a whit from his fixed regimen, and
 struggling against death by reason of his science he won the prize of a
 doting old age. ” “A noble
 prize indeed for his science,”
 he said.

“The appropriate one,” said I, “for a man who did not
 know that it was not from ignorance or inacquaintance with this type of
 medicine that Aesculapius did not discover it to his descendants, but
 because he knew that for all well-governed peoples there is a work
 assigned to each man in the city which he must perform, and no one has
 leisure to be sick and doctor himself all his
 days. And this we absurdly enough perceive in the case of a craftsman,
 but don’t see in the case of the rich and so-called fortunate.” “How
 so?” he said.

“A carpenter,” said I,
 “when he is sick expects his physician to give him a drug which will
 operate as an emetic on the disease, or to get rid of it by purging or the use of cautery or the
 knife. But if anyone prescribes for him a long course of treatment with
 swathings about
 the head and their accompaniments, he hastily says that he has no
 leisure to be sick and that such a life of preoccupation with his illess
 and neglect of the work that lies before him isn’t worth living. And
 thereupon he bids farewell to that kind of physician,

enters upon his customary way of life, regains his
 health, and lives attending to his affairs—or, if his body is not equal
 to strain, he dies and is freed from all his troubles. ” “For such a man,” he said, “that appears to be the right
 use of medicine.” “And is not the reason,” I said,

“that he had a task and that life wasn’t worth
 acceptance on condition of not doing his work?” “Obviously,” he said.
 “But the rich man, we say, has no such appointed task, the necessity of
 abstaining from which renders life intolerable.” “I haven’t heard of
 any.” “Why, haven’t you heard that saying of Phocylides, that after a man has ’made his
 pile’ he ought to practice virtue?” “Before, too, I fancy,” he said.
 “Let us not quarrel with him on that point,” I said, “but inform
 ourselves whether this virtue is something for the rich man to
 practise,

and life is intolerable
 if he does not, or whether we are to suppose that while
 valetudinarianism is a hindrance to single-minded attention to carpentry
 and the other arts, it is no obstacle to the fulfilment of Phocylides’
 exhortation.” “Yes, indeed,” he said, “this excessive care for the body
 that goes beyond simple gymnastics is the greatest of all obstacles. For it
 is troublesome in household affairs and military service and sedentary
 offices in the city.” “And, chief of all, it puts difficulties in the
 way of any kind of instruction, thinking, or private meditation,

forever imagining headaches and dizziness and attributing their origin to
 philosophy. So that wherever this kind of virtue is practiced and tested
 it is in every way a hindrance. 
 For it makes the man always fancy himself sick and never cease from
 anguishing about his body.” “Naturally,” he said. “Then, shall we not
 say that it was because Asclepius knew this—that for those who were by
 nature and course of life sound of body

but had some localized disease, that for such, I say,
 and for this habit he revealed the art of medicine, and, driving out
 their disease by drugs and surgery, prescribed for them their customary
 regimen in order not to interfere with their civic duties, but that,
 when bodies were diseased inwardly and throughout, he did not attempt by
 diet and by gradual evacuations and infusions to prolong a wretched
 existence for the man and have him beget in all likelihood similar
 wretched offspring?

But if a man was incapable of living in the established
 round and order of life, he did not think it
 worth while to treat him, since such a fellow is of no use either to
 himself or to the state.” “A most politic Asclepius you’re telling us
 of, ” he
 said. “Obviously,” said I, “that was his character. And his sons too,
 don’t you in see that at Troy 
 they approved

themselves good fighting-men and practised medicine as
 I described it? Don’t you remember that in the case of Menelaus too from
 the wound that Pandarus inflicted ‘They
 sucked the blood, and soothing simples sprinkled?’ 
 Hom. Il. 4.218 
 But what he was to eat or drink
 thereafter they no more prescribed than for Eurypylus, taking it for
 granted that the remedies sufficed to heal men who before their wounds
 were healthy and temperate in diet

even if they did happen for the nonce to drink a
 posset; but they thought that the life of a man constitutionally sickly
 and intemperate was of no use to himself or others, and that the art of
 medicine should not be for such nor should they be given treatment even
 if they were richer than Midas. ” “Very ingenious fellows,” he
 said, “you make out these sons of Asclepius to be.” “’Tis fitting,” said I; “and yet in disregard of our
 principles the tragedians and Pindar affirm that Asclepius, though he was the son of
 Apollo, was bribed by gold

to heal a man already at the point of death, and that
 for this cause he was struck by the lightning. But we in accordance with
 the aforesaid principles refuse to
 believe both statements, but if he was the son of a god he was not
 avaricious, we will insist, and if he was greedy of gain he was not the
 son of a god.” “That much,” said he, “is most certainly true. But what
 have you to say to this, Socrates, must we not have good physicians in
 our city? And they would be the most likely to be good who had treated
 the greatest number of healthy and diseased men,

and so good judges would be those who had associated
 with all sorts and conditions of men.” “Most assuredly I want them
 good,” I said; “but do you know whom I regard as such?” “I’ll know if
 you tell, ” he said. “Well, I will try,”
 said I. “You, however, have put unlike cases in one question.” “How so?”
 said he. “Physicians, it is true,” I said, “would prove most skilled if,
 from childhood up, in addition to learning the principles of the art
 they had familiarized themselves with the greatest possible number of
 the most sickly bodies,

and if they themselves had suffered all diseases and
 were not of very healthy constitution. For you see they do not treat the
 body by the body. If they did, it would
 not be allowable for their bodies to be or to have been in evil
 condition. But they treat the body with the mind—and it is not competent
 for a mind that is or has been evil to treat anything well.” “Right,” he
 said. “But a judge, mark you, my friend,

rules soul with soul and it is not allowable for a soul
 to have been bred from youth up among evil souls and to have grown
 familiar with them, and itself to have run the gauntlet of every kind of
 wrong-doing and injustice so as quickly to infer from itself the
 misdeeds of others as it might diseases in the body, but it must have
 been inexperienced in evil natures and uncontaminated by them while
 young, if it is to be truly fair and good and judge soundly of justice.
 For which cause the better sort seem to be simple-minded in youth and
 are easily deceived by the wicked,

since they do not have within themselves patterns
 answering to the affections of the bad.” “That is indeed their
 experience,” he said. “Therefore it is,” said I, that the good judge
 must not be a youth but an old man, a late learner of the nature of injustice, one who has not
 become aware of it as a property in his own soul, but one who has
 through the long years trained himself to understand it as an alien
 thing in alien souls, and to discern how great an evil it is

by the instrument of mere knowledge and not by
 experience of his own.” “That at any rate,” he said, “appears to be the
 noblest kind of judge.” “And what is more, a good one,” I said, “which
 was the gist of your question. For he who has a good soul is good. But
 that cunning fellow quick to suspect evil, and who has himself done many unjust
 acts and who thinks himself a smart trickster, when he associates with
 his like does appear to be clever, being on his guard and fixing his
 eyes on the patterns within himself. But when the time comes for him to
 mingle with the good and his elders,

then on the contrary he appears stupid. He is
 unseasonably distrustful and he cannot recognize a sound character
 because he has no such pattern in himself. But since he more often meets
 with the bad than the good, he seems to himself and to others to be
 rather wise than foolish.” “That is quite true,” he said. “Well then,” said I, “such a one must not be our
 ideal of the good and wise judge but the former. For while badness could
 never come to know both virtue and itself, native virtue through
 education

will at last acquire the science both of itself and
 badness. This one, then, as I think, is the man who
 proves to be wise and not the bad man. ” “And I
 concur,” he said. “Then will you not establish by law in your city such
 an art of medicine as we have described in conjunction with this kind of
 justice? And these arts will care for the bodies and souls of such of
 your citizens as are truly well born,

but of those who are not, such as are defective in body
 they will suffer to die and those who are evil-natured and
 incurable in soul they will themselves put to
 death.” “This certainly,” he said, “has been shown to be the best thing
 for the sufferers themselves and for the state.” “And so your youths,”
 said I, “employing that simple music which we said engendered sobriety
 will, it is clear, guard themselves against falling into the need of the
 justice of the court-room.” “Yes,” he said. “And will not our musician,
 pursuing the same trail

in his use of gymnastics, if he please, get to have no
 need of medicine save when indispensable ?” “I think so.”
 “And even the exercises and toils of gymnastics he will undertake with a
 view to the spirited part of his nature to arouse that rather than for mere strength, unlike
 ordinary athletes, who treat diet and exercise only as a
 means to muscle.” “Nothing could be truer,” he said. “Then may we not
 say, Glaucon,” said I, “that those who established an education
 in music and gymnastics

had not the purpose in view that some attribute to them
 in so instituting, namely to treat the body by one and the soul by the
 other?” “But what?” he said. “It seems likely,” I said, “that they
 ordained both chiefly for the soul’s sake.” “How so?” “Have you not
 observed,” said I, “the effect on the disposition of the mind
 itself of lifelong devotion to gymnastics with total neglect of
 music? Or the disposition of those of the opposite habit?” “In what
 respect do you mean?” he said.

“In respect of savagery and hardness or, on the other
 hand, of softness and gentleness?” “I have observed,” he said, “that the
 devotees of unmitigated gymnastics turn out more brutal than they should
 be and those of music softer than is good for them.” “And surely,” said
 I, “this savagery is a quality derived from the high-spirited element in
 our nature, which, if rightly trained, becomes brave, but if
 overstrained, would naturally become hard and harsh.” “I think so,” he
 said. “And again, is not the gentleness

a quality which the philosophic nature would yield?
 This if relaxed too far would be softer than is desirable but if rightly
 trained gentle and orderly?” “That is so.” “But our requirement, we
 say, is that the guardians should
 possess both natures.” “It is.” “And must they not be harmoniously
 adjusted to one another?” “Of course.” “And the soul of the man thus
 attuned is sober and brave?”

“Certainly.” “And that of the ill adjusted is cowardiy
 and rude?” “It surely is.” “Now when a man
 abandons himself to music to play upon him and pour into his soul as it were
 through the funnel of his ears those sweet, soft, and dirge-like airs of
 which we were just now speaking, and gives his entire time to the
 warblings and blandishments of song, the first result is that the
 principle of high spirit, if he had it,

is softened like iron and is made useful instead of
 useless and brittle. But when he continues the practice without remission
 and is spellbound, the effect begins to be that he melts and
 liquefies till he completely dissolves away
 his spirit, cuts out as it were the very sinews of his soul and makes of
 himself a ’feeble warrior.’ ” “Assuredly,” he said. “And if,” said I, “he has
 to begin with a spiritless nature he reaches this result
 quickly, but if high-spirited, by weakening the spirit he makes it
 unstable,

quickly irritated by slight stimuli, and as quickly
 quelled. The outcome is that such men are choleric and irascible instead
 of high-spirited, and are peevish and discontented.” “Precisely so.” “On
 the other hand, if a man toils hard at gymnastics and eats right lustily
 and holds no truck with music and philosophy, does he not at first get
 very fit and full of pride and high spirit and become more brave and
 bold than he was?” “He does indeed.” “But what if he does nothing but
 this and has no contact with the Muse in any way,

is not the result that even if there was some principle
 of the love of knowledge in his soul, since it tastes of no instruction
 nor of any inquiry and does not participate in any discussion or any
 other form of culture, it becomes feeble, deaf, and blind, because it is
 not aroused or fed nor are its perceptions purified and quickened?”
 “That is so,” he said. “And so such a man, I take it, becomes a
 misologist 
 and stranger to the Muses. He no longer makes any use of persuasion by
 speech but achieves all his ends

like a beast by violence and savagery, and in his brute
 ignorance and ineptitude lives a life of disharmony and gracelessness.”
 “That is entirely true,” he said. “For these two, then, it seems there
 are two arts which I would say some god gave to mankind, music and
 gymnastics for the service of the high-spirited principle and the love
 of knowledge in them—not for the soul and the body except incidentally,
 but for the harmonious adjustment of these two principles

by the proper degree of tension and relaxation of
 each.” “Yes, so it appears,” he said. “Then he who best blends
 gymnastics with music and applies them most suitably to the soul is the
 man whom we should most rightly pronounce to be the most perfect and
 harmonious musician, far rather than the one who brings the strings into
 unison with one another. ” “That
 seems likely, Socrates,” he said. “And shall we not also need in our
 city, Glaucon, a permanent overseer of this kind
 if its constitution is to be preserved?”

“We most certainly shall.” “Such would be the outlines of their education and breeding. For
 why should one recite
 the list of the dances of such citizens, their hunts and chases with
 hounds, their athletic contests and races? It is pretty plain that they
 must conform to these principles and there is no longer any difficulty
 in discovering them.” “There is, it may be, no difficulty,” he said.
 “Very well,” said I; “what, then, have we next to determine? Is it not
 which ones among them 
 shall be

the rulers and the ruled?” “Certainly.” “That the
 rulers must be the elder and the ruled the younger is obvious.” “It is.”
 “And that the rulers must be their best?” “This too.” “And do not the
 best of the farmers prove the best farmers?” “Yes.” “And in this case,
 since we want them to be the best of the guardians, must they not be the
 best guardians, the most regardful of the state?” “Yes.” “They must then
 to begin with be intelligent in such matters and capable,

and furthermore careful of the interests of the state?” “That is
 so.” “But one would be most likely to be careful of that which he
 loved.” “Necessarily.” “And again, one would be most likely to love that
 whose interests he supposed to coincide with his own, and thought that
 when it prospered, he too would prosper and if not, the contrary.” “So
 it is,” he said. “Then we must pick out from the other guardians such
 men as to our observation appear most inclined through the entire course
 of their lives to be zealous to do what they think

for the interest of the state, and who would be least
 likely to consent to do the opposite.” “That would be a suitable
 choice,” he said. “I think, then, we shall have to observe them at every
 period of life, to see if they are conservators and guardians of this
 conviction in their minds and never by sorcery nor by force can be
 brought to expel from their souls unawares this conviction that
 they must do what is best for the state.” “What do you mean by the
 ’expelling’?” he said. “I will tell you, said I; “it seems to me that
 the exit of a belief from the mind is either voluntary or involuntary.

Voluntary is the departure of the false belief from one
 who learns better, involuntary that of every true belief.” “The
 voluntary,” he said, “I understand, but I need instruction about the
 involuntary.” “How now,” said I, “don’t you agree with me in thinking
 that men are unwillingly deprived of good things but willingly of evil?
 Or is it not an evil to be deceived in respect of the truth and a good
 to possess truth? And don’t you think that to opine the things that are
 is to possess the truth?” “Why, yes,” said he, “you are right, and I
 agree that men are unwillingly deprived of true opinions. ”
 “And doesn’t this happen to them by theft, by the spells of sorcery or
 by force?” “I don’t understand now either,” he said. “I must be talking
 in high tragic style, ” I said;

“by those who have their opinions stolen from them I
 mean those who are over-persuaded and those who forget, because in the
 one case time, in the other argument strips them unawares of their
 beliefs. Now I presume you understand, do you not?” “Yes.” “Well, then,
 by those who are constrained or forced I mean those whom some pain or
 suffering compels to change their
 minds.” “That too I understand and you are right.” “And the victims of
 sorcery

I am sure you too would say are they who alter their
 opinions under the spell of pleasure or terrified by some fear.” “Yes,”
 he said: “everything that deceives appears to cast a spell upon the
 mind.” “Well then, as I was just
 saying, we must look for those who are the best guardians of the
 indwelling conviction that what they have to do is what they at any time
 believe to be best for the state. Then we must observe them from
 childhood up and propose them tasks in which one would be most likely to
 forget this principle or be deceived, and he whose memory is sure

and who cannot be beguiled we must accept and the other
 kind we must cross off from our list. Is not that so?” “Yes.” “And again
 we must subject them to toils and pains and competitions in which we
 have to watch for the same traits.” “Right,” he said. “Then,” said I,
 “must we not institute a third kind of competitive test with regard to
 sorcery and observe them in that? Just as men conduct colts to noises
 and uproar to see if they are liable to take fright, so we must bring
 these lads while young into fears

and again pass them into pleasures, testing them much
 more carefully than men do gold in the fire, to see if the man remains
 immune to such witchcraft and preserves his composure throughout, a good
 guardian of himself and the culture which he has received, maintaining
 the true rhythm and harmony of his being in all those conditions, and
 the character that would make him most useful to himself and to the
 state. And he who as boy, lad, and man endures the test

and issues from it unspoiled we must establish as ruler
 over our city and its guardian, and bestow rewards upon him in life, and
 in death the allotment of the supreme honors of burial-rites and other
 memorials. But the man of the other type we must reject. Such,” said I,
 “appears to me, Glaucon, the general notion of our selection and
 appointment of rulers and guardians as sketched in outline, but not
 drawn out in detail.” “I too,” he said, “think much the same.” “Then
 would it not truly

be most proper to designate these as guardians in the
 full sense of the word, watchers against foemen without and friends
 within, so that the latter shall not wish and the former shall not be
 able to work harm, but to name those youths whom we were calling
 guardians just now, helpers and aids for the decrees of the rulers?” “I
 think so,” he replied. “How, then,” said
 I, “might we contrive one of those opportune falsehoods of
 which we were just now speaking,

so as by one noble lie to persuade if possible the
 rulers themselves, but failing that the rest of the city?” “What kind of
 a fiction do you mean?” said he. “Nothing unprecedented,” said I, “but a
 sort of Phoenician tale, something
 that has happened ere now in many parts of the world, as the poets aver
 and have induced men to believe, but that has not happened and perhaps
 would not be likely to happen in our day and demanding no little
 persuasion to make it believable.” “You act like one who shrinks from
 telling his thought,” he said. “You will think that I have right good
 reason for
 shrinking when I have told,” I said.

“Say on,” said he, “and don’t be afraid.” “Very well, I
 will. And yet I hardly know how to find the audacity or the words to
 speak and undertake to persuade first the rulers themselves and the
 soldiers and then the rest of the city, that in good sooth 
 all our training and educating of them were things that they imagined
 and that happened to them as it were in a dream; but that in reality at
 that time they were down within the earth being molded and fostered
 themselves while

their weapons and the rest of their equipment were
 being fashioned. And when they were quite finished the earth as being
 their mother delivered them, and now as if their land were their
 mother and their nurse they ought to take thought for her and defend her
 against any attack and regard the other citizens as their brothers and
 children of the self-same earth.” “It is not for nothing, ” he
 said, “that you were so bashful about coming out with your lie.” “It was
 quite natural that I should be,”

I said; “but all the same hear the rest of the story.
 While all of you in the city are brothers, we will say in our tale, yet
 God in fashioning those of you who are fitted to hold rule mingled gold
 in their generation, for which reason
 they are the most precious—but in the helpers silver, and iron and brass
 in the farmers and other craftsmen. And as you are all akin, though for
 the most part you will breed after your kinds,

it may sometimes happen that a golden father would
 beget a silver son and that a golden offspring would come from a silver
 sire and that the rest would in like manner be born of one another. So
 that the first and chief injunction that the god lays upon the rulers is
 that of nothing else are they to be such careful guardians and so
 intently observant as of the intermixture of these metals in the souls
 of their offspring, and if sons are born to them with an infusion of
 brass or iron

they shall by no means give way to pity in their
 treatment of them, but shall assign to each the status due to his nature
 and thrust them out among the artisans or the farmers. And again, if from
 these there is born a son with unexpected gold or silver in his
 composition they shall honor such and bid them go up higher, some to the
 office of guardian, some to the assistanceship, alleging that there is
 an oracle that the state
 shall then be overthrown when the man of iron or brass is its guardian.
 Do you see any way of getting them to believe this tale?”

“No, not these themselves,” he said, “but I do, their
 sons and successors and the rest of mankind who come after. ” “Well,” said I, “even that would have a good effect
 making them more inclined to care for the state and one another. For I
 think I apprehend your meaning. XXII. And this shall fall out as
 tradition 
 guides.” “But let us arm these sons of
 earth and conduct them under the leadership of their rulers. And when
 they have arrived they must look out for the fairest site in the city
 for their encampment,

a position from which they could best hold down
 rebellion against the laws from within and repel aggression from without
 as of a wolf against the fold. And after they have encamped and
 sacrificed to the proper gods they must make their lairs, must they not?” “Yes,” he
 said. “And these must be of a character keep out the cold in winter and
 be sufficient in summer?” “Of course. For I presume you are speaking of
 their houses.” “Yes,” said I, “the houses of soldiers not of
 money-makers.”

“What distinction do you intend by that?” he said. “I
 will try to tell you,” I said. “It is surely the most monstrous and
 shameful thing in the world for shepherds to breed the dogs who are to
 help them with their flocks in such wise and of such a nature that from
 indiscipline or hunger or some other evil condition the dogs themselves
 shall attack the sheep and injure them and be likened to wolves instead
 of dogs.” “A terrible thing, indeed,” he said.

“Must we not then guard by every means in our power
 against our helpers treating the citizens in any such way and, because
 they are the stronger, converting themselves from benign assistants into
 savage masters?” “We must,” he said. “And would they not have been
 provided with the chief safeguard if their education has really been a
 good one?” “But it surely has,” he said. “That,” said I, “dear Glaucon,
 we may not properly affirm, but what we were just now saying we may,

that they must have the right education, whatever it
 is, if they are to have what will do most to make them gentle to one
 another and to their charges.” “That is right,” he said. “In addition,
 moreover, to such an education a thoughtful man would affirm that their
 houses and the possessions provided for them ought to be such as not to
 interfere with the best performance of their own work as guardians and
 not to incite them to wrong the other citizens.”

“He will rightly affirm that.” “Consider then,” said I,
 “whether, if that is to be their character, their habitations and ways
 of life must not be something after this fashion. In the first place,
 none must possess any private property save the indispensable. Secondly,
 none must have any habitation or treasure-house which is not open for
 all to enter at will. Their food, in such quantities as are needful for
 athletes of war sober and brave,

they must receive as an agreed stipend from the other citizens as the wages of their
 guardianship, so measured that there shall be neither superfluity at the
 end of the year nor any lack. And resorting to a common mess like soldiers on
 campaign they will live together. Gold and silver, we will tell them,
 they have of the divine quality from the gods always in their souls, and
 they have no need of the metal of men nor does holiness suffer them to
 mingle and contaminate that heavenly possession with the acquisition of
 mortal gold, since many impious deeds have been done about

the coin of the multitude, while that which dwells
 within them is unsullied. But for these only of all the dwellers in the
 city it is not lawful to handle gold and silver and to touch them nor
 yet to come under the same roof with them, nor to
 hang them as ornaments on their limbs nor to drink from silver and gold.
 So living they would save themselves and save their city. But whenever they shall acquire
 for themselves land of their own and houses and coin, they will be
 house-holders and farmers instead of guardians, and will be
 transformed

from the helpers of their fellow citizens to their
 enemies and masters, and so in hating and
 being hated, plotting and being plotted against they
 will pass their days fearing far more and rather the townsmen within than the foemen without—and then even
 then laying the course of near shipwreck
 for themselves and the state. For all these reasons,” said I, “let us
 declare that such must be the provision for our guardians in lodging and
 other respects and so legislate. Shall we not?” “By all means,” said
 Glaucon.

And Adeimantus broke in
 and said, “What will be your defence, Socrates, if anyone objects that
 you are not making these men very happy, and that through their own fault?
 For the city really belongs to them and yet they get no enjoyment out of
 it as ordinary men do by owning lands and building fine big houses and
 providing them with suitable furniture and winning the favor of the gods
 by private sacrifices and entertaining guests and
 enjoying too those possessions which you just now spoke of, gold and
 silver and all that is customary for those who are expecting to be
 happy? But they seem, one might say, to be established in idleness in
 the city,

exactly like hired mercenaries, with nothing to do but
 keep guard.” “Yes,” said I, “and what is more, they serve for
 board-wages and do not even receive pay in addition to their food as
 others do, so that they will not even be able to take
 a journey 
 on their own account, if they wish to, or make presents to their
 mistresses, or spend money in other directions according to their
 desires like the men who are thought to be happy. These and many similar
 counts of the indictment you are omitting.” “Well,” said he, “assume
 these counts too. ”

“What then will be our apology you ask?” “Yes.” “By
 following the same path I think we shall find what to reply. For we
 shall say that while it would not surprise us if these men thus living
 prove to be the most happy, yet the object on which we fixed our eyes in
 the establishment of our state was not the exceptional happiness of any
 one class but the greatest possible happiness of the city as a whole.
 For we thought that in a state so constituted we should be most
 likely to discover justice as we should injustice

in the worst governed state, and that when we had made
 these out we could pass judgement on the issue of our long inquiry. Our
 first task then, we take it, is to mold the model of a happy state—we
 are not isolating a small class in it and postulating their happiness, but
 that of the city as a whole. But the opposite type of state we will
 consider presently. It is as if we were coloring a statue and someone
 approached and censured us, saying that we did not apply the most
 beautiful pigments to the most beautiful parts of the image, since the
 eyes, which are the most
 beautiful part, have not been painted with purple but with black—

we should think it a reasonable justification to reply,
 ‘Don’t expect us, quaint friend, to paint the eyes so fine that they
 will not be like eyes at all, nor the other parts. But observe whether
 by assigning what is proper to each we render the whole beautiful. ’ And so in the present
 case you must not require us to attach to the guardians a happiness that
 will make them anything but guardians.

For in like manner we could clothe the farmers in robes of state
 and deck them with gold and bid them cultivate the soil at their
 pleasure, and we could make the potters recline on couches from left to
 right before the fire drinking toasts
 and feasting with their wheel alongside to potter with when they are so
 disposed, and we can make all the others happy in the same fashion, so
 that thus the entire city may be happy. But urge us not to this,

since, if we yield, the farmer will not be a farmer nor
 the potter a potter, nor will any other of the types that constitute
 state keep its form. However, for the others it matters less. For
 cobblers who deteriorate and are spoiled and pretend to be the
 workmen that they are not are no great danger to a state. But guardians
 of laws and of the city who are not what they pretend to be, but only
 seem, destroy utterly, I would have you note, the entire state, and on
 the other hand, they alone are decisive of its good government and
 happiness. If then we are forming true guardians

and keepers of our liberties, men least likely to harm
 the commonwealth, but the proponent of the other ideal is thinking of
 farmers and ’happy’ feasters as it were in a festival and not in a civic
 community, he would have something else in mind 
 than a state. Consider, then, whether our aim in establishing the
 guardians is the greatest possible happiness among them or whether that
 is something we must look to see develop in the city as a whole, but
 these helpers and guardians

are to be constrained and persuaded to do what will
 make them the best craftsmen in their own work, and similarly all the
 rest. And so, as the entire city develops and is ordered well, each
 class is to be left, to the share of happiness that its nature
 comports. “Well,” he said, “I think
 you are right.” “And will you then,” I said, “also think me reasonable
 in another point akin to this?” “What pray?” “Consider whether

these are the causes that corrupt other craftsmen too so as positively to spoil them. ” “What causes?” “Wealth and
 poverty,” 
 said I. “How so?” “Thus! do you think a potter who grew rich would any
 longer be willing to give his mind to his craft?” “By no means,” said
 he. “But will he become more idle and negligent than he was?” “Far
 more.” “Then he becomes a worse potter?” “Far worse too.” “And yet
 again, if from poverty he is unable to provide himself with tools and
 other requirements of his art,

the work that he turns out will be worse, and he will
 also make inferior workmen of his sons or any others whom he teaches.”
 “Of course.” “From both causes, then, poverty and wealth, the products
 of the arts deteriorate, and so do the artisans?” “So it appears.”
 “Here, then, is a second group of things it seems that our guardians
 must guard against and do all in their power to keep from slipping into
 the city without their knowledge.” “What are they?”

“Wealth and poverty,” said I, “since the one brings
 luxury, idleness and innovation, and the other illiberality and the evil
 of bad workmanship in addition to innovation.” “Assuredly,” he said;
 “yet here is a point for your consideration, Socrates, how our city,
 possessing no wealth, will be able to wage war, especially if compelled
 to fight a large and wealthy state.” “Obviously,” said I, “it would be
 rather difficult to fight one such,

but easier to fight two. ” “What did you mean by
 that?” he said. “Tell me first,” I said, “whether, if they have to
 fight, they will not be fighting as athletes of war against men
 of wealth?” “Yes, that is true,” he said. “Answer me then, Adeimantus.
 Do you not think that one boxer perfectly trained in the art could
 easily fight two fat rich men who knew nothing of it?” “Not at the same
 time perhaps,” said he. “Not even,” said I, “if he were allowed to
 retreat

and then turn and strike the one who came up first, and
 if he repeated the procedure many times under a burning and stifling
 sun? Would not such a fighter down even a number of such opponents?”
 “Doubtless,” he said; “it wouldn’t be surprising if he did.” “Well,
 don’t you think that the rich have more of the skill and practice of boxing than of the art of war?” “I do,” he
 said. “It will be easy, then, for our athletes in all probability to
 fight with double and triple their number.” “I shall have to concede the
 point,”

he said, “for I believe you are right.” “Well then, if
 they send an embassy to the other city and say what is in fact true : ‘We make
 no use of gold and silver nor is it lawful for us but it is for you: do
 you then join us in the war and keep the spoils of the enemy,’ —do you suppose any who heard
 such a proposal would choose to fight against hard and wiry hounds
 rather than with the aid of the hounds against fat and tender sheep?” “I
 think not.” “Yet consider whether the accumulation

of all the wealth of other cities in one does not
 involve danger for the state that has no wealth.” “What happy
 innocence,” said I, “to suppose that you can properly use the name city
 of any other than the one we are constructing.” “Why, what should we
 say?” he said. “A greater predication,” said I, “must be applied to the
 others. For they are each one of them many cities, not a city, as it
 goes in the game. There are two at the least at enmity with one
 another, the city of the rich

and the city of the poor, and in each of these there are many. If you deal with
 them as one you will altogether miss the mark, but if you treat them as
 a multiplicity by offering to the one faction the property, the power,
 the very persons of the other, you will continue always to have few
 enemies and many allies. And so long as your city is governed soberly in
 the order just laid down, it will be the greatest of cities. I do not
 mean greatest in repute, but in reality, even though it have only a
 thousand defenders. For a city of
 this size

that is really one you will not easily
 discover either among Greeks or barbarians—but of those that seem so you
 will find many and many times the size of this. Or do you think
 otherwise?” “No, indeed I don’t,” said he. “Would not this, then, be the best rule and measure for our governors
 of the proper size of the city and of the territory that they should
 mark off for a city of that size and seek no more?” “What is the
 measure?” “I think,” said I, “that they should let it grow so long as in
 its growth it consents to remain a unity,

but no further.” “Excellent,” he said. “Then is not
 this still another injunction that we should lay upon our guardians, to
 keep guard in every way that the city shall not be too small, nor great
 only in seeming, but that it shall be a sufficient city and one?” “That
 behest will perhaps be an easy one for them,” he
 said. “And still easier, haply,” I said, “is
 this that we mentioned before when we said that if a
 degenerate offspring was born to the guardians he must be sent away to
 the other classes,

and likewise if a superior to the others he must be
 enrolled among the guardians; and the purport of all this was that the other
 citizens too must be sent to the task for which their natures were
 fitted, one man to one work, in order that each of them fulfilling his
 own function may be not many men, but one, and so the entire city may
 come to be not a multiplicity but a unity. ” “Why yes,” he said, “this
 is even more trifling than that.” “These are not, my good Adeimantus, as
 one might suppose, numerous and difficult injunctions that

we are imposing upon them, but they are all easy,
 provided they guard, as the saying is, the one great thing —or instead of great
 let us call it sufficient. ” “What
 is that?” he said. “Their education and nurture,” I replied. “For if a
 right education 
 makes of them reasonable men they will easily discover everything of
 this kind—and other principles that we now pass over, as that the
 possession of wives and marriage,

and the procreation of children and all that sort of
 thing should be made as far as possible the proverbial goods of friends
 that are common. ” “Yes, that would be
 the best way,” he said. “And, moreover,” said I, “the state, if it once
 starts well, proceeds as it
 were in a cycle of growth. I mean that a sound nurture and education
 if kept up creates good natures in the state, and sound natures in turn
 receiving an education of this sort develop into better men than their
 predecessors

both for other purposes and for the production of
 offspring as among animals also. ” “It is probable,” he said.
 “To put it briefly, then,” said I, “it is to this that the overseers of
 our state must cleave and be watchful against its insensible corruption.
 They must throughout be watchful against innovations in music and
 gymnastics counter to the established order, and to the best of their
 power guard against them, fearing when anyone says that 
 That song is most regarded among men 
 Which hovers newest on the singer’s lips, 
 
 Hom. Od.
 1.351

lest haply it be
 supposed that the poet means not new songs but a new way of song and is commending this. But we must not praise
 that sort of thing nor conceive it to be the poet’s meaning. For a
 change to a new type of music is something to beware of as a hazard of
 all our fortunes. For the modes of music are never disturbed without unsettling of the most
 fundamental political and social conventions, as Damon affirms and as I am
 convinced. ” “Set me
 too down in the number of the convinced,” said Adeimantus.

“It is here, then,” I
 said, “in music, as it seems, that our guardians must build their
 guard-house and
 post of watch.” “It is certain,” he said, “that this is the kind of
 lawlessness that easily insinuates itself unobserved.”
 “Yes,” said I, “because it is supposed to be only a form of play and to work no harm.”
 “Nor does it work any,” he said, “except that by gradual infiltration it
 softly overflows upon the characters and pursuits of
 men and from these issues forth grown greater to attack their business
 dealings, and from these relations

it proceeds against the laws and the constitution with
 wanton licence, Socrates, till finally it overthrows 
 all things public and private.” “Well,” said I, “are these things so?”
 “I think so,” he said. “Then, as we were saying in the beginning, our youth must join
 in a more law-abiding play, since, if play grows lawless and the
 children likewise,

it is impossible that they should grow up to be men of
 serious temper and lawful spirit.” “Of course,” he said. “And so we may
 reason that when children in their earliest play are imbued with the
 spirit of law and order through their music, the opposite of the former
 supposition happens—this spirit waits upon them in all things and
 fosters their growth, and restores and sets up again whatever was
 overthrown in the other type of
 state.” “True, indeed,” he said. “Then such men rediscover for
 themselves those seemingly trifling conventions which their predecessors
 abolished altogether.” “Of what sort?” “Such things as

the becoming silence of the young in the
 presence of their elders; the giving place to them and rising up before
 them, and dutiful service of parents, and the cut of the hair and the garments and the
 fashion of the foot-gear, and in general the deportment of the body and
 everything of the kind. Don’t you think so?” “I do.” “Yet to enact them
 into laws would, I think, be silly. For such laws are not obeyed
 nor would they last, being enacted only in words and on paper.” “How
 could they?” “At any rate, Adeimantus,” I said, “the direction of the
 education from whence one starts is likely to determine

the quality of what follows. Does not like ever summon
 like?” “Surely.” “And the final outcome, I presume, we would say is one
 complete and vigorous product of good or the reverse.” “Of course,” said
 he. “For my part, then,” I said, “for these reasons I would not go on to
 try to legislate on such matters. ” “With good
 reason,” said he. “But what, in heaven’s name,” said I, “about business
 matters, the deals that men make with one another in
 the agora—

and, if you please, contracts with workmen and
 actions for foul language and assault, the filing of
 declarations, the impanelling of juries, the payment and
 exaction of any dues that may be needful in markets or harbors and in
 general market, police or harbor regulations and the like, can we
 bring ourselves to legislate about these?” “Nay, ‘twould
 not be fitting,” he said, “to dictate to good and honorable men. For most of the enactments that are
 needed about these things

they will easily, I presume, discover.” “Yes, my
 friend, provided God grants them the preservation of the principles of
 law that we have already discussed.” “Failing that,” said he, “they will
 pass their lives multiplying such petty laws and amending them in the
 expectation of attaining what is best.” “You mean,” said I, “that the
 life of such citizens will resemble that of men who are sick, yet from
 intemperance are unwilling to abandon their unwholesome regimen.”

“By all means.” And truly,” said I, “these latter go on
 in a most charming 
 fashion. For with all their doctoring they accomplish nothing except to
 complicate and augment their maladies. And they are always hoping that some one will
 recommend a panacea that will restore their health.” “A perfect
 description,” he said, “of the state of such invalids.” “And isn’t this
 a charming trait in them, that they hate most in all the world him who
 tells them the truth that until a man stops drinking and gorging and
 wenching

and idling, neither drugs nor cautery nor the
 knife, no, nor spells nor periapts will be of any avail?” “Not
 altogether charming,” he said, “for there is no grace or charm in being
 angry with him who speaks well.” “You do not seem to be
 an admirer of such people,” said I. “No, by
 heaven, I am not.” “Neither then, if an
 entire city, 
 as we were just now saying, acts in this way, will it have your
 approval, or don’t you think that the way of such invalids is precisely
 that of those cities

which being badly governed forewarn their citizens not
 to meddle with
 the general constitution of the state, denouncing death to whosoever
 attempts that—while whoever most agreeably serves them
 governed as they are and who curries favor with them by fawning upon
 them and anticipating their desires and by his cleverness in gratifying
 them, him they will account the good man, the man wise in worthwhile
 things, the man they will delight to honor?”
 “Yes,” he said, “I think their conduct is identical, and I don’t approve
 it in the very least.”

“And what again of those who are willing and eager to
 serve such states? Don’t you admire their
 valiance and light-hearted irresponsibility ?” “I do,” he said, “except those who are actually
 deluded and suppose themselves to be in truth statesmen because they
 are praised by the many.” “What do you mean? “Can’t you make
 allowances for the men? Do you think it possible for a man who does
 not know how to measure when a multitude of others equally ignorant
 assure him that he is four cubits tall

not to suppose this to be the fact about himself?” “Why
 no, ”
 he said, “I don’t think that.” “Then don’t be harsh with them. For
 surely such fellows are the most charming spectacle in the world when
 they enact and amend such laws as we just now described and are
 perpetually expecting to find a way of putting an end to frauds in
 business and in the other matters of which I was speaking because they
 can’t see that they are in very truth trying to cut off
 a Hydra’s head.”

“Indeed,” he said, “that is exactly what they are
 doing.” “I, then,” said I, “should not have supposed that the true lawgiver ought to work out
 matters of that kind in the laws and the constitution either of an
 ill-governed or a well-governed state—in the one because they are
 useless and accomplish nothing, in the other because some of them
 anybody could discover and others will result spontaneously from the
 pursuits already described.”

“What part of
 legislation, then,” he said, “is still left for us?” And I replied, “For
 us nothing, but for the Apollo of Delphi , the chief, the fairest and the first of
 enactments.” “What are they?” he said. “The founding of temples, and
 sacrifices, and other forms of worship of gods, daemons, and heroes; and
 likewise the burial of the dead and the services we must render to the
 dwellers in the world beyond to keep them gracious. For of such
 matters

we neither know anything nor in the founding of our
 city if we are wise shall we entrust them to any other or make use of
 any other interpreter than the God
 of our fathers. For this God surely
 is in such matters for all mankind the interpreter of the religion of
 their fathers who from his seat in the middle and at the very navel of
 the earth delivers his interpretation.” “Excellently said,” he replied;
 “and that is what we must do.”

“At last, then, son of
 Ariston,” said I, “your city may be considered as
 established. The next thing is to procure a sufficient light somewhere
 and to look yourself, and call in the aid of your
 brother and of Polemarchus and the rest, if we may in any wise discover
 where justice and injustice should be in
 it, wherein they differ from one another and which of the two he must
 have who is to be happy, alike whether his condition is known or
 not known to all gods and men.” “Nonsense,” said Glaucon, “you promised that you would carry on the
 search yourself,

admitting that it would be impious for you not to
 come to the aid of justice by every means in your power.” “A true
 reminder,” I said, “and I must do so, but you also must lend a hand.”
 “Well,” he said, “we will.” “I expect then,” said I, “that we shall find
 it in this way. I think our city, if it has been rightly founded is good
 in the full sense of the word. ” “Necessarily,” he said. “Clearly, then, it will be
 wise, brave, sober, and just.” “Clearly.” “Then if we find any of these
 qualities in it, the remainder will be that which we have not
 found?”

“Surely.” “Take the case of any four other things. If
 we were looking for any one of them in anything and recognized the
 object of our search first, that would have been enough for us, but if
 we had recognized the other three first, that in itself would have made
 known to us the thing we were seeking. For plainly there was nothing
 left for it to be but the remainder.” “Right,” he said. “And so, since
 these are four, we must conduct the search in the same way.” “Clearly.”
 “And, moreover,

the first thing that I think I clearly see therein is
 the wisdom, and there is something odd about
 that, it appears.” “What?” said he. “Wise in very deed I think the city
 that we have described is, for it is well counselled, is it not?” “Yes.”
 “And surely this very thing, good counsel, is
 a form of wisdom. For it is not by ignorance but by knowledge that men
 counsel well.” “Obviously.” “But there are many and manifold knowledges
 or sciences in the city.” “Of course.” “Is it then owing to the science
 of her carpenters that

a city is to be called wise and well advised?” “By no
 means for that, but rather mistress of the arts of building.” “Then a
 city is not to be styled wise because of the deliberations of the science of wooden utensils for their best
 production?” “No, I grant you.” “Is it, then, because of that of brass
 implements or any other of that kind?” “None whatsoever,” he said. “Nor
 yet because of the science of the production of crops from the soil, but
 the name it takes from that is agricultural.” “I think so.” “Then,” said
 I, “is there any science in the city just founded by us residing in any
 of its citizens which does not take counsel about some particular thing

in the city but about the city as a whole and the
 betterment of its relations with itself and other states?” “Why,
 there is.” “What is it,” said I, “and in whom is it found?” “It is the
 science of guardianship or government and it is to be found in those
 rulers to whom we just now gave the name of guardians in the full sense
 of the word.” “And what term then do you apply to the city because of
 this knowledge?” “Well advised,” he said, “and truly wise.” “Which
 class, then,” said I,

“do you suppose will be the more numerous in our city,
 the smiths or these true guardians?” “The smiths, by far,” he said. “And
 would not these rulers be the smallest of all the groups of those who
 possess special knowledge and receive distinctive appellations ?” “By far.” “Then it is by virtue of
 its smallest class and minutest part of itself, and the wisdom that
 resides therein, in the part which takes the lead and rules, that a city
 established on principles of nature would be wise as a whole. And as it
 appears

these are by nature the fewest, the class to which it
 pertains to partake of the knowledge which alone of all forms of
 knowledge deserves the name of wisdom.” “Most true,” he said. “This one
 of our four, then, we have, I know not how, discovered, the thing itself
 and its place in the state.” “I certainly think,” said he, “that it has
 been discovered sufficiently.” “But again
 there is no difficulty in seeing bravery itself and the part of the city
 in which it resides for which the city is called brave. ” “How so?” “Who,” said I,

“in calling a city cowardly or brave would fix his eyes
 on any other part of it than that which defends it and wages war in its
 behalf?” “No one at all,” he said. “For the reason, I take it,” said I,
 “that the cowardice or the bravery of the other inhabitants does not
 determine for it the one quality or the other. ” “It does not.” “Bravery too,
 then, belongs to a city by virtue of a part of itself owing to its
 possession in that part of a quality that under all conditions will
 preserve the conviction

that things to be feared are precisely those which and
 such as the lawgiver inculcated in their education. Is not
 that what you call bravery?” “I don’t altogether understand 
 what you said,” he replied; “but say it again.” “A kind of
 conservation,” I said, “is what I mean by bravery.” “What sort of a
 conservation ?” “The
 conservation of the conviction which the law has created by education
 about fearful things—what and what sort of things are to be feared. And
 by the phrase ‘under all conditions ’ I mean that the
 brave man preserves it both in pain

and pleasures and in desires and fears and does not
 expel it from his soul. And I may illustrate it by a
 similitude if you please.” “I do.” “You are aware that dyers when
 they wish to dye wool so as to hold the purple hue begin by selecting
 from the many colors there be the one nature of the white and then give
 it a careful preparatory treatment so that it will take the hue in the
 best way, and after the treatment, then and then only, dip it in the
 dye.

And things that are dyed by this process become
 fast-colored and washing either with or without
 lyes cannot take away the sheen of their hues. But otherwise you know
 what happens to them, whether anyone dips other
 colors or even these without the preparatory treatment.” “I know,” he
 said, “that they present a ridiculous and washed-out appearance.” “By
 this analogy, then,” said I, “you must conceive what we too to the best
 of our ability were doing when we selected our soldiers and educated
 them in music

and exercises of the body. The sole aim of our
 contrivance was that they should be convinced and receive our laws like
 a dye as it were, so that their belief and faith might be fast-colored
 both about the things that are to be feared and all other things because
 of the fitness of their nature and nurture, and that so their dyes might
 not be washed out by those lyes that have such dread power to scour our faiths
 away, pleasure more potent than any detergent or abstergent

to accomplish this, and pain and fear and desire more
 sure than any lye. This power in the soul, then, this unfailing
 conservation of right and lawful belief about things to be and
 not to be feared is what I call and would assume to be courage, unless
 you have something different to say.” “No, nothing,” said he; “for I
 presume that you consider mere right opinion about the same matters not
 produced by education, that which may manifest itself in a beast or a
 slave, to have little or nothing to
 do with law and that you
 would call it by another name than courage.”

“That is most true,” said I. “Well then,” he said, “I
 accept this as bravery.” “Do so,” said I, “and you will be right with
 the reservation that it is the courage of a citizen. Some other
 time, if it please you, we
 will discuss it more fully. At present we were not seeking this but
 justice; and for the purpose of that inquiry I believe we have done
 enough.” “You are quite right,” he said.

“Two things still
 remain,” said I, “to make out in our city, soberness and the object of the whole inquiry,
 justice.” “Quite so.” “If there were only some way to discover justice
 so that we need not further concern ourselves about soberness.” “Well,
 I, for my part,” he said, “neither know of any such way nor would I wish
 justice to be discovered first if that means that we are not to go on to
 the consideration of soberness. But if you desire to please me, consider
 this before that.” “It would certainly

be very wrong of me not to desire it,”
 said I. “Go on with the inquiry then,” he said. “I must go on,” I
 replied, “and viewed from here it bears more likeness to a kind of
 concord and harmony than the other virtues did.” “How so?” “Soberness is
 a kind of beautiful order and a continence of certain pleasures and appetites,
 as they say, using the phrase ‘master of himself’ I know not how; and
 there are other similar expressions that as it were point us to the same
 trail. Is that not so?” “Most certainly.” “Now the phrase ‘master of
 himself’ is an absurdity, is it not? For he who is master of himself
 would also be subject to himself,

and he who is subject to himself would be master. For
 the same person is spoken of in all these expressions.” “Of course.”
 “But,” said I, “the intended meaning of this way of speaking appears to
 me to be that the soul of a man within him has a better part and a worse
 part, and the expression self-mastery means the control of the worse by
 the naturally better part. It is, at any rate, a term of praise. But
 when, because of bad breeding or some association, the better part, which is the smaller, is dominated by the
 multitude of the worse, I think that our speech

censures this as a reproach, and calls the man in this plight unselfcontrolled and
 licentious.” “That seems likely,” he said. “Turn your eyes now upon our
 new city,” said I, “and you will find one of these conditions existent
 in it. For you will say that it is justly spoken of as master of itself
 if that in which the superior rules the inferior is
 to be called sober and self-mastered.” “I do turn my eyes upon it,” he
 said, “and it is as you say.” “And again, the mob of motley

appetites and pleasures and pains one would find
 chiefly in children and women and slaves and in the base
 rabble of those who are freemen in name. ” “By all means.”
 “But the simple and moderate appetites which with the aid of reason and
 right opinion are guided by consideration you will find in few and those
 the best born and best educated.” “True,” he said. “And do you not find
 this too in your city and a domination there of the desires

in the multitude and the rabble by the desires and the
 wisdom that dwell in the minority of the better?” “I do,” he
 said. “If, then, there is any city
 that deserves to be described as master of its pleasures and desires and
 self-mastered, this one merits that designation.” “Most assuredly,” he
 said. “And is it not also to be called sober in all these respects?”
 “Indeed it is,” he said. “And yet again, if there is any city in
 which

the rulers and the ruled are of one mind as to who
 ought to rule, that condition will be found in this. Don’t you think
 so?” “I most emphatically do,” he said. “In which class of the citizens,
 then, will you say that the virtue of soberness has its seat when this
 is their condition? In the rulers or in the ruled?” “In both, I
 suppose, ” he
 said. “Do you see then,” said I, “that our intuition was not a bad one
 just now that discerned a likeness between soberness and a kind of
 harmony ?” “Why so?”
 “Because its operation is unlike that of courage and wisdom, which
 residing in separate parts

respectively made the city, the one wise and the other
 brave. That is not the way of soberness, but it extends literally
 through the entire gamut 
 throughout, bringing about the unison in the same chant of the strongest,
 the weakest and the intermediate, whether in wisdom or, if you
 please, in strength, or for that matter in numbers, wealth, or any
 similar criterion. So that we should be quite right in affirming this
 unanimity to be soberness, the concord of
 the naturally superior and inferior

as to which ought to rule both in the state and the
 individual. ” “I entirely concur,” he said. “Very well,” said I.
 “We have made out these three forms in our city to the best of our
 present judgement. What can be the remaining form that would give the city still another virtue?
 For it is obvious that the remainder is justice.” “Obvious.” “Now
 then, Glaucon, is the time for us like
 huntsmen to
 surround the covert and keep close watch that justice may not slip
 through and get away from us and vanish

from our sight. It plainly must be somewhere
 hereabouts. Keep your eyes open then and do your best to descry it. You
 may see it before I do and point it out to me.” “Would that I could,” he
 said; “but I think rather that if you find in me one who can follow you
 and discern what you point out to him you will be making a very
 fair use of me.”
 “Pray for success then,” said I,
 “and follow along with me.” “That I will do, only lead on,” he said.
 “And truly,” said I, “it appears to be an inaccessible place, lying in
 deep shadows.” “It certainly is a dark covert,

not easy to beat up.” “But all the same on we must go.”
 “Yes, on.” And I caught view and gave a hulloa and said, “Glaucon, I
 think we have found its trail and I don’t believe it will get away from
 us.” “I am glad to hear that,” said he. “Truly,” said I, “we were
 slackers indeed.” “How so?” “Why, all the time,
 bless your heart, the thing apparently was tumbling about our feet from the start and yet
 we couldn’t see it, but were most ludicrous, like

people who sometimes hunt for what they hold in their
 hands. So we did not turn our eyes upon it, but looked off into
 the distance, which perhaps was the reason it escaped us.” “What do you
 mean?” he said. “This,” I replied, “that it seems to me that though we
 were speaking of it and hearing about it all the time we did not
 understand ourselves or realize that we were speaking of it in a sense.”
 “That is a tedious prologue,” he said, “for an eager listener.”

“Listen then,” said I,
 “and learn if there is anything in what I say. For what we laid down in
 the beginning as a universal requirement when we were founding our city,
 this I think, or 
 some form of this, is justice. And what we did lay down, and often said,
 you recall, was that each one man must perform one social service in the
 state for which his nature is best adapted.” “Yes, we said that.” “And
 again that to do one’s own business and not to be a busybody is
 justice,

is a saying that we have heard from many and have often
 repeated ourselves. ” “We have.”
 “This, then,” I said, “my friend, if taken in a certain sense appears to
 be justice, this principle of doing one’s own business. Do you know
 whence I infer this?” “No, but tell me,” he said. “I think that this is
 the remaining virtue in the state after our consideration of soberness,
 courage, and intelligence, a quality which made it possible for them all
 to grow up in the body politic and which when they have sprung up
 preserves them as long as it is present. And I hardly need to remind you
 that

we said that justice would be the residue after we had
 found the other three.” “That is an unavoidable conclusion,” he said.
 “But moreover,” said I, “if we were required to decide what it is whose
 indwelling presence will contribute most to making our city good, it
 would be a difficult decision whether it was the unanimity of rulers and
 ruled or the conservation in the minds of the soldiers of the
 convictions produced by law as to what things are or are not to be
 feared, or the watchful intelligence

that resides in the guardians, or whether this is the
 chief cause of its goodness, the principle embodied in child, woman,
 slave, free, artisan, ruler, and ruled, that each performed his one task
 as one man and was not a versatile busybody.” “Hard to decide indeed,”
 he said. “A thing, then, that in its contribution to the excellence of a
 state vies with and rivals its wisdom, its soberness, its bravery, is
 this principle of everyone in it doing his own task.” “It is indeed,” he
 said. “And is not justice the name you would have to give 
 to the principle that rivals these as conducing to

the virtue of state?” “By all means.” “Consider it in
 this wise too if so you will be
 convinced. Will you not assign the conduct of lawsuits in your state to
 the rulers?” “Of course.” “Will not this be the chief aim of their
 decisions, that no one shall have what belongs to others or be deprived of his own? Nothing else but this.” “On
 the assumption that this is just?” “Yes.” “From this point of view too,
 then, the having 
 and doing

of one’s own and what belongs to oneself would
 admittedly be justice.” “That is so.” “Consider now whether you agree with me. A carpenter
 undertaking to do the work of a cobbler or a cobbler of a carpenter or
 their interchange of one another’s tools or honors or even the attempt
 of the same man to do both—the confounding of all other functions would
 not, think you, greatly injure a state, would it?” “Not much,” he said.
 “But when I fancy one who is by nature an artisan or some kind of
 money-maker

tempted and incited by wealth or command of votes or
 bodily strength or some similar advantage tries to enter into the class
 of the soldiers or one of the soldiers into the class of counsellors and
 guardians, for which he is not fitted, and these interchange their tools
 and their honors or when the same man undertakes all these functions at
 once, then, I take it, you too believe that this kind of substitution
 and meddlesomeness is the ruin of a state.” “By all means.” “The
 interference with one another’s business, then, of three existent
 classes and the substitution of the one for the other

is the greatest injury to a state and would most
 rightly be designated as the thing which chiefly works it harm.” “Precisely so.”
 “And the thing that works the greatest harm to one’s own state, will you
 not pronounce to be injustice?” “Of course.” “This, then, is
 injustice.” “Again, let us put it in this way. The
 proper functioning of the money-making class, the
 helpers and the guardians, each doing its own work in the state, being
 the reverse of that just
 described, would be justice and would render the city just.”

“I think the case is thus and no otherwise,” said he.
 “Let us not yet affirm it quite fixedly, ” I said, “but if this
 form when applied to the
 individual man, accepted there also as a definition of justice, we will
 then concede the point—for what else will there be to say? But if not,
 then we will look for something else. But now let us work out the
 inquiry in which we
 supposed that, if we found some larger thing that contained justice and
 viewed it there, we should
 more easily discover its nature in the individual man.

And we agreed that this larger thing is the city, and
 so we constructed the best city in our power, well knowing that in the
 good city it would of course be found. What, then, we
 thought we saw there we must refer back to the individual and, if it is
 confirmed, all will be well. But if something different manifests itself
 in the individual, we will return again

to the state and test it there and it may be that, by
 examining them side by side 
 and rubbing them against one another, as it were from the
 fire-sticks we may cause the spark of justice
 to flash forth, and when it is thus revealed confirm it in our own minds.”
 “Well,” he said, “that seems a sound method and that is what
 we must do.” “Then,” said I, “if you call a thing by the same name whether it is big or little, is it unlike in the
 way in which it is called the same or like?” “Like,” he said. “Then a
 just man too

will not differ at all from a just city in
 respect of the very form of justice, but will be like it.” “Yes, like.”
 “But now the city was thought to be just because three natural kinds
 existing in it performed each its own function, and again it was sober,
 brave, and wise because of certain other affections and habits of these three
 kinds.” “True,” he said. “Then, my friend, we shall thus expect the
 individual also to have these same forms

in his soul, and by reason of identical affections of
 these with those in the city to receive properly the same appellations.”
 “Inevitable,” he said. “Goodness gracious,” said I, “here is another
 trifling inquiry into which we have plunged, the question
 whether the soul really contains these three forms in itself or not.”
 “It does not seem to me at all trifling,” he said, “for perhaps,
 Socrates, the saying is true that ’fine things are difficult.’ ” “Apparently,”
 said I;

“and let me tell you, Glaucon, that in my opinion we
 shall never in the world apprehend this matter from such methods as we are
 now employing in discussion. For there is another longer and harder way
 that conducts to this. Yet we may perhaps discuss it on the level of
 previous statements and inquiries.” “May we acquiesce in that?” he said.
 “I for my part should be quite satisfied with that for the present.”
 “And I surely should be more than satisfied,” I replied. “Don’t you
 weary then,” he said, “but go on with the inquiry.” “Is it not, then,”

said I, “impossible for us to avoid admitting this much,
 that the same forms and qualities are to be found in each one of us that
 are in the state? They could not get there from any other source. It
 would be absurd to suppose that the element of high spirit was not
 derived in states from the private citizens who are reputed to have this
 quality as the populations of the Thracian and Scythian lands and
 generally of northern regions; or the quality of love of knowledge,
 which would chiefly be attributed to the
 region where we dwell,

or the love of money which we might say is not least likely to be
 found in Phoenicians and the
 population of Egypt .” “One
 certainly might,” he replied. “This is the fact then,” said I, “and
 there is no difficulty in recognizing it.” “Certainly not.” “But the matter begins to be difficult when you
 ask whether we do all these things with the same thing or whether there
 are three things and we do one thing with one and one with another—learn
 with one part of ourselves, feel anger with another, and with yet a
 third desire the pleasures of nutrition

and generation and their kind, or whether it is with
 the entire soul that we function in each case when we once begin. That
 is what is really hard to determine properly.” “I think so too,” he
 said. “Let us then attempt to define the boundary and decide whether
 they are identical with one another in this way.” “How?” “It is obvious
 that the same thing will never do or suffer opposites in
 the same respect in relation to the same thing and at
 the same time. So that if ever we find these contradictions in the functions of the mind

we shall know that it was not the same
 thing functioning but a plurality.” “Very well.” “Consider, then, what I
 am saying.” “Say on,” he replied. “Is it possible for the same thing at
 the same time in the same respect to be at rest and in motion?” “By no
 means.” “Let us have our understanding still more precise, lest as we
 proceed we become involved in dispute. If anyone should say of a man
 standing still but moving his hands and head that the same man is at the
 same time at rest and in motion we should not, I take it, regard that as
 the right way of expressing it, but rather that a part of him is at rest

and a part in motion. Is not that so?” “It is.” “Then
 if the disputant should carry the jest still further with the subtlety
 that tops at any rate stand still as a whole
 at the same time that they are in motion when with the peg fixed in one
 point they revolve, and that the same is true of any other case of
 circular motion about the same spot—we should reject the statement on
 the ground that the repose and the movement in such cases were not in relation to the same parts of the
 objects, but we would say

that there was a straight line and a circumference in
 them and that in respect of the straight line they are standing
 still since they do
 not incline to either side, but in respect of the circumference they
 move in a circle; but that when as they revolve they incline the
 perpendicular to right or left or forward or back, then they are in no
 wise at rest.” “And that would be right,” he said. “No such remarks then
 will disconcert us or any whit the more make us believe that it is ever
 possible for the same thing at the same time in the same respect and the
 same relation

to suffer, be, or do opposites.” “They will not me, I
 am sure,” said he. “All the same, said I, “that we may not be forced to
 examine at tedious length the entire list of such contentions and convince ourselves that they are
 false, let us proceed on the hypothesis that this is so, with the
 understanding that, if it ever appear otherwise, everything that results
 from the assumption shall be invalidated.” “That is what we must do,” he
 said.

“Will you not then,”
 said I, “set down as opposed to one another assent and dissent, and the
 endeavor after a thing to the rejection of it, and embracing to
 repelling—do not these and all things like these belong to the class of
 opposite actions or passions; it will make no difference which? ” “None,” said
 he, “but they are opposites.” “What then,” said I, “of thirst and hunger
 and the appetites generally, and again consenting and willing, would
 you not put them all somewhere in the classes

just described? Will you not say, for example, that the
 soul of one who desires either strives for that which he desires or
 draws towards its embrace what it wishes to accrue to it; or again, in
 so far as it wills that anything be presented to it, nods assent to
 itself thereon as if someone put the question, striving towards its attainment?”
 “I would say so,” he said. “But what of not-willing and not
 consenting nor yet desiring, shall we not put these under the soul’s
 rejection and repulsion from itself and

generally into the opposite class from all the former?”
 “Of course.” “This being so, shall we say that the desires constitute a
 class and that the most conspicuous members of that
 class are what we call thirst and hunger?” “We shall,”
 said he. “Is not the one desire of drink, the other of food?” “Yes.”
 “Then in so far as it is thirst, would it be of anything more than that
 of which we say it is a desire in the soul? I mean is thirst thirst for hot drink or cold or much or
 little or in a word for a draught of any particular quality, or is it
 the fact that if heat

is attached to the thirst it would further render the desire—a
 desire of cold, and if cold of hot? But if owing to the presence of
 muchness the thirst is much it would render it a thirst for much and if
 little for little. But mere thirst will never be desire of anything else
 than that of which it is its nature to be, mere drink, and so hunger of food.” “That is so,” he said; “each
 desire in itself is of that thing only of which it is its nature to be.
 The epithets belong to the quality—such or such. ”

“Let no one then,” said I,
 “disconcert us when off our guard with the objection that everybody
 desires not drink but good drink and not food but good food, because
 (the argument will run ) all men desire good, and so, if thirst is desire, it
 would be of good drink or of good whatsoever it is; and so similarly of
 other desires.” “Why,” he said, “there perhaps would seem to be
 something in that objection.” “But I need hardly remind you,” said
 I,

“that of relative terms those that are somehow
 qualified are related to a qualified correlate, those that are severally
 just themselves to a correlate that is just itself. ” “I don’t understand,” he
 said. “Don’t you understand,” said I, “that the greater is such as to be
 greater than something?” “Certainly.” “Is it not than the less?” “Yes.”
 “But the much greater than the much less. Is that not so?” “Yes.” “And
 may we add the one time greater than the one time less and that which
 will be greater than that which will be less?” “Surely.”

“And similarly of the more towards the fewer, and the
 double towards the half and of all like cases, and again of the heavier
 towards the lighter, the swifter towards the slower, and yet again of
 the hot towards the cold and all cases of that kind, does not the same hold?” “By all
 means.” “But what of the sciences? Is not the way of it the same?
 Science which is just that, is of knowledge which is just that, or is of
 whatsoever we must
 assume the correlate of science to be. But a particular science of a
 particular kind is of some particular thing of a particular kind.

I mean something like this: As there was a science of
 making a house it differed from other sciences so as to be named
 architecture.” “Certainly.” “Was not this by reason of its being of a
 certain kind such as no other of all the
 rest?” “Yes.” “And was it not because it was of something of a certain
 kind that it itself became a certain kind of science? And similarly of
 the other arts and sciences?” “That is so. “This then,” said I, “if haply you now understand, is what you must
 say I then meant, by the statement that of all things that are such as
 to be of something those that are just themselves only are of things
 just themselves only,

but things of a certain kind are of things of a kind.
 And I don’t at all mean that they are of the same
 kind as the things of which they are, so that we are to suppose that the
 science of health and disease is a healthy and diseased science and that
 of evil and good, evil and good. I only mean that as science became the
 science not of just the thing of which
 science is but of some particular kind of thing, namely, of health and
 disease, the result was that it itself
 became some kind of science and this caused it to be no longer called
 simply science but with the addition of the particular kind, medical
 science.” “I understand,” he said, “and agree that it is so.” “To return
 to thirst, then,” said I,

“will you not class it with the things that are of something and say that it
 is what it is in relation to
 something—and it is, I presume, thirst?” “I will,” said he, “—namely of
 drink.” “Then if the drink is of a certain kind, so is the thirst, but
 thirst that is just thirst is neither of much nor little nor good nor
 bad, nor in a word of any kind, but just thirst is naturally of just
 drink only.” “By all means.” “The soul of the thirsty then, in so far as
 it thirsts, wishes nothing else than to drink, and

yearns for this and its impulse is towards this.”
 “Obviously.” “Then if anything draws it back 
 when thirsty it must be something different in it from that which
 thirsts and drives it like a beast to drink. For it cannot
 be, we say, that the same thing with the same part of itself at the same
 time acts in opposite ways about the same thing.” “We must admit that it
 does not.” “So I fancy it is not well said of the archer that his hands at the same time thrust away the bow
 and draw it nigh, but we should rather say that there is one hand that
 puts it away and another that draws it to.”

“By all means,” he said. “Are we to say, then, that
 some men sometimes though thirsty refuse to drink?” “We are indeed,” he
 said, “many and often.” “What then,” said I, “should one affirm about
 them?” “Is it not that there is something in the soul that bids them
 drink and a something that forbids, a different something that masters
 that which bids?” “I think so.” “And is it not the fact that that which
 inhibits such actions arises when it arises from the calculations of
 reason,

but the impulses which draw and drag come through
 affections 
 and diseases?” “Apparently.” “Not unreasonably,” said I, “shall we claim
 that they are two and different from one another, naming that in the
 soul whereby it reckons and reasons the rational and that with which it loves, hungers, thirsts,
 and feels the flutter and
 titillation of other desires, the irrational and
 appetitive—companion of various repletions
 and pleasures.” “It would not be unreasonable but quite natural,”

he said, “for us to think this.” “These two forms,
 then, let us assume to have been marked off as actually existing in the
 soul. But now the Thumos or principle
 of high spirit, that with which we feel anger, is it a third, or would
 it be identical in nature with one of these?” “Perhaps,” he said, “with
 one of these, the appetitive.” “But,” I said, “I once heard a story which I believe, that
 Leontius the son of Aglaion, on his way up from the Peiraeus under the
 outer side of the northern wall, 
 becoming aware of dead bodies 
 that lay at the place of public execution at the same time felt a desire
 to see them and a repugnance and aversion, and that for a time

he resisted 
 and veiled his head, but overpowered in despite of all by his desire,
 with wide staring eyes he rushed up to the corpses and cried, ‘There, ye
 wretches, take your fill of the fine spectacle!’” “I too,” he
 said, “have heard the story.” “Yet, surely, this anecdote,” I said,
 “signifies that the principle of anger sometimes fights against desires
 as an alien thing against an alien.” “Yes, it does,” he said. “And do we not,” said I, “on many other
 occasions observe when his desires constrain a man contrary to his
 reason

that he reviles himself and is angry with that within
 which masters him and that as it were in a faction of two parties the
 high spirit of such a man becomes the ally of his reason? But its making common cause with the desires against the reason when reason
 whispers low ‘Thou must not’—that, I think, is a
 kind of thing you would not affirm ever to have perceived in yourself,
 nor, I fancy, in anybody else either.”

“No, by heaven,” he said. “Again, when a man thinks
 himself to be in the wrong, is it not true that
 the nobler he is the less is he capable of anger though suffering hunger
 and cold and whatsoever
 else at the hands of him whom he believes to be acting justly therein,
 and as I say his spirit refuses to be aroused against such a
 one?” “True,” he said. “But what when a man believes himself to be
 wronged, does not his spirit in that case seethe and grow fierce (and also because of his
 suffering hunger,

cold and the like) and make itself the ally of what he
 judges just, and in noble souls it endures and wins the victory and
 will not let go until either it achieves its purpose, or death ends all,
 or, as a dog is called back by a shepherd, it is called back by the
 reason within and calmed.” “Your similitude is perfect,” he said, “and
 it confirms our former
 statements that the helpers are as it were dogs subject to the rulers
 who are as it were the shepherds of the city.” “You apprehend my meaning
 excellently,” said I. “But do you also

take note of this?” “Of what?” “That what we now think
 about the spirited element is just the opposite of our recent surmise.
 For then we supposed it to be a part of the appetitive, but now, far
 from that, we say that, in the factions of the soul, it much rather marshals itself on the side of
 the reason.” “By all means,” he said. “Is it then distinct from this
 too, or is it a form of the rational, so that there are not three but
 two kinds in the soul, the rational and the appetitive, or just as in
 the city there were

three existing kinds that composed its structure, the
 moneymakers, the helpers, the counsellors, so also in the soul there
 exists a third kind, this principle of high spirit, which is the helper
 of reason by nature unless it is corrupted by evil nurture?” “We have to
 assume it as a third,” he said. “Yes,” said I, “provided it shall have been
 shown to be something different from the rational, as it has been shown
 to be other than the appetitive.” “That is not hard to be shown,” he
 said; “for that much one can see in children, that they are from their
 very birth chock-full of rage and high spirit, but as for reason,

some of them, to my thinking, never participate in it,
 and the majority quite late.” “Yes, by heaven, excellently said,” I
 replied; “and further, one could see in animals that what you say is
 true. And to these instances we may add the testimony of Homer quoted
 above: 
 He smote his breast and chided thus his heart. 
 
 Hom. Od. 20.17 
 For there Homer has clearly represented that in us

which has reflected about the better and the worse as
 rebuking that which feels unreasoning anger as if it were a distinct and
 different thing.” “You are entirely right,” he said. “Through these waters, then,” said I, “we have with
 difficulty made our way and we are fairly agreed that the
 same kinds equal in number are to be found in the state and in the soul
 of each one of us.” “That is so.” “Then does not the necessity of our
 former postulate immediately follow, that as and whereby 
 the state was wise so and thereby is the individual wise?” “Surely.”
 “And so whereby and as

the individual is brave, thereby and so is the state
 brave, and that both should have all the other constituents of virtue in
 the same way ?” “Necessarily.” “Just too, then, Glaucon, I
 presume we shall say a man is in the same way in which a city was just.”
 “That too is quite inevitable.” “But we surely cannot have forgotten
 this, that the state was just by reason of each of the three classes
 found in it fulfilling its own function.” “I don’t think we have
 forgotten,” he said. “We must remember, then, that each of us also in
 whom the several parts within him

perform each their own task—he will be a just man and
 one who minds his own affair.” “We must indeed remember,” he said. “Does
 it not belong to the rational part to rule, being wise and exercising
 forethought in behalf of the entire soul, and to the principle of high
 spirit to be subject to this and its ally?” “Assuredly.” “Then is it
 not, as we said, the blending of music and gymnastics that
 will render them concordant, intensifying

and fostering the one with fair words and teachings and
 relaxing and soothing and making gentle the other by harmony and
 rhythm?” “Quite so,” said he. “And these two thus reared and having
 learned and been educated to do their own work in the true sense of the
 phrase, will
 preside over the appetitive part which is the mass of the soul in each of us and the most insatiate by
 nature of wealth. They will keep watch upon it, lest, by being filled
 and infected with the so-called pleasures associated with the body and so waxing big and strong,
 it may not keep to its own work

but may undertake to enslave and rule over the classes
 which it is not fitting that it should, and so
 overturn the entire life of all.” “By all means,” he said.
 “Would not these two, then, best keep guard against enemies from
 without also in behalf of the entire soul and body, the one taking
 counsel, the other giving
 battle, attending upon the ruler, and by its courage executing the
 ruler’s designs?” “That is so.” “Brave, too, then, I take it, we call

each individual by virtue of this part in him, when,
 namely, his high spirit preserves in the midst of pains and
 pleasures the rule handed down by the reason as to what is or
 is not to be feared.” “Right,” he said. “But wise by that small part
 that ruled in him and handed down these
 commands, by its possession in turn within it of the knowledge of what is
 beneficial for each and for the whole, the community composed of the
 three.” “By all means.” “And again, was he not sober

by reason of the friendship and concord of these same
 parts, when, namely, the ruling principle and its two subjects are at
 one in the belief that the reason ought to rule, and do not raise
 faction against it?” “The virtue of soberness certainly,” said he, “is
 nothing else than this, whether in a city or an individual.” “But
 surely, now, a man is just by that which and in the way we have so
 often described.” “That is altogether
 necessary.” “Well then,” said I, “has our idea of justice in any way
 lost the edge of its contour so as to look like anything
 else than precisely what it showed itself to be in the state?” “I think
 not,” he said.

“We might,” I said, “completely confirm your reply and
 our own conviction thus, if anything in our minds still disputes our
 definition—by applying commonplace and vulgar tests to
 it.” “What are these?” “For example, if an answer were demanded to the
 question concerning that city and the man whose birth and breeding was
 in harmony with it, whether we believe that such a man, entrusted with a
 deposit of gold or silver, would withhold it
 and embezzle it, who do you suppose would think that he would be more
 likely so to act

than men of a different kind?” “No one would,” he said.
 “And would not he be far removed from sacrilege and theft and betrayal
 of comrades in private life or of the state in public?” “He would.”
 “And, moreover, he would not be in any way faithless either in the
 keeping of his oaths or in other agreements.” “How could he?” “Adultery,
 surely, and neglect of parents and of the due service of the gods would
 pertain to anyone rather than to such a man.” “To anyone indeed,”

he said. “And is not the cause of this to be found in
 the fact that each of the principles within him does its own work in the
 matter of ruling and being ruled?” “Yes, that and nothing else.” “Do you
 still, then, look for justice to be anything else than this potency
 which provides men and cities of this sort?” “No, by heaven,” he said,
 “I do not.” “Finished, then, is our dream
 and perfected —the surmise we spoke of, that, by some Providence, at the very beginning of our
 foundation of the state,

we chanced to hit upon the original principle and a
 sort of type of justice.” “Most assuredly.” “It really was, it seems,
 Glaucon, which is why it helps, a sort of adumbration of
 justice, this principle that it is right for the cobbler by nature to
 cobble and occupy himself with nothing else, and the carpenter to
 practice carpentry, and similarly all others. But the truth of the
 matter was, as it seems,

that justice is indeed something of this kind, yet not
 in regard to the doing of one’s own business externally, but with regard
 to that which is within and in the true sense concerns one’s self, and
 the things of one’s self—it means that a man
 must not suffer the principles in his soul to do each the work of some
 other and interfere and meddle with one another, but that he should
 dispose well of what in the true sense of the word is properly his
 own, and having first attained to self-mastery and beautiful order within himself, and having
 harmonized these three principles, the notes or
 intervals of three terms quite literally the lowest, the highest, and
 the mean,

and all others there may be between them, and having
 linked and bound all three together and made of himself a unit, one man instead of many,
 self-controlled and in unison, he should then and then only turn to
 practice if he find aught to do either in the getting of wealth or the
 tendance of the body or it may be in political action or private
 business, in all such doings believing and naming the just and honorable action to be
 that which preserves and helps to produce this condition of soul, and
 wisdom the science

that presides over such conduct; and believing and
 naming the unjust action to be that which ever tends to overthrow this
 spiritual constitution, and brutish ignorance, to be the opinion that in turn presides over this.”
 “What you say is entirely true, Socrates.” “Well,” said I, “if we should
 affirm that we had found the just man and state and what justice really
 is in them, I think we should not be much mistaken.” “No
 indeed, we should not,” he said. “Shall we affirm it, then?” “Let us so
 affirm.” “So be it, then,” said I;
 “next after this, I take it, we must consider injustice.” “Obviously.”

“Must not this be a kind of civil war of these three principles, their
 meddlesomeness and interference with one another’s
 functions, and the revolt of one part against the whole of the soul that
 it may hold therein a rule which does not belong to it, since its nature
 is such that it befits it to serve as a slave to the ruling principle?
 Something of this sort, I fancy, is what we shall say, and that the
 confusion of these principles and their straying from their proper
 course is injustice and licentiousness and cowardice and brutish
 ignorance and, in general, all turpitude.”
 “Precisely this,”

he replied. “Then,” said I, “to act unjustly and be
 unjust and in turn to act justly the meaning of all these terms becomes
 at once plain and clear, since injustice and justice are so.” “How so?”
 “Because,” said I, “these are in the soul what the healthful and the diseaseful are
 in the body; there is no difference.” “In what respect?” he said.
 “Healthful things surely engender health 
 and diseaseful disease.” “Yes.” “Then does not doing just acts engender
 justice

and unjust injustice?” “Of necessity.” “But to produce
 health is to establish the elements in a body in the natural relation of
 dominating and being dominated by one another, while to cause
 disease is to bring it about that one rules or is ruled by the other
 contrary to nature.” “Yes, that is so.” “And is it not likewise the
 production of justice in the soul to establish its principles in the
 natural relation of controlling and being controlled by one another,
 while injustice is to cause the one to rule or be ruled by the other
 contrary to nature?” “Exactly so,” he said. “Virtue, then, as it seems,
 would be a kind of health

and beauty and good condition of the soul, and vice
 would be disease, 
 ugliness, and weakness.” “It is so.” “Then is it not also true that
 beautiful and honorable pursuits tend to the winning of virtue and the
 ugly to vice?” “Of necessity.” “And now at
 last, it seems, it remains for us to consider whether it is profitable
 to do justice

and practice honorable pursuits and be just,
 whether one is known to be such or not,
 or whether injustice profits, and to be unjust, if only a man escape
 punishment and is not bettered by chastisement. ” “Nay, Socrates,” he said, “I think that from
 this point on our inquiry becomes an absurdity —if,
 while life is admittedly intolerable with a ruined constitution of body
 even though accompanied by all the food and drink and wealth and power
 in the world, we are yet to be asked to suppose that, when the very
 nature and constitution of that whereby we live is disordered

and corrupted, life is going to be worth living, if a
 man can only do as he pleases, and pleases to do anything save that which will rid
 him of evil and injustice and make him possessed of justice and
 virtue—now that the two have been shown to be as we have described
 them.” “Yes, it is absurd,” said I; “but nevertheless, now that we have
 won to this height, we must not grow weary in endeavoring to
 discover with the
 utmost possible clearness that these things are so.” “That is the last
 thing in the world we must do,” he said.

“Come up here then,”
 said I, “that you may see how many are the kinds of evil, I mean those
 that it is worth while to observe and distinguish. ” “I am with you,” he
 said; “only do you say on.” “And truly,” said I, “now that we have come
 to this height of argument I seem to
 see as from a point of outlook that there is one form of excellence,
 and that the forms of evil are infinite, yet that there are some four
 among them that it is worth while to take note of.” “What do you mean?”
 he said. “As many as are the varieties of political constitutions that
 constitute specific types, so many, it seems likely,

are the characters of soul.” “How many, pray?” “There
 are five kinds of constitutions,” said I, “and five kinds of soul.”
 “Tell me what they are,” he said. “I tell you,” said I, “that one way of
 government would be the constitution that we have just expounded, but
 the names that might be applied to it are two. If one man of surpassing merit rose among
 the rulers, it would be denominated royalty; if more than one,
 aristocracy.” “True,” he said. “Well, then,” I said, “this is one of the
 forms I have in mind.

For neither would a number of such men, nor one if he
 arose among them, alter to any extent worth mentioning the laws of our
 city—if he preserved the breeding and the education that we have
 described.” “It is not likely,” he said.

“To such a city, then,
 or constitution I apply the terms good and right—and to
 the corresponding kind of man; but the others I describe as bad and
 mistaken, if this one is right, in respect both to the administration of
 states and to the formation of the character of
 the individual soul, they falling under four forms of badness.” “What
 are these,” he said. And I was going on to enumerate them in what seemed to me the
 order of their evolution

from one another, when Polemarchus—he sat at some
 little distance from Adeimantus—stretched
 forth his hand, and, taking hold of his garment from above by the
 shoulder, drew the other toward him and, leaning forward himself, spoke
 a few words in his ear, of which we overheard nothing 
 else save only this, “Shall we let him off, then,” he said,
 “or what shall we do?” “By no means,” said Adeimantus, now raising his
 voice. “What, pray,” said I, “is it that you are not letting
 off?” “You,”

said he. “And for what reason, pray?” said I. “We think
 you are a slacker,” he said, and are trying to cheat us out of a whole
 division, and that not the least, of the argument
 to avoid the trouble of expounding it, and expect to ‘get away with it’
 by observing thus lightly that, of course, in respect to women and
 children it is obvious to everybody that the possessions of friends will
 be in common. ” “Well, isn’t that right,
 Adeimantus?” I said. “Yes,” said he, “but this word ‘right,’ like other things, requires defining as to the way and manner of such a
 community. There might be many ways. Don’t, then, pass over the one

that you have in mind. For we
 have long been lying in wait for you, expecting that you would say
 something both of the procreation of children and their bringing
 up, and would
 explain the whole matter of the community of women and children of which
 you speak. We think that the right or wrong management of this makes a
 great difference, all the difference in the world, in
 the constitution of a state; so now, since you are beginning on another
 constitution before sufficiently defining this, we are firmly resolved,

as you overheard, not to let you go till you have
 expounded all this as fully as you did the rest.” “Set me down, too,”
 said Glaucon, “as voting this ticket. ”
 “Surely,” said Thrasymachus, “you may consider it a joint resolution of
 us all, Socrates.” “What a thing you have
 done,” said I, “in thus challenging me! What a huge debate you
 have started afresh, as it were, about this polity, in the supposed
 completion of which I was rejoicing, being only too glad to have it
 accepted

as I then set it forth! You don’t realize what a
 swarm of arguments you are stirring up by this demand, which I
 foresaw and evaded to save us no end of trouble.” “Well,” said
 Thrasymachus, “do you suppose this company
 has come here to prospect for gold and not to listen to
 discussions?” “Yes,” I said, “in measure.” “Nay, Socrates,” said
 Glaucon, “the measure of listening to such discussions is the whole
 of life for reasonable men. So don’t consider us, and do not you
 yourself grow weary

in explaining to us what we ask or, your views as to
 how this communion of wives and children among our guardians will be
 managed, and also about the rearing of the children while still young in
 the interval between birth and formal schooling which is thought to be the most
 difficult part of education. Try, then, to tell us what must be the
 manner of it.” “It is not an easy thing to expound, my dear fellow,”
 said I, “for even more than the provisions that precede it, it raises
 many doubts. For one might doubt whether what is proposed is
 possible and, even
 conceding the possibility, one might still be
 sceptical whether it is best.

For which reason one as it were, shrinks from touching
 on the matter lest the theory be regarded as nothing but a
 ‘wish-thought,’ my dear
 friend.” “Do not shrink,” he said, “for your hearers will not be
 inconsiderate nor distrustful nor
 hostile.” And I said, “My good fellow, is that remark intended to
 encourage me?” “It is,” he said. “Well, then,” said I, “it has just the
 contrary effect. For, if I were confident that I was speaking with
 knowledge, it would be an excellent encouragement.

For there is both safety and security in speaking the
 truth with knowledge about our greatest and dearest concerns to those
 who are both wise and dear. But to speak when one doubts himself and is
 seeking while he talks is

a fearful and slippery venture. The fear is not of
 being laughed at, for
 that is childish, but, lest, missing the truth, I fall down and drag my
 friends with me in matters where it most imports not to stumble. So I
 salute Nemesis, 
 Glaucon, in what I am about to say. For, indeed, I believe that
 involuntary homicide is a lesser fault than to mislead opinion about the
 honorable, the good, and the just. This is a risk that it is better to
 run with enemies

than with friends, so that your encouragement is none.”
 And Glaucon, with a laugh, said, “Nay, Socrates, if any false note in
 the argument does us any harm, we release you as in a homicide case,
 and warrant you pure of hand and no deceiver of us. So speak on with
 confidence.” “Well,” said I, “he who is released in that case is counted
 pure as the law bids, and, presumably, if there, here too.” “Speak on,
 then,” he said, “for all this objection.” “We must return then,” said I,
 “and say now what perhaps ought to have been said in due sequence
 there.

But maybe this way is right, that after the completion
 of the male drama we should in turn go through with the female, especially since you are so urgent.” “For men, then, born and bred as we described there is
 in my opinion no other right possession and use of children and women
 than that which accords with the start we gave them. Our endeavor, I
 believe, was to establish these men in our discourse as the guardians of
 a flock ?” “Yes.”

“Let us preserve the analogy, then, and assign them a
 generation and breeding answering to it, and see if it suits us or not.”
 “In what way?” he said. “In this. Do we expect the females of watch-dogs
 to join in guarding what the males guard and to hunt with them and share
 all their pursuits or do we expect the females to stay indoors as being
 incapacitated by the bearing and the breeding of the whelps while the
 males toil and have all the care of the flock?” “They have all things in
 common,”

he replied, “except that we treat the females as weaker
 and the males as stronger.” “Is it possible, then,” said I, “to employ
 any creature for the same ends as another if you do not assign it the
 same nurture and education?” “It is not possible.” “If, then, we are to
 use the women for the same things as the men,

we must also teach them the same things.” “Yes.” “Now
 music together with gymnastic was the training we gave the men.” “Yes.”
 “Then we must assign these two arts to the women also and the offices of
 war and employ them in the same way.” “It would seem likely from what
 you say,” he replied. “Perhaps, then,” said I, “the contrast with
 present custom would make much
 in our proposals look ridiculous if our words are to be realized in
 fact.” “Yes, indeed,” he said. “What then,” said I, “is the funniest
 thing you note in them? Is it not obviously the women exercising unclad
 in the palestra

together with the men, not only the young, but even the
 older, like old men in gymnasiums, when, though wrinkled and
 unpleasant to look at, they still persist in exercising?” “Yes, on my
 word,” he replied, “it would seem ridiculous under present conditions.”
 “Then,” said I, “since we have set out to speak our minds, we must not
 fear all the jibes with which the wits would greet
 so great a revolution, and the sort of things they would say about
 gymnastics

and culture, and most of all about the bearing of arms
 and the bestriding of horses.” “You’re right,” he said. “But since we
 have begun we must go forward to the rough part of our law, after begging these fellows not to mind
 their own business 
 but to be serious, and reminding them that it is not long since the
 Greeks thought it disgraceful and ridiculous, as most of the
 barbarians do now, for men to be seen naked. And
 when the practice of athletics began, first with the Cretans

and then with the Lacedaemonians, it was open to the
 wits of that time to make fun of these practices, don’t you think so?”
 “I do.” “But when, I take it, experience showed that it is better to
 strip than to veil all things of this sort, then the laughter of the
 eyes faded away before that
 which reason revealed to be best, and this made it plain that he talks
 idly who deems anything else ridiculous but evil, and who tries to raise
 a laugh by looking to any other pattern of absurdity than

that of folly and wrong or sets up any other standard
 of the beautiful as a mark for his seriousness than the good.” “Most
 assuredly,” said he. “Then is not the
 first thing that we have to agree upon with regard to these proposals
 whether they are possible or not? And we must throw open the debate to anyone
 who wishes either in jest or earnest to raise the question

whether female human nature is capable of sharing with
 the male all tasks or none at all, or some but not others, and under which of these heads this
 business of war falls. Would not this be that best beginning which would
 naturally and proverbially lead to the best end ?” “Far the best,” he said. “Shall we then
 conduct the debate with ourselves in behalf of those others so that the case of
 the other side may not be taken defenceless and go by default ?”

“Nothing hinders,” he said. “Shall we say then in their
 behalf: ‘There is no need, Socrates and Glaucon, of others disputing
 against you, for you yourselves at the beginning of the foundation of
 your city agreed that each one ought to mind as his own
 business the one thing for which he was fitted by nature?’ ‘We did so
 agree, I think; certainly!’ ‘Can it be denied then that there is by
 nature a great difference between men and women?’ ‘Surely there is.’ ‘Is
 it not fitting, then, that a different function should be
 appointed

for each corresponding to this difference of nature?’
 ‘Certainly.’ ‘How, then, can you deny that you are mistaken and in
 contradiction with yourselves when you turn around and affirm that the
 men and the women ought to do the same thing, though their natures are
 so far apart?’ Can you surprise me with an answer to that question?”
 “Not easily on this sudden challenge,” he replied: “but I will and do
 beg you to lend your voice to the plea in our behalf, whatever it may
 be.” “These and many similar difficulties, Glaucon,” said I,

“I foresaw and feared, and so shrank from touching on
 the law concerning the getting and breeding of women and children.” “It
 does not seem an easy thing, by heaven,” he said, “no, by heaven.” “No,
 it is not,” said I; “but the fact is that whether one tumbles into a
 little diving-pool or plump into the great sea he swims all the same.”
 “By all means.” “Then we, too, must swim and try to escape out of the
 sea of argument
 in the hope that either some dolphin will take us
 on its back or some other desperate rescue.”

“So it seems,” he said. “Come then, consider,” said I,
 “if we can find a way out. We did agree that different natures should
 have differing pursuits and that the nature of men and women differ. And
 yet now we affirm that these differing natures should have the same
 pursuits. That is the indictment.” “It is.” “What a grand thing, Glaucon,” said
 I,

“is the power of the art of contradiction !” “Why so?” “Because,” said I, “many appear to me to
 fall into it even against their wills, and to suppose that they are not
 wrangling but arguing, owing to their inability to apply the proper
 divisions and distinctions to the subject under consideration. They
 pursue purely verbal oppositions, practising eristic, not dialectic on
 one another.” “Yes, this does happen to many,” he said; “but does this
 observation apply to us too at present?”

“Absolutely,” said I; “at any rate I am afraid that we
 are unawares slipping
 into contentiousness.” “In what way?” “The principle that natures not
 the same ought not to share in the same pursuits we are following up
 most manfully and eristically in the
 literal and verbal sense but we did not delay to consider at all what
 particular kind of diversity and identity of
 nature we had in mind and with reference to what we were trying to
 define it when we assigned different pursuits to different natures and
 the same to the same.” “No, we didn’t consider that,” he said.

“Wherefore, by the same token,” I said, “we might ask
 ourselves whether the natures of bald and long-haired men are the same and
 not, rather, contrary. And, after agreeing that they were opposed, we
 might, if the bald cobbled, forbid the long-haired to do so, or vice
 versa.” “That would be ridiculous,” he said. “Would it be so,” said I,
 “for any other reason than that we did not then posit likeness and
 difference of nature in any and every sense, but were paying heed solely
 to the kind of diversity

and homogeneity that was pertinent to the pursuits
 themselves?” “We meant, for example, that a man and a woman who have a
 physician’s mind have the same
 nature. Don’t you think so?” “I do.” “But that a man physician and a man
 carpenter have different natures?” “Certainly, I suppose.” “Similarly, then,” said I, “if it appears that
 the male and the female sex have distinct qualifications for any arts or
 pursuits, we shall affirm that they ought to be assigned respectively to
 each. But if it appears that they differ only in just this respect that
 the female bears

and the male begets, we shall say that no proof has yet
 been produced that the woman differs from the man for our purposes, but
 we shall continue to think that our guardians and their wives ought to
 follow the same pursuits.” “And rightly,” said he. “Then, is it not the
 next thing to bid our opponent tell us

precisely for what art or pursuit concerned with the
 conduct of a state the woman’s nature differs from the man’s?” “That
 would be at any rate fair.” “Perhaps, then, someone else, too, might say
 what you were saying a while ago, that it is not easy to find a
 satisfactory answer on a sudden, but that with time for
 reflection there is no difficulty.” “He might say that.” “Shall we,
 then, beg the raiser of such objections to follow us,

if we may perhaps prove able to make it plain to him
 that there is no pursuit connected with the administration of a state
 that is peculiar to woman?” “By all means.” “Come then, we shall say to
 him, answer our question. Was this the basis of your distinction between
 the man naturally gifted for anything and the one not so gifted—that the
 one learned easily, the other with difficulty; that the one with slight
 instruction could discover much for himself in the
 matter studied, but the other, after much instruction and drill, could
 not even remember what he had learned; and that the bodily faculties of
 the one adequately served his mind,

while, for the other, the body was a hindrance? Were
 there any other points than these by which you distinguish the well
 endowed man in every subject and the poorly endowed?” “No one,” said he,
 “will be able to name any others.” “Do you know, then, of anything
 practised by mankind in which the masculine sex does not surpass the
 female on all these points? Must we make a long story of it by alleging weaving and
 the watching of pancakes

and the boiling pot, whereon the sex plumes itself and
 wherein its defeat will expose it to most laughter?” “You are right,” he
 said, “that the one sex 
 is far surpassed by the other in everything, one may say. Many women, it
 is true, are better than many men in many things, but broadly speaking,
 it is as you say.” “Then there is no pursuit of the administrators of a
 state that belongs to a woman because she is a woman or to a man because
 he is a man. But the natural capacities are distributed alike among both
 creatures, and women naturally share in all pursuits and men in all—

yet for all the woman is weaker than the man.”
 “Assuredly.” “Shall we, then, assign them all to men and nothing to
 women?” “How could we?” “We shall rather, I take it, say that one woman
 has the nature of a physician and another not, and one is by nature
 musical, and another unmusical?” “Surely.” “Can we, then, deny that one
 woman is naturally athletic

and warlike and another unwarlike and averse to
 gymnastics?” “I think not.” “And again, one a lover, another a hater, of
 wisdom? And one high-spirited, and the other lacking spirit?” “That also
 is true.” “Then it is likewise true that one woman has the qualities of
 a guardian and another not. Were not these the natural qualities of the
 men also whom we selected for guardians?” “They were.” “The women and
 the men, then, have the same nature in respect to the guardianship of
 the state, save in so far as the one is weaker, the other stronger.”
 “Apparently.”

“Women of this kind,
 then, must be selected to cohabit with men of this kind and to serve
 with them as guardians since they are capable of it and akin by nature.”
 “By all means.” “And to the same natures must we not assign the same
 pursuits?” “The same.” “We come round, then,
 to our previous statement, and agree that it does not run counter to
 nature to assign music and gymnastics to the wives of the
 guardians.”

“By all means.” “Our legislation, then, was not
 impracticable or utopian, since the law we proposed
 accorded with nature. Rather, the other way of doing things, prevalent
 today, proves, as it seems, unnatural.” “Apparently.” “The object of our
 inquiry was the possibility and the desirability of
 what we were proposing.” “It was.” “That it is possible has been
 admitted.” “Yes.” “The next point to be agreed upon is that it is the
 best way.” “Obviously.” “For the production of a guardian, then,
 education will not be one thing for our men and another for our women,
 especially since

the nature which we hand over to it is the same.”
 “There will be no difference.” “How are you minded, now, in this
 matter?” “In what?” “In the matter of supposing some men to be better
 and some worse, or do you think them all alike?” “By no means.” “In the
 city, then, that we are founding, which do you think will prove the
 better men, the guardians receiving the education which we have
 described or the cobblers educated by the art of cobbling ?” “An absurd question,” he
 said.

“I understand,” said I; “and are not these the best of
 all the citizens?” “By far.” “And will not these women be the best of
 all the women?” “They, too, by far.” “Is there anything better for a
 state than the generation in it of the best possible women and men?” “There is not.” “And this,
 music and gymnastics

applied as we described will effect.” “Surely.” “Then
 the institution we proposed is not only possible but the best for the
 state.” “That is so.” “The women of the guardians, then, must strip,
 since they will be clothed with virtue as a garment, and must take their part with the men in war and
 the other duties of civic guardianship and have no other occupation. But
 in these very duties lighter tasks must be assigned to the women than to
 the men

because of their weakness as a class. But the man who
 ridicules unclad women, exercising because it is best that they should,
 ‘plucks the unripe fruit’ of
 laughter and does not know, it appears, the end of his laughter nor what
 he would be at. For the fairest thing that is said or ever will be said
 is this, that the helpful is fair and the harmful
 foul.” “Assuredly.” “In this matter, then,
 of the regulation of women, we may say that we have surmounted one of
 the waves of our paradox

and have not been quite swept away by it in ordaining that our guardians
 and female guardians must have all pursuits in common, but that in some
 sort the argument concurs with itself in the assurance that what it
 proposes is both possible and beneficial.” “It is no slight wave that
 you are thus escaping.” “You will not think it a great one,” I said, “when you
 have seen the one that follows.” “Say on then and show me,” said he.
 “This,” said I, “and all that precedes has for its sequel, in my
 opinion, the following law.” “What? “That these women shall all be
 common to all the men,

and that none shall cohabit with any privately; and
 that the children shall be common, and that no parent shall know its own
 offspring nor any child its parent.” “This is a far bigger paradox than
 the other, and provokes more distrust as to its possibility and its
 utility. ” “I presume,” said I,
 “that there would be no debate about its utility, no denial that the
 community of women and children would be the greatest good, supposing it
 possible. But I take it that its possibility or the contrary

would be the chief topic of contention.” “Both,” he
 said, “would be right sharply debated.” “You mean,” said I, “that I have
 to meet a coalition of arguments. But I expected to escape from one of
 them, and that if you agreed that the thing was beneficial, it would
 remain for me to speak only of its feasibility.” “You have not escaped
 detection,” he said, “in your attempted flight, but you must render an
 account of both.” “I must pay the penalty,” I said, “yet do me this much
 grace:

Permit me to take a holiday, just as men of lazy minds
 are wont to feast themselves on their own thoughts when they walk
 alone. Such persons, without waiting to discover how
 their desires may be realized, dismiss that topic to save themselves the
 labor of deliberating about possibilities and impossibilities, assume
 their wish fulfilled, and proceed to work out the details in
 imagination, and take pleasure in portraying what they will do when it
 is realized, thus making still more idle a mind that is idle without
 that. I too now
 succumb to this weakness

and desire to postpone and examine later the
 question of feasibility, but will at present assume that, and will, with
 your permission, inquire how the rulers will work out the details in
 practice, and try to show that nothing could be more beneficial to the
 state and its guardians than the effective operation of our plan. This
 is what I would try to consider first together with you, and thereafter
 the other topic, if you allow it.” “I do allow it,” he said: “proceed
 with the inquiry.” “I think, then,” said I, “that the rulers,

if they are to deserve that name, and their helpers
 likewise, will, the one, be willing to accept orders, and the other, to give them, in some things obeying our
 laws, and imitating them in others which we leave to
 their discretion.” “Presumably.” “You, then, the lawgiver,” I said,
 “have picked these men and similarly will select to give over to them
 women as nearly as possible of the same nature. And they, having houses and meals in common, and no
 private possessions of that kind,

will dwell together, and being commingled in gymnastics
 and in all their life and education, will be conducted by innate
 necessity to sexual union. Is not what I say a necessary consequence?”
 “Not by the necessities of geometry,” he said, “but by those of
 love, which are
 perhaps keener and more potent than the other to persuade and constrain
 the multitude.” “They are, indeed,” I
 said; “but next, Glaucon, disorder and promiscuity in these unions
 or

in anything else they do would be an unhallowed thing
 in a happy state and the rulers will not suffer it.” “It would not be
 right,” he said. “Obviously, then, we must arrange marriages,
 sacramental so far as may be. And the most sacred marriages would be
 those that were most beneficial.”

“By all means.” “How, then, would the greatest benefit
 result? Tell me this, Glaucon. I see that you have in your house
 hunting-dogs and a number of pedigree cocks. Have you ever considered something about their unions
 and procreations?” “What?” he said. “In the first place,” I
 said, “among these themselves, although they are a select breed, do not
 some prove better than the rest?” “They do.” “Do you then breed from all
 indiscriminately, or are you careful to breed from the best ?”

“From the best.” “And, again, do you breed from the
 youngest or the oldest, or, so far as may be, from those in their
 prime?” “From those in their prime.” “And if they are not thus bred, you
 expect, do you not, that your birds and hounds will greatly degenerate?”
 “I do,” he said. “And what of horses and other animals?” I said; “is it
 otherwise with them?” “It would be strange if it were,” said he.
 “Gracious,” said I, “dear friend, how imperative, then, is our need of
 the highest skill in our rulers, if the principle holds also for
 mankind.”

“Well, it does,” he said, “but what of it?” “This,”
 said I, “that they will have to employ many of those drugs of which we
 were speaking. We thought that an inferior physician sufficed for bodies
 that do not need drugs but yield to diet and regimen. But when it is
 necessary to prescribe drugs we know that a more enterprising and
 venturesome physician is required.” “True; but what is the pertinency?”
 “This,” said I: “it seems likely that our rulers will have to make
 considerable use of falsehood and deception

for the benefit of their subjects. We said, I believe,
 that the use of that sort of thing was in the category of medicine.”
 “And that was right,” he said. “In our marriages, then, and the
 procreation of children, it seems there will be no slight need of this
 kind of ‘right.’” “How so?” “It follows from our former admissions,” I
 said, “that the best men must cohabit with the best women in as many
 cases as possible and the worst with the worst in the fewest,

and that the offspring of the one must be reared and
 that of the other not, if the flock 
 is to be as perfect as possible. And the way in which all this is
 brought to pass must be unknown to any but the rulers, if, again, the
 herd of guardians is to be as free as possible from dissension.” “Most
 true,” he said. “We shall, then, have to ordain certain festivals and
 sacrifices, in which we shall bring together the brides and the
 bridegrooms, and our poets must compose hymns

suitable to the marriages that then take place. But the
 number of the marriages we will leave to the discretion of the rulers,
 that they may keep the number of the citizens as nearly as may be the
 same, taking into account
 wars and diseases and all such considerations, and that, so far as
 possible, our city may not grow too great or too small.” “Right,” he
 said. “Certain ingenious lots, then, I suppose, must be devised so that
 the inferior man at each conjugation may blame chance and not the
 rulers.” “Yes, indeed,” he said.

“And on the young men,
 surely, who excel in war and other pursuits we must bestow honors and
 prizes, and, in particular, the opportunity of more frequent intercourse
 with the women, which will at the same time be a plausible pretext for
 having them beget as many of the children as possible.” “Right.” “And
 the children thus born will be taken over by the officials appointed for
 this, men or women or both, since, I take it, the official posts too are
 common to women and men.

The offspring of the good, I suppose, they will take to
 the pen or créche, to certain nurses who live apart in a quarter of the
 city, but the offspring of the inferior, and any of those of the other
 sort who are born defective, they will properly dispose of in
 secret, so that no one will know what
 has become of them.” “That is the condition,” he said, “of preserving
 the purity of the guardians’ breed.” “They will also supervise the
 nursing of the children, conducting the mothers to the pen when their
 breasts are full, but employing every device

to prevent anyone from recognizing her own infant. And
 they will provide others who have milk if the mothers are insufficient.
 But they will take care that the mothers themselves shall not suckle too
 long, and the trouble of wakeful nights and similar burdens they will
 devolve upon the nurses, wet and dry.” “You are making maternity a soft
 job for
 the women of the guardians.” “It ought to be,” said I, “but let us
 pursue our design. We said that the offspring should come from parents
 in their prime.”

“True.” “Do you agree that the period of the prime may
 be fairly estimated at twenty years for a woman and thirty for a man?”
 “How do you reckon it?” he said. “The women,” I
 said, “beginning at the age of twenty, shall bear for the state to the age of forty, and the
 man shall beget for the state from the time he passes his prime in
 swiftness in running to the age of fifty-five.”

“That is,” he said, “the maturity and prime for both of
 body and mind.” “Then, if anyone older or younger than the prescribed
 age meddles with procreation for the state, we shall say that his error
 is an impiety and an injustice, since he is begetting for the city a
 child whose birth, if it escapes discovery, will not be attended by the
 sacrifices and the prayers which the priests and priestesses and the
 entire city prefer at the ceremonial marriages, that ever better
 offspring may spring from good sires and from fathers helpful to the state

sons more helpful still. But this child will be born in
 darkness and conceived in foul incontinence.” “Right,” he said. “And the
 same rule will apply,” I said, “if any of those still within the age of
 procreation goes in to a woman of that age with whom the ruler has not
 paired him. We shall say that he is imposing on the state a base-born,
 uncertified, and unhallowed child.” “Most rightly,” he said. “But when,
 I take it, the men and the women have passed the age of lawful
 procreation, we shall leave the men free to form such relations

with whomsoever they please, except daughter and mother
 and their direct descendants and ascendants, and likewise the women,
 save with son and father, and so on, first admonishing them preferably
 not even to bring to light anything whatever thus conceived, but if they are unable
 to prevent a birth to dispose of it on the understanding that we cannot
 rear such an offspring.” “All that sounds reasonable,” he said; “but how
 are they to distinguish one another’s fathers and daughters,

and the other degrees of kin that you have just
 mentioned?” “They won’t,” said I, “except that a man will call all male
 offspring born in the tenth and in the seventh month after he became a
 bridegroom his sons, and all female, daughters, and they will call him
 father. And, similarly, he will call their
 offspring his grandchildren and they will call his group grandfathers and
 grandmothers. And all children born in the period in which their fathers
 and mothers were procreating will regard one another as brothers and
 sisters.

This will suffice for the prohibitions of intercourse
 of which we just now spoke. But the law will allow brothers and sisters
 to cohabit if the lot so falls out and the Delphic oracle approves.”
 “Quite right,” said he. “This, then,
 Glaucon, is the manner of the community of wives and children among the
 guardians. That it is consistent with the rest of our polity and by far
 the best way is the next point that we must get confirmed

by the argument. Is not that so?” “It is, indeed,” he
 said. “Is not the logical first step towards such an agreement to ask
 ourselves what we could name as the greatest good for the constitution
 of a state and the proper aim of a lawgiver in his legislation, and what
 would be the greatest evil, and then to consider whether the proposals
 we have just set forth fit into the footprints of the good and do not
 suit those of the evil?” “By all means,” he said. “Do we know of any
 greater evil for a state than the thing that distracts it

and makes it many instead of one, or a greater good
 than that which binds it together and makes it one?” “We do not.” “Is
 not, then, the community of pleasure and pain the tie that binds, when,
 so far as may be, all the citizens rejoice and grieve alike at the same
 births and deaths?” “By all means,” he said. “But the individualization
 of these feelings is a dissolvent, when some grieve exceedingly and
 others rejoice at the same happenings

to the city and its inhabitants?” “Of course.” “And the
 chief cause of this is when the citizens do not utter in unison such
 words as ‘mine’ and ‘not mine,’ and similarly with regard to the word
 ‘alien’?” “Precisely so.” “That city,
 then, is best ordered in which the greatest number use the expression
 ‘mine’ and ‘not mine’ of the same things in the same way.” “Much the
 best.” “And the city whose state is most like that of an individual
 man. For example, if the finger of
 one of us is wounded, the entire community of bodily connections
 stretching to the soul for ‘integration’

with the dominant part is made aware, and all of it
 feels the pain as a whole, though it is a part that suffers, and that is
 how we come to say that the man has a pain in his finger. And for any
 other member of the man the same statement holds, alike for a part that
 labors in pain or is eased by pleasure.” “The same,” he said, “and, to
 return to your question, the best governed state most nearly resembles
 such an organism.” “That is the kind of a state,

then, I presume, that, when anyone of the citizens
 suffers aught of good or evil, will be most likely to speak of the part
 that suffers as its own and will share the pleasure or the pain as a
 whole.” “Inevitably,” he said, “if it is well governed.” “It is time,” I said, “to return to our city and
 observe whether it, rather than any other, embodies the qualities agreed
 upon in our argument. ” “We must,” he said.
 “Well, then,

there are to be found in other cities rulers and the
 people as in it, are there not?” “There are.” “Will not all these
 address one another as fellow-citizens?” “Of course.” “But in addition
 to citizens, what does the people in other states call its rulers.” “In
 most cities, masters. In democratic cities, just this, rulers.” “But
 what of the people in our city. In addition to citizens,

what do they call their rulers?” “Saviors and helpers,”
 he said. “And what term do these apply to the people?” “Payers of their
 wage and supporters.” “And how do the rulers in other states denominate
 the populace?” “Slaves,” he said. “And how do the rulers describe one
 another?” “Co-rulers,” he said. “And ours?” “Co-guardians.” “Can you
 tell me whether any of the rulers in other states would speak of some of
 their co-rulers as ‘belonging’ and others as outsiders?” “Yes, many
 would.” “And such a one thinks and speaks of the one that ‘belongs’ as
 his own, doesn’t he, and of the outsider as not his own?” “That is so.”
 “But what of your guardians. Could any of them think or speak of

his co-guardian as an outsider?” “By no means,” he
 said; “for no matter whom he meets, he will feel that he is meeting a
 brother, a sister, a father, a mother, a son, a daughter, or the
 offspring or forebears of these.” “Excellent,” said I; “but tell me this
 further,

will it be merely the names of this kinship that you have
 prescribed for them or must all their actions conform to the names in
 all customary observance toward fathers and in awe and care and
 obedience for parents, if they look for the favor of either gods or men,
 since any other behaviour would be neither just nor pious? Shall these
 be the unanimous oracular voices that they hear from all the people, or
 shall some other kind of teaching beset the ears of your
 children from their birth, both concerning what is due to those
 who are pointed out as their fathers

and to their other kin?” “These,” he said; “for it
 would be absurd for them merely to pronounce with their lips the names
 of kinship without the deeds.” “Then, in this city more than in any
 other, when one citizen fares well or ill, men will pronounce in unison
 the word of which we spoke: ‘It is mine that does well; it is mine that
 does ill.’” “That is most true,” he said.

“And did we not say that this conviction and way of
 speech 
 brings with it a community in pleasures and pains?” “And rightly, too.”
 “Then these citizens, above all others, will have one and the same thing
 in common which they will name mine, and by virtue of this communion
 they will have their pleasures and pains in common.” “Quite so.” “And is
 not the cause of this, besides the general constitution of the state,
 the community of wives and children among the guardians?” “It will
 certainly be the chief cause,” he said.

“But we further agreed
 that this unity is the greatest blessing for a state, and we compared a
 well governed state to the human body in its relation to the pleasure
 and pain of its parts.” “And we were right in so agreeing.” “Then it is
 the greatest blessing for a state of which the community of women and
 children among the helpers has been shown to be the cause.” “Quite so,”
 he said. “And this is consistent with what we said before. For we
 said, I believe, that these helpers must not possess
 houses of their own or

land or any other property, but that they should
 receive from the other citizens for their support the wage of their
 guardianship and all spend it in common. That was the condition of their
 being true guardians.” “Right,” he said. “Is it not true, then, as I am
 trying to say, that those former and these present prescriptions tend to
 make them still more truly guardians and prevent them from distracting
 the city by referring ‘mine’ not to the same but to different things,
 one man dragging off to his own house anything he is able to acquire
 apart from the rest,

and another doing the same to his own separate house,
 and having women and children apart, thus introducing into the state the
 pleasures and pains of individuals? They should all rather, we said,
 share one conviction about their own, tend to one goal, and so far as
 practicable have one experience of pleasure and pain.” “By all means,”
 he said. “Then will not law-suits and accusations against one another
 vanish, one may
 say, from among them, because they have
 nothing in private possession but their bodies, but all else in common?

So that we can count on their being free from the
 dissensions that arise among men from the possession of property,
 children, and kin.” “They will necessarily be quit of these,” he said.
 “And again, there could not rightly arise among them any law-suit for
 assault or bodily injury. For as between age-fellows we shall say that
 self-defence is honorable and just, thereby compelling them to keep
 their bodies in condition.” “Right,” he said.

“And there will be the further advantage in such a law
 that an angry man, satisfying his anger in such wise, would be less
 likely to carry the quarrel to further extremes.” “Assuredly.” “As for
 an older man, he will always have the charge of ruling and chastising
 the younger.” “Obviously.” “Again, it is plain that the young man,
 except by command of the rulers, will probably not do violence to an
 elder or strike him, or, I take it, dishonor him in any other way. Two
 guardians sufficient to prevent that

there are, fear and awe, awe restraining him from
 laying hands on one who may be his parent, and fear in that the others
 will rush to the aid of the sufferer, some as sons, some as brothers,
 some as fathers.” “That is the way it works out,” he said. “Then in all
 cases the laws will leave these men to dwell in peace together.” “Great
 peace.” “And if these are free from dissensions among themselves, there
 is no fear that the rest of the city will
 ever start faction against them or with one another.” “No, there is
 not.”

“But I hesitate, so unseemly are they, even to mention the
 pettiest troubles of which they would be rid, the flatterings of the rich, the
 embarrassments and pains of the poor in the bringing-up of their
 children and the procuring of money for the necessities of life for
 their households, the borrowings, the repudiations, all the devices with
 which they acquire what they deposit with wives and servitors to
 husband, and all the indignities that they endure
 in such matters, which are obvious and

ignoble and not deserving of mention.” “Even a
 blind man can see
 these,” he said. “From all these, then,
 they will be finally free, and they will live a happier life than that
 men count most happy, the life of the victors at Olympia . ” “How so?” “The things for which those
 are felicitated are a small part of what is secured for these. Their
 victory is fairer and their public support more complete. For the prize
 of victory that they win is the salvation of the entire state, the
 fillet that binds their brows is the public support of themselves and
 their children—

they receive honor from the city while they live and
 when they die a worthy burial.” “A fair guerdon, indeed,” he said. “Do
 you recall,” said I, “that in the preceding argument the
 objection of somebody or other rebuked us for not making our guardians
 happy,

since, though it was in their power to have everything
 of the citizens, they had nothing, and we, I believe, replied that this
 was a consideration to which we would return if occasion offered, but
 that at present we were making our guardians guardians and the city as a
 whole as happy as possible, and that we were not modelling our ideal of happiness with reference to any one
 class?” “I do remember,” he said. “Well then, since now the life of our
 helpers has been shown to be fairer and better
 than that of the victors at Olympia ,

need we compare it with the life of
 cobblers and other craftsmen and farmers?” “I think not,” he said. “But
 further, we may fairly repeat what I was saying then also, that if the
 guardian shall strive for a kind of happiness that will unmake him as a
 guardian and shall not be content with the way of life that is moderate
 and secure and, as we affirm, the best, but if some senseless and
 childish opinion about happiness shall beset him and impel him to use
 his power to appropriate

everything in the city for himself, then he will find
 out that Hesiod was indeed wise, who said that ‘the half was in some sort more than the
 whole.’ 
 Hes. WD
 40 “If he accepts my counsel,” he said, “he will abide in
 this way of life.” “You accept, then, as we have described it, this
 partnership of the women with our men in the matter of education and
 children and the guardianship of the other citizens, and you admit that
 both within the city and when they go forth to war they ought to keep
 guard together and hunt together as it were like hounds,

and have all things in every way, so far as possible,
 in common, and that so doing they will do what is for the best and
 nothing that is contrary to female human nature in comparison with male or to their natural
 fellowship with one another.” “I do admit it,” he said. “Then,” I said, “is not the thing that it remains to
 determine this, whether, namely, it is possible for such a community to
 be brought about among men as it is in the other animals, and in what way it is possible?” “You have
 anticipated,” he said, “the point I was about to raise.” “For as for their wars,” I said,

“the manner in which they will conduct them is too
 obvious for discussion.” “How so,” said he. “It is obvious that they
 will march out together, and, what is more,
 will conduct their children to war when they are sturdy, in order that,
 like the children of other craftsmen, they may observe
 the processes of which they must be masters in their maturity; and in
 addition to looking on

they must assist and minister in all the business of
 war and serve their fathers and mothers. Or have you never noticed the
 practice in the arts, how for example the sons of potters look on as
 helpers a long time before they put their hands to the clay?” “They do,
 indeed.” “Should these then be more concerned than our guardians to
 train the children by observation and experience of what is to be their
 proper business?” “That would be ridiculous,” he said. “But, further,
 when it comes to fighting,

every creature will do better in the presence of its
 offspring?” “That is so, but the risk, Socrates, is not slight, in the
 event of disasters such as may happen in war, that, losing their
 children as well as themselves, they make it impossible for the remnant
 of the state to recover.” “What you say is true,” I replied; “but, in
 the first place, is it your idea that the one thing for which we must
 provide is the avoidance of all danger?” “By no means.” “And, if they
 are to take chances, should it not be for something success in which
 will make them better?”

“Clearly.” “Do you think it makes a slight difference
 and not worth some risk whether men who are to be warriors do or do not
 observe war as boys?” “No, it makes a great difference for the purpose
 of which you speak.” “Starting, then, from this assumption that we are
 to make the boys spectators of war, we must further contrive 
 security for them and all will be well, will it not?” “Yes.” “To begin
 with, then,” said I, “will not the fathers be, humanly speaking, not
 ignorant of war

and shrewd judges of which campaigns are hazardous and
 which not?” “Presumably,” he said. “They will take the boys with them to
 the one and avoid the others?” “Rightly.” “And for officers, I presume,”
 said I, “they will put in charge of them not those who are good for
 nothing else but men who by age and experience are qualified to serve at
 once as leaders and as caretakers of children.” “Yes, that would be the
 proper way.” “Still, we may object, it is the unexpected that
 happens to many in many cases.” “Yes, indeed.” “To provide against such
 chances, then, we must wing the
 children from the start so that if need arises they may fly away and
 escape.”

“What do you mean?” he said. “We must mount them when
 very young,” said I, “and first have them taught to ride, and then
 conduct them to the scene of war, not on mettlesome war-steeds, but on
 the swiftest and gentlest horses possible; for thus they will have the
 best view of their own future business and also, if need arises, will
 most securely escape to safety in the train of elder guides.” “I think
 you are right,” he said.

“But now what of the conduct of war? What should be the
 attitude of the soldiers to one another and the enemy? Am I right in my
 notions or not?” “Tell me what notions,” he said. “Anyone of them who
 deserts his post, or flings away his weapons, or is guilty of any similar act of cowardice, should be
 reduced to the artisan or farmer class, should he not?” “By all means.”
 “And anyone who is taken alive by the enemy we will make a present of to his
 captors, shall we not, to deal with their catch

as they please?” “Quite so.” “And don’t you agree that
 the one who wins the prize of valor and distinguishes himself shall
 first be crowned by his fellows in the campaign, by the lads and boys
 each in turn?” “I do.” “And be greeted with the right hand?” “That,
 too.” “But I presume you wouldn’t go as far as this?” “What?” “That he
 should kiss and be kissed by everyone ?” “By all means,” he
 said, “and I add to the law the provision that during that

campaign none whom he wishes to kiss be allowed to
 refuse, so that if one is in love with anyone, male or female, he may be
 the more eager to win the prize.” “Excellent,” said I, “and we have
 already said that the opportunity of marriage will be more readily
 provided for the good man, and that he will be more frequently selected
 than the others for participation in that sort of thing, in order that
 as many children as possible may be born from such stock.” “We have,” he
 replied. “But, furthermore, we may
 cite Homer

too for the justice of honoring in such ways the
 valiant among our youth. For Homer says that Ajax, who had distinguished
 himself in the war, was honored with the long chine, assuming that the most fitting meed for a
 brave man in the prime of his youth is that from which both honor and
 strength will accrue to him.” “Most rightly,” he said. “We will then,”
 said I, “take Homer as our guide in this at least. We, too, at
 sacrifices and on other like occasions, will reward the good so far as
 they have proved themselves good with hymns and the other privileges of
 which we have just spoken,

and also with ‘seats of
 honor and meat and full cups’ 
 Hom. Il. 8.162 , so as to combine physical
 training with honor for the good, both men and women.” “Nothing could be
 better,” he said. “Very well; and of those who die on campaign, if
 anyone’s death has been especially glorious, shall we not, to begin
 with, affirm that he belongs to the golden race?” “By all means.”
 “And shall we not believe Hesiod who tells us that when anyone of this race dies, so it
 is that they become

Hallowed spirits dwelling on earth, averters of
 evil, 
 Guardians watchful and good of articulate-speaking mortals?” 
 
 Hes. WD 121 “We
 certainly shall believe him.” “We will inquire of Apollo, 
 then, how and with what distinction we are to bury men of more than
 human, of divine, qualities, and deal with them according to his
 response. ” “How can we do otherwise?” “And ever after we will bestow on
 their graves the tendance and

worship paid to spirits divine. And we will practice
 the same observance when any who have been adjudged exceptionally good
 in the ordinary course of life die of old age or otherwise.” “That will
 surely be right,” he said. “But again, how will our soldiers conduct
 themselves toward enemies?” “In what respect?” “First, in the matter of
 making slaves of the defeated, do you think it right for Greeks to
 reduce Greek cities to slavery, or rather that so
 far as they are able, they should not suffer any other city to do so,
 but should accustom Greeks

to spare Greeks, foreseeing the danger of enslavement by the
 barbarians?” “Sparing them is wholly and altogether the better,” said
 he. “They are not, then, themselves to own Greek slaves, either, and
 they should advise the other Greeks not to?” “By all means,” he said;
 “at any rate in that way they would be more likely to turn against the
 barbarians and keep their hands from one another.” “And how about
 stripping the dead after victory of anything except their weapons: is
 that well? Does it not furnish a pretext to cowards

not to advance on the living foe, as if they were doing
 something needful when poking about
 the dead? Has not this snatching at the spoils ere new destroyed many an
 army?” “Yes, indeed.” “And don’t you think it illiberal and greedy to
 plunder a corpse, and is it not the mark of a womanish and petty spirit to deem the
 body of the dead an enemy when the real foeman has flown away and left behind only the
 instrument with which he fought?

Do you see any difference between such conduct and that
 of the dogs who snarl at the stones that hit them but don’t
 touch the thrower?” “Not the slightest.” “We must abandon, then, the
 plundering of corpses and the refusal to permit their burial. ” “By heaven, we certainly must,” he
 said. “And again, we will not take
 weapons to the temples for dedicatory offerings,
 especially the weapons of Greeks,

if we are at all concerned to preserve friendly
 relations with the other Greeks. Rather we shall fear that there is
 pollution in bringing such offerings to the temples from our kind unless
 in a case where the god bids otherwise .”
 “Most rightly,” he said. “And in the matter of devastating the land of
 Greeks and burning their houses, how will your soldiers deal with their
 enemies.” “I would gladly hear your opinion of that.” “In my view,”

said I, “they ought to do neither, but confine
 themselves to taking away the annual harvest. Shall I tell you why?”
 “Do.” “In my opinion, just as we have the two terms, war and faction, so
 there are also two things, distinguished by two differentiae. The two things I mean are the
 friendly and kindred on the one hand and the alien and foreign on the
 other. Now the term employed for the hostility of the friendly is
 faction, and for that of the alien is war.” “What you say is in nothing
 beside the mark,” he replied. “Consider, then,

if this goes to the mark. I affirm that the Hellenic
 race is friendly to itself and akin, and foreign and alien to the
 barbarian.” “Rightly,” he said. “We shall then say that Greeks fight and
 wage war with barbarians, and barbarians with Greeks, and are enemies by
 nature, and that war is the fit name for this
 enmity and hatred. Greeks, however, we shall say, are still by nature
 the friends of Greeks when they act in this way, but that Greece is sick in that case and
 divided by faction,

and faction is the name we must give to that enmity.”
 “I will allow you that habit of speech,” he said. “Then observe,” said
 I, “that when anything of this sort occurs in faction, as the word is
 now used, and a state is divided against itself, if either party
 devastates the land and burns the houses of the other such factional
 strife is thought to be an accursed thing and neither party to be true
 patriots. Otherwise, they would never have endured thus to outrage their
 nurse and mother. But the moderate and reasonable thing is thought to be
 that the victors

shall take away the crops of the vanquished, but that
 their temper shall be that of men who expect to be reconciled and not
 always to wage war.” “That way of feeling,” he said, “is far less savage
 than the other.” “Well, then,” said I, “is not the city that you are
 founding to be a Greek city?” “It must be,” he said. “Will they then not
 be good and gentle?” “Indeed they will.” “And won’t they be
 philhellenes, lovers of Greeks, and will they
 not regard all Greece as their
 own and not renounce their part in the holy places common to all Greeks
 ?” “Most certainly.” “Will they not then regard any difference with
 Greeks

who are their own people as a form of faction and
 refuse even to speak of it as war?” “Most certainly.” “And they will
 conduct their quarrels always looking forward to a reconciliation?” “By
 all means.” “They will correct them, then, for their own good, not
 chastising them with a view to their enslavement or their destruction, but acting as correctors, not
 as enemies.” “They will,” he said. “They will not, being Greeks, ravage
 Greek territory nor burn habitations, and they will not admit that in
 any city all the population are their enemies, men, women and children,
 but will say that only a few at any time are their foes,

those, namely, who are to blame for the quarrel. And on
 all these considerations they will not be willing to lay waste the soil,
 since the majority are their friends, nor to destroy the houses, but
 will carry the conflict only to the point of compelling the guilty to do
 justice by the pressure of the suffering of the innocent.” “I,” he said,
 “agree that our citizens ought to deal with their Greek opponents on
 this wise, while treating barbarians as Greeks now treat Greeks.” “Shall
 we lay down this law also, then,

for our guardians that they are not to lay waste the
 land or burn the houses?” “Let us so decree,” he said, “and assume that
 this and our preceding prescriptions are right. “But I fear, Socrates,that if
 you are allowed to go on in this fashion, you will never get to speak of
 the matter you put aside in order to say all this, namely, the
 possibility of such a polity coming into existence, and the way in which
 it could be brought to pass. I too am ready to admit that if it could be
 realized everything would be lovely for the state that had it, and
 I will add what you passed by, that they would also be

most successful in war because they would be least
 likely to desert one another, knowing and addressing each other by the
 names of brothers, fathers, sons. And if the females should also join in
 their campaigns, whether in the ranks or marshalled behind to intimidate
 the enemy, or as reserves in case of
 need, I recognize that all this too would make them irresistible. And at
 home, also, I observe all the benefits that you omit to mention. But,
 taking it for granted that I concede

these and countless other advantages, consequent on the
 realization of this polity, don’t labor that point further; but let us
 at once proceed to try to convince ourselves of just this, that it is
 possible and how it is possible,

dismissing everything else.” “This is a sudden
 assault, indeed,” said I, “that you have
 made on my theory, without any regard for my natural hesitation. Perhaps
 you don’t realize that when I have hardly escaped the first two waves,
 you are now rolling up against me the ‘great third wave ’ of
 paradox, the worst of all. When you have seen and heard that, you will
 be very ready to be lenient, recognizing that I had good reason
 after all for shrinking and fearing to enter upon the discussion of so
 paradoxical a notion.” “The more such excuses you offer,” he said, “the
 less

you will be released by us from telling in what way the
 realization of this polity is possible. Speak on, then, and do not put
 us off.” “The first thing to recall, then,” I said, “is that it was the
 inquiry into the nature of justice and injustice that brought us to this
 pass. ”
 “Yes; but what of it?” he said. “Oh, nothing, ” I replied, “only this: if we do discover
 what justice is, are we to demand that the just man shall differ from it
 in no respect,

but shall conform in every way to the ideal? Or will it
 suffice us if he approximate to it as nearly as possible and partake of
 it more than others?” “That will content us,” he said. “A pattern,
 then,” said I, “was what we wanted when we were inquiring into the
 nature of ideal justice and asking what would be the character of the
 perfectly just man, supposing him to exist, and, likewise, in regard to
 injustice and the completely unjust man. We wished to fix our eyes upon
 them as types and models, so that whatever we discerned in them of
 happiness or the reverse would necessarily apply to ourselves

in the sense that whosoever is likest them will have
 the allotment most like to theirs. Our purpose was not to demonstrate
 the possibility of the realization of these ideals.” “In that,” he said,
 “you speak truly.” “Do you think, then, that he would be any the less a
 good painter, who,
 after portraying a pattern of the ideally beautiful man and omitting no
 touch required for the perfection of the picture, should not be able to
 prove that it is actually possible for such a man to exist?” “Not I, by
 Zeus,” he said. “Then were not we,

as we say, trying to create in words the pattern of a
 good state?” “Certainly.” “Do you think, then, that our words are any
 the less well spoken if we find ourselves unable to prove that it is
 possible for a state to be governed in accordance with our words?” “Of
 course not,” he said. “That, then,” said I, “is the truth of
 the matter. But if, to please you, we must do our best to show how most
 probably and in what respect these things would be most nearly realized,
 again, with a view to such a demonstration, grant me the same
 point. ” “What?”

“Is it possible for anything to be realized in deed as
 it is spoken in word, or is it the nature of things that action should
 partake of exact truth less than speech, even if some deny it ? Do you admit it or not?”
 “I do,” he said. “Then don’t insist,” said I, “that I must exhibit as
 realized in action precisely what we expounded in words. But if we can
 discover how a state might be constituted most nearly answering to our
 description, you must say that we have discovered that possibility of
 realization which you demanded.

Will you not be content if you get this?” “I for my
 part would.” “And I too,” he said. “Next,
 it seems, we must try to discover and point out what it is that is now
 badly managed in our cities, and that prevents them from being so
 governed, and what is the smallest change that would bring a state to
 this manner of government, preferably a change in one thing, if not,
 then in two, and, failing that, the fewest possible in number and the
 slightest in potency.”

“By all means,” he said. “There is one change, then,”
 said I, “which I think that we can show would bring about the desired
 transformation. It is not a slight or an easy thing but it is possible.”
 “What is that?” said he. “I am on the very verge,” said I, “of what we
 likened to the greatest wave of paradox. But say it I will, even if, to keep the figure,
 it is likely to wash us away on billows of laughter and scorn. Listen.”
 “I am all attention,” he said. “Unless,” said I, “either philosophers
 become kings

in our states or those whom we now call our kings and
 rulers take to the pursuit of philosophy seriously and adequately, and
 there is a conjunction of these two things, political power and
 philosophic intelligence, while the motley horde of the natures who at
 present pursue either apart from the other are compulsorily excluded,
 there can be no cessation of troubles, dear Glaucon, for our states,
 nor, I fancy, for the human race either. Nor, until this happens, will
 this constitution which we have been expounding in theory

ever be put into practice within the limits of
 possibility and see the light of the sun. But this is the thing that has
 made me so long shrink from speaking out, because I saw that it would be
 a very paradoxical saying. For it is not easy to see that there is no other way of
 happiness either for private or public life.” Whereupon he, “Socrates,”
 said he, “after hurling at us such an utterance and statement as that,
 you must expect to be attacked by a great multitude of our men of light
 and leading, who forthwith will, so to speak,
 cast off their garments

and strip and, snatching the first weapon that comes to
 hand, rush at you with might and main, prepared to do dreadful deeds. And if you don’t find words to defend
 yourself against them, and escape their assault, then to be scorned and
 flouted will in very truth be the penalty you will have to
 pay.” “And isn’t it you,” said I, “that have brought this upon me and
 are to blame?” “And a good thing, too,” said he; “but I won’t let you
 down, and will defend you with what I can. I can do so with my good will
 and my encouragement, and perhaps I might answer your questions more
 suitably than another.

So, with such an aid to back you, try to make it plain
 to the doubters that the truth is as you say.” “I must try,” I replied,
 “since you proffer so strong an alliance. I think it requisite, then, if
 we are to escape the assailants you speak of, that we should define for
 them whom we mean by the philosophers, who we dare to say ought to be
 our rulers. When these are clearly discriminated it will be possible to
 defend ourselves by showing that to them by their very nature belong the
 study of philosophy

and political leadership, while it befits the other
 sort to let philosophy alone and to follow their leader.” “It is high
 time,” he said, “to produce your definition.” “Come, then, follow me on
 this line, if we may in some fashion or other explain our meaning.”
 “Proceed,” he said. “Must I remind you, then,” said I, “or do you
 remember, that when we affirm that a man is a lover of something, it
 must be apparent that he is fond of all of it? It will not do to say
 that some of it he likes and some does not.” “I think you will have to remind me,” he said,

“for I don’t apprehend at all.” “That reply, Glaucon,”
 said I, “befits another rather than you. It does not become a lover to
 forget that all adolescents in some sort sting and stir the amorous
 lover of youth and appear to him deserving of his attention and
 desirable. Is not that your ‘reaction’ to the fair? One, because his
 nose is tip-tilted, you
 will praise as piquant, the beak of another you pronounce right-royal,
 the intermediate type you say strikes the harmonious mean,

the swarthy are of manly aspect, the white are children
 of the gods divinely fair, and as for honey-hued, do you suppose the
 very word is anything but the euphemistic invention of some lover who
 can feel no distaste for sallowness when it accompanies the blooming
 time of youth? And, in short, there is no pretext

you do not allege and there is nothing you shrink from
 saying to justify you in not rejecting any who are in the bloom of their
 prime.” “If it is your pleasure,” he said, “to take me as your example
 of this trait in lovers, I admit it for the sake of the argument.”
 “Again,” said I, “do you not observe the same thing in the lovers of
 wine? They welcome every wine on any pretext.” “They do,
 indeed.” And so I take it you have observed that men who are covetous of
 honor, if they can’t
 get themselves elected generals, are captains of a company. And if they
 can’t be honored

by great men and dignitaries, are satisfied with honor
 from little men and nobodies. But honor they desire and must have.”
 “Yes, indeed.” “Admit, then, or reject my proposition. When we say a man
 is keen about something, shall we say that he has an appetite for the
 whole class or that he desires only a part and a part not?” “The whole,”
 he said. “Then the lover of wisdom, too, we shall affirm, desires all
 wisdom, not a part and a part not.”

“Certainly.” “The student, then, who is finical about
 his studies, especially when he is young and cannot yet know by reason
 what is useful and what is not, we shall say is not a lover of learning
 or a lover of wisdom, just as we say that one who is dainty about his
 food is not really hungry, has not an appetite for food, and is not a
 lover of food, but a poor feeder.” “We shall rightly say so.” “But the
 one who feels no distaste in sampling every study, and who attacks his
 task of learning gladly and cannot get enough of it, him we shall justly
 pronounce the lover of wisdom, the philosopher, shall we not?” To which
 Glaucon replied,

“You will then be giving the name to a numerous and
 strange band, for all the lovers of spectacles are what they are, I fancy, by virtue of their
 delight in learning something. And those who always want to hear some
 new thing are a very queer lot to be
 reckoned among philosophers. You couldn’t induce them to attend a
 serious debate or any such entertainment, but as if they had farmed out their ears to listen to
 every chorus in the land, they run about to all the Dionysiac
 festivals, 
 never missing one, either in the towns or in the country-villages. Are
 we to designate all these, then, and similar folk

and all the practitioners of the minor arts as
 philosophers?” “Not at all,” I said; “but they do bear a certain
 likeness to philosophers.” “Whom do you mean, then, by the true philosophers?”
 “Those for whom the truth is the spectacle of which they are
 enamored, ” said I. “Right again, ”
 said he; “but in what sense do you mean it?” “It would be by no means
 easy to explain it to another,” I said, “but I think that you will grant
 me this.” “What?” “That since the fair and honorable is the opposite of
 the base and ugly, they are two.”

“Of course.” “And since they are two, each is one. ” “That
 also.” “And in respect of the just and the unjust, the good and the bad,
 and all the ideas or forms, the same statement holds, that in itself
 each is one, but that by virtue of their communion with actions and
 bodies and with one another they present themselves everywhere, each as
 a multiplicity of aspects.” “Right,” he said. “This, then,” said I, “is
 my division. I set apart and distinguish those of whom you were just
 speaking, the lovers of spectacles and the arts,

and men of action, and separate from them again those
 with whom our argument is concerned and who alone deserve the
 appellation of philosophers or lovers of wisdom.” “What do you mean?” he
 said. “The lovers of sounds and sights,” I said, “delight in beautiful
 tones and colors and shapes and in everything that art fashions out of
 these, but their thought is incapable of apprehending and taking delight
 in the nature of the beautiful in itself.” “Why, yes,” he said, “that is
 so.” “And on the other hand, will not those be few who would be able to
 approach beauty itself and contemplate it in and by itself?”

“They would, indeed.” “He, then, who believes in
 beautiful things, but neither believes in beauty itself nor is able to
 follow when someone tries to guide him to the knowledge of it—do you
 think that his life is a dream or a waking ? Just consider. Is not the dream state, whether
 the man is asleep or awake, just this: the mistaking of resemblance for
 identity?” “I should certainly call that dreaming,” he said. “Well,
 then, take the opposite case: the man whose thought recognizes a beauty
 in itself,

and is able to distinguish that self-beautiful and the
 things that participate in it, and neither supposes the participants to
 be it nor it the participants—is his life, in your opinion, a waking or
 a dream state?” “He is very much awake,” he replied. “Could we not
 rightly, then, call the mental state of the one as knowing, knowledge,
 and that of the other as opining, opinion?” “Assuredly.” “Suppose, now,
 he who we say opines but does not know should be angry and challenge our
 statement as not true.

Can we find any way of soothing him and gently winning him over, without telling
 him too plainly that he is not in his right mind?” “We must try,” he
 said. “Come, then, consider what we are to say to him, or would you have
 us question him in this fashion—premising that if he knows anything,
 nobody grudges it him, but we should be very glad to see him knowing
 something—but tell us this:
 Does he who knows know something or nothing? Do you reply in his
 behalf.” “I will reply,” he said, “that he knows something.” “Is it
 something that is or is not ?” “That is. How
 could

that which is not be known?” “We are sufficiently
 assured of this, then, even if we should examine it from every point of
 view, that that which entirely ‘is’ is entirely knowable, and that which
 in no way ’is’ is in every way unknowable.” “Most sufficiently.” “Good.
 If a thing, then, is so conditioned as both to be and not to be, would
 it not lie between that which absolutely and unqualifiedly is and that
 which in no way is?” “Between.” “Then if knowledge pertains to that
 which is and ignorance of necessity to that which is not,

for that which lies between we must seek for something
 between nescience and science, if such a thing there be.” “By all
 means.” “Is there a thing which we call opinion?” “Surely.” “Is it a
 different faculty from science or the same?” “A different.” “Then
 opinion is set over one thing and science over another, each by virtue
 of its own distinctive power or faculty.” “That is so.” “May we say,
 then, that science is naturally related to that which is, to know that and how that which is is? But
 rather, before we proceed, I think we must draw the following
 distinctions.” “What ones?”

“Shall we say that
 faculties, 
 powers, abilities are a class of entities by virtue of which we and all
 other things are able to do what we or they are able to do? I mean that
 sight and hearing, for example, are faculties, if so be that you
 understand the class or type that I am trying to describe.” “I
 understand,” he said. “Hear, then, my notion about them. In a faculty I
 cannot see any color or shape or similar mark such as those on which in
 many other cases I fix my eyes in discriminating in my thought one thing

from another. But in the case of a faculty I look to
 one thing only—that to which it is related and what it effects, and it is in this way that I come to call 
 each one of them a faculty, and that which is related to the same thing and accomplishes
 the same thing I call the same faculty, and that to another I call
 other. How about you, what is your practice?” “The same,” he said. “To
 return, then, my friend,” said I, “to science or true knowledge, do you
 say that it is a faculty and a power,

or in what class do you put it?” “Into this,” he said,
 “the most potent of all 
 faculties.” “And opinion—shall we assign it to some other class than
 faculty.” “By no means,” he said, “for that by which we are able to
 opine is nothing else than the faculty of opinion. ” “But not long
 ago you agreed that science and opinion are not identical.” “How could
 any rational man affirm the identity of the infallible with the
 fallible?” “Excellent,” said I, “and we are plainly agreed

that opinion is a different thing from scientific
 knowledge.” “Yes, different.” “Each of them, then, since it has a
 different power, is related to a different object.” “Of necessity.”
 “Science, I presume, to that which is, to know the condition of that
 which is. But opinion, we say, opines.” “Yes.” “Does it opine the same
 thing that science knows, and will the knowable and the opinable be
 identical, or is that impossible?” “Impossible by our admissions, ” he said. “If
 different faculties are naturally related to different objects

and both opinion and science are faculties, but each
 different from the other, as we say—these admissions do not leave place
 for the identity of the knowable and the opinable.” “Then, if that which
 is is knowable, something other than that which is would be the
 opinable. ” “Something else.” “Does it opine that which is
 not, or is it
 impossible even to opine that which is not? Reflect: Does not he who
 opines bring his opinion to bear upon something or shall we reverse
 ourselves and say that it is possible to opine, yet opine nothing?”
 “That is impossible.” “Then he who opines opines some one thing.” “Yes.”
 “But surely that which is not could not be designated as some one thing,
 but

most rightly as nothing at all. To that which is not we
 of necessity assigned nescience, and to that which is, knowledge.”
 “Rightly,” he said. “Then neither that which is nor that which is not is
 the object of opinion.” “It seems not.” “Then opinion would be neither
 nescience nor knowledge.” “So it seems.” “Is it then a faculty outside
 of these, exceeding either knowledge in lucidity or ignorance in
 obscurity?” “It is neither.” “But do you deem opinion something darker
 than knowledge but brighter than ignorance?” “Much so,” he said. “And
 does it lie within the boundaries

of the two?” “Yes.” “Then opinion would be between the
 two.” “Most assuredly.” “Were we not saying a little while ago 
 that if anything should turn up such that it both is and
 is not, that sort of thing would lie between that which purely and
 absolutely is and that which wholly is not, and that the faculty
 correlated with it would be neither science or nescience, but that which
 should appear to hold a place correspondingly between nescience and
 science.” “Right.” “And now there has turned up between these two the
 thing that we call opinion.” “There has.”

“It would remain, then,
 as it seems, for us to discover that which partakes of both, of to be
 and not to be, and that could not be rightly designated either in its
 exclusive purity; so that, if it shall be discovered, we may justly
 pronounce it to be the opinable, thus assigning extremes to extremes and
 the intermediate to the intermediate. Is not that so?” “It is.” “This
 much premised, let him tell me,

I will say, let him answer me, that good fellow who does not think
 there is a beautiful in itself or any idea of beauty in itself always
 remaining the same and unchanged, but who does believe in many beautiful
 things—the lover of spectacles, I mean, who cannot endure to hear
 anybody say that the beautiful is one and the just one, and so of other
 things—and this will be our question: My good fellow, is there any one
 of these many fair-and-honorable things that will not sometimes appear
 ugly and base ?
 And of the just things, that will not seem unjust? And of the pious
 things, that will not seem impious?” “No, it is inevitable,” he said,
 “that they would appear

to be both beautiful in a way and ugly, and so with all
 the other things you asked about.” “And again, do the many double
 things appear any the less halves than doubles?” “None the
 less.” “And likewise of the great and the small things, the light and
 the heavy things—will they admit these predicates any more than their
 opposites?” “No,” he said, “each of them will always hold of, partake
 of, both.” “Then is each of these multiples rather than it is not that
 which one affirms it to be?” “They are like those jesters who palter
 with us in a double sense at banquets,” he replied, “and resemble the
 children’s riddle

about the eunuch and his hitting of the bat—with what
 and as it sat on what they signify that he struck it. For these things
 too equivocate, and it is impossible to conceive firmly any one of them to be or
 not to be or both or neither.” “Do you know what to do with them, then?”
 said I, “and can you find a better place to put them than that midway
 between existence or essence and the not-to-be? For we shall surely not
 discover a darker region than not-being that they should still more not
 be,

nor brighter than being that they should still more
 be.” “Most true,” he said. “We would seem to have found, then, that the
 many conventions of the
 many about the fair and honorable and other things are tumbled about
 in 
 the mid-region between that which is not and that which is in the true
 and absolute sense.” “We have so found it.” “But we agreed in advance
 that, if anything of that sort should be discovered, it must be
 denominated opinable, not knowable, the wanderer between being caught by
 the faculty that is betwixt and between.” “We did.” “We shall affirm,
 then, that those who view many beautiful things

but do not see the beautiful itself and are unable to
 follow another’s guidance to it, and many just things, but not
 justice itself, and so in all cases—we shall say that such men have
 opinions about all things, but know nothing of the things they opine.”
 “Of necessity.” “And, on the other hand, what of those who contemplate
 the very things themselves in each case, ever remaining the same and
 unchanged—shall we not say that they know and do not merely opine?”
 “That, too, necessarily follows.” “Shall we not also say that the one
 welcomes to his thought and loves the things

subject to knowledge and the other those to opinion? Do
 we not remember that we said that those loved and regarded tones and
 beautiful colours and the like, but they could not endure the notion of
 the reality of the beautiful itself?” “We do remember.” “Shall we then
 offend their ears if we call them doxophilists rather than philosophers and will they
 be very angry if we so speak?” “Not if they heed my counsel,” he said,
 “for to be angry with truth is not lawful.” “Then to those who in each
 and every kind welcome the true being, lovers of wisdom and not lovers
 of opinion is the
 name we must give.” “By all means.”

“So now, Glaucon,” I
 said, “our argument after winding a long and
 weary way has at last made clear to us who are the philosophers or
 lovers of wisdom and who are not.” “Yes,” he said, “a shorter way is
 perhaps not feasible.” “Apparently not,” I said. “I, at any rate, think
 that the matter would have been made still plainer if we had had nothing
 but this to speak of, and if there were not so many things left which
 our purpose of discerning the difference between the just
 and

the unjust life requires us to discuss.” “What, then,”
 he said, “comes next?” “What else,” said I, “but the next in order?
 Since the philosophers are those who are capable of apprehending that
 which is eternal and unchanging, while those who are
 incapable of this but lose themselves and wander 
 amid the multiplicities of multifarious things, are not philosophers,
 which of the two kinds ought to be the leaders in a state?” “What,
 then,” he said, “would be a fair statement of the matter?” “Whichever,”
 I said, “appear competent to guard the laws and pursuits of society,

these we should establish as guardians.” “Right” he
 said. “Is this, then,” said I, “clear, whether the guardian who is to
 keep watch over anything ought to be blind or keen of sight?” “Of course
 it is clear,” he said. “Do you think, then, that there is any
 appreciable difference between the blind and those who are veritably deprived of the knowledge
 of the veritable being of things, those who have no vivid pattern 
 in their souls and so cannot, as painters look to their models, fix
 their eyes on
 the absolute truth, and always with reference to that ideal and in the
 exactest possible contemplation of it

establish in this world also the laws of the beautiful,
 the just and the good, when that is needful, or guard and preserve those
 that are established?” “No, by heaven,” he said, “there is not much
 difference.” “Shall we, then, appoint these blind souls as our
 guardians, rather than those who have learned to know the ideal reality
 of things and who do not fall short of the others in experience and are not second to
 them in any part of virtue?” “It would be strange indeed,” he said, “to
 choose others than the philosophers, provided they were not deficient in
 those other respects, for this very knowledge

of the ideal would perhaps be the greatest of
 superiorities.” “Then what we have to say is how it would be possible
 for the same persons to have both qualifications, is it not?” “ Quite
 so.” “Then, as we were saying at the beginning of this discussion, the
 first thing to understand is the nature that they must have from birth;
 and I think that if we sufficiently agree on this we shall also agree
 that the combination of qualities that we seek belongs to the same
 persons, and that we need no others for guardians of states than these.”
 “How so?” “We must accept as agreed this
 trait of the philosophical nature,

that it is ever enamored of the kind of knowledge which
 reveals to them something of that essence which is eternal, and is not
 wandering between the two poles of generation and decay. ” “Let us take that as agreed.” “And, further,”
 said I, “that their desire is for the whole of it and that they do not
 willingly renounce a small or a great, a more precious or a less
 honored, part of it. That was the point of our former illustration drawn from lovers and men covetous of honor.” “You are
 right,” he said. “Consider, then, next whether the men who are to meet
 our requirements

must not have this further quality in their natures.”
 “What quality?” “The spirit of truthfulness, reluctance to admit
 falsehood in any form, the hatred of it and the love of truth.” “It is
 likely,” he said. “It is not only likely, my friend, but there is every
 necessity that he who is by nature
 enamored of anything should cherish all that is akin and pertaining to
 the object of his love.” “Right,” he said. “Could you find anything more
 akin to wisdom than truth ?” “Impossible,” he
 said. “Then can the same nature be a lover of wisdom and of
 falsehood?”

“By no means.” “Then the true lover of knowledge must,
 from childhood up, be most of all a striver after truth in every form.”
 “By all means.” “But, again, we surely are aware that when in a man the
 desires incline strongly to any one thing, they are weakened for other
 things. It is as if the stream had been diverted into another
 channel. “Surely.” “So, when a man’s
 desires have been taught to flow in the channel of learning and all that
 sort of thing, they will be concerned, I presume, with the pleasures of
 the soul in itself, and will be indifferent to those of which the body
 is the instrument, if the man is a true and not a sham philosopher.”

“That is quite necessary.” “Such a man will be
 temperate and by no means greedy for wealth; for the things for the sake
 of which money and great expenditure are eagerly sought others may take
 seriously, but not he.” “It is so.” “And there is this further point to
 be considered in distinguishing

the philosophical from the unphilosophical nature.”
 “What point?” “You must not overlook any touch of illiberality. For nothing can be more
 contrary than such pettiness to the quality of a soul that is ever to
 seek integrity and wholeness in all things human and divine.” “Most true,” he
 said. “Do you think that a mind habituated to thoughts of grandeur and
 the contemplation of all time and all existence can deem
 this life of man a thing of great concern ?” “Impossible,” said he.

“Hence such a man will not suppose death to be
 terrible? ” “Least of all.” “Then a cowardly and illiberal
 spirit, it seems, could have no part in genuine philosophy.” “I think
 not.” “What then? Could a man of orderly spirit, not a lover of money,
 not illiberal, nor a braggart nor a coward, ever prove unjust, or a
 driver of hard bargains ?”
 “Impossible.” “This too, then, is a point that in your discrimination of
 the philosophic and unphilosophic soul you will observe—whether the man
 is from youth up just and gentle or unsocial and savage. ”
 “Assuredly.” “Nor will you overlook this,

I fancy.” “What?” “Whether he is quick or slow to
 learn. Or do you suppose that anyone could properly love a task which he
 performed painfully and with little result from much toil?” “That
 could not be.” “And if he could not keep what he learned, being steeped
 in oblivion, could he fail
 to be void of knowledge?” “How could he?” “And so, having all his labor
 for naught, will he not finally be constrained to loathe himself and
 that occupation?”

“Of course.” “The forgetful soul, then, we must not
 list in the roll of competent lovers of wisdom, but we require a good
 memory.” “By all means.” “But assuredly we should not say that the want
 of harmony and seemliness in a nature conduces to anything else than the
 want of measure and proportion.” “Certainly.” “And do you think that
 truth is akin to measure and proportion or to disproportion?” “To
 proportion.” “Then in addition to our other requirements we look for a
 mind endowed with measure and grace, whose native disposition will make
 it easily guided

to the aspect of the ideal reality in all things.”
 “Assuredly.” “Tell me, then, is there any flaw in the argument? Have we
 not proved the qualities enumerated to be necessary and compatible with
 one another for the soul that is to have a sufficient and perfect
 apprehension of reality?”

“Nay, most necessary,” he said. “Is there any fault,
 then, that you can find with a pursuit which a man could not properly
 practise unless he were by nature of good memory, quick apprehension,
 magnificent, gracious, friendly and akin to truth, justice,
 bravery and sobriety?” “Momus himself,” he said, “could not find fault with
 such a combination.” “Well, then,” said I, “when men of this sort are
 perfected by education and maturity of age, would you not entrust the
 state solely to them?” And Adeimantus
 said, “No one, Socrates,

would be able to controvert these statements of yours.
 But, all the same, those who occasionally hear you argue thus feel in this way :
 They think that owing to their inexperience in the game of question and
 answer they are at every question
 led astray a little bit by the
 argument, and when these bits are accumulated at the conclusion of the
 discussion mighty is their fall and the
 apparent contradiction of what they at first said ; and that just as by
 expert draught-players the unskilled are finally shut in and cannot make a
 move,

so they are finally blocked and have their mouths
 stopped by this other game of draughts played not with counters but with
 words; yet the truth is not affected by that outcome. I
 say this with reference to the present case, for in this instance one
 might say that he is unable in words to contend against you at each
 question, but that when it comes to facts he sees that of those who turn to philosophy, not merely touching
 upon it to complete their education

and dropping it while still young, but lingering too
 long in the study of it, the majority become cranks, not to say rascals, and those accounted the finest spirits
 among them are still rendered useless to society by the pursuit which you commend.” And
 I, on hearing this, said, “Do you think that they are mistaken in saying
 so?” “I don’t know,” said he,

“but I would gladly hear your opinion.” “You may hear,
 then, that I think that what they say is true.” “How, then,” he replied,
 “can it be right to say that our cities will never be freed from their
 evils until the philosophers, whom we admit to be useless to them,
 become their rulers?” “Your question,” I said, “requires an answer
 expressed in a comparison or parable. ” “And you,” he said, “of course,
 are not accustomed to speak in comparisons!” “So,” said I, “you are making fun of me after driving
 me into such an impasse of argument. But, all the same, hear my
 comparison

so that you may still better see how I strain
 after imagery. For so cruel is the condition of the
 better sort in relation to the state that there is no single thing like it in nature. But to find
 a likeness for it and a defence for them one must bring together many
 things in such a combination as painters mix when they portray
 goat-stags and similar creatures. Conceive this sort of
 thing happening either on many ships or on one: Picture a
 shipmaster in height and strength
 surpassing all others on the ship,

but who is slightly deaf and of similarly impaired vision, and whose knowledge
 of navigation is on a par with his sight and hearing. Conceive the sailors to
 be wrangling with one another for control of the helm, each claiming
 that it is his right to steer though he has never learned the art and
 cannot point out his teacher or any
 time when he studied it. And what is more, they affirm that it cannot be
 taught at all, but they are ready to make mincemeat of
 anyone who says that it can be
 taught,

and meanwhile they are always clustered about the shipmaster importuning him and sticking at
 nothing to induce him to
 turn over the helm to them. And sometimes, if they fail and others get
 his ear, they put the others to death or cast them out from the ship, and then,
 after binding and stupefying the
 worthy shipmaster with mandragora or intoxication or otherwise, they take
 command of the ship, consume its stores and, drinking and feasting, make
 such a voyage of it as is to be
 expected from such, and as
 if that were not enough, they praise and celebrate as a
 navigator,

a pilot, a master of shipcraft, the man who is most
 cunning to lend a hand in persuading or
 constraining the shipmaster to let them rule, while the man who lacks this craft 
 they censure as useless. They have no suspicions that
 the true pilot must give his attention to the time of the year, the seasons, the sky, the winds,
 the stars, and all that pertains to his art if he is to be a true ruler
 of a ship, and that he does not believe that there is any art or science
 of seizing the helm

with or without the consent of others, or any
 possibility of mastering this alleged art and the
 practice of it at the same time with the science of navigation. With
 such goings-on aboard ship do you not think that the real pilot would in
 very deed be called a star-gazer, an
 idle babbler,

a useless fellow, by the sailors in ships managed after
 this fashion?” “Quite so,” said Adeimantus. “You take my meaning, I
 presume, and do not require us to put the comparison to the proof and show that the condition we have described is the exact counterpart of the
 relation of the state to the true philosophers.” “It is indeed,” he
 said. “To begin with, then, teach this parable to the man who
 is surprised that philosophers are not honored in our cities, and try to
 convince him that it would be far more surprising

if they were honored.” “I will teach him,” he said. “And say to
 him further: You are right in affirming that the finest spirit among the
 philosophers are of no service to the multitude. But bid him blame for
 this uselessness, not the finer spirits,
 but those who do not know how to make use of them. For it is not the
 natural course of things that the pilot should beg the sailors
 to be ruled by him or that wise men should go to the doors of the
 rich. The author of that
 epigram was a
 liar. But the true nature of things is that whether the sick man be rich
 or poor he must needs go to the door of the physician,

and everyone who needs to be governed to the door of
 the man who knows how to govern, not that the ruler should implore his
 natural subjects to let themselves be ruled, if he is really good for
 anything. But
 you will make no mistake in likening our present political rulers to the
 sort of sailors we are just describing, and those whom these call
 useless and star-gazing ideologists to the true pilots.” “Just so,” he
 said. “Hence, and under these conditions, we cannot expect that the
 noblest pursuit should be highly esteemed by those whose way of life is
 quite the contrary.

But far the greatest and chief disparagement of
 philosophy is brought upon it by the pretenders to that way
 of life, those whom you had in mind when you affirmed that the accuser
 of philosophy says that the majority of her followers are rascals
 and the better sort useless, while I admitted that what you said was true. Is not that so?”
 “Yes.” “Have we not, then, explained
 the cause of the uselessness of the better sort?” “We have.” “Shall we
 next set forth the inevitableness of the degeneracy of the majority, and
 try to show if we can that philosophy

is not to be blamed for this either?” “By all means.”
 “Let us begin, then, what we have to say and hear by recalling the
 starting-point of our description of the nature which he who is to be

a scholar and gentleman must have from birth. The
 leader of the choir for him, if you recollect, was truth. That he was to
 seek always and altogether, on pain of being an impostor
 without part or lot in true philosophy.” “Yes, that was said.” “Is not
 this one point quite contrary to the prevailing opinion about him?” “It
 is indeed,” he said. “Will it not be a fair plea in his defence to say
 that it was the nature of the real lover of knowledge to strive
 emulously for true being and that he would not linger over

the many particulars that are opined to be real, but
 would hold on his way, and the edge of his passion would not be blunted
 nor would his desire fail till he came into touch with the nature of each thing in itself by that
 part of his soul to which it belongs to lay hold on that
 kind of reality—the part akin to it, namely—and through that approaching
 it, and consorting with reality really, he would beget intelligence and
 truth, attain to knowledge and truly live and grow, and so find surcease from
 his travail of soul, but not before?” “No plea could be fairer.”
 “Well, then, will such a man love falsehood,

or, quite the contrary, hate it?” “Hate it,” he said.
 “When truth led the way, no choir of evils, we, I fancy, would say, could ever follow in its
 train.” “How could it?” “But rather a sound and just character, which is
 accompanied by temperance.” “Right,” he said. “What need, then, of
 repeating from the beginning our proof of the necessary order of the
 choir that attends on the philosophical nature? You surely remember that
 we found pertaining to such a nature courage, grandeur of soul, aptness
 to learn, memory. And when you
 interposed

the objection that though everybody will be compelled
 to admit our statements, yet, if we abandoned mere
 words and fixed our eyes on the persons to whom the words referred,
 everyone would say that he actually saw some of them to be useless and
 most of them base with all baseness, it was in our search for the cause
 of this ill-repute that we came to the present question: Why is it that
 the majority are bad? And, for the sake of this, we took up again the
 nature of the true philosophers and defined what it must necessarily
 be?”

“That is so,” he said. “We have, then,” I said, “to contemplate the causes of the corruption
 of this nature in the majority, while a small part escapes, even those
 whom men call not bad but useless; and after that in turn

we are to observe those who imitate this nature and
 usurp its pursuits and see what types of souls they are that thus
 entering upon a way of life which is too high for them and exceeds
 their powers, by the many discords and disharmonies of their conduct
 everywhere and among all men bring upon philosophy the repute of which
 you speak.” “Of what corruptions are you speaking?” “I will try,” I
 said, “to explain them to you if I can. I think everyone will grant us
 this point, that a nature such as we just now postulated

for the perfect philosopher is a rare growth among men
 and is found in only a few. Don’t you think so?” “Most emphatically.”
 “Observe, then, the number and magnitude of the things that operate to
 destroy these few.” “What are they?” “The most surprising fact of all is
 that each of the gifts of nature which we praise tends to corrupt the
 soul of its possessor and divert it from philosophy. I am speaking of
 bravery, sobriety, and the entire list. ” “That does sound like a paradox,” said he.

“Furthermore,” said I, “all the so-called goods corrupt and
 divert, beauty and wealth and strength of body and powerful family
 connections in the city and all things akin to them—you get my general
 meaning?” “I do,” he said, “and I would gladly hear a more precise
 statement of it.” “Well,” said I, “grasp it rightly as a general
 proposition and the matter will be clear and the preceding statement
 will not seem to you so strange.” “How do you bid me proceed?” he said.

“We know it to be universally true of every seed and
 growth, whether vegetable or animal, that the more vigorous it is the
 more it falls short of its proper perfection when deprived of the food,
 the season, the place that suits it. For evil is more opposed to the
 good than to the not-good. “Of course.” “So it is, I take it, natural that the best
 nature should fare worse than the inferior under conditions of nurture unsuited to
 it.” “It is.” “Then,” said I, “Adeimantus,

shall we not similarly affirm that the best endowed
 souls become worse than the others under a bad education? Or do you
 suppose that great crimes and unmixed wickedness spring from a slight
 nature and not from a vigorous
 one corrupted by its nurture, while a weak nature will never be the
 cause of anything great, either for good or evil?” “No,” he said, “that
 is the case.”

“Then the nature which we assumed in the philosopher,
 if it receives the proper teaching, must needs grow and attain to
 consummate excellence, but, if it be sown and planted and grown in the wrong environment, the
 outcome will be quite the contrary unless some god comes to the
 rescue. Or
 are you too one of the multitude who believe that there are young men
 who are corrupted by the sophists, and that there are sophists in private life who corrupt to any extent worth
 mentioning, and that it is not rather the very men who talk in this
 strain

who are the chief sophists and educate most effectively
 and mould to their own heart’s desire young and old, men and women?”
 “When?” said he. “Why, when,” I said, “the multitude are seated
 together in
 assemblies or in court-rooms or theaters or camps or any other public
 gathering of a crowd, and with loud uproar censure some of the things
 that are said and done and approve others, both in excess, with
 full-throated clamor

and clapping of hands, and thereto the rocks and the
 region round about re-echoing redouble the din of the censure and the
 praise. In such case how
 do you think the young man’s heart, as the saying is, is moved within
 him? What
 private teaching do you think will hold out and not rather be swept away
 by the torrent of censure and applause, and borne off on its current, so
 that he will affirm the same things that they do to be
 honorable and base,

and will do as they do, and be even such as they?”
 “That is quite inevitable, Socrates,” he said. “And, moreover,” I said, “we have not yet mentioned the
 chief necessity and compulsion.” “What is it?” said he. “That which
 these ‘educators’ and sophists impose by action when their words fail to
 convince. Don’t you know that they chastise the recalcitrant with loss
 of civic rights and fines and death?” “They most emphatically do,” he
 said. “What other sophist, then, or what private teaching do you think

will prevail in opposition to these?” “None, I fancy,”
 said he. “No,” said I, “the very attempt is
 the height of folly. For there is not, never has been and never will
 be, a divergent type of character and virtue created
 by an education running counter to theirs —humanly
 speaking, I mean, my friend; for the divine, as the proverb says, all
 rules fail. And you may be sure
 that, if anything is saved and turns out well

in the present condition of society and government, in
 saying that the providence of God preserves it you will not
 be speaking ill.” “Neither do I think otherwise,” he said. “Then,” said
 I, “think this also in addition.” “What?” “Each of these private
 teachers who work for pay, whom the politicians call sophists and regard
 as their rivals, inculcates nothing else than these
 opinions of the multitude which they opine when they are assembled and
 calls this knowledge wisdom. It is as if a man were acquiring the
 knowledge of the humors and desires of a great strong beast which he had in his keeping,

how it is to be approached and touched, and when and by
 what things it is made most savage or gentle, yes, and the several
 sounds it is wont to utter on the occasion of each, and again what
 sounds uttered by another make it tame or fierce, and after mastering
 this knowledge by living with the creature and by lapse of time should
 call it wisdom, and should construct thereof a system and art and turn
 to the teaching of it, knowing nothing in reality about which of these
 opinions and desires is honorable or base, good or evil, just or
 unjust,

but should apply all these terms to the judgements of
 the great beast, calling the things that pleased it good, and the things
 that vexed it bad, having no other account to render of them, but should
 call what is necessary just and honorable, never having observed how great is the real
 difference between the necessary and the good, and being incapable of
 explaining it to another. Do you not think, by heaven, that such a one
 would be a strange educator?” “I do,” he said. “Do you suppose that
 there is any difference between such a one and the man who thinks

that it is wisdom to have learned to know the moods and
 the pleasures of the motley multitude in their assembly, whether about
 painting or music or, for that matter, politics? For if a man associates
 with these and offers and exhibits to them his poetry or any other product of his craft or any political.
 service, and grants the mob
 authority over himself more than is unavoidable, the proverbial necessity of Diomede will compel him to
 give the public what it likes, but that what it likes is really good and
 honorable, have you ever heard an attempted proof of this that is not
 simply ridiculous ?”

“No,” he said, “and I fancy I never shall hear it
 either.” “Bearing all this in mind,
 recall our former question. Can the multitude possibly tolerate or
 believe in the reality of the beautiful in itself as opposed to the
 multiplicity of beautiful things, or can they believe in anything
 conceived in its essence as opposed to the many particulars?” “Not in
 the least,” he said. “Philosophy, then, the love of wisdom,

is impossible for the multitude. ” “Impossible.” “It is inevitable, then, that those who
 philosophize should be censured by them.” “Inevitable.” “And so likewise
 by those laymen who, associating with the mob, desire to curry
 favor with it.”
 “Obviously.” “From this point of view do you see any salvation that will
 suffer the born philosopher to abide in the pursuit and persevere to the
 end? Consider it in the light of what we said before.

We agreed that quickness in learning,
 memory, courage and magnificence were the traits of this nature.” “Yes.”
 “Then even as a boy among boys such a one
 will take the lead in all things, especially if the nature of his body
 matches the soul.” “How could he fail to do so?” he said. “His kinsmen
 and fellow-citizens, then, will desire, I presume, to make use of him
 when he is older for their own affairs.” “Of course.”

“Then they will fawn upon him
 with petitions and honors, anticipating and flattering the power that will be his.”
 “That certainly is the usual way.” “How, then, do you think such a youth
 will behave in such conditions, especially if it happen that he belongs
 to a great city and is rich and well-born therein, and thereto handsome
 and tall? Will his soul not be filled with unbounded ambitious
 hopes, and will he not think
 himself capable of managing the affairs of both Greeks and
 barbarians,

and thereupon exalt himself, haughty of mien and
 stuffed with empty pride and void of sense “He surely will,” he said. “And if to a man in
 this state of mind someone gently 
 comes and tells him what is the truth, that he has no sense and sorely
 needs it, and that the only way to get it is to work like a slave to win it, do you think
 it will be easy for him to lend an ear to the quiet voice in
 the midst of and in spite of these evil surroundings “Far from it,” said he. “And even
 supposing,” said I, “that owing to a fortunate disposition and his
 affinity for the words of admonition

one such youth apprehends something and is moved and
 drawn towards philosophy, what do we suppose will be the conduct of
 those who think that they are losing his service and fellowship? Is
 there any word or deed that they will stick at 
 to keep him from being persuaded and to incapacitate anyone who attempts
 it, both by private intrigue and public prosecution in the
 court?”

“That is inevitable,” he said. “Is there any
 possibility of such a one continuing to philosophize?” “None at all,” he
 said. “Do you see, then,” said I,”
 that we were not wrong in saying that the very qualities that make up
 the philosophical nature do, in fact, become, when the environment and
 nurture are bad, in some sort the cause of its backsliding, and so do
 the so-called goods— riches and
 all such instrumentalities ?” “No,” he replied, “it was rightly
 said.” “Such, my good friend, and so great as regards the noblest
 pursuit,

is the destruction and corruption of the most excellent
 nature, which is rare enough in any case, as we
 affirm. And it is from men of this type that those spring who do the
 greatest harm to communities and individuals, and the greatest good when
 the stream chances to be turned into that channel, but a small nature never does anything great to a man or a city.” “Most
 true,” said he.

“Those, then, to whom she properly belongs, thus
 falling away and leaving philosophy forlorn and unwedded, themselves
 live an unreal and alien life, while other unworthy wooers rush in and defile her as
 an orphan bereft of her kin, and
 attach to her such reproaches as you say her revilers taunt her with,
 declaring that some of her consorts are of no account and the many
 accountable for many evils.” “Why, yes,” he replied, “that is what they
 do say.” “And plausibly,” said I; “for other mannikins, observing that
 the place is unoccupied and full of fine terms and pretensions,

just as men escape from prison to take sanctuary in
 temples, so these gentlemen joyously bound away from the mechanical arts to
 philosophy, those that are most cunning in their little craft. For
 in comparison with the other arts the prestige of philosophy even in her
 present low estate retains a superior dignity; and this is the ambition
 and aspiration of that multitude of pretenders unfit by nature, whose
 souls are bowed and mutilated by their vulgar occupations

even as their bodies are marred by their arts and
 crafts. Is not that inevitable?” “Quite so,” he said. “Is not the
 picture which they present,” I said, “precisely that of a little
 bald-headed tinker who has made money and
 just been freed from bonds and had a bath and is wearing a new garment
 and has got himself up like a bridegroom and is about to marry his
 master’s daughter

who has fallen into poverty and abandonment?” “There is
 no difference at all,” he said. “Of what sort will probably be the
 offspring of such parents?” “Will they not be bastard and base?” “Inevitably.” “And
 so when men unfit for culture approach philosophy and consort with her
 unworthily, what sort of ideas and opinions shall we say they beget?
 Will they not produce what may in very deed be fairly called sophisms,
 and nothing that is genuine or that partakes of true intelligence ?” “Quite so,” he
 said. “There is a very small
 remnant, then,
 Adeimantus,” I said,

“of those who consort worthily with philosophy, some
 well-born and well-bred nature, it may be, held in check by exile, and so in the absence of
 corrupters remaining true to philosophy, as its quality bids, or it may
 happen that a great soul born in a little town scorns and disregards its
 parochial affairs; and a small group perhaps might by natural affinity
 be drawn to it from other arts which they justly disdain; and the bridle
 of our companion Theages also might
 operate as a restraint. For in the case of Theages all other conditions
 were at hand

for his backsliding from philosophy, but his sickly
 habit of body keeping him out of politics holds him back. My own case,
 the divine sign, is hardly worth mentioning—for I suppose it has happened
 to few or none before me. And those who have been of this little
 company and have tasted the
 sweetness and blessedness of this possession and who have also come to
 understand the madness of the multitude sufficiently and have seen that
 there is nothing, if I may say so, sound or right in any present
 politics, and that there is no ally

with whose aid the champion of justice could escape destruction, but that he
 would be as a man who has fallen among wild beasts, unwilling to share their
 misdeeds and unable to hold
 out singly against the savagery of all, and that he would thus, before
 he could in any way benefit his friends or the state come to an untimely
 end without doing any good to himself or others,—for all these reasons I
 say the philosopher remains quiet, minds his own affair, and, as it
 were, standing aside under shelter of a wall in a storm and
 blast of dust and sleet and seeing others filled full of lawlessness, is
 content if in any way

he may keep himself free from iniquity and unholy deeds
 through this life and take his departure with fair hope, serene and well content when the end comes.”
 “Well,” he said, “that is no very slight thing

to have achieved before taking his departure.” “He
 would not have accomplished any very great thing either, ” I replied, “if it were not his fortune to live in a
 state adapted to his nature. In such a state only will he himself rather
 attain his full stature and together with
 his own preserve the common weal. “The
 causes and the injustice of the calumniation of philosophy, I think,
 have been fairly set forth, unless you have something to add. ” “No,” he said, “I have nothing further to offer on that
 point. But which of our present governments do you think is suitable for
 philosophy?”

“None whatever,” I said; “but the very ground of my
 complaint is that no polity of today is worthy of the philosophic
 nature. This is just the cause of its perversion and alteration; as a
 foreign seed sown in an alien soil is wont to be overcome and die
 out into the native
 growth, so this kind
 does not preserve its own quality but falls away and degenerates into an
 alien type. But if ever

it finds the best polity as it itself is the best, then
 will it be apparent that this was in
 truth divine and all the others human in their natures and practices.
 Obviously then you are next, going to ask what is this best form of
 government.” “Wrong,” he said “I
 was going to ask not that but whether it is this one that we have
 described in our establishment of a state or another.” “In other
 respects it is this one,” said I; “but there is one special further
 point that we mentioned even then, namely that there would always have
 to be resident in such a state an element

having the same conception of its constitution that you
 the lawgiver had in framing its laws. ” “That was said,”
 he replied. “But it was not sufficiently explained,” I said, “from fear
 of those objections on your part which have shown that the demonstration
 of it is long and difficult. And apart from that the remainder of the
 exposition is by no means easy. ” “Just what do you mean?” “The manner in which a state
 that occupies itself with philosophy can escape destruction. For all
 great things are precarious and, as the proverb truly says, fine things
 are hard. ”
 “All the same,”

he said, “our exposition must be completed by making
 this plain.” “It will be no lack of will,” I said, “but if
 anything, a lack of ability, that
 would prevent that. But you shall observe for yourself my zeal. And note
 again how zealously and recklessly I am prepared to say that the state
 ought to take up this pursuit in just the reverse of our present
 fashion. ” “In what way?” “At present,”

said I, “those who do take it up are youths, just out
 of boyhood, who in the interval before they engage
 in business and money-making approach the most difficult part of it, and
 then drop it—and these are regarded forsooth as the best exemplars of
 philosophy. By the most difficult part I mean discussion. In later life
 they think they have done much if, when invited, they deign to
 listen 
 to the philosophic discussions of others. That sort of thing they think
 should be by-work. And towards old age, with few exceptions, their light is quenched more
 completely

than the sun of Heracleitus, inasmuch as it is never rekindled.” “And what should
 they do?” he said. “Just the reverse. While they are lads and boys they
 should occupy themselves with an education and a culture suitable to
 youth, and while their bodies are growing to manhood take right good
 care of them, thus securing a basis and a support 
 for the intellectual life. But with the advance of age, when the soul
 begins to attain its maturity, they should make its exercises more
 severe, and when

the bodily strength declines and they are past the age
 of political and military service, then at last they should be given
 free range of the pasture and do nothing but
 philosophize, except incidentally, if
 they are to live happily, and, when the end has come, crown the life
 they have lived with a consonant destiny in that other world.” “You really seem to be very much in earnest,
 Socrates,” he said; yet I think most of your hearers are even more
 earnest in their opposition and will not be in the least convinced,
 beginning with Thrasymachus.” “Do not try to breed a quarrel between me
 and Thrasymachus,

who have just become friends and were not enemies
 before either. For we will spare no effort until we either convince him
 and the rest or achieve something that will profit them when they come
 to that life in which they will be born gain and meet with such discussions as these.” “A brief
 time your forecast contemplates,” he said. “Nay, nothing at
 all,” I replied, “as compared with eternity. However, the
 unwillingness of the multitude to believe what you say is nothing
 surprising. For of the thing here spoken they have never beheld a
 token,

but only the forced and artificial chiming of word and
 phrase, not spontaneous and accidental as has happened here. But the
 figure of a man ‘equilibrated’ and ‘assimilated’ to virtue’s self
 perfectly, so far as may be, in word and deed, and holding rule in a
 city of like quality, that is a thing they have never seen

in one case or in many. Do you think they have?” “By no
 means.” “Neither, my dear fellow, have they ever seriously inclined to
 hearken to fair and free discussions whose sole endeavor was to search
 out the truth at any cost for knowledge’s sake, and which dwell apart
 and salute from afar all the subtleties and cavils that lead to naught but
 opinion and
 strife in court-room and in private talk.” “They have not,” he
 said.

“For this cause and foreseeing this, we then despite
 our fears declared under compulsion of the truth that
 neither city nor polity nor man either will ever be perfected until some
 chance compels this uncorrupted remnant of philosophers, who now bear
 the stigma of uselessness, to take charge of the state whether they wish
 it or not, and constrains the citizens to obey them, or else until by
 some divine inspiration a
 genuine passion for true philosophy takes possession

either of the sons of the men now in power and
 sovereignty or of themselves. To affirm that either or both of these
 things cannot possibly come to pass is, I say, quite unreasonable. Only
 in that case could we be justly ridiculed as uttering things as futile
 as day-dreams are. Is not that so?” “It
 is.” “If, then, the best philosophical natures have ever been
 constrained to take charge of the state in infinite time past, or now are in some barbaric region

far beyond our ken, or shall hereafter be, we are
 prepared to maintain our contention that the
 constitution we have described has been, is, or will be realized when this
 philosophic Muse has taken control of the state. It is not a thing impossible to happen, nor are we
 speaking of impossibilities. That it is difficult we too admit.” “I also
 think so,” he said. “But the multitude—are you going to say?—does not
 think so,” said I. “That may be,” he said. “My dear fellow,”

said I, “do not thus absolutely condemn the
 multitude. They will surely be of another
 mind if in no spirit of contention but soothingly and endeavoring to do
 away with the dispraise of learning you point out to them whom you mean
 by philosophers, and define as we recently did their nature

and their pursuits so that the people may not suppose
 you to mean those of whom they are thinking. Or even if they do look at
 them in that way, are you still going to deny that they will change
 their opinion and answer differently? Or do you think that anyone is
 ungentle to the gentle or grudging to the ungrudging if he himself is
 ungrudging and mild? I will anticipate
 you and reply that I think that only in some few and not in the mass of
 mankind is so ungentle or harsh a temper to be found.” “And I, you may
 be assured,”

he said, “concur.” “And do you not also concur in this very point that the blame for this harsh
 attitude of the many towards philosophy falls on that riotous crew who
 have burst in where they do not belong, wrangling with one
 another, 
 filled with spite and
 always talking about persons, a thing least befitting philosophy?” “Least of all,
 indeed,” he said. “For surely, Adeimantus,
 the man whose mind is truly fixed on eternal realities has no leisure

to turn his eyes downward upon the petty affairs of
 men, and so engaging in strife with them to be filled with envy and
 hate, but he fixes his gaze upon the things of the eternal and
 unchanging order, and seeing that they neither wrong nor are wronged by
 one another, but all abide in harmony as reason bids, he will endeavor
 to imitate them and, as far as may be, to fashion himself in their
 likeness and assimilate himself to them. Or do you think it possible not to
 imitate the things to which anyone attaches himself with admiration?”
 “Impossible,” he said. “Then the lover of wisdom

associating with the divine order will himself become
 orderly and divine in the measure permitted to man. But calumny is plentiful everywhere.” “Yes,
 truly.” “If, then,” I said, “some compulsion is laid upon him to practise stamping
 on the plastic matter of human nature in public and private the patterns
 that he visions there, and not merely to mould and fashion himself, do you think he
 will prove a poor craftsman of sobriety and justice and
 all forms of ordinary civic virtue ?” “By no means,” he said. “But if the multitude
 become aware

that what we are saying of the philosopher is true,
 will they still be harsh with philosophers, and will they distrust our
 statement that no city could ever be blessed unless its lineaments were
 traced by
 artists who used the heavenly model?” “They will not be harsh,”

he said, “if they perceive that. But tell me, what is
 the manner of that sketch you have in mind?” “They will take the city
 and the characters of men, as they might a tablet, and first wipe it
 clean— no easy task. But at any rate you know that this
 would be their first point of difference from ordinary reformers, that
 they would refuse to take in hand either individual or state or to
 legislate before they either received a clean slate or themselves made
 it clean.” “And they would be right,” he said. “And thereafter, do you
 not think that they would sketch the figure of the constitution?”
 “Surely.” “And then,

I take it, in the course of the work they would
 glance frequently in either direction,
 at justice, beauty, sobriety and the like as they are in the nature of
 things, and alternately at that which they were trying to
 reproduce in mankind, mingling and blending from various pursuits that
 hue of the flesh, so to speak, deriving their judgement from that
 likeness of humanity which Homer too called when it appeared in men the image
 and likeness of God. ” “Right,” he said. “And they would erase one touch or
 stroke and paint in another

until in the measure of the possible they had made the characters of men pleasing and dear to
 God as may be.” “That at any rate would be the fairest painting.” “Are
 we then making any impression on those who you said were advancing to
 attack us with might and main? Can we convince them that such a
 political artist of character and such a painter exists as the one we
 then were praising when our proposal to entrust the state to him angered
 them, and are they now in a gentler mood when they hear what we are now
 saying?” “Much gentler,”

he said, “if they are reasonable.” “How can they
 controvert it ? Will they deny
 that the lovers of wisdom are lovers of reality and truth?” “That would
 be monstrous,” he said. “Or that their nature as we have portrayed it is
 akin to the highest and best?” “Not that either.” “Well, then, can they
 deny that such a nature bred in the pursuits that befit it will be
 perfectly good and philosophic so far as that can be said of anyone? Or
 will they rather say it of those whom we have excluded?”

“Surely not.” “Will they, then, any longer be fierce
 with us when we declare that, until the philosophic class wins control,
 there will be no surcease of trouble for city or citizens nor will the
 polity which we fable in words be brought to pass
 in deed?” “They will perhaps be less so,” he said. “Instead of less so,
 may we not say that they have been altogether tamed and convinced, so
 that

for very shame, if for no other reason, they may
 assent?” “Certainly,” said he. “Let us
 assume, then,” said I, “that they are won over to this view. Will anyone
 contend that there is no chance that the offspring of kings and rulers
 should be born with the philosophic nature?” “Not one,” he said. “And
 can anyone prove that if so born they must necessarily be corrupted? The
 difficulty of their salvation we
 too concede; but that in all the course of time

not one of all could be saved, will anyone
 maintain that?” “How could he?” “But surely,” said I, “the occurrence of
 one such is enough, if he has a state which obeys him, to realize all that now
 seems so incredible.” “Yes, one is enough,” he said. “For if such a
 ruler,” I said, “ordains the laws and institutions that we have
 described it is surely not impossible that the citizens should be
 content to carry them out.” “By no means.” “Would it, then, be at all
 strange or impossible for others to come to the opinion to which we have
 come ?”

“I think not,” said he. “And further that these things
 are best, if possible, has already, I take it, been sufficiently shown.”
 “Yes, sufficiently.” “Our present opinion, then, about this legislation
 is that our plan would be best if it could be realized and that this
 realization is difficult yet not
 impossible.” “That is the conclusion,” he said. “This difficulty disposed of, we have next

to speak of what remains, in what way, namely, and as a
 result of what studies and pursuits, these preservers of the constitution will form a part of our state,
 and at what ages they will severally take up each study.” “Yes, we have
 to speak of that,” he said. “I gained nothing,” I said, “by my
 cunning in
 omitting heretofore the distasteful topic of the possession of women
 and procreation of children and the appointment of rulers, because I
 knew that the absolutely true and right way would provoke censure and is
 difficult of realization;

for now I am none the less compelled to discuss them.
 The matter of the women and children has been disposed of, but
 the education of the rulers has to be examined again, I may say, from
 the starting-point. We were saying, if you recollect,

that they must approve themselves lovers of the state
 when tested in pleasures and pains, and make it apparent that they do
 not abandon this fixed
 faith under
 stress of labors or fears or any other vicissitude, and that anyone who
 could not keep that faith must he rejected, while he who always issued
 from the test pure and intact, like gold tried in the fire, is to be established as ruler and to receive
 honors in life and after death and prizes as well. Something of this sort we said
 while the argument slipped by with veiled face

in fear of starting our present debate.” “Most true,” he said; “I
 remember.” “We shrank, my friend,” I said, “from uttering the audacities
 which have now been hazarded. But now let us find courage for the
 definitive pronouncement that as the most perfect guardians we must establish philosophers.” “Yes, assume it
 to have been said,” said he. “Note, then, that they will naturally be
 few, for the different components of the nature which we said
 their education presupposed rarely consent to grow in one; but for the
 most part these qualities are found apart.”

“What do you mean?” he said. “Facility in learning,
 memory, sagacity, quickness of apprehension and their accompaniments,
 and youthful spirit and magnificence in soul are qualities, you know,
 that are rarely combined in human nature with a disposition to live
 orderly, quiet, and stable lives; but such men, by reason
 of their quickness, are driven about just
 as chance directs, and all steadfastness is gone out of them.” “You
 speak truly,” he said. “And on the other hand, the steadfast and stable
 temperaments, whom one could rather trust in use,

and who in war are not easily moved and aroused to
 fear, are apt to act in the same way when
 confronted with studies. They are not easily aroused, learn with
 difficulty, as if benumbed, and are filled with sleep and
 yawning when an intellectual task is set them.” “It is so,” he said.
 “But we affirmed that a man must partake of both temperaments in due and
 fair combination or else participate in neither the highest education nor in honors nor in
 rule.” “And rightly,” he said. “Do you not think, then, that such a
 blend will be a rare thing?”

“Of course.” “They must, then, be tested in the toils
 and fears and pleasures of which we then spoke, and we have also
 now to speak of a point we then passed by, that we must exercise them in
 many studies, watching them to see whether their nature is capable of
 enduring the greatest and most difficult studies

or whether it will faint and flinch as men flinch in the trials
 and contests of the body.” “That is certainly the right way of looking
 at it,” he said. “But what do you understand by the greatest
 studies?” “You remember, I presume,”
 said I, “that after distinguishing three kinds in the soul, we established
 definitions of justice, sobriety, bravery and wisdom severally.” “If I
 did not remember,” he said, “I should not deserve to hear the rest.” “Do
 you also remember

what was said before this?” “What?” “We were saying, I
 believe, that for the most perfect discernment of these things another
 longer way was requisite which would
 make them plain to one who took it, but that it was possible to add
 proofs on a par with the preceding discussion. And you said that that
 was sufficient, and it was on this understanding that what we then said
 was said, falling short of ultimate precision as it appeared to me, but
 if it contented you it is for you to say.” “Well,” he said, “it was
 measurably satisfactory to me, and apparently

to the rest of the company.” “Nay, my friend,” said I,
 “a measure of such things that in the least degree falls short of
 reality proves no measure at all. For nothing that is imperfect is the
 measure of anything, 
 though some people sometimes think that they have already done
 enough and that there is no
 need of further inquiry.” “Yes, indeed,” he said, “many experience this
 because of their sloth.” “An experience,” said I, “that least of all
 befits the guardians of a state and of its laws.” “That seems likely,”
 he said. “Then,” said I, “such a one must go around

the longer way and must labor no less in studies than
 in the exercises of the body or else, as we were just saying, he will
 never come to the end of the greatest study and that which most properly
 belongs to him.” “Why, are not these things the greatest?” said he; “but
 is there still something greater than justice and the other virtues we
 described?” “There is not only something greater,” I said, “but of these
 very things we need not merely to contemplate an outline as now,
 but we must omit nothing of their most exact elaboration. Or would it
 not be absurd to strain every nerve 
 to attain

to the utmost precision and clarity of knowledge about
 other things of trifling moment and not to demand the greatest precision
 for the greatest matters?” “It would
 indeed, ” he said; “but do you suppose that anyone will
 let you go without asking what is the greatest study and with what you
 think it is concerned?” “By no means,” said I; “but do you ask the
 question. You certainly have heard it often, but now you either do not
 apprehend or again you are minded to make trouble for me

by attacking the argument. I suspect it is rather the
 latter. For you have often heard 
 that the greatest thing to learn is the idea of good by reference to which just things 
 and all the rest become useful and beneficial. And now I am almost sure
 you know that this is what I am going to speak of and to say further
 that we have no adequate knowledge of it. And if we do not know it,
 then, even if without the knowledge of this we should know all other
 things never so well, you are aware that it would avail us nothing,

just as no possession either is of any avail without the possession
 of the good. Or do you think there is any profit in possessing
 everything except that which is good, or in understanding all things
 else apart from the good while understanding and knowing nothing that is
 fair and good ?” “No, by Zeus, I do not,” he
 said. “But, furthermore, you know this
 too, that the multitude believe pleasure to be the good, and the
 finer spirits intelligence or
 knowledge. ” “Certainly.” “And you are also
 aware, my friend, that those who hold this latter view are not able to
 point out what knowledge it is but are finally
 compelled to say that it is the knowledge of the good.” “Most absurdly,”
 he said. “Is it not absurd,”

said I, “if while taunting us with our ignorance of the
 good they turn about and talk to us as if we knew it? For they say it is
 the knowledge of the good, as if we understood
 their meaning when they utter the word ‘good.’” “Most true,” he said. “Well, are
 those who define the good as pleasure infected with any less
 confusion of thought than the others? Or
 are not they in like manner 
 compelled to admit that there are bad pleasures ?” “Most assuredly.”
 “The outcome is, I take it, that they are admitting

the same things to be both good and bad, are they not?”
 “Certainly.” “Then is it not apparent that there are many and violent
 disputes about it?” “Of course.” “And again, is it not apparent
 that while in the case of the just and the honorable many would prefer
 the semblance without the reality in action, possession, and
 opinion, yet when it comes to the good nobody is content with the
 possession of the appearance but all men seek the reality, and the
 semblance satisfies nobody here?”

“Quite so,” he said. “That, then, which every soul
 pursues and for its sake does
 all that it does, with an intuition of its reality, but yet
 baffled and unable to apprehend its nature adequately, or to
 attain to any stable belief about it as about other things, and for that reason failing of any possible benefit
 from other things,—

in a matter of this quality and moment, can we, I ask
 you, allow a like blindness and obscurity in those best citizens 
 to whose hands we are to entrust all things?” “Least of all,” he said.
 “I fancy, at any rate,” said I, “that the just and the honorable, if
 their relation and reference to the good is not known, will not have secured a
 guardian of much worth
 in the man thus ignorant, and my surmise is that no one will understand
 them adequately before he knows this.” “You surmise well,” he said.
 “Then our constitution

will have its perfect and definitive organization only
 when such a guardian, who knows these things, oversees it.” “Necessarily,” he said. “But you yourself,
 Socrates, do you think that knowledge is the good or pleasure or
 something else and different?” “What a man it is,” said I; “you made it
 very plain long ago that you would
 not be satisfied with what others think about it.” “Why, it does not
 seem right to me either, Socrates,” he said, “to be ready to state the
 opinions of others but not one’s own when one has occupied himself with
 the matter so long. ”

“But then,” said I, “do you think it right to speak as
 having knowledge about things one does not know?” “By no means,” he
 said, “as having knowledge, but one ought to be willing to tell as his
 opinion what he opines.” “Nay,” said I, “have you not observed that
 opinions divorced from knowledge are ugly things? The best of them are
 blind. Or do you think that
 those who hold some true opinion without intelligence differ appreciably
 from blind men who go the right way?” “They do not differ at all,” he
 said. “Is it, then, ugly things that you prefer

to contemplate, things blind and crooked, when you
 might hear from others what is luminous 
 and fair?” “Nay, in heaven’s name, Socrates,” said Glaucon, “do not draw
 back, as it were, at the very goal. For it will content us if you explain the good even as
 you set forth the nature of justice, sobriety, and the other virtues.”
 “It will right well content me, my dear fellow,” I said,
 “but I fear that my powers may fail and that in my eagerness I may cut a
 sorry figure and become a laughing-stock. Nay, my beloved,

let us dismiss for the time being the nature of the
 good in itself; for to attain to my present surmise of
 that seems a pitch above the impulse that wings my flight today. But of what seems to be the offspring of the good and most
 nearly made in its likeness I am willing to speak if
 you too wish it, and otherwise to let the matter drop.” “Well, speak
 on,” he said, “for you will duly pay me the tale of the parent another
 time.” “I could wish,”

I said, “that I were able to make and you to receive
 the payment and not merely as now the interest. But at any rate receive
 this interest and the offspring of the good.
 Have a care, however, lest I deceive you unintentionally with a false
 reckoning of the interest.” “We will do our best,” he said, “to be on
 our guard. Only speak on.” “Yes,” I said, “after first coming to an
 understanding with you and reminding you of what has been said here
 before and often on other occasions. ”

“What?” said he. “We predicate ‘to be’ of many
 beautiful things and many good things, saying of them severally that
 they are, and so define them in our speech.” “We do.” “And again, we
 speak of a self-beautiful and of a good that is only and merely good,
 and so, in the case of all the things that we then posited as many, we
 turn about and posit each as a single idea or aspect, assuming it to be
 a unity and call it that which each really is. “It is so.” “And the one class of things we say can be
 seen but not thought,

while the ideas can be thought but not seen.” “By all
 means.” “With which of the parts of ourselves, with which of our
 faculties, then, do we see visible things?” “With sight,” he said. “And
 do we not,” I said, “hear audibles with hearing, and perceive all
 sensibles with the other senses?” “Surely.” “Have you ever observed,”
 said I, “how much the greatest expenditure the creator of the senses has
 lavished on the faculty of seeing and being seen? “Why, no, I have not,” he said.
 “Well, look at it thus. Do hearing and voice stand in need of another
 medium so that the one may hear and the
 other be heard,

in the absence of which third element the one will not
 hear and the other not be heard?” “They need nothing,” he said.
 “Neither, I fancy,” said I,” do many others, not to say that none
 require anything of the sort. Or do you know of any?” “Not I,” he said.
 “But do you not observe that vision and the visible do have this further
 need?” “How?” “Though vision may be in the eyes and its possessor may
 try to use it, and though color be present, yet without

the presence of a third thing 
 specifically and naturally adapted to this purpose, you are aware that
 vision will see nothing and the colors will remain invisible. ” “What is this thing of which
 you speak?” he said. “The thing,” I said, “that you call light.” “You
 say truly,” he replied. “The bond, then, that yokes together

visibility and the faculty of sight is more precious by
 no slight form that which unites the
 other pairs, if light is not without honor.” “It surely is far from
 being so,” he said. “Which one can you
 name of the divinities in heaven as the author and
 cause of this, whose light makes our vision see best and visible things
 to be seen?” “Why, the one that you too and other people mean,” he said;
 “for your question evidently refers to the sun. ” “Is not
 this, then, the relation of vision to that divinity?” “What?” “Neither
 vision itself nor its vehicle, which we call the eye, is identical with
 the sun.”

“Why, no.” “But it is, I think, the most sunlike of
 all the instruments of sense.” “By far the most.” “And does it not
 receive the power which it possesses as an influx, as it were, dispensed
 from the sun?” “Certainly.” “Is it not also true that the sun is not
 vision, yet as being the cause thereof is beheld by vision itself?”
 “That is so,” he said. “This, then, you must understand that I meant by
 the offspring of the good which the good

begot to stand in a proportion with itself: as the good is
 in the intelligible region to reason and the objects of reason, so is
 this in the visible world to vision and the objects of vision.” “How is
 that?” he said; “explain further.” “You are aware,” I said, “that when
 the eyes are no longer turned upon objects upon whose colors the light
 of day falls but that of the dim luminaries of night, their edge is
 blunted and they appear almost blind, as if pure vision did not dwell in
 them.” “Yes, indeed,” he said. “But when, I take it,

they are directed upon objects illumined by the sun,
 they see clearly, and vision appears to reside in these same eyes.”
 “Certainly.” “Apply this comparison to the soul also in this way. When
 it is firmly fixed on the domain where truth and reality shine
 resplendent it apprehends and knows them and appears to possess
 reason; but when it inclines to that region which is mingled with
 darkness, the world of becoming and passing away, it opines only and its
 edge is blunted, and it shifts its opinions hither and thither, and
 again seems as if it lacked reason.”

“Yes, it does,” “This reality, then, that gives their
 truth to the objects of knowledge and the power of knowing to the
 knower, you must say is the idea of good, and you must
 conceive it as being the cause of knowledge, and of truth in so far as
 known. Yet fair as they both
 are, knowledge and truth, in supposing it to be something fairer
 still than these you will think rightly of it. But
 as for knowledge and truth, even as in our illustration

it is right to deem light and vision sunlike, but never
 to think that they are the sun, so here it is right to consider these
 two their counterparts, as being like the good or boniform, but to think that either of them is the good is not right. Still
 higher honor belongs to the possession and habit 
 of the good.” “An inconceivable beauty you speak of,” he said, “if it is
 the source of knowledge and truth, and yet itself surpasses them in
 beauty. For you surely 
 cannot mean that it is pleasure.” “Hush,” said I, “but examine

the similitude of it still further in this way. ”
 “How?” “The sun, I presume you will say, not only furnishes to visibles
 the power of visibility but it also provides for their generation and
 growth and nurture though it is not itself generation.” “Of course not.”
 “In like manner, then, you are to say that the objects of knowledge not
 only receive from the presence of the good their being known, but their
 very existence and essence is derived to them from it, though the good
 itself is not essence but still transcends essence in dignity and
 surpassing power.”

And Glaucon very
 ludicrously said, “Heaven save us, hyperbole can no further
 go.” “The fault is yours,” I said, “for compelling me to utter my
 thoughts about it.” “And don’t desist,” he said, “but at least expound the similitude of the sun, if there is
 anything that you are omitting.” “Why, certainly,” I said, “I am
 omitting a great deal.” “Well, don’t omit the least bit,” he said. “I
 fancy,” I said, “that I shall have to pass over much, but nevertheless
 so far as it is at present practicable I shall not willingly leave
 anything out.” “Do not,”

he said. “Conceive then,” said I, “as we were saying,
 that there are these two entities, and that one of them is sovereign
 over the intelligible order and region and the other over the world of
 the eye-ball, not to say the sky-ball, but let that pass. You surely apprehend
 the two types, the visible and the intelligible.” “I do.” “Represent
 them then, as it were, by a line divided into two unequal sections and cut each section again in
 the same ratio (the section, that is, of the visible and that of the
 intelligible order), and then as an expression of the ratio of their
 comparative clearness and obscurity you will have, as one of the
 sections

of the visible world, images. By images I mean,

first, shadows, and then reflections in water and on
 surfaces of dense, smooth and bright texture, and everything of that
 kind, if you apprehend.” “I do.” “As the second section assume that of
 which this is a likeness or an image, that is, the animals about us and
 all plants and the whole class of objects made by man.” “I so assume
 it,” he said. “Would you be willing to say,” said I, “that the division
 in respect of reality and truth or the opposite is expressed by the
 proportion: as is the opinable to the knowable
 so is the likeness to that

of which it is a likeness?” “I certainly would.”
 “Consider then again the way in which we are to make the division of the
 intelligible section.” “In what way?” “By the distinction that there is
 one section of it which the soul is compelled to investigate by treating
 as images the things imitated in the former division, and by means of
 assumptions from which it proceeds not up to a first principle but down
 to a conclusion, while there is another section in which it advances
 from its assumption to a beginning or principle that transcends
 assumption, 
 and in which it makes no use of the images employed by the other
 section, relying on ideas only and
 progressing systematically through ideas.” “I don’t fully
 understand what you mean by this,” he said. “Well, I will try
 again,”

said I,” for you will better understand after this
 preamble. For I think you are aware that students of geometry and
 reckoning and such subjects first postulate the odd and the even and the
 various figures and three kinds of angles and other things akin to these
 in each branch of science, regard them as known, and, treating them as
 absolute assumptions, do not deign to render any further account of
 them to
 themselves or others, taking it for granted that they are obvious to
 everybody. They take their start

from these, and pursuing the inquiry from this point on
 consistently, conclude with that for the investigation of which they set
 out.” “Certainly,” he said, “I know that.” “And do you not also know
 that they further make use of the visible forms and talk about them,
 though they are not thinking of them but of those things of which they
 are a likeness, pursuing their inquiry for the sake of the square as
 such and the diagonal as such, and not for the sake of the image of it
 which they draw ?

And so in all cases. The very things which they mould
 and draw, which have shadows and images of themselves in water, these
 things they treat in their turn as
 only images, but what they really seek is to get sight of those
 realities which can be seen

only by the mind. ” “True,” he said. “This then is the class that I described as
 intelligible, it is true, but with the reservation first that the soul is compelled
 to employ assumptions in the investigation of it, not proceeding to a
 first principle because of its inability to extricate itself from and
 rise above its assumptions, and second, that it uses as images or
 likenesses the very objects that are themselves copied and adumbrated by
 the class below them, and that in comparison with these latter are esteemed as clear
 and held in honor. ” “I understand,”

said he, “that you are speaking of what falls under
 geometry and the kindred arts.” “Understand then,” said I, “that by the
 other section of the intelligible I mean that which the reason itself lays
 hold of by the power of dialectics, 
 treating its assumptions not as absolute beginnings but literally as
 hypotheses, underpinnings,
 footings, and
 springboards so to speak, to enable it to rise to that which requires no
 assumption and is the starting-point of all, and after attaining
 to that again taking hold of the first dependencies from it, so to
 proceed downward to the conclusion,

making no use whatever of any object of sense but only of pure ideas moving on through ideas to
 ideas and ending with ideas. ”
 “I understand,” he said; “not fully, for it is no slight task that you
 appear to have in mind, but I do understand that you mean to distinguish
 the aspect of reality and the intelligible, which is contemplated by the
 power of dialectic, as something truer and more exact than the object of
 the so-called arts and sciences whose assumptions are arbitrary
 starting-points. And though it is true that those who contemplate them
 are compelled to use their understanding and not

their senses, yet because they do not go back to the
 beginning in the study of them but start from assumptions you do not
 think they possess true intelligence about them
 although the things themselves are intelligibles when
 apprehended in conjunction with a first principle. And I think you call
 the mental habit of geometers and their like mind or understanding and not
 reason because you regard understanding as something intermediate
 between opinion and reason.” “Your interpretation is quite sufficient,”
 I said; “and now, answering to 
 these four sections, assume these four affections occurring in the soul:
 intellection or reason for the highest,

understanding for the second; assign belief to the third, and to the last
 picture-thinking or conjecture, and arrange them
 in a proportion, considering that they
 participate in clearness and precision in the same degree as their
 objects partake of truth and reality.” “I understand,” he said; “I
 concur and arrange them as you bid.”

“Next,” said I, “compare
 our nature in respect of education and its lack to such an experience as
 this. Picture men dwelling in a sort of subterranean cavern with a long entrance open to
 the light on its entire width. Conceive them as having their legs and
 necks fettered from childhood, so that they
 remain in the same spot,

able to look forward only, and prevented by the fetters
 from turning their heads. Picture further the light from a fire burning
 higher up and at a distance behind them, and between the fire and the
 prisoners and above them a road along which a low wall has been built,
 as the exhibitors of puppet-shows 
 have partitions before the men themselves, above which they show the
 puppets.” “All that I see,” he said. “See also, then, men carrying 
 past the wall

implements of all kinds that rise above the wall, and
 human images

and shapes of animals as well, wrought in stone and
 wood and every material, some of these bearers presumably speaking and
 others silent.” “A strange image you speak of,” he said, “and strange
 prisoners.” “Like to us,” I said; “for, to begin with, tell me do you
 think that these men would have seen anything of themselves or of one
 another except the shadows cast from the fire on the wall of the cave
 that fronted them?” “How could they,” he said, “if they were compelled

to hold their heads unmoved through life?” “And again,
 would not the same be true of the objects carried past them?” “Surely.”
 “If then they were able to talk to one another, do you not think that
 they would suppose that in naming the things that they saw they were naming the passing objects?”
 “Necessarily.” “And if their prison had an echo from the wall opposite them,
 when one of the passersby uttered a sound, do you think that they would
 suppose anything else than the passing shadow to be the speaker?” “By
 Zeus, I do not,” said he. “Then in every way

such prisoners would deem reality to be nothing else
 than the shadows of the artificial objects.” “Quite inevitably,” he
 said. “Consider, then, what would be the manner of the release and healing from these bonds and this folly if
 in the course of nature something of this sort should happen to them: When one
 was freed from his fetters and compelled to stand up suddenly and turn
 his head around and walk and to lift up his eyes to the light, and in
 doing all this felt pain and, because of the dazzle and glitter of the
 light, was unable to discern the objects whose shadows he formerly saw,

what do you suppose would be his answer if someone told
 him that what he had seen before was all a cheat and an illusion, but
 that now, being nearer to reality and turned toward more real things, he
 saw more truly? And if also one should point out to him each of the
 passing objects and constrain him by questions to say what it is, do you
 not think that he would be at a loss and that he
 would regard what he formerly saw as more real than the things now
 pointed out to him?” “Far more real,” he said. “And if he were compelled to look at the light itself,

would not that pain his eyes, and would he not turn
 away and flee to those things which he is able to discern and regard
 them as in very deed more clear and exact than the objects pointed out?”
 “It is so,” he said. “And if,” said I, “someone should drag him thence
 by force up the ascent which is rough and steep, and not let him go before
 he had drawn him out into the light of the sun, do you not think that he
 would find it painful to be so haled along, and would chafe at it, and
 when

he came out into the light, that his eyes would be
 filled with its beams so that he would not be able to see 
 even one of the things that we call real?” “Why, no, not immediately,”
 he said. “Then there would be need of habituation, I take it, to enable
 him to see the things higher up. And at first he would most easily
 discern the shadows and, after that, the likenesses or reflections in
 water of men and
 other things, and later, the things themselves, and from these he would
 go on to contemplate the appearances in the heavens and heaven itself,
 more easily by night, looking at the light

of the stars and the moon, than by day the sun and the
 sun’s light. ” “Of course.”
 “And so, finally, I suppose, he would be able to look upon the sun
 itself and see its true nature, not by reflections in water or phantasms
 of it in an alien setting, but in and by
 itself in its own place.” “Necessarily,” he said. “And at this point he
 would infer and conclude that this it is that provides the seasons and
 the courses of the year and presides over all things in the visible
 region,

and is in some sort the cause of all these
 things that they had seen.” “Obviously,” he said, “that would be the
 next step.” “Well then, if he recalled to mind his first habitation and
 what passed for wisdom there, and his fellow-bondsmen, do you not think
 that he would count himself happy in the change and pity them ?” “He would indeed.” “And if there had been honors
 and commendations among them which they bestowed on one another and
 prizes for the man who is quickest to make out the shadows as they pass
 and best able to remember their customary precedences,

sequences and co-existences, and so most successful in guessing at what was to
 come, do you think he would be very keen about such rewards, and that he
 would envy and emulate those who were honored by these prisoners and
 lorded it among them, or that he would feel with Homer and ‘greatly prefer while living on earth to be serf of another, a
 landless man,’ 
 Hom.
 Od. 11.489 and endure anything rather than opine with them

and live that life?” “Yes,” he said, “I think that he
 would choose to endure anything rather than such a life.” “And consider
 this also,” said I, “if such a one should go down again and take his old
 place would he not get his eyes full of darkness, thus suddenly
 coming out of the sunlight?” “He would indeed.” “Now if he should be
 required to contend with these perpetual prisoners

in ’evaluating’ these shadows while his vision was
 still dim and before his eyes were accustomed to the dark—and this time
 required for habituation would not be very short—would he not provoke
 laughter, and would it not be said of
 him that he had returned from his journey aloft with his eyes ruined and
 that it was not worth while even to attempt the ascent? And if it were
 possible to lay hands on and to kill the man who tried to release them
 and lead them up, would they not kill him ?” “They certainly
 would,” he said. “This image then, dear
 Glaucon, we must apply as a whole to all that has been said,

likening the region revealed through sight to the
 habitation of the prison, and the light of the fire in it to the power
 of the sun. And if you assume that the ascent and the contemplation of
 the things above is the soul’s ascension to the intelligible
 region, you will not miss my surmise, since that is
 what you desire to hear. But God knows whether it is true. But, at any
 rate, my dream as it appears to me is that in the region of the known
 the last thing to be seen and hardly seen is the idea of good,

and that when seen it must needs point us to the
 conclusion that this is indeed the cause for all things of all that is
 right and beautiful, giving birth in the visible world to light,
 and the author of light and itself in the intelligible world being the
 authentic source of truth and reason, and that anyone who is to act
 wisely in private or public
 must have caught sight of this.” “I concur,” he said, “so far as I am
 able.” “Come then,” I said, “and join me in this further thought, and do
 not be surprised that those who have attained to this height are not
 willing to occupy
 themselves with the affairs of men, but their souls ever feel the upward
 urge and

the yearning for that sojourn above. For this, I take
 it, is likely if in this point too the likeness of our image holds”
 “Yes, it is likely.” “And again, do you think it at all strange,” said
 I, “if a man returning from divine contemplations to the petty
 miseries of men cuts a sorry figure and
 appears most ridiculous, if, while still blinking through the gloom, and
 before he has become sufficiently accustomed to the environing darkness,
 he is compelled in courtrooms or elsewhere to contend about
 the shadows of justice or the images that cast the shadows and to
 wrangle in debate

about the notions of these things in the minds of those
 who have never seen justice itself?” “It would be by no men strange,” he
 said. “But a sensible man,”

I said, “would remember that there are two distinct
 disturbances of the eyes arising from two causes, according as the shift
 is from light to darkness or from darkness to light, and, believing that the same thing happens to the soul
 too, whenever he saw a soul perturbed and unable to discern something,
 he would not laugh unthinkingly, but would
 observe whether coming from a brighter life its vision was obscured by
 the unfamiliar darkness, or

whether the passage from the deeper dark of ignorance
 into a more luminous world and the greater brightness had dazzled its
 vision. 
 And so 
 he would deem the one happy in its experience and way of life and pity
 the other, and if it pleased him to laugh at it, his laughter would be
 less laughable than that at the expense of the soul that had come down
 from the light above.” “That is a very fair statement,” he
 said. “Then, if this is true, our view
 of these matters must be this, that education is not in reality what
 some people proclaim it to be in their professions.

What they aver is that they can put true knowledge into
 a soul that does not possess it, as if they were inserting vision into blind
 eyes.” “They do indeed,” he said. “But our present argument indicates,”
 said I, “that the true analogy for this indwelling power in the soul and
 the instrument whereby each of us apprehends is that of an eye that
 could not be converted to the light from the darkness except by turning
 the whole body. Even so this organ of knowledge must be turned around
 from the world of becoming together with the entire soul, like the
 scene-shifting periact in the theater, until the soul is able to endure the
 contemplation of essence and the brightest region of being.

And this, we say, is the good, 
 do we not?” “Yes.” “Of this very thing, then,” I said, “there might be
 an art, an art of the speediest and most
 effective shifting or conversion of the soul, not an art of producing
 vision in it, but on the assumption that it possesses vision but does
 not rightly direct it and does not look where it should, an art of
 bringing this about.” “Yes, that seems likely,” he said. “Then the other
 so-called virtues of the
 soul do seem akin to those of the body.

For it is true that where they do not pre-exist, they
 are afterwards created by habit and
 practice. But the excellence of thought, it seems, is certainly of a more divine
 quality, a thing that never loses its potency, but, according to the
 direction of its conversion, becomes useful and beneficent,

or, again, useless and harmful. Have you never observed
 in those who are popularly spoken of as bad, but smart men, how keen is the vision of the little soul, how quick it is
 to discern the things that interest it, a proof
 that it is not a poor vision which it has, but one forcibly enlisted in
 the service of evil, so that the sharper its sight the more mischief it
 accomplishes?” “I certainly have,” he said. “Observe then,” said I,
 “that this part of such a soul, if it had been hammered from childhood,
 and had thus been struck free of the leaden weights,
 so to speak, of our birth

and becoming, which attaching themselves to it by food
 and similar pleasures and gluttonies turn downwards the vision of the
 soul —If, I say, freed from these, it had
 suffered a conversion towards the things that are real and true, that
 same faculty of the same men would have been most keen in its vision of
 the higher things, just as it is for the things toward which it is now
 turned.” “It is likely,” he said. “Well, then,” said I, “is not this
 also likely and a
 necessary consequence of what has been said, that neither could men who
 are uneducated and inexperienced in truth ever adequately

preside over a state, nor could those who had been
 permitted to linger on to the end in the pursuit of culture—the one
 because they have no single aim and purpose in
 life to which all their actions, public and private, must be directed,
 and the others, because they will not voluntarily engage in action,
 believing that while still living they have been transported to the
 Islands of the Blest. ” “True,” he said. “It is the duty of
 us, the founders, then,” said I, “to compel the best natures to attain
 the knowledge which we pronounced the greatest, and to win to the vision
 of the good,

to scale that ascent, and when they have reached the
 heights and taken an adequate view, we must not allow what is now
 permitted.” “What is that?” “That they should linger there,” I said,
 “and refuse to go down again among those bondsmen and share their
 labors and honors, whether they are of less or of greater worth.” “Do
 you mean to say that we must do them this wrong, and compel them to live
 an inferior life when the better is in their power?”

“You have again
 forgotten, my friend,” said I, “that the law
 is not concerned with the special happiness of any class in the state,
 but is trying to produce this condition in the city as a whole, harmonizing and adapting
 the citizens to one another by persuasion and compulsion, and requiring them to impart to one another any
 benefit

which they are severally able to bestow upon the
 community, and that it itself creates such men in the state, not that it
 may allow each to take what course pleases him, but with a view to using
 them for the binding together of the commonwealth.” “True,” he said, “I
 did forget it.” “Observe, then, Glaucon,” said I, “that we shall not be
 wronging, either, the philosophers who arise among us, but that we can
 justify our action when we constrain them to take charge of the other
 citizens and be their guardians.

For we will say to them that it is natural that men of
 similar quality who spring up in other cities should not share in the
 labors there. For they grow up spontaneously from no volition of the government in the several
 states, and it is justice that the self-grown, indebted to none for its
 breeding, should not be zealous either to pay to anyone the price of its
 nurture. But you we have engendered for yourselves
 and the rest of the city to be, as it were, king-bees and leaders in the hive.
 You have received a better

and more complete education than the others, and you are
 more capable of sharing both ways of life. Down you must go then, each in his turn, to the habitation of the
 others and accustom yourselves to the observation of the obscure things
 there. For once habituated you will discern them infinitely better than the
 dwellers there, and you will know what each of the ‘idols’ is and whereof it is a semblance, because
 you have seen the reality of the beautiful, the just and the good. So
 our city will be governed by us and you with waking minds, and not, as
 most cities now which are inhabited and ruled darkly as in a dream by men who fight
 one another

for shadows and wrangle for
 office as if that were a great good, when the truth is that the city in
 which those who are to rule are least eager to hold office must needs be best administered and most free
 from dissension, and the state that gets the contrary type of ruler will
 be the opposite of this.” “By all means,” he said. “Will our alumni,
 then, disobey us when we tell them this, and will they refuse to share
 in the labors of state each in his turn while permitted to dwell the
 most of the time with one another in that purer world ?”

“Impossible,” he said: “for we shall be imposing just
 commands on men who are just. Yet they will assuredly approach office as
 an unavoidable necessity, and
 in the opposite temper from that of the present rulers in our cities.”
 “For the fact is, dear friend,” said I, “if you can discover a better
 way of life than office-holding

for your future rulers, a well-governed city becomes a
 possibility. For only in such a state will those rule who are really
 rich, not in gold, but in the wealth that makes happiness—a good
 and wise life. But if, being beggars and starvelings from lack of goods of
 their own, they turn to affairs of state thinking that it is thence that
 they should grasp their own good, then it is impossible. For when office
 and rule become the prizes of contention, such a civil and
 internecine strife 
 destroys the office-seekers themselves and the city as well.”

“Most true,” he said. “Can you name any other type or
 ideal of life that looks with scorn on political office except the life
 of true philosophers ?” I asked.
 “No, by Zeus,” he said. “But what we require,” I said, “is that those
 who take office should not be lovers of rule. Otherwise there
 will be a contest with rival lovers.” “Surely.” “What others, then, will
 you compel to undertake the guardianship of the city than those who have
 most intelligence of the principles that are the means of good
 government and who possess distinctions of another kind and a life that
 is preferable to the political life?” “No others,” he said.

“Would you, then, have
 us proceed to consider how such men may be produced in a state and how
 they may be led upward to the
 light even as some are
 fabled to have ascended from Hades to the gods?” “Of course I would.”
 “So this, it seems, would not be the whirling of the shell in the children’s
 game, but a conversion and turning about of the soul from a day whose
 light is darkness to the veritable day—that ascension to reality of our parable which we will
 affirm to be true philosophy.” “By all means.” “Must we not, then,
 consider what studies have

the power to effect this?” “Of course.” “What, then,
 Glaucon, would be the study that would draw the soul away from the world
 of becoming to the world of being? A thought strikes me while I
 speak : Did we not
 say that these men in youth must be athletes of war ” “We did.” “Then the study for
 which we are seeking must have this additional qualification.” “What one?” “That it
 be not useless to soldiers. ” “Why, yes, it
 must,” he said, “if that is possible.”

“But in our previous account they were educated in
 gymnastics and music. ” “They were, he said. “And
 gymnastics, I take it, is devoted to that which grows and perishes;
 for it presides over the growth and decay of the body. ” “Obviously.” “Then this
 cannot be the study

that we seek.” “No.” “Is it, then, music, so far as we
 have already described it? ” “Nay, that,” he said, “was the
 counterpart of gymnastics, if you remember. It educated the guardians
 through habits, imparting by the melody a certain harmony of spirit that
 is not science, and by the rhythm measure and grace, and also
 qualities akin to these in the words of tales that are fables and those
 that are more nearly true. But it included no study that tended to any
 such good as

you are now seeking.” “Your recollection is most
 exact,” I said; “for in fact it had nothing of the kind. But in heaven’s
 name, Glaucon, what study could there be of that kind? For all the arts
 were in our opinion base and mechanical. ” “Surely; and yet what other study is left apart from
 music, gymnastics and the arts?” “Come,” said I, “if we are unable to
 discover anything outside of these, let us take

something that applies to all alike. ” “What?” “Why, for example, this
 common thing that all arts and forms of thought and all sciences employ, and which is among the
 first things that everybody must learn.” “What?” he said. “This trifling
 matter, ” I said,
 “of distinguishing one and two and three. I mean, in sum, number and
 calculation. Is it not true of them that every art and science must
 necessarily partake of them?” “Indeed it is,” he said. “The art of war
 too?” said I. “Most necessarily,” he said.

“Certainly, then,” said I, “Palamedes in the
 play is always making Agamemnon appear a most ridiculous general. Have you not noticed that he affirms that by the
 invention of number he marshalled the troops in the army at Troy in
 ranks and companies and enumerated the ships and everything else as if
 before that they had not been counted, and Agamemnon apparently did not
 know how many feet he had if he couldn’t count? And yet what sort of a
 General do you think he would be in that case?” “A very queer one in my
 opinion,” he said, “if that was true.”

“Shall we not, then,” I
 said, “set down as a study requisite for a soldier the ability to reckon
 and number?” “Most certainly, if he is to know anything whatever of the
 ordering of his troops—or rather if he is to be a man at all. ” “Do you observe then,” said
 I, “in this study what I do?” “What?” “It seems likely

that it is one of those studies which we are seeking
 that naturally conduce to the awakening of thought, but that no one
 makes the right use of it, though it really
 does tend to draw the mind to essence and reality.” “What do you mean?”
 he said. “I will try,” I said, “to show you at least my opinion. Do you
 keep watch and observe the things I distinguish in my mind as being or
 not being conducive to our purpose, and either concur or dissent, in
 order that here too we may see more clearly whether my surmise is right.”
 “Point them out,” he said. “I do point them out,” I said, “if you can
 discern that some reports of our perceptions

do not provoke thought to reconsideration because the
 judgement of them by sensation seems
 adequate, while others always invite the intellect to reflection
 because the sensation yields nothing that can be trusted. ” “You obviously mean
 distant appearances,” he said, “and shadow-painting. ” “You have quite missed my meaning, ” said I. “What do you mean?”
 he said. “The experiences that do not provoke thought are those that do
 not

at the same time issue in a contradictory
 perception. 
 Those that do have that effect I set down as provocatives, when the
 perception no more manifests one thing than its contrary, alike whether
 its impact comes from nearby or afar. An
 illustration will make my meaning plain. Here, we say, are three
 fingers, the little finger, the second and the middle.” “Quite so,” he
 said. “Assume that I speak of them as seen near at hand. But this is the
 point that you are to consider.” “What?” “Each one of them appears to be

equally a finger, 
 and in this respect it makes no difference whether it is observed as
 intermediate or at either extreme, whether it is white or black, thick
 or thin, or of any other quality of this kind. For in none of these
 cases is the soul of most men impelled to question the reason and to ask
 what in the world is a finger, since the faculty of sight never
 signifies to it at the same time that the finger is the opposite of a
 finger.” “Why, no, it does not,” he said. “Then,” said I, “it is to be
 expected that such a perception will not provoke or awaken

reflection and thought.” “It is.” “But now, what about
 the bigness and the smallness of these objects? Is our vision’s view of
 them adequate, and does it make no difference to it whether one of them
 is situated outside or in the middle; and
 similarly of the relation of touch, to thickness and thinness, softness
 and hardness? And are not the other senses also defective in their
 reports of such things? Or is the operation of each of them as follows?

In the first place, the sensation that is set over the
 hard is of necessity related also to the soft, and it reports to the soul that the same thing is both
 hard and soft to its perception.” “It is so,” he said. “Then,” said I,
 “is not this again a case where the soul must be at a loss as to what significance for it the
 sensation of hardness has, if the sense reports the same thing as also
 soft? And, similarly, as to what the sensation of light and heavy means
 by light and heavy, if it reports the heavy as light, and the light as
 heavy?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said, “these communications to the soul are strange and invite reconsideration.”
 “Naturally, then,” said I, “it is in such cases as these that the soul
 first summons to its aid the calculating reason and tries to consider whether
 each of the things reported to it is one or two. ” “Of course.” “And if it
 appears to be two, each of the two is a distinct unit. ” “Yes.” “If,
 then, each is one and both two, the very meaning of ‘two’ is that the soul
 will conceive them as distinct. For if they were not separable,

it would not have been thinking of two, but of one.”
 “Right.” “Sight too saw the great and the small, we say, not separated
 but confounded. “Is not that
 so?” “Yes.” “And for 
 the clarification of this, the intelligence is compelled to contemplate
 the great and small, not thus confounded but as distinct entities, in the
 opposite way from sensation.” “True.” “And is it not in some such
 experience as this that the question first occurs to us, what in the
 world, then, is the great and the small?” “By all means.” “And this is
 the origin of the designation “intelligible” for the one, and “visible”
 for the other.”

“Just so,” he said. “This, then, is just what I was trying to explain a little while ago
 when I said that some things are provocative of thought and some are
 not, defining as provocative things that impinge upon the senses
 together with their opposites, while those that do not I said do not
 tend to awaken reflection.” “Well, now I understand,” he said, “and
 agree.” “To which class, then, do you think number and the one
 belong ?” “I cannot conceive,” he
 said. “Well, reason it out from what has already been said. For, if
 unity is adequately 
 seen by itself

or apprehended by some other sensation, it would not
 tend to draw the mind to the apprehension of essence, as we were
 explaining in the case of the finger. But if some contradiction is
 always seen coincidentally with it, so that it no more appears to be one
 than the opposite, there would forthwith be need of something to judge
 between them, and it would compel the soul to be at a loss and to
 inquire, by arousing thought in itself, and to ask,

whatever then is the one as such, and thus the study of
 unity will be one of the studies that guide and convert the soul to the
 contemplation of true being.” “But surely,” he said, “the visual
 perception of it does especially involve
 this. For we see the same thing at once as one and as an indefinite
 plurality. ” “Then if this is
 true of the one,” I said, “the same holds of all number, does it not?”
 “Of course.” “But, further, reckoning and the science of arithmetic are wholly concerned
 with number.”

“They are, indeed.” “And the qualities of number appear
 to lead to the apprehension of truth.” “Beyond anything,” he said.
 “Then, as it seems, these would be among the studies that we are
 seeking. For a soldier must learn them in order to marshal his troops,
 and a philosopher, because he must rise out of the region of generation
 and lay hold on essence or he can never become a true reckoner. ” “It is so,” he said. “And our guardian is soldier and
 philosopher in one.” “Of course.” “It is befitting, then, Glaucon, that
 this branch of learning should be prescribed by our law and that we
 should induce those who are to share the highest functions of state

to enter upon that study of calculation and take hold
 of it, not as amateurs, but to follow it up until they attain to the
 contemplation of the nature of number, by pure thought, not for the purpose of buying and
 selling, as if they were
 preparing to be merchants or hucksters, but for the uses of war and for
 facilitating the conversion of the soul itself from the world of
 generation to essence and truth.” “Excellently said,” he replied. “And,
 further,” I said, “it occurs to me, now that
 the study of reckoning has been mentioned,

that there is something fine in it, and that it is
 useful for our purpose in many ways, provided it is pursued for the sake
 of knowledge and not for huckstering.” “In what
 respect?” he said. “Why, in respect of the very point of which we were
 speaking, that it strongly directs the soul upward and compels it to
 discourse about pure numbers, never
 acquiescing if anyone proffers to it in the discussion numbers attached
 to visible and tangible bodies. For you are doubtless aware

that experts in this study, if anyone attempts to cut
 up the ‘one’ in argument, laugh at him and refuse to allow it; but if
 you mince it up, they
 multiply, always on guard lest the one should appear to be not one but a
 multiplicity of parts. ”
 “Most true,” he replied.

“Suppose now, Glaucon, someone were to ask them, ‘My
 good friends, what numbers are these you are
 talking about, in which the one is such as you postulate, each unity
 equal to every other without the slightest difference and admitting no
 division into parts?’ What do you think would be their answer?” “This, I
 think—that they are speaking of units which can only be conceived by
 thought, and which it is not possible to deal with in any other way.”
 “You see, then, my friend,” said I, “that this branch of study really
 seems to be

indispensable for us, since it plainly compels the soul
 to employ pure thought with a view to truth itself.” “It most
 emphatically does.” “Again, have you ever noticed this, that natural
 reckoners are by nature quick in virtually all their studies? And the
 slow, if they are trained and drilled in this, even if no other benefit
 results, all improve and become quicker than they were ?” “It is so,” he said.

“And, further, as I believe, studies that demand more
 toil in the learning and practice than this we shall not discover easily
 nor find many of them. ”
 “You will not, in fact.” “Then, for all these reasons, we must not
 neglect this study, but must use it in the education of the best endowed
 natures.” “I agree,” he said. “Assuming
 this one point to be established,” I said, “let us in the second place
 consider whether the study that comes next is suited to our
 purpose.” “What is that? Do you mean geometry,” he said. “Precisely
 that,” said I. “So much of it,” he said,

“as applies to the conduct of war is obviously suitable. For in dealing with
 encampments and the occupation of strong places and the bringing of
 troops into column and line and all the other formations of an army in
 actual battle and on the march, an officer who had studied geometry
 would be a very different person from what he would be if he had not.”
 “But still,” I said, “for such purposes a slight modicum of geometry and
 calculation would suffice. What we have to consider is

whether the greater and more advanced part of it tends
 to facilitate the apprehension of the idea of good. That tendency, we affirm,
 is to be found in all studies that force the soul to turn its vision
 round to the region where dwells the most blessed part of reality, which it is imperative that it should behold.” “You are
 right,” he said. “Then if it compels the soul to contemplate essence, it
 is suitable; if genesis, it is
 not.” “So we affirm. ”

“This at least,” said I, “will not be disputed by those
 who have even a slight acquaintance with geometry, that this science is
 in direct contradiction with the language employed in it by its
 adepts. ” “How so?” he said. “Their language is most
 ludicrous, though they
 cannot help it, for they speak as if they
 were doing something and as if
 all their words were directed towards action. For all their talk is of squaring and applying and adding and the like, whereas in fact

the real object of the entire study is pure
 knowledge. ” “That is absolutely
 true,” he said. “And must we not agree on a further point?” “What?”
 “That it is the knowledge of that which always is, and not of a something which at some time comes into being
 and passes away.” “That is readily admitted,” he said, “for geometry is
 the knowledge of the eternally existent.” “Then, my good friend, it
 would tend to draw the soul to truth, and would be productive of a
 philosophic attitude of mind, directing upward the faculties that now
 wrongly are turned earthward.” “Nothing is surer,” he said.

“Then nothing is surer,” said I, “than that we must
 require that the men of your Fair City shall never neglect geometry,
 for even the by-products of such study are not slight.” “What are they?”
 said he. “What you mentioned,” said I, “its uses in war, and also we are
 aware that for the better reception of all studies there will be an immeasurable 
 difference between the student who has been imbued with geometry and the
 one who has not.” “Immense indeed, by Zeus,” he said. “Shall we, then,
 lay this down as a second branch of study for our lads?” “Let us do so,”
 he said.

“Shall we set down
 astronomy as a third, or do you dissent?” “I certainly agree,” he said;
 “for quickness of perception about the seasons and the courses of the
 months and the years is serviceable, not only
 to agriculture and navigation, but still more to the military art.” “I
 am amused, ” said I, “at your apparent fear lest
 the multitude may suppose you to be recommending
 useless studies. It is
 indeed no trifling task, but very difficult to realize that there is in
 every soul an organ or instrument of knowledge that is purified and kindled afresh

by such studies when it has been destroyed and blinded
 by our ordinary pursuits, a faculty whose preservation outweighs ten
 thousand eyes ; for by it only is reality beheld.
 Those who share this faith will think your words superlatively true. But those who have
 and have had no inkling of it will naturally think them all
 moonshine. 
 For they can see no other benefit from such pursuits worth mentioning.
 Decide, then, on the spot, to which party you address yourself.

Or are you speaking to neither, but chiefly carrying on
 the discussion for your own sake, without however judging any
 other who may be able to profit by it?” “This is the alternative I
 choose,” he said, “that it is for my own sake chiefly that I speak and
 ask questions and reply.” “Fall back a little,
 then,” said I; “for we just now did not rightly select the study that
 comes next after geometry.” “What was our mistake?” he said. “After
 plane surfaces,” said I, “we went on to solids in revolution before
 studying them in themselves.

The right way is next in order after the second
 dimension to take the third. This, I
 suppose, is the dimension of cubes and of everything that has depth.”
 “Why, yes, it is,” he said; “but this subject, Socrates, does not appear
 to have been investigated yet. ” “There are two
 causes of that,” said I: “first, inasmuch as no city holds them in
 honor, these inquiries are languidly pursued owing to their difficulty.
 And secondly, the investigators need a director, who is indispensable for
 success and who, to begin with, is not easy to find, and then, if he
 could be found, as things are now, seekers in this field would be too
 arrogant

to submit to his guidance. But if the state as a whole
 should join in superintending these studies and honor them, these
 specialists would accept advice, and continuous and strenuous
 investigation would bring out the truth. Since even now, lightly
 esteemed as they are by the multitude and hampered by the ignorance of
 their students as to the true reasons for pursuing them, they nevertheless in the
 face of all these obstacles force their way by their inherent charm

and it would not surprise us if the truth about them
 were made apparent.” “It is true,” he said, “that they do possess an
 extraordinary attractiveness and charm. But explain more clearly what
 you were just speaking of. The investigation of
 plane surfaces, I presume, you took to be geometry?” “Yes,” said I. “And
 then,” he said, “at first you took astronomy next and then you drew
 back.” “Yes,” I said, “for in my haste to be done I was making less
 speed. 
 For, while the next thing in order is the study of the
 third dimension or solids, I passed it over because of our absurd
 neglect to investigate it,
 and mentioned next after geometry astronomy,

which deals with the movements of solids.” “That is
 right,” he said. “Then, as our fourth study,” said I, “let us set down
 astronomy, assuming that this science, the discussion of which has been
 passed over, is available, provided, that is, that the state pursues
 it.” “That is likely,” said he; “and instead of the vulgar
 utilitarian commendation of astronomy,
 for which you just now rebuked me, Socrates, I now will praise it on
 your principles.

For it is obvious to everybody, I think, that this
 study certainly compels the soul to look upward and leads it away from things here to those higher
 things.” “It may be obvious to everybody except me,” said I, “for I do
 not think so.” “What do you think?” he said. “As it is now handled by
 those who are trying to lead us up to philosophy, I think that it turns the soul’s gaze very much
 downward.” “What do you mean?” he said. “You seem to me in your thought
 to put a most liberal 
 interpretation on the ‘study of higher things,’”

I said, “for apparently if anyone with back-thrown head
 should learn something by staring at decorations on a ceiling, you would
 regard him as contemplating them with the higher reason and not with the
 eyes. Perhaps
 you are right and I am a simpleton. For I, for my part, am unable to
 suppose that any other study turns the soul’s gaze upward than that which deals with being and
 the invisible. But if anyone tries to learn about the things of sense,
 whether gaping up or blinking
 down, I would never say that he really
 learns—for nothing of the kind admits of true knowledge—nor would I say
 that his soul looks up, but down,

even though he study floating on his back on sea or land.” “A fair retort, ” he said; “your rebuke is deserved. But how,
 then, did you mean that astronomy ought to be taught contrary to the
 present fashion if it is to be learned in a way to conduce to our
 purpose?” “Thus,” said I, “these sparks that paint the sky, since they
 are decorations on a visible surface, we must regard, to be sure, as the
 fairest and

most exact of material things but we must recognize
 that they fall far short of the truth, the movements, namely, of real speed and real slowness
 in true number and in all true figures both in relation to one another
 and as vehicles of the things they carry and contain. These can be
 apprehended only by reason and thought, but not by sight; or do you
 think otherwise?” “By no means,” he said. “Then,” said I, “we must use
 the blazonry of the heavens as patterns to aid in the study of those
 realities, just as

one would do who chanced upon diagrams drawn with
 special care and elaboration by Daedalus or some other craftsman or
 painter. For anyone acquainted with geometry who saw such designs would
 admit the beauty of the workmanship, but would think it absurd to
 examine them seriously in the expectation of finding in them the
 absolute truth

with regard to equals or doubles or any other ratio.”
 “How could it be otherwise than absurd?” he said. “Do you not think,”
 said I, “that one who was an astronomer in very truth would feel in the
 same way when he turned his eyes upon the movements of the stars? He
 will be willing to concede that the artisan of heaven fashioned it and all
 that it contains in the best possible manner for such a fabric; but when
 it comes to the proportions of day and night, and of their relation to
 the month, and that of the month to the year, and

of the other stars to these and one another, do you not
 suppose that he will regard as a very strange fellow the man who
 believes that these things go on for ever without change 
 or the least deviation —though they
 possess bodies and are visible objects—and that his unremitting
 quest the realities of these
 things?” “I at least do think so,” he said, “now that I hear it from
 you.” “It is by means of problems, then,” said I, “as in the study
 of geometry, that we will pursue astronomy too, and

we will let be the things in the heavens, if we are to have a part in the
 true science of astronomy and so convert to right use from uselessness
 that natural indwelling intelligence of the soul.” “You enjoin a task,”
 he said, “that will multiply the labor of our present study of astronomy many
 times.” “And I fancy,” I said, “that our other injunctions will be of
 the same kind if we are of any use as lawgivers. “However, what suitable studies have you to suggest?”
 “Nothing,” he said, “thus off-hand.” “Yet, surely,” said I, “motion in general
 provides not one but many forms or species,

according to my opinion. To enumerate them all will
 perhaps be the task of a wise man, but even to us two of them are
 apparent.” “What are they?” “In addition to astronomy, its counterpart,
 I replied.” “What is that?” “We may venture to suppose,” I said, “that
 as the eyes are framed for astronomy so the ears are framed, for the
 movements of harmony; and these are in some sort kindred sciences, as the Pythagoreans affirm and we
 admit, do we not, Glaucon?” “We do,”
 he said.

“Then,” said I, since the task is, so great, shall we
 not inquire of them what their opinion is and whether they have anything to
 add? And we in all this will be on
 the watch for what concerns us.” “What is that?” “To prevent our
 fosterlings from attempting to learn anything that does not conduce to
 the end we have in view, and does not always come out
 at what we said ought to be the goal of everything, as we were just now
 saying about astronomy.

Or do you not know that they repeat the same procedure
 in the case of harmonies ? They transfer it to hearing and measure
 audible concords and sounds against one another, expending much useless labor
 just as the astronomers do.” “Yes, by heaven,” he said, “and most
 absurdly too. They talk of something they call minims and, laying their ears alongside, as if
 trying to catch a voice from next door, some affirm that they can
 hear a note between and that this is the least interval and the unit of
 measurement, while others insist that the strings now render identical
 sounds,

both preferring their ears to their minds. ” “You,” said I, “are speaking of the
 worthies who vex and
 torture the strings and rack them on the pegs;
 but—not to draw out the comparison with strokes of the plectrum and the
 musician’s complaints of too responsive and too reluctant strings —I drop the
 figure, and tell you that I do not mean these
 people, but those others whom we just now said we would
 interrogate about harmony.

Their method exactly corresponds to that of the
 astronomer; for the numbers they seek are those found in these heard
 concords, but they do not ascend to generalized problems and the consideration which
 numbers are inherently concordant and which not and why in each case.”
 “A superhuman task,” he said. “Say, rather, useful, said I,
 for the investigation of the beautiful and the good, but if otherwise pursued, useless.” “That is likely,”
 he said. “And what is more,” I said, I
 take it that if the investigation

of all these studies goes far enough to bring out their
 community and kinship 
 with one another, and to infer their affinities, then to busy ourselves
 with them contributes to our desired end, and the labor taken is not
 lost; but otherwise it is vain.” “I too so surmise,” said he; “but it is
 a huge task of which you speak, Socrates.” “Are you talking about the
 prelude, ” I
 said, “or what? Or do we not know that all this is but the preamble of
 the law itself, the prelude of the strain that we have to apprehend? For
 you surely do not suppose that experts in these matters are
 reasoners

and dialecticians ? “ “No, by Zeus,” he said,
 “except a very few whom I have met.” “But have you ever supposed,” I
 said, “that men who could not render and exact an account of opinions in
 discussion would ever know anything of the things we say must be known?”

“‘No’ is surely the answer to that too.” “This, then,
 at last, Glaucon,” I said, “is the very law which dialectics recites, the strain which it
 executes, of which, though it belongs to the intelligible, we may see an
 imitation in the progress of the faculty of vision, as we described its
 endeavor to look at living things themselves and the stars themselves
 and finally at the very sun. In like manner, when anyone by dialectics
 attempts through discourse of reason and apart from all perceptions of
 sense to find his way to the very essence of
 each thing and does not desist

till he apprehends by thought itself the nature of the
 good in itself, he arrives at the limit of the intelligible, as the
 other in our parable, came to the goal of the visible.” “By all means,”
 he said. “What, then, will you not call this progress of thought
 dialectic?” “Surely.” “And the release from bonds,” I said, “and the
 conversion from the shadows to the images that cast them and to the light
 and the ascent from the subterranean cavern to the world above, and
 there the persisting inability to look directly at animals and plants and
 the light of the sun,

but the ability to see the phantasms created by
 God in water and
 shadows of objects that are real and not merely, as before, the shadows
 of images cast through a light which, compared with the sun, is as
 unreal as they—all this procedure of the arts and sciences that we have
 described indicates their power to lead the best part of the soul up to
 the contemplation of what is best among realities, as in our parable the
 clearest organ in the body was turned to the contemplation of what is
 brightest

in the corporeal and visible region.” “I accept this,”
 he said, “as the truth; and yet it appears to me very hard to accept,
 and again, from another point of view, hard to reject. Nevertheless, since
 we have not to hear it at this time only, but are to repeat it often
 hereafter, let us assume that these things are as now has been said, and
 proceed to the melody itself, and go through with it as we have gone
 through the prelude. Tell me, then, what is the nature of this faculty
 of dialectic?

Into what divisions does it fall? And what are its
 ways? For it is these, it seems, that would bring us to the place where
 we may, so to speak, rest on the road and then come to the end of our
 journeying.”

“You will not be able, dear Glaucon, to follow me
 further, though on my
 part there will be no lack of goodwill. And, if I could, I
 would show you, no longer an image and symbol of my meaning, but the
 very truth, as it appears to me—though whether rightly or not I may not
 properly affirm. But that something like this is what we have to see, I
 must affirm. Is not that so?” “Surely.” “And may we not also declare
 that nothing less than the power of dialectics could reveal this, and that only to one
 experienced 
 in the studies we have described, and that the thing is in no other wise
 possible?” “That, too,” he said, “we may properly affirm.” “This, at any
 rate,” said I, “no one will maintain in dispute against us :

that there is any other way of inquiry that attempts
 systematically and in all cases to determine what each thing really is.
 But all the other arts have for their object the opinions and desires of
 men or are wholly concerned with generation and composition or with the
 service and tendance of the things that grow and are put together, while
 the remnant which we said did in some sort lay
 hold on reality—geometry and the studies that accompany it—

are, as we see, dreaming about being, but the clear waking vision 
 of it is impossible for them as long as they leave the assumptions which
 they employ undisturbed and cannot give any account of them. For
 where the starting-point is something that the reasoner does not know,
 and the conclusion and all that intervenes is a tissue of things not
 really known, what possibility is
 there that assent in such cases
 can ever be converted into true knowledge or science?” “None,” said
 he. “Then,” said I, “is not dialectics
 the only process of inquiry that advances in this manner, doing away
 with hypotheses, up to the first principle itself in order to find
 confirmation there? And it is literally true that when the eye of the
 soul is sunk

in the barbaric slough of the Orphic myth, dialectic gently draws it forth and
 leads it up, employing as helpers and co-operators in this conversion
 the studies and sciences which we enumerated, which we called sciences
 often from habit, 
 though they really need some other designation, connoting more clearness
 than opinion and more obscurity than science. ‘Understanding,’ I believe, was the term we employed. But I
 presume we shall not dispute about the name

when things of such moment lie before us for
 consideration.” “No, indeed,” he said. * * *“Are you
 satisfied, then,” said I, “as before, to call the first division
 science,

the second understanding, the third belief, and the fourth conjecture or
 picture-thought—and the last two collectively opinion, and the first two
 intellection, opinion dealing with generation and intellection with
 essence, and this relation being expressed in the proportion : as essence is to generation, so is intellection
 to opinion; and as intellection is to opinion, so is science to belief,
 and understanding to image-thinking or surmise? But the relation between
 their objective correlates and the division
 into two parts of each of these, the opinable, namely, and the
 intelligible, let us dismiss, Glaucon, lest it involve
 us in discussion many times as long as the preceding.”

“Well,” he said, “I agree with you about the rest of
 it, so far as I am able to follow.” “And do you not also give the name
 dialectician to the man who is able to exact an account of the essence of each thing? And will you not
 say that the one who is unable to do this, in so far as he is incapable
 of rendering an account to himself and others, does not possess full
 reason and intelligence about the
 matter?” “How could I say that he does?” he replied. “And is not this
 true of the good likewise —that the man who is unable to define in his discourse
 and distinguish and abstract from all other things the aspect or idea of
 the good,

and who cannot, as it were in battle, running the
 gauntlet of all tests, and striving to
 examine everything by essential reality and not by opinion, hold on his
 way through all this without tripping in his reasoning—the man who lacks this power,
 you will say, does not really know the good itself or any particular
 good; but if he apprehends any adumbration of
 it, his contact with it is by opinion, not by knowledge; and dreaming
 and dozing through his present life, before he awakens here

he will arrive at the house of Hades and fall asleep
 for ever? ” “Yes, by Zeus,” said he,
 “all this I will stoutly affirm.” “But, surely,” said I, “if you should
 ever nurture in fact your children whom you are now nurturing and educating
 in word, you would not
 suffer them, I presume, to hold rule in the state, and determine the
 greatest matters, being themselves as irrational as the lines so called in geometry.” “Why, no,”
 he said. “Then you will provide by law that they shall give special heed
 to the discipline that will enable them to ask and answer questions in the most
 scientific manner?”

“I will so legislate,” he said, “in conjunction with
 you.” “Do you agree, then,” said I, “that we have set dialectics above
 all other studies to be as it were the coping-stone —and that no other higher kind of study could rightly be
 placed above it,

but that our discussion of studies is now complete ”
 “I do,” he said. “The distribution, then,
 remains,” said I, “to whom we are to assign these studies and in what
 way.” “Clearly,” he said. “Do you remember, then, the kind of man we
 chose in our former selection of
 rulers?” “Of course,” he said. “In most respects, then,” said I, “you
 must suppose that we have to choose those same natures. The most stable,
 the most brave and enterprising are to be preferred, and,
 so far as practicable, the most comely. But in addition

we must now require that they not only be virile and
 vigorous in temper, but that they
 possess also the gifts of nature suitable to this type of education.”
 “What qualities are you distinguishing?” “They must have, my friend, to
 begin with, a certain keenness for study, and must not learn with
 difficulty. For souls are much more likely to flinch and faint in severe studies than in
 gymnastics, because the toil touches them more nearly, being peculiar to
 them and not shared with the body.” “True,” he said. “And

we must demand a good memory and doggedness and
 industry in every
 sense of the word. Otherwise how do you suppose anyone will consent both
 to undergo all the toils of the body and to complete so great a course
 of study and discipline?” “No one could,” he said, “unless most happily
 endowed.” “Our present mistake,” said I, “and the disesteem that has in
 consequence fallen upon philosophy are, as I said before, caused by the unfitness of her associates and wooers.
 They should not have been bastards but true scions.” “What do you mean?” he said.
 “In the first place,”

I said, “the aspirant to philosophy must not limp in
 his industry, in the one half of him loving, in the other shunning,
 toil. This happens when anyone is a lover of gymnastics and hunting and
 all the labors of the body, yet is not fond of learning or of
 listening or inquiring, but in all such
 matters hates work. And he too is lame whose industry is one-sided in
 the reverse way.” “Most true,” he said. “Likewise in respect of truth,”
 I said, “we shall regard as maimed

in precisely the same way the soul that hates the
 voluntary lie and is troubled by it in its own self and greatly angered
 by it in others, but cheerfully accepts the involuntary falsehood and is not distressed when convicted of lack of
 knowledge, but wallows in the mud of ignorance as insensitively as a
 pig. ”

“By all means,” he said. “And with reference to
 sobriety,” said I, “and bravery and loftiness of soul and all the
 parts of virtue, we must
 especially be on our guard to distinguish the base-born from the
 true-born. For when the knowledge necessary to make such discriminations
 is lacking in individual or state, they unawares employ at random for any of these purposes
 the crippled and base-born natures, as their friends or rulers.” “It is
 so indeed,” he said. “But we,” I said, “must be on our guard in all such
 cases,

since, if we bring men sound of limb and mind to so
 great a study and so severe a training, justice herself will have no
 fault to find with
 us, and we shall preserve the state and our polity. But, if we introduce
 into it the other sort, the outcome will be just the opposite, and we
 shall pour a still greater flood of ridicule upon
 philosophy.” “That would indeed be shameful,” he said. “Most certainly,”
 said I: “but here again I am making myself a little ridiculous.” “In
 what way?”

“I forgot,” said I, “that we were jesting, and I
 spoke with too great intensity. For, while speaking,
 I turned my eyes upon philosophy, and when I saw how she is undeservedly reviled, I
 was revolted, and, as if in anger, spoke too earnestly to those who are
 in fault.” “No, by Zeus, not too earnestly for me as a hearer.” “But too
 much so for me as a speaker,” I said. “But this we must not forget, that
 in our former selection we chose old men, but in this one that will not
 do. For we must not take Solon’s word for it

that growing old a man is able to learn many things. He
 is less able to do that than to run a race. To the young 
 belong all heavy and frequent labors.” “Necessarily,” he said. “Now, all this study of reckoning and geometry
 and all the preliminary studies that are indispensable preparation for
 dialectics must be presented to them while still young, not in the form
 of compulsory instruction. ” “Why so?” “Because,” said I,

“a free soul ought not to pursue any study slavishly;
 for while bodily labors 
 performed under constraint do not harm the body, nothing that is learned
 under compulsion stays with the mind.” “True,” he said. “Do not, then,
 my friend, keep children to their studies by compulsion

but by play. That will also better enable you to discern the
 natural capacities of each.” “There is reason in that,” he said. “And do
 you not remember,” I said, “that we also declared 
 that we must conduct the children to war on horseback to be spectators,
 and wherever it may be safe, bring them to the front and give them a
 taste of blood as we do with whelps?” “I do remember.” “And those who as
 time goes on show the most facility in all these toils and studies and
 alarms are to be selected and enrolled on a list. ”

“At what age?” he said. “When they are released from
 their prescribed gymnastics. For that period, whether it be two or three
 years, incapacitates them for other occupations. For great fatigue and much sleep are
 the foes of study, and moreover one of our tests of them, and not the
 least, will be their behavior in their physical exercises. ” “Surely it is,” he said.
 “After this period,” I said, “those who are given preference from the
 twenty-year class will receive greater honors than the others,

and they will be required to gather the studies which
 they disconnectedly pursued as children in their former education into a
 comprehensive survey of their affinities with one another and with the
 nature of things.” “That, at any rate, he said, is the only instruction
 that abides with those who receive it.” “And it is also,” said I, “the
 chief test of the dialectical nature and its opposite. For he who can
 view things in their connection is a dialectician; he who cannot, is
 not.” “I concur,” he said. “With these qualities in mind,” I
 said,

“it will be your task to make a selection of those who
 manifest them best from the group who are steadfast in their studies and
 in war and in all lawful requirements, and when they have passed the
 thirtieth year to promote them, by a second selection from those
 preferred in the first, to still greater honors, and to prove and test them by
 the power of dialectic to see
 which of them is able to disregard the eyes and other senses and go on to being itself in
 company with truth. And at this point, my friend, the greatest care is requisite.” “How so?” he
 said. “Do you not note,”

said I, “how great is the harm caused by our present
 treatment of dialectics?” “What is that?” he said. “Its practitioners
 are infected with lawlessness. ” “They are indeed.” “Do
 you suppose,” I said, “that there is anything surprising in this state
 of mind, and do you not think it pardonable ?” “In what way, pray?” he said. “Their case,” said I,
 “resembles that of a supposititious son reared in abundant wealth and a
 great and numerous family

amid many flatterers, who on arriving at manhood should
 become aware that he is not the child of those who call themselves his
 parents, and should I not be able to find his true father and mother.
 Can you divine what would be his feelings towards the flatterers and his
 supposed parents in the time when he did not know the truth about his
 adoption, and, again, when he knew it? Or would you like to hear my
 surmise?” “I would.” “Well, then, my
 surmise is,” I said, “that he would be more likely to honor

his reputed father and mother and other kin than the
 flatterers, and that there would be less likelihood of his allowing them
 to lack for anything, and that he would be less inclined to do or say to
 them anything unlawful, and less liable to disobey them in great matters
 than to disobey the flatterers—during the time when he did not know the
 truth.” “It is probable,” he said. “But when he found out the truth, I
 surmise that he would grow more remiss in honor and devotion to them and
 pay more regard to the flatterers, whom he would heed

more than before and
 would henceforth live by their rule, associating with them openly, while
 for that former father and his adoptive kin he would not care at all,
 unless he was naturally of a very good disposition.” “All that you say,”
 he replied, “would be likely to happen. But what is
 the pertinency of this comparison to the novices of dialectic ?” “It is this. We
 have, I take it, certain convictions from childhood about the just and the honorable, in which,
 in obedience and honor to them, we have been bred as children under
 their parents.”

“Yes, we have.” “And are there not other practices
 going counter to these, that have pleasures attached to them and that
 flatter and solicit our souls, but do not win over men of any decency;
 but they continue to hold in honor the teachings of their fathers and
 obey them?” “It is so” “Well, then,” said I, “when a man of this kind is
 met by the question, ‘What is the honorable?’ and on his giving the answer
 which he learned from the lawgiver, the argument confutes him, and by
 many and various refutations upsets his faith

and makes him believe that this thing is no more
 honorable than it is base, and
 when he has had the same experience about the just and the good and
 everything that he chiefly held in esteem, how do you suppose that he
 will conduct himself thereafter in the matter of respect and obedience
 to this traditional morality?” “It is inevitable,” he said, “that he
 will not continue to honor and obey as before.” “And then,” said I,
 “when he ceases to honor these principles and to think that they are
 binding on him, and cannot discover the true
 principles,

will he be likely to adopt any other way of life than
 that which flatters his desires ?” “He will not,” he said. “He will, then, seem to
 have become a rebel to law and convention instead of the conformer that
 he was.” “Necessarily.” “And is not this experience of those who take up
 dialectics in this fashion to be expected and, as I just now said,
 deserving of much leniency?” “Yes, and of pity too,” he said. “Then that
 we may not have to pity thus your thirty-year-old disciples, must you
 not take every precaution when you introduce them to the study of
 dialectics?” “Yes, indeed,” he said. “And is it not

one chief safeguard not to suffer them to taste of it
 while young? For I fancy you have not failed to observe
 that lads, when they first get a taste of disputation, misuse it as a
 form of sport, always employing it contentiously, and, imitating
 confuters, they themselves confute others. They delight like spies in pulling about and tearing
 with words all who approach them.” “Exceedingly so,” he said. “And when
 they have themselves confuted many and been confuted by many,

they quickly fall into a violent distrust of all that
 they formerly held true; and the outcome is that they themselves and the
 whole business of philosophy are discredited with other men.” “Most
 true,” he said. “But an older man will not share this craze, ” said I, “but rather choose to imitate the one who
 consents to examine truth dialectically than the one who makes a
 jest 
 and a sport of mere contradiction,

and so he will himself be more reasonable and moderate,
 and bring credit rather than discredit upon his pursuit.” “Right,” he
 said. “And were not all our preceding statements made with a view to
 this precaution our requirement that those permitted to take part in
 such discussions must have orderly and stable natures, instead of the
 present practice of admitting to
 it any chance and unsuitable applicant?” “By all means,” he
 said. “Is it enough, then, to devote
 to the continuous and strenuous study of dialectics undisturbed by
 anything else, as in the corresponding discipline in bodily
 exercises,

twice as many years as were allotted to that?” “Do you
 mean six or four?” he said. “Well,” I said, “set it down as five. For after that you
 will have to send them down into the cave 
 again, and compel them to hold commands in war and the other offices
 suitable to youth, so that they may not fall short of the other type in
 experience either. And in these offices, too, they are to be
 tested to see whether they will remain steadfast under diverse
 solicitations

or whether they will flinch and swerve. ” “How much time do you
 allow for that?” he said. “Fifteen years,” said I, “and at the age of
 fifty those who
 have survived the tests and approved themselves altogether the best in
 every task and form of knowledge must be brought at last to the goal. We
 shall require them to turn upwards the vision of their souls and fix their gaze on that which sheds
 light on all, and when they have thus beheld the good itself they shall
 use it as a pattern for the right ordering of
 the state and the citizens and themselves

throughout the remainder of their lives, each in his
 turn, devoting the greater part of their time to the study of
 philosophy, but when the turn comes for each, toiling in the service of
 the state and holding office for the city’s sake, regarding the task not
 as a fine thing but a necessity ; and so, when each
 generation has educated others like themselves to take their
 place as guardians of the state, they shall depart to the Islands of the
 Blest and there dwell.
 And the state shall establish public memorials

and sacrifices for them as to divinities if the Pythian
 oracle approves 
 or, if not, as to divine and godlike men. ” “A most beautiful finish, Socrates, you have put upon
 your rulers, as if you were a statuary. ” “And on the women too, Glaucon,” said I; “for you must not suppose
 that my words apply to the men more than to all women who arise among
 them endowed with the requisite qualities.” “That is right,” he said,
 “if they are to share equally in all things with the men as we laid it
 down.”

“Well, then,” said I, “do you admit that our notion of
 the state and its polity is not altogether a daydream, but that though it is difficult, it is in a way
 possible and in no other way than
 that described—when genuine philosophers, many or
 one, becoming masters of the state scorn the
 present honors, regarding them as illiberal and worthless, but prize the
 right

and the honors that come from that above all things,
 and regarding justice as the chief and the one indispensable thing, in
 the service and maintenance of that reorganize and administer their
 city?” “In what way?” he said. “All inhabitants above the age of ten,” I
 said,

“they will send out into the fields, and they will take
 over the children, remove them from the manners and
 habits of their parents, and bring them up in their own customs and laws
 which will be such as we have described. This is the speediest and
 easiest way in which such a city and constitution as we have portrayed
 could be established and prosper and bring most benefit to the people

among whom it arises.” “Much the easiest,” he said,
 “and I think you have well explained the manner of its realization if it
 should ever be realized.” “Then,” said I, “have we not now said
 enough about this state and the corresponding type of man—for it
 is evident what our conception of him will be?” “It is evident,” he
 said, “and, to answer your question, I think we have finished.”

“Very good. We are
 agreed then, Glaucon, that the state which is to achieve the height of
 good government must have community of wives and children and all
 education, and also that the pursuits of men and women must be the same
 in peace and war, and that the rulers or kings 
 over them are to be those who have
 approved themselves the best in both war and philosophy.” “We are
 agreed,” he said. “And we further granted this,

that when the rulers are established in office they
 shall conduct these soldiers and settle them in habitations 
 such as we described, that have nothing private for anybody but are
 common for all, and in addition to such habitations we agreed, if you
 remember, what should be the nature of their possessions. ”
 “Why, yes, I remember,” he said, “that we thought it right that none of
 them should have anything that ordinary men now possess, but
 that, being as it were athletes

of war and guardians, they should receive from the
 others as pay for their guardianship each year their yearly
 sustenance, and devote their entire attention to the care of themselves
 and the state.” “That is right,” I said. “But now that we have finished
 this topic let us recall the point at which we entered on the
 digression that has brought us here, so
 that we may proceed on our way again by the same path.” “That is easy,”
 he said; “for at that time, almost exactly as now, on the supposition
 that you had finished the description of the city, you were going on to
 say that you assumed such a city

as you then described and the corresponding type of man
 to be good, and that too though, as it appears, you had a still finer
 city and type of man to tell of;

but at any rate you were saying that the others are
 aberrations, if this city is right. But regarding the other
 constitutions, my recollection is that you said there were four
 species worth speaking of and observing their
 defects and the
 corresponding types of men, in order that when we had seen them all and
 come to an agreement about the best and the worst man, we might
 determine whether the best is the happiest and the worst most wretched
 or whether it is otherwise. And when I was asking what were

the four constitutions you had in mind, Polemarchus and
 Adeimantus thereupon broke in, and that was how you took up the
 discussion again and brought to this point. ” “Your memory is most exact,” I said. “A second time then, as
 in a wrestling-match, offer me the same hold, and when I repeat my question try to tell me what you
 were then about to say.” “I will if I can,” said I. “And indeed,” said
 he, “I am eager myself to hear what four forms of government you meant.”

“There will be no difficulty about that,” said I. “For
 those I mean are precisely those that have names in common usage:
 that which the many praised, your 
 Cretan and Spartan constitution; and the second in place and in honor,
 that which is called oligarchy, a constitution teeming with many ills,
 and its sequent counterpart and opponent, democracy ; and then the
 noble tyranny surpassing them all,
 the fourth and final malady of a state.

Can you mention any other type of government, I
 mean any other that constitutes a distinct species ? For, no doubt, there are hereditary principalities 
 and purchased kingships, and
 similar intermediate constitutions which one could find in even greater
 numbers among the barbarians than among the Greeks. ”
 “Certainly many strange ones are reported,” he said. “Are you aware, then,” said I, “that there must be as
 many types of character among men as there are forms of government ? Or do you suppose that
 constitutions spring from the proverbial oak or rock and
 not from the characters of the
 citizens,

which, as it were, by their momentum and weight in the
 scales draw other things after
 them?” “They could not possibly come from any other source,” he said.
 “Then if the forms of government are five, the patterns of individual
 souls must be five also.” “Surely.” “Now we have already described the
 man corresponding to aristocracy or the government of the
 best, whom we aver to be the truly good and just man.”

“We have.” “Must we not, then, next after this, survey
 the inferior types, the man who is contentious and covetous of
 honor, 
 corresponding to the Laconian constitution, and the oligarchical man in
 turn, and the democratic and the tyrant, in order that, after observing the most unjust of all, we may
 oppose him to the most just, and complete our inquiry as to the relation
 of pure justice and pure injustice in respect of the happiness and
 unhappiness of the possessor, so that we may either follow the counsel
 of Thrasymachus and pursue injustice

or the present argument and pursue justice?”
 “Assuredly,” he said, “that is what we have to do. ” “Shall we,
 then, as we began by examining moral qualities in states before
 individuals, as being more manifest there, so now consider first the
 constitution based on the love of honor? I do not know of any special
 name for it in use. We must call it either
 timocracy or timarchy. And
 then in connection with this

we will consider the man of that type, and thereafter
 oligarchy and the oligarch, and again, fixing our eyes on democracy, we
 will contemplate the democratic man: and fourthly, after coming to the
 city ruled by a tyrant and observing it, we will in turn take a look
 into the tyrannical soul, and so try to make ourselves
 competent judges of the question before us.” “That would be at
 least a systematic and consistent way of
 conducting the observation and the decision,” he said. “Come, then,” said I, “let us try to tell in what way a
 timocracy would arise out of an aristocracy.

Or is this the simple and unvarying rule, that in every
 form of government revolution takes its start from the ruling class
 itself, when dissension arises in that, but so long as it is
 at one with itself, however small it be, innovation is impossible?”
 “Yes, that is so.” “How, then, Glaucon,” I said, “will disturbance arise
 in our city, and how will our helpers and rulers fall out and be at odds
 with one another and themselves? Shall we, like Homer, invoke the
 Muses to tell ‘how faction first fell upon
 them,’ 
 Hom. Il.
 1.6

and say that these goddesses playing with us and
 teasing us as if we were children address us in lofty, mock-serious
 tragic style?”

“How?” “Somewhat in this fashion. Hard in truth it is for a state thus constituted to
 be shaken and disturbed; but since for everything that has come into
 being destruction is appointed, not even such a fabric as this will
 abide for all time, but it shall surely be dissolved, and this is the
 manner of its dissolution. Not only for plants that grow from the earth
 but also for animals that live upon it there is a cycle of bearing and
 barrenness for
 soul and body as often as the revolutions of their orbs come full
 circle, in brief courses for the short-lived and oppositely for the
 opposite; but the laws of prosperous birth or infertility for your
 race,

the men you have bred to be your rulers will not for
 all their wisdom ascertain by reasoning combined with sensation, but they will escape them, and
 there will be a time when they will beget children out of season. Now
 for divine begettings there is a period comprehended by a perfect
 number, and for mortal by the first in
 which augmentations dominating and dominated when they have attained to
 three distances and four limits of the assimilating and the
 dissimilating, the waxing and the waning, render all things
 conversable and commensurable

with one another, whereof a basal four-thirds wedded to
 the pempad yields two harmonies at the third augmentation, the one the
 product of equal factors taken one hundred times, the other of equal
 length one way but oblong,—one dimension of a hundred numbers determined
 by the rational diameters of the pempad lacking one in each case, or of
 the irrational lacking two; the other dimension of a
 hundred cubes of the triad. And this entire geometrical number is
 determinative of this thing, of better and inferior births.

And when your guardians, missing this, bring together
 brides and bridegrooms unseasonably, the offspring will not be
 well-born or fortunate. Of such offspring the previous generation will
 establish the best, to be sure, in office, but still these, being
 unworthy, and having entered in turn into the powers of their
 fathers, will first as guardians begin to neglect us, paying too little
 heed to music and then to gymnastics, so that our young men
 will deteriorate in their culture; and the rulers selected from
 them

will not approve themselves very efficient guardians
 for testing

Hesiod’s and our races of gold, silver, bronze and
 iron. And this intermixture of the iron with the silver and
 the bronze with the gold will engender unlikeness and an unharmonious unevenness, things that always beget
 war and enmity wherever they arise. ‘Of
 this lineage, look you,’ 
 Hom. Il. 6.211 we must aver the dissension to
 be, wherever it occurs and always.” “‘And rightly too,’” he said, “we
 shall affirm that the Muses answer.” “They must needs,” I said, “since
 they are Muses.”

“Well, then,” said he, “what do the Muses say next?”
 “When strife arose,” said I, “the two groups were pulling against each
 other, the iron and bronze towards money-making and the acquisition of
 land and houses and gold and silver, and the other two, the golden and
 silvern, not being poor, but by nature rich in their souls, were trying to draw them
 back to virtue and their original constitution, and thus, striving and
 contending against one another, they compromised on the plan of distributing and taking for themselves the
 land and the houses,

enslaving and subjecting as perioeci and serfs their former
 friends and supporters, of whose freedom they had been the
 guardians, and occupying themselves with war and keeping watch over
 these subjects.” “I think,” he said, “that this is the starting-point of
 the transformation.” “Would not this polity, then,” said I, “be in some
 sort intermediate between aristocracy and oligarchy ?” “By all
 means.” “By this change, then, it
 would arise. But after the change

what will be its way of life? Is it not obvious that in
 some things it will imitate the preceding polity, in some the oligarchy,
 since it is intermediate, and that it will also have some qualities
 peculiar to itself?” “That is so,” he said. “Then in honoring its rulers
 and in the abstention of its warrior class from farming 
 and handicraft and money-making in general, and in the provision of
 common public tables and the devotion to physical training and expertness in
 the game and contest of war—in all these traits it will copy the
 preceding state?” “Yes.” “But in its fear

to admit clever men to office, since the men it has of
 this kind are no longer simple and strenuous but of
 mixed strain, and in its inclining rather to the more high-spirited and
 simple-minded type, who are better suited for war

than for peace, and in honoring the stratagems and
 contrivances of war and occupying itself with war most of the time—in
 these respects for the most part its qualities will be peculiar to
 itself?” “Yes.” “Such men,” said I, “will be avid of wealth, like those
 in an oligarchy, and will cherish a fierce secret lust for gold and silver, owning storehouses and private
 treasuries where they may hide them away, and also the enclosures 
 of their homes, literal private love-nests in which they
 can lavish their wealth on their women

and any others they please with great expenditure.”
 “Most true,” he said. “And will they not be stingy about money, since
 they prize it and are not allowed to possess it openly, prodigal of
 others’ wealth because of their appetites,
 enjoying their pleasures stealthily,
 and running away from the law as boys from a father, 
 since they have not been educated by persuasion but by force
 because of their neglect of the true Muse, the companion of discussion
 and philosophy,

and because of their preference of gymnastics to
 music?” “You perfectly describe,” he said, “a polity that is a
 mixture of good and evil.” “Why, yes,
 the elements have been mixed,” I said, “but the most conspicuous feature in it
 is one thing only, due to the predominance of the high-spirited element,
 namely contentiousness and covetousness of honor. ” “Very much so,” said he. “Such, then, would be
 the origin and nature of this polity if we may merely outline the figure

of a constitution in words and not elaborate it
 precisely, since even the sketch will suffice to show us the most just
 and the most unjust type of man, and it would be an impracticable task
 to set forth all forms of
 government without omitting any, and all customs and qualities of men.”
 “Quite right,” he said. “What, then, is
 the man that corresponds to this constitution? What is his origin and
 what his nature?” “I fancy,” Adeimantus said, “that he comes rather
 close to Glaucon here

in point of contentiousness.” “Perhaps,” said I, “in
 that, but I do not think their natures are alike in the following
 respects.” “In what?” “He will have to be somewhat self-willed and lacking in culture, yet a lover of music and fond of
 listening to talk and
 speeches, though by no means himself a rhetorician;

and to slaves such a one would be harsh, 
 not scorning them as the really educated do, but he would be gentle with
 the freeborn and very submissive to officials, a lover of office and of
 honor, not
 basing his claim to office on
 ability to speak or anything of that sort but on his exploits in war or
 preparation for war, and he would be a devotee of gymnastics and
 hunting. ” “Why, yes,” he said, “that is the spirit of
 that polity. ” “And would not such a
 man

be disdainful of wealth too in his youth, but the older
 he grew the more he would love it because of his participation in the
 covetous nature and because his virtue is not sincere and pure since it
 lacks the best guardian?” “What guardian?” said Adeimantus. “Reason,”
 said I, “blended with culture, which is
 the only indwelling preserver of virtue throughout life in the soul that
 possesses it.” “Well said,” he replied. “This is the character,” I said,
 “of the timocratic youth, resembling the city that bears his name.” “By
 all means.”

“His origin is
 somewhat on this wise: Sometimes he is the young son of a good father
 who lives in a badly governed state and avoids honors and office and
 law-suits and all such meddlesomeness and is willing to
 forbear something of his rights in order to escape
 trouble. ” “How does he originate?” he said. “Why, when, to begin
 with,” I said, “he hears his mother complaining

that her husband is not one of the rulers and for that
 reason she is slighted among the other women, and when she sees that her
 husband is not much concerned about money and does not fight and brawl
 in private lawsuits and in the public assembly, but takes all such
 matters lightly, and when she observes that he is self-absorbed in his thoughts and neither regards nor disregards her
 overmuch, and in consequence of all this
 laments and tells the boy that his father is too slack and no kind of a man, with all the other complaints

with which women nag in such cases.” “Many
 indeed,” said Adeimantus, “and after their kind. ” “You are aware, then,” said I, “that
 the very house-slaves of such men, if they are loyal and friendly,
 privately say the same sort of things to the sons, and if they observe a
 debtor or any other wrongdoer whom the father does not prosecute, they
 urge the boy to punish all such when he grows to manhood

and prove himself more of a man than his father, and
 when the lad goes out he hears and sees the same sort of thing. Men who mind their own
 affairs in the city are spoken of as simpletons and are held
 in slight esteem, while meddlers who mind other people’s affairs are
 honored and praised. Then it is that the youth, hearing
 and seeing such things, and on the other hand listening to the words of
 his father, and with a near view of his pursuits contrasted with those
 of other men, is solicited by both, his father

watering and fostering the growth of the rational
 principle in his soul and the others
 the appetitive and the passionate ; and as he is not by nature of
 a bad disposition but has fallen into evil communications, under these two solicitations he comes
 to a compromise and turns over the government in his
 soul to the intermediate principle of ambition and
 high spirit and becomes a man haughty of soul and covetous of honor. ” “You have, I think, most exactly described his origin.”

“Then,” said I, “we have our second polity and second
 type of man.” “We have,” he said. “Shall
 we then, as Aeschylus: would say, ‘tell
 of another champion before another gate,’ 
 Aesch. Seven 451 
 or rather, in accordance with our
 plan, the city first?”
 “That, by all means,” he said. “The next polity, I believe, would be
 oligarchy.” “And what kind of a regime,” said he, “do you understand by
 oligarchy?” “That based on a property qualification, ” said I,
 “wherein the rich hold office

and the poor man is excluded.” “I understand,” said he.
 “Then, is not the first thing to speak of how democracy passes over into
 this?” “Yes.” “And truly,” said I, “the manner of the change is plain
 even to the proverbial blind man. ”
 “How so?” “That treasure-house which each possesses
 filled with gold destroys that polity; for first they invent ways of
 expenditure for themselves and pervert the laws to this end,

and neither they nor their wives obey them.” “That is
 likely,” he said. “And then, I take it, by observing and emulating one
 another they bring the majority of them to this way of thinking.” “That
 is likely,” he said. “And so, as time goes on, and they advance in the pursuit of
 wealth, the more they hold that in honor the less they honor virtue. May
 not the opposition of wealth and virtue be conceived as if
 each lay in the scale of a
 balance inclining opposite ways?” “Yes, indeed,” he said. “So, when
 wealth is honored

in a state, and the wealthy, virtue and the good are
 less honored.” “Obviously.” “And that which men at any time honor they
 practise, and what is not honored is neglected.” “It is so.” “Thus,
 finally, from being lovers of victory and lovers of honor they become
 lovers of gain-getting and of money, and they commend and admire the
 rich man and put him in office but despise the man who is poor.” “Quite
 so.” “And is it not then that they pass a law

defining the limits of an oligarchical
 polity, prescribing a sum of money, a larger sum where it
 is more of an oligarchy, where
 it is less a smaller, and proclaiming that no man shall hold office
 whose property does not come up to the required valuation? And this law
 they either put through by force of arms, or without resorting to that
 they establish their government by terrorization. Is not that the
 way of it?” “It is.” “The establishment then, one may say, is in this
 wise.” “Yes,” he said, “but what is the character of this constitution,
 and what are the defects that we said

it had?” “To begin with,”
 said I, “consider the nature of its constitutive and defining principle.
 Suppose men should appoint the pilots of ships in this way, by
 property qualification, and not allow a poor man to navigate,
 even if he were a better pilot.” “A sorry voyage they would make of it,”
 he said. “And is not the same true of any other form of rule?” “I think
 so.” “Except of a city,” said I, “or does it hold for a city too?” “Most
 of all,” he said, “by as much as that is the greatest and most
 difficult rule of all.”

“Here, then, is one very great defect in oligarchy.”
 “So it appears.” “Well, and is this a smaller one?” “What?” “That such a
 city should of necessity be not one, but two, a city of
 the rich and a city of the poor, dwelling together, and always
 plotting against one another.” “No, by Zeus,” said he, “it is
 not a bit smaller.” “Nor, further, can we approve of this—the likelihood
 that they will not be able to wage war, because of the necessity of
 either arming and employing the multitude,

and fearing them more than the enemy, or else, if they
 do not make use of them, of finding themselves on the field of battle,
 oligarchs indeed, and
 rulers over a few. And to this must be added their reluctance to
 contribute money, because they are lovers of money.” “No, indeed, that
 is not admirable.” “And what of the trait we found fault with long
 ago —the
 fact that in such a state the citizens are busy-bodies and
 jacks-of-all-trades, farmers,

financiers and soldiers all in one? Do you think that
 is right?” “By no manner of means.” “Consider now whether this polity is
 not the first that admits that which is the greatest of all such evils.”
 “What?” “The allowing a man to sell all his possessions, which
 another is permitted to acquire, and after selling them to go on living
 in the city, but as no part of it, neither a money-maker,
 nor a craftsman, nor a knight, nor a foot-soldier, but classified only
 as a pauper and a dependent.”

“This is the first,” he said. “There certainly is no
 prohibition of that sort of thing in oligarchical states. Otherwise some
 of their citizens would not be excessively rich, and others out and out
 paupers.” “Right.” “ But observe this. When such a fellow was spending
 his wealth, was he then of any more use to the state in the matters of
 which we were speaking, or did he merely seem to belong to the ruling
 class, while in reality he was neither ruler nor helper in the state,
 but only a consumer of goods ?” “It is so,” he said; “he only
 seemed, but was

just a spendthrift.” “Shall we, then, say of him that
 as the drone springs up in the cell, a pest of the hive, so such a
 man grows up in his home, a pest of the state?” “By all means,
 Socrates,” he said. “And has not God, Adeimantus, left the drones which
 have wings and fly stingless one and all, while of the drones here who
 travel afoot he has made some stingless but has armed others with
 terrible stings? And from the stingless finally issue beggars in old
 age,

but from those furnished with stings all that are
 denominated malefactors?” “Most true,” he said. “It is plain, then,”
 said I, “that wherever you see beggars in a city, there are somewhere in
 the neighborhood concealed thieves and cutpurses and temple-robbers and
 similar artists in crime.” “Clearly,” he said. “Well, then, in
 oligarchical cities do you not see beggars?” “Nearly all are such,” he
 said, “except the ruling class.” “Are we not to suppose, then,

that there are also many criminals in them furnished
 with stings, whom the rulers by their surveillance forcibly 
 restrain?” “We must think so,” he said. “And shall we not say that the
 presence of such citizens is the result of a defective culture and bad
 breeding and a wrong constitution of the state?” “We shall.” “Well, at
 any rate such would be the character of the oligarchical state, and
 these, or perhaps even more than these, would be the evils that afflict
 it.” “Pretty nearly these,” he said.

“Then,” I said, “let us regard as disposed of the
 constitution called oligarchy, whose rulers are determined by a property
 qualification. And next we are to consider
 the man who resembles it—how he arises and what after that his character
 is.” “Quite so,” he said. “Is not the
 transition from that timocratic youth to the oligarchical type mostly on
 this wise?” “How?” “When a son born to the timocratic man at first
 emulates his father, and follows in his footsteps and then sees him

suddenly dashed, as a ship on a
 reef, against
 the state, and making complete wreckage of both his possessions and
 himself perhaps he has been a general, or has held some other important
 office, and has then been dragged into court by mischievous sycophants
 and put to death or banished 
 or outlawed and has lost all his property—” “It is likely,” he said.
 “And the son, my friend, after seeing and suffering these things, and
 losing his property, grows timid, I fancy, and forthwith thrusts
 headlong from his bosom’s throne

that principle of love of honor and that high spirit,
 and being humbled by poverty turns to the getting of money, and
 greedily and stingily
 and little by little by thrift and hard work collects property. Do you
 not suppose that such a one will then establish on that throne the
 principle of appetite and avarice, and set it up as the great king in
 his soul, adorned with tiaras and collars of gold, and girt with the
 Persian sword?” “I do,” he said. “And under this domination he will
 force the rational

and high-spirited principles to crouch lowly to right
 and left as
 slaves, and will allow the one to calculate and consider nothing but the
 ways of making more money from a little, and the other to admire and honor
 nothing but riches and rich men, and to take pride in nothing but the
 possession of wealth and whatever contributes to that?” “There is no
 other transformation so swift and sure of the ambitious youth into the
 avaricious type.”

“Is this, then, our oligarchical man?” said I. “He is
 developed, at any rate, out of a man resembling the constitution from
 which the oligarchy sprang.”

“Let us see, then, whether he will have a like
 character.” “Let us see.” “Would he not,
 in the first place, resemble it in prizing wealth above everything?”
 “Inevitably.” “And also by being thrifty and laborious, satisfying only
 his own necessary appetites and desires and not
 providing for expenditure on other things, but subduing his other
 appetites as vain and unprofitable?” “By all means.” “He would be a
 squalid fellow,” said I, “looking for
 a surplus of profit in everything,

and a hoarder, the type the multitude approves. Would not this be the character of the man who
 corresponds to such a polity?” “I certainly think so,” he said.
 “Property, at any rate, is the thing most esteemed by that state and
 that kind of man.” “That, I take it,” said I, “is because he has never
 turned his thoughts to true culture.” “I think not,” he said, “else he
 would not have made the blind one leader of his
 choir and first in honor. ” “Well
 said,” I replied. “But consider this. Shall we not say that owing to
 this lack of culture the appetites of the drone spring up in him,

some the beggarly, others the rascally, but that they
 are forcibly restrained by his general self-surveillance and self-
 control ?” “We shall indeed,” he said. “Do you
 know, then,” said I, “to what you must look to discern the rascalities
 of such men?” “To what?” he said. “To guardianships of orphans, and
 any such opportunities of doing injustice with impunity.” “True.” “And
 is it not apparent by this that in other dealings, where he enjoys the
 repute of a seeming just man, he by some better element in
 himself

forcibly keeps down other evil desires dwelling
 within, 
 not persuading them that it ‘is better not’ nor taming them by reason, but by compulsion and fear,
 trembling for his possessions generally.” “Quite so,” he said. “Yes, by
 Zeus,” said I, “my friend. In most of them, when there is occasion to
 spend the money of others, you will discover the existence of drone-like
 appetites.” “Most emphatically.” “Such a man, then, would not be free
 from internal dissension. He would not be really
 one, but in some sort a double man. Yet for the most part,

his better desires would have the upper hand over the
 worse.” “It is so.” “And for this reason, I presume, such a man would be
 more seemly, more respectable, than many others; but the true virtue of
 a soul in unison and harmony with itself would
 escape him and dwell afar.” “I think so.” “And again, the thrifty stingy
 man would be a feeble competitor personally

in the city for any prize of victory or in any other
 honorable emulation. He is unwilling to spend money for fame and
 rivalries of that sort, and, fearing to awaken his prodigal desires and
 call them into alliance for the winning of the victory, he fights in
 true oligarchical fashion with a small
 part of his resources and is defeated for the most part and—finds
 himself rich! ” “Yes indeed,” he said. “Have
 we any further doubt, then,” I said, “as to the correspondence and
 resemblance between the thrifty and money-making man

and the oligarchical state?” “None,” he said. “We have next to consider, it seems, the origin
 and nature of democracy, that we may next learn the character of that
 type of man and range him beside the others for our judgement. ”
 “That would at least be a consistent procedure.” “Then,” said I, “is not
 the transition from oligarchy to democracy effected in some such way as
 this—by the insatiate greed for that which it set before itself as the
 good, the attainment of the
 greatest possible wealth?”

“In what way?” “Why, since its rulers owe their offices
 to their wealth, they are not willing to prohibit by law the prodigals
 who arise among the youth from spending and wasting their substance.
 Their object is, by lending money on the property of such men, and
 buying it in, to become still richer and more esteemed.” “By all means.”
 “And is it not at once apparent in a state that this honoring of wealth
 is incompatible with a sober and temperate citizenship,

but that one or the other of these two ideals is
 inevitably neglected.” “That is pretty clear,” he said. “And such
 negligence and encouragement of licentiousness in oligarchies not
 infrequently has reduced to poverty men of no ignoble quality. ” “It surely has.” “And there they sit, I
 fancy, within the city, furnished with stings, that is, arms, some
 burdened with debt, others disfranchised, others both, hating and
 conspiring against the acquirers of their estates and the rest of the
 citizens,

and eager for revolution. ” “’Tis so.” “But these money-makers with down-bent
 heads, pretending not even to see them, but inserting the sting of their money into any of the remainder who do not resist, and
 harvesting from them in interest as it were a manifold progeny of the
 parent sum,

foster the drone and pauper element in the state.”
 “They do indeed multiply it,” he said. “And they are not willing to
 quench the evil as it bursts into flame either by way of a law
 prohibiting a man from doing as he likes with his own, or in this way, by a
 second law that does away with such abuses.” “What law?” “The law that
 is next best, and compels the citizens to pay heed to virtue. For if a law commanded
 that most voluntary contracts should be at the
 contractor’s risk,

the pursuit of wealth would be less shameless in the
 state and fewer of the evils of which we spoke just now would grow up
 there.” “Much fewer,” he said. “But as it is, and for all these reasons,
 this is the plight to which the rulers in the state reduce their
 subjects, and as for themselves and their off-spring, do they not make
 the young spoiled wantons averse to toil of
 body and mind,

and too soft to stand up against pleasure and
 pain, and mere idlers?” “Surely.” “And do they not fasten upon
 themselves the habit of neglect of everything except the making of
 money, and as complete an indifference to virtue as the paupers
 exhibit?” “Little they care.” “And when, thus conditioned, the rulers
 and the ruled are brought together on the march, in wayfaring, or in
 some other common undertaking, either a religious festival, or a
 campaign, or as shipmates or fellow-soldiers

or, for that matter, in actual battle, and observe one
 another, then the poor are not in the least scorned by the rich, but on
 the contrary, do you not suppose it often happens that when a lean,
 sinewy, sunburnt pauper is
 stationed in battle beside a rich man bred in the shade, and burdened
 with superfluous flesh, and
 sees him panting and helpless —do you not suppose he
 will think that such fellows keep their wealth by the cowardice of the poor, and that when the latter
 are together in private,

one will pass the word to another ‘our men are good for
 nothing’?” “Nay, I know very well that they do,” said he. “And just as
 an unhealthy body requires but a slight impulse 
 from outside to fall into sickness, and sometimes, even without that,
 all the man is one internal war, in like manner does not the
 corresponding type of state need only a slight occasion, 
 the one party bringing in allies from an oligarchical state, or the other from a
 democratic, to become diseased and wage war with itself, and sometimes
 even

apart from any external impulse faction arises ?” “Most emphatically.” “And a
 democracy, I suppose, comes into being when the poor, winning the
 victory, put to death some of the other party, drive out others, and grant
 the rest of the citizens an equal share in both citizenship and
 offices—and for the most part these offices are assigned by lot. ”
 “Why, yes,” he said, “that is the constitution of democracy alike
 whether it is established by force of arms or by terrorism 
 resulting in the withdrawal of one of the parties.” “What, then,” said I, “is the manner of their life

and what is the quality of such a constitution? For it
 is plain that the man of this quality will turn out to be a democratic
 sort of man.” “It is plain,” he said. “To begin with, are they not free?
 and is not the city chock-full of liberty and freedom of speech? and has
 not every man licence to do as he likes?” “So it is said,” he replied. “And
 where there is such licence, it is obvious that everyone would arrange a
 plan for leading his own life in the way that pleases him.”
 “Obvious.” “All sorts and conditions of men,

then, would arise in this polity more than in any
 other?” “Of course.” “Possibly,” said I, “this is the most beautiful of
 polities as a garment of many colors, embroidered with all kinds of
 hues, so this, decked and diversified with every type of character,
 would appear the most beautiful. And perhaps,” I said, “many would judge
 it to be the most beautiful, like boys and women when
 they see bright-colored things.”

“Yes indeed,” he said. “Yes,” said I, “and it is the
 fit place, my good friend, in which to look for a constitution.” “Why
 so?” “Because, owing to this licence, it includes all kinds, and it
 seems likely that anyone who wishes to organize a state, as we were just
 now doing, must find his way to a democratic city and select the model
 that pleases him, as if in a bazaar of
 constitutions, and after making his choice, establish his own.” “Perhaps
 at any rate,” he said,

“he would not be at a loss for patterns.” “And the
 freedom from all compulsion to hold office in such a city, even if you
 are qualified, or again, to submit to
 rule, unless you please, or to make war when the rest are at war, or to keep the
 peace when the others do so, unless you desire peace; and again, the
 liberty, in defiance of any law that forbids you, to hold office and sit
 on juries none the less,

if it occurs to you to do so, is not all that a
 heavenly and delicious entertainment for
 the time being?” “Perhaps,” he said, “for so long.” “And is not the
 placability of some convicted criminals exquisite ? Or have you never seen in
 such a state men condemned to death or exile who none the less stay on,
 and go to and fro among the people, and as if no one saw or heeded him,
 the man slips in and out like a revenant ?” “Yes, many,” he said. “And the tolerance of
 democracy,

its superiority to all our meticulous requirements,
 its disdain or our solemn pronouncements made when we were founding our
 city, that except in the case of transcendent natural gifts no one
 could ever become a good man unless from childhood his play and all his
 pursuits were concerned with things fair and good,—how superbly it tramples under foot all such ideals, caring nothing
 from what practices and
 way of life a man turns to politics, but honoring him

if only he says that he loves the people! ” “It is a noble 
 polity, indeed!” he said. “These and qualities akin to these democracy
 would exhibit, and it would, it seems, be a delightful form of government, anarchic and
 motley, assigning a kind of equality indiscriminately to equals and
 unequals alike! ” “Yes,” he said,
 “everybody knows that.” “Observe, then,
 the corresponding private character. Or must we first, as in the case of
 the polity, consider the origin of the type?” “Yes,” he said. “Is not
 this, then, the way of it? Our thrifty 
 oligarchical man

would have a son bred in his father’s ways.” “Why not?”
 “And he, too, would control by force all his appetites for pleasure that
 are wasters and not winners of wealth, those which are denominated
 unnecessary.” “Obviously.” “And in order not to argue in the dark, shall
 we first define our
 distinction between necessary and unnecessary appetites ?” “Let us do so.” “Well, then,
 desires that we cannot divert or suppress may be properly called
 necessary,

and likewise those whose satisfaction is beneficial to
 us, may they not? For our nature compels us to seek their satisfaction.

Is not that so ?” “Most assuredly.” “Then we shall
 rightly use the word ‘necessary’ of them?” “Rightly.” “And what of the
 desires from which a man could free himself by discipline from youth up,
 and whose presence in the soul does no good and in some cases harm?
 Should we not fairly call all such unnecessary?” “Fairly indeed.” “Let
 us select an example of either kind, so that we may apprehend the
 type. ” “Let us do so.” “Would not the desire of
 eating to keep in health and condition and the appetite

for mere bread and relishes 
 be necessary?” “I think so.” “The appetite for bread is necessary in
 both respects, in that it is beneficial and in that if it fails we die.”
 “Yes.” “And the desire for relishes, so far as it conduces to fitness?”
 “By all means.” “And should we not rightly pronounce unnecessary the
 appetite that exceeds these and seeks other varieties of food, and that
 by correction and training from youth up can be got rid of in
 most cases and is harmful to the body and a hindrance to the soul’s
 attainment of

intelligence and sobriety?” “Nay, most rightly.” “And
 may we not call the one group the spendthrift desires and the other the
 profitable, because they help
 production?” “Surely.” “And we shall say the same of sexual and other
 appetites?” “The same.” “And were we not saying that the man whom we
 nicknamed the drone is the man who teems with such
 pleasures and appetites, and who is governed by his unnecessary desires,
 while the one who is ruled

by his necessary appetites is the thrifty oligarchical
 man?” “Why, surely.” “To return, then,”
 said I, “we have to tell how the democratic man develops from the
 oligarchical type. I think it is usually in this way.” “How?” “When a
 youth, bred in the illiberal and niggardly fashion that we were
 describing, gets a taste of the honey of the drones and associates with
 fierce and cunning creatures who
 know how to purvey pleasures of every kind and variety and condition, there you must doubtless conceive
 is the beginning

of the transformation of the oligarchy in his soul into
 democracy.” “Quite inevitably,” he said. “May we not say that just as
 the revolution in the city was brought about by the aid of an alliance
 from outside, coming to the support of the similar and corresponding
 party in the state, so the youth is revolutionized when a like and
 kindred group of appetites from outside comes to the aid of one of
 the parties in his soul?” “By all means,” he said. “And if, I take it, a
 counter-alliance 
 comes to the rescue of the oligarchical part of his soul, either it may
 be from his father

or from his other kin, who admonish and reproach him,
 then there arises faction and
 counter-faction and internal strife in the man with himself.” “Surely.”
 “And sometimes, I suppose, the democratic element retires before the
 oligarchical, some of its appetites having been destroyed and
 others expelled, and a
 sense of awe and reverence grows up in the young man’s soul and order is
 restored.” “That sometimes happens,” he said. “And sometimes, again,
 another brood of desires akin to those expelled

are stealthily nurtured to take their place, owing to
 the father’s ignorance of true education, and wax numerous and strong.”
 “Yes, that is wont to be the way of it.” “And they tug and pull back to
 the same associations and in secret intercourse engender a multitude.”
 “Yes indeed.” “And in the end, I suppose, they seize the citadel of the young man’s soul,
 finding it empty and unoccupied by studies and honorable pursuits and
 true discourses, which are the best watchmen

and guardians in the minds of men who are dear to the gods.” “Much the
 best,” he said. “And then false and braggart words and opinions charge up the height and take their place and
 occupy that part of such a youth.” “They do indeed.” “And then he
 returns, does he not, to those Lotus-eaters and without disguise
 lives openly with them. And if any support comes from his kin to the thrifty element in his soul,
 those braggart discourses close the gates of the royal fortress within
 him

and refuse admission to the auxiliary force itself, and
 will not grant audience as to envoys to the words of older friends in
 private life. And they themselves prevail in the conflict, and naming
 reverence and awe ‘folly’ thrust it forth, a dishonored
 fugitive. And temperance they call ‘want of manhood’ and banish it with
 contumely, and they teach that moderation and orderly expenditure are
 ‘rusticity’ and ‘illiberality,’ and they combine with a gang of
 unprofitable and harmful appetites to drive them over the border. ” “They do indeed.” “And when they have emptied

and purged of all these the soul of the
 youth that they have thus possessed and occupied, and whom
 they are initiating with these magnificent and costly rites, they proceed
 to lead home from exile insolence and anarchy and prodigality and
 shamelessness, resplendent in a great attendant choir and
 crowned with garlands, and in celebration of their praises they
 euphemistically denominate insolence ‘good breeding,’ licence ‘liberty,’
 prodigality ‘magnificence,’

and shamelessness ‘manly spirit.’ And is it not in some
 such way as this,” said I, “that in his youth the transformation takes
 place from the restriction to necessary desires in his education to the
 liberation and release of his unnecessary and harmful desires?” “Yes,
 your description is most vivid,” said he. “Then, in his subsequent life,
 I take it, such a one expends money and toil and time no more on his
 necessary than on his unnecessary pleasures. But if it is his good
 fortune that the period of storm and stress does not last too long, and
 as he grows older

the fiercest tumult within him passes, and he receives
 back a part of the banished elements and does not abandon himself
 altogether to the invasion of the others, then he establishes and
 maintains all his pleasures on a footing of equality, forsooth, and so lives
 turning over the guard-house of his soul to each as it happens along until it is
 sated, as if it had drawn the lot for that office, and then in turn to
 another, disdaining none but fostering them all equally. ” “Quite so.” “And he does not accept or
 admit into the guard-house the words of truth when anyone tells him

that some pleasures arise from honorable and good
 desires, and others from those that are base, and that we ought to practise
 and esteem the one and control and subdue the others; but he shakes his
 head at all such admonitions
 and avers that they are all alike and to be equally esteemed.” “Such is
 indeed his state of mind and his conduct.” “And does he not,” said I,
 “also live out his life in this fashion, day by day indulging the
 appetite of the day, now wine-bibbing and abandoning himself to the
 lascivious pleasing of the flute and again drinking only water and dieting;

and at one time exercising his body, and sometimes
 idling and neglecting all things, and at another time seeming to occupy
 himself with philosophy. And frequently he goes in for politics and
 bounces up and says and does whatever
 enters his head. And if
 military men excite his emulation, thither he rushes, and if moneyed
 men, to that he turns, and there is no order or compulsion in his
 existence, but he calls this life of his the life of pleasure and
 freedom and happiness and

cleaves to it to the end.” “That is a perfect
 description,” he said, “of a devotee of equality.” “I certainly think,”
 said I, “that he is a manifold man stuffed with most excellent differences,
 and that like that city he is the fair and
 many-colored one whom many a man and woman would count fortunate in his
 life, as containing within himself the greatest number of patterns of
 constitutions and qualities.” “Yes, that is so,” he said.

“Shall we definitely assert, then, that such a man is
 to be ranged with democracy and would properly be designated as
 democratic?” “Let that be his place,” he said. “And now,” said I, “the fairest polity and the fairest man remain for
 us to describe, the tyranny and the tyrant.” “Certainly,” he said. “Come
 then, tell me, dear friend, how tyranny arises. That it is an
 outgrowth of democracy is fairly plain.” “Yes, plain.” “Is it, then, in
 a sense, in the same way in which democracy arises out of oligarchy that
 tyranny arises from democracy?”

“How is that?” “The good that they proposed to
 themselves and that
 was the cause of the establishment of oligarchy—it was wealth, was it
 not?” “Yes.” “Well, then, the insatiate lust for wealth and the neglect
 of everything else for the sake of money-making was the cause of its
 undoing.” “True,” he said. “And is not the avidity of democracy for that
 which is its definition and criterion of good the thing which dissolves
 it too?” “What do you say its
 criterion to be?” “Liberty, ” I replied; “for you may hear
 it said that this is best managed in a democratic city,

and for this reason that is the only city in which a
 man of free spirit will care to live. ” “Why, yes,” he replied,
 “you hear that saying everywhere.” “Then, as I was about to
 observe, is it not the excess and
 greed of this and the neglect of all other things that revolutionizes
 this constitution too and prepares the way for the necessity of a
 dictatorship?” “How?” he said. “Why, when a democratic city athirst for
 liberty gets bad cupbearers

for its leaders and is intoxicated by drinking too deep of that
 unmixed wine, and then, if its so-called governors are not
 extremely mild and gentle with it and do not dispense the liberty
 unstintedly,it chastises them and accuses them of being accursed oligarchs. ”
 “Yes, that is what they do,” he replied. “But those who obey the
 rulers,” I said, “it reviles as willing slaves and men of naught, 
 but it commends and honors in public and private rulers who resemble
 subjects and subjects who are like rulers.

Is it not inevitable that in such a state the spirit of
 liberty should go to all lengths ?”
 “Of course.” “And this anarchical temper,” said I, “my friend, must
 penetrate into private homes and finally enter into the very
 animals. ” “Just what do we mean by
 that?” he said. “Why,” I said, “the father habitually tries to resemble
 the child and is afraid of his sons, and the son likens himself to the
 father and feels no awe or fear of his parents,

so that he may be forsooth a free man. And the resident alien feels
 himself equal to the citizen and the citizen to him, and the foreigner
 likewise.” “Yes, these things do happen,” he said. “They do,” said I,
 “and such other trifles as these. The teacher in such case fears and
 fawns upon the pupils, and the pupils pay no heed to the teacher or to
 their overseers either. And in general the young ape their elders and
 vie with them in speech and action, while the old, accommodating themselves to the young,

are full of pleasantry and graciousness,
 imitating the young for fear they may be thought disagreeable and
 authoritative.” “By all means,” he said. “And the climax of popular
 liberty, my friend,” I said, “is attained in such a city when the
 purchased slaves, male and female, are no less free than the owners who paid for them. And I almost forgot to
 mention the spirit of freedom and equal rights in the relation of men to
 women and women to men.”

“Shall we not, then,” said he, “in Aeschylean
 phrase, say “whatever rises to our lips’?” “Certainly,”
 I said, “so I will. Without experience of it no one would believe how
 much freer the very beasts subject to men are in such a city
 than elsewhere. The dogs literally verify the adage and ‘like their mistresses become.’ And likewise
 the horses and asses are wont to hold on their way with the utmost
 freedom and dignity, bumping into everyone who meets them and who does
 not step aside. And so all things everywhere are just bursting with the
 spirit of liberty. ”

“It is my own dream you are
 telling me,” he said; “for it often happens to me when I go to the
 country.” “And do you note that the sum total of all these items when
 footed up is that they render the souls of the citizens so
 sensitive 
 that they chafe at the slightest suggestion of servitude and will
 not endure it? For you are aware that they finally pay no heed even to
 the laws written or
 unwritten,

so that forsooth they may have no master anywhere over
 them.” “I know it very well,” said he. “This, then, my friend,” said I, “is the fine and vigorous root from
 which tyranny grows, in my opinion.” “Vigorous indeed,” he said; “but
 what next?” “The same malady,” I said, “that, arising in oligarchy,
 destroyed it, this more widely diffused and more violent as a result of
 this licence, enslaves democracy. And in truth, any excess is wont to
 bring about a corresponding reaction to the opposite in the seasons,

in plants, in animal bodies, and most especially in
 political societies.” “Probably,” he said. “And so the probable outcome
 of too much freedom is only too much slavery in the individual and the
 state.” “Yes, that is probable.” “Probably, then, tyranny develops out
 of no other constitution than democracy—from the height of
 liberty, I take it, the fiercest extreme of servitude.” “That is
 reasonable,” he said. “That, however, I believe, was not your
 question, but what
 identical 
 malady

arising in democracy as well as in oligarchy enslaves
 it?” “You say truly,” he replied. “That then,” I said, “was what I had
 in mind, the class of idle and spendthrift men, the most enterprising
 and vigorous portion being leaders and the less manly spirits followers.
 We were likening them to drones, some equipped with stings
 and others stingless.” “And rightly too,” he said. “These two kinds,
 then,” I said, “when they arise in any state, create a disturbance like
 that produced in the body by phlegm and gall.

And so a good physician and lawgiver must be on his
 guard from afar against the two kinds, like a prudent apiarist, first
 and chiefly to prevent their springing
 up, but if they do arise to have them as quickly as may be cut out,
 cells and all.” “Yes, by Zeus,” he said, “by all means.” “Then let us
 take it in this way,” I said, “so that we may contemplate our purpose
 more distinctly. ” “How?” “Let us in our theory
 make a tripartite division of the democratic state, which
 is in fact its structure. One such class,

as we have described, grows up in it because of the
 licence, no less than in the oligarchic state.” “That is so.” “But it is
 far fiercer in this state than in that.” “How so?” “There, because it is
 not held in honor, but is kept out of office, it is not exercised and
 does not grow vigorous. But in a democracy this is the dominating class,
 with rare exceptions, and the fiercest part of it makes speeches and
 transacts business, and the remainder swarms and settles about the
 speaker’s stand and keeps up a buzzing and

tolerates no dissent, so that everything
 with slight exceptions is administered by that class in such a state.”
 “Quite so,” he said. “And so from time to time there emerges or is
 secreted from the multitude another group of this sort.” “What sort?” he
 said. “When all are pursuing wealth the most orderly and thrifty natures
 for the most part become the richest.” “It is likely.” “Then they are
 the most abundant supply of honey for the drones, and it is the easiest
 to extract. ” “Why, yes,” he
 said, “how could one squeeze it out of those who have little?” “The
 capitalistic class is, I
 take it, the name by which they are designated—the pasture of the
 drones.” “Pretty much so,” he said.

“And the third
 class, 
 composing the ‘people,’ would comprise all quiet cultivators of their own
 farms who possess little property. This is the largest and
 most potent group in a democracy when it meets in assembly.” “Yes, it
 is,” he said, “but it will not often do that, unless it gets a share of
 the honey.” “Well, does it not always share,” I said, “to the extent
 that the men at the head find it possible, in distributing to the people what they take
 from the well-to-do, to keep the lion’s share for themselves ?” “Why, yes,” he said, “it shares

in that sense.” “And so, I suppose, those who are thus
 plundered are compelled to defend themselves by speeches in the assembly
 and any action in their power.” “Of course.” “And thereupon the charge
 is brought against them by the other party, though they may have no
 revolutionary designs, that they are plotting against the people, and it
 is said that they are oligarchs. ” “Surely.” “And then finally, when they see the
 people, not of its own will but through misapprehension, and being misled

by the calumniators, attempting to wrong them, why
 then, whether they wish it or not, they become in very deed oligarchs, not
 willingly, but this evil too is engendered by those drones which sting
 them.” “Precisely.” “And then there ensue impeachments and judgements
 and lawsuits on either side.” “Yes, indeed.” “And is it not always the
 way of a demos to put forward one man as its special champion and
 protector and cherish and magnify
 him?” “Yes, it is.” “This, then, is plain,”

said I, “that when a tyrant arises he sprouts from a
 protectorate root and from nothing
 else.” “Very plain.” “What, then, is the starting-point of the
 transformation of a protector into a tyrant? Is it not obviously when
 the protector’s acts begin to reproduce the legend that is told of the
 shrine of Lycaean Zeus in Arcadia ?” “What is that?” he said. “The story goes
 that he who tastes of the one bit of human entrails minced up with those
 of other victims

is inevitably transformed into a wolf. Have you not
 heard the tale?” “I have.” “And is it not true that in like manner a
 leader of the people who, getting control of a docile mob, does
 not withhold his hand from the shedding of tribal blood, but by
 the customary unjust accusations brings a citizen into court and
 assassinates him, blotting out a human life, and with
 unhallowed tongue and lips that have tasted kindred blood,

banishes and slays and hints at the abolition of debts
 and the partition of lands —is it not
 the inevitable consequence and a decree of fate that such a one be
 either slain by his enemies or become a tyrant and be transformed from a
 man into a wolf?” “It is quite inevitable,” he said. “He it is,” I said,
 “who becomes the leader of faction against the possessors of
 property. ” “Yes, he.” “May it not happen that he is driven into
 exile and, being restored in defiance of his enemies, returns a finished
 tyrant?” “Obviously.” “And if they are unable

to expel him or bring about his death by calumniating
 him to the people, they plot to assassinate him by stealth.” “That is
 certainly wont to happen,” said he. “And thereupon those who have
 reached this stage devise that famous petition of the tyrant—to ask from the people a bodyguard to
 make their city safe for
 the friend of democracy.”

“They do indeed,” he said. “And the people grant it, I
 suppose, fearing for him but unconcerned for themselves.” “Yes, indeed.”
 “And when he sees this, the man who has wealth and with his wealth the
 repute of hostility to democracy, then in the words of the
 oracle delivered to Croesus, By the pebble-strewn
 strand of the Hermos Swift is his flight, he stays not nor blushes
 to show the white feather.” 
 Hdt. 1.55 “No, for he would never get a
 second chance to blush.” “And he who is caught, methinks, is delivered
 to his death.” “Inevitably.” “And then obviously that protector does not
 lie prostrate, ‘mighty with far-flung
 limbs,’ 
 Hom. Il.
 16.776 in Homeric overthrow, but

overthrowing many others towers in the car of
 state 
 transformed from a protector into a perfect and finished tyrant.” “What
 else is likely?” he said. “Shall we, then,
 portray the happiness,” said I, “of the man and the state in which such
 a creature arises?” “By all means let us describe it,” he said. “Then at
 the start and in the first days does he not smile upon all men and greet
 everybody he meets and deny that he is a tyrant,

and promise many things in private and public, and
 having freed men from debts, and distributed lands to the people and his
 own associates, he affects a gracious and gentle manner to all?”
 “Necessarily,” he said. “But when, I suppose, he has come to terms with
 some of his exiled enemies and has got others destroyed and is no longer
 disturbed by them, in the first place he is always stirring up some
 war so that the people may be in need of a leader.”
 “That is likely.”

“And also that being impoverished by war-taxes they may
 have to devote themselves to their daily business and be less likely to
 plot against him?” “Obviously.” “And if, I presume, he suspects that
 there are free spirits who will not suffer his domination, his further
 object is to find pretexts for destroying them by exposing them to the
 enemy? From all these motives a tyrant is compelled to be always
 provoking wars ?” “Yes, he is compelled to do
 so.” “And by such conduct

will he not the more readily incur the hostility of the
 citizens?” “Of course.” “And is it not likely that some of those who
 helped to establish and now share in his power, voicing
 their disapproval of the course of events, will speak out frankly to him
 and to one another—such of them as happen to be the bravest?” “Yes, it
 is likely.” “Then the tyrant must do away with all such if he is to maintain
 his rule, until he has left no one of any worth, friend or foe.”
 “Obviously.” “He must look sharp to see, then,

who is brave, who is great-souled, who is wise, who is
 rich and such is his good fortune that, whether he wishes it or not, he
 must be their enemy and plot against them all until he purge the
 city. ” “A fine purgation,”
 he said. “Yes,” said I, “just the opposite of that which physicians
 practise on our bodies. For while they remove the worst and leave the
 best, he does the reverse.” “Yes, for apparently he must, he said, “if
 he is to keep his power.” “Blessed, then,
 is the necessity that binds him,”

said I, “which bids him dwell for the most part with
 base companions who hate him, or else forfeit his life.” “Such it is,”
 he said. “And would he not, the more he offends the citizens by such
 conduct, have the greater need of more and more trustworthy bodyguards?”
 “Of course.” “Whom, then, may he trust, and whence shall he fetch them?”
 “Unbidden,” he said, “they will wing their way to him in great numbers if he
 furnish their wage.” “Drones, by the dog,” I said, “I think you are
 talking of again,

an alien and motley crew. ” “You think
 rightly,” he said. “But what of the home supply, would he not
 choose to employ that?” “How?” “By taking their slaves from the
 citizens, emancipating them and enlisting them in his bodyguard.”
 “Assuredly,” he said, “since these are those whom he can most trust.”
 “Truly,” said I, “this tyrant business is a blessed thing on your showing, if such are the friends and
 ‘trusties’

he must employ after destroying his former associates.”
 “But such are indeed those he does make use of,” he said. “And these
 companions admire him,” I said, “and these new citizens are his
 associates, while the better sort hate and avoid him.” “Why should they
 not?” “Not for nothing, ” said
 I, “is tragedy in general esteemed wise, and Euripides beyond other
 tragedians. ” “Why, pray?” “Because among other utterances of
 pregnant thought he
 said,

‘Tyrants are wise by converse with the wise. ’ He meant evidently that these associates of the
 tyrant are the wise.” “Yes, he and the other poets,” he said, “call the
 tyrant’s power ‘likest God’s’ and praise it in
 many other ways.” “Wherefore,” said I, “being wise as they are, the
 poets of tragedy will pardon us and those whose politics resemble ours
 for not admitting them into our polity, since they hymn the praises of
 tyranny.” “I think,” he said, “that the subtle minds

among them will pardon us.” “But going about to other
 cities, I fancy, collecting crowds and hiring fine, loud, persuasive
 voices, they draw
 the polities towards tyrannies or democracies.” “Yes, indeed.” “And,
 further, they are paid and honored for this, chiefly, as is to be
 expected, by tyrants, and secondly by democracy. But the higher they go, breasting constitution hill, the
 more their honor fails,

as it were from lack of breath unable to proceed.” “Quite so.” “But this,” said I, “is a digression. Let us return to that fair, multitudinous,
 diversified and ever-changing bodyguard of the tyrant and tell how it
 will be supported.” “Obviously,” he said, “if there are sacred treasures
 in the city he will spend these as long as they last and the property of
 those he has destroyed, thus requiring smaller contributions from the
 populace.”

“But what when these resources fail ?” “Clearly,” he said, “his father’s
 estate will have to support him and his wassailers, his fellows and his
 she-fellows.” “I understand,” I said, “that the people which begot the
 tyrant will have to feed him and
 his companions.” “It cannot escape from that,” he said. “And what have
 you to say,” I said, “in case the people protests and says that it is
 not right that a grown-up son should be supported by his father, but the
 reverse,

and that it did not beget and establish him in order
 that, when he had grown great, it, in servitude to its own slaves,
 should feed him and the slaves together with a nondescript rabble of
 aliens, but in order that, with him for protector, it might be liberated
 from the rule of the rich and the so-called ‘better classes,’ and that it now bids him and
 his crew depart from the city as a father expels from his house a son
 together with troublesome revellers?” “The demos, by Zeus,” he said,
 “will then learn to its cost

what it is and what 
 a creature it begot and cherished and bred to greatness, and that in its
 weakness it tries to expel the stronger.” “What do you mean?” said I;
 “will the tyrant dare to use force against his father, and, if he does
 not yield, to strike him ?”
 “Yes,” he said, “after he has once taken from him his arms.” “A very
 parricide,” said I, “you make the tyrant out to be, and a cruel nurse of
 old age, and, as it seems, this is at last tyranny open and avowed, and,
 as the saying goes, the demos trying to escape the smoke of submission
 to the free would have plunged

into the fire of enslavement to
 slaves, and in exchange for that excessive and unseasonable liberty has clothed itself in
 the garb of the most cruel and bitter servile servitude. ” “Yes indeed,” he said, “that is
 just what happens.” “Well, then,” said I, “shall we not be fairly
 justified in saying that we have sufficiently described the
 transformation of a democracy into a tyranny and the nature of the
 tyranny itself?” “Quite sufficiently,” he said.

“There remains for
 consideration,” said I, “the tyrannical man himself—the manner of his
 development out of the democratic type and his character and the quality
 of his life, whether wretched or happy.” “Why, yes, he still remains,”
 he said. “Do you know, then, what it is that I still miss?” “What?” “In
 the matter of our desires I do not think we sufficiently distinguished
 their nature and number. And so long as this is lacking

our inquiry will lack clearness.” “Well,” said he,
 “will our consideration of them not still be opportune ?” “By all means. And observe what it is about them that
 I wish to consider. It is this. Of our unnecessary pleasures 
 and appetites there are some lawless ones, I think, which probably are
 to be found in us all, but which, when controlled by
 the laws and the better desires in alliance with reason, can in some men
 be altogether got rid of, or so nearly so that only a few weak ones
 remain,

while in others the remnant is stronger and more
 numerous.” “What desires do you mean?” he said. “Those,” said I, “that
 are awakened in sleep when the rest of the soul, the rational, gentle and
 dominant part, slumbers, but the beastly and savage part, replete with
 food and wine, gambols and, repelling sleep, endeavors to sally forth
 and satisfy its own instincts. You are aware that in such case there is nothing
 it will not venture to undertake as being released from all sense of
 shame and all reason. It does not shrink from attempting to lie with a
 mother

in fancy or with anyone else, man, god or brute. It is
 ready for any foul deed of blood; it abstains from no food, and, in a
 word, falls short of no extreme of folly and shamelessness.” “Most
 true,” he said. “But when, I suppose, a man’s condition is healthy and
 sober, and he goes to sleep after arousing his rational part and
 entertaining it with fair words and thoughts, and attaining to clear
 self-consciousness, while he has neither starved

nor indulged to repletion his appetitive part, so that
 it may be lulled to sleep

and not disturb the better part by its pleasure or
 pain, but may suffer that in isolated purity to examine and reach out
 towards and apprehend some of the things unknown to it, past, present or
 future and when he has in like manner tamed his passionate part, and
 does not after a quarrel fall asleep with anger still awake within
 him, but if he has thus quieted the two elements in his soul and
 quickened the third, in which reason resides, and so goes to his rest,
 you are aware that in such case he
 is most likely to apprehend truth, and

the visions of his dreams are least likely to be
 lawless.” “I certainly think so,” he said. “This description
 has carried us too far, but the
 point that we have to notice is this, that in fact there exists in every
 one of us, even in some reputed most respectable, a terrible, fierce and lawless brood of desires, which
 it seems are revealed in our sleep. Consider, then, whether there is
 anything in what I say, and whether you admit it.” “Well, I
 do.” “Now recall our
 characterization of the democratic man.

His development was determined by his education from
 youth under a thrifty father who approved only the acquisitive appetites
 and disapproved the unnecessary ones whose object is entertainment and
 display. Is not that so?” “Yes.” “And by association with more
 sophisticated men, teeming with the appetites we have just described, he
 is impelled towards every form of insolence and outrage, and to the
 adoption of their way of life by his hatred of his father’s
 niggardliness. But since his nature is better than that of his
 corrupters,

being drawn both ways he settles down in a
 compromise between the two tendencies, and indulging and enjoying
 each in moderation, forsooth, as he supposes, he
 lives what he deems a life that is neither illiberal nor lawless, now
 transformed from an oligarch to a democrat.” “That was and is our belief
 about this type.” “Assume, then, again,” said I, “that such a man when he is older
 has a son bred in turn in his ways of life.” “I so assume.” “And
 suppose the experience of his father

to be repeated in his case. He is drawn toward utter
 lawlessness, which is called by his seducers complete freedom. His
 father and his other kin lend support to these compromise
 appetites while the others lend theirs to the opposite group. And when
 these dread magi and king-makers come to realize that they
 have no hope of controlling the youth in any other way, they contrive to
 engender in his soul a ruling passion to be the
 protector

of his idle and prodigal 
 appetites, a monstrous winged drone. Or do you think the spirit
 of desire in such men is aught else?” “Nothing but that,” he said. “And
 when the other appetites, buzzing about it, replete with incense
 and myrrh and chaplets and wine, and the pleasures that are released in
 such revelries, magnifying and fostering it to the utmost, awaken in the
 drone the sting of unsatisfied yearnings, why then this protector of the soul has madness for his
 body-guard and runs amuck, and if it finds in the man

any opinions or appetites accounted worthy and still capable of shame, it slays
 them and thrusts them forth until it purges 
 him of sobriety, and fills and infects him with frenzy brought in from
 outside. ” “A
 perfect description,” he said, “of the generation of the tyrannical
 man.” “And is not this analogy,” said I, “the reason why Love has long
 since been called a tyrant ?”
 “That may well be,” he said. “And does not a drunken man, my friend,” I said,

“have something of this tyrannical temper?” “Yes, he
 has.” “And again the madman, the deranged man, attempts and expects to
 rule over not only men but gods.” “Yes indeed, he does,” he said. “Then
 a man becomes tyrannical in the full sense of the word, my friend,” I
 said, “when either by nature or by habits or by both he has become even
 as the drunken, the erotic, the maniacal.” “Assuredly.” “Such, it seems, is his origin and character, but what is his
 manner of life?” “As the wits say,

you shall tell me. ” “I do,” I said; “for, I take
 it, next there are among them feasts and carousals and revellings and
 courtesans 
 and all the doings of those whose souls
 are entirely swayed by the indwelling tyrant
 Eros.” “Inevitably,” he said. “And do not many and dread appetites shoot
 up beside this master passion every day and night in need of many
 things?” “Many indeed.” “And so any revenues there may be are quickly
 expended.” “Of course.” “And after this

there are borrowings and levyings upon the estate?” “Of course.” “And when all these
 resources fail, must there not come a cry from the frequent and fierce
 nestlings of desire hatched in his soul, and must not
 such men, urged, as it were by goads, by the other desires, and
 especially by the ruling passion itself as captain of their bodyguard—to
 keep up the figure—must they not run wild and look to see who has aught
 that can be taken from him by deceit

or violence?” “Most certainly.” “And so he is compelled
 to sweep it in from every source or
 else be afflicted with great travail and pain. ” “He is.” “And just as the new,
 upspringing pleasures in him got the better of the original passions of
 his soul and robbed them, so he himself, though younger, will claim the
 right to get the better of his father and
 mother, and, after spending his own share, to seize and convert to his
 own use a portion of his father’s estate.” “Of course,” he said, “what
 else?” “And if they resist him,

would he not at first attempt to rob and steal from his
 parents and deceive them?” “Certainly.” “And if he failed in that, would
 he not next seize it by force?” “I think so,” he said. “And then, good
 sir, if the old man and the old woman clung to it and resisted him,
 would he be careful to refrain from the acts of a tyrant?” “I am not
 without my fears,” he said, “for the parents of such a one.” “Nay,
 Adeimantus, in heaven’s name, do you suppose that, for the sake of a
 newly found belle amie bound to him by no necessary tie, such a one
 would strike the dear mother,

his by necessity and from
 his birth? Or for the sake of a blooming new-found bel ami, not
 necessary to his life, he would rain blows upon
 the aged father past his prime, closest of his kin and oldest of his
 friends? And would he subject them to those new favorites if he brought
 them under the same roof?” “Yes, by Zeus,” he said. “A most blessed lot
 it seems to be,” said I, “to be the parent of a tyrant son.” “It does
 indeed,” he said. “And again, when the resources of his father and
 mother are exhausted and fail such a
 one,

and the swarm of pleasures
 collected in his soul is grown great, will he not first lay hands on the
 wall of someone’s house or the cloak of someone who walks late
 at night, and thereafter he will make a clean sweep of some temple, and in all these actions the beliefs
 which he held from boyhood about the honorable and the base, the
 opinions accounted just, will be overmastered by the opinions newly
 emancipated and released, which, serving as bodyguards of the
 ruling passion, will prevail in alliance with it—I mean the opinions
 that formerly were freed from restraint in sleep,

when, being still under the control of his father and
 the laws, he maintained the democratic constitution in his soul. But
 now, when under the tyranny of his ruling passion, he is continuously
 and in waking hours what he rarely became in sleep, and he will refrain
 from no atrocity of murder nor from any food or deed,

but the passion that dwells in him as a tyrant will
 live in utmost anarchy and lawlessness, and, since it is itself sole
 autocrat, will urge the polity, so to speak, of him in whom
 it dwells to dare anything and everything in order to find
 support for himself and the hubbub of his henchmen, in part introduced from outside by
 evil associations, and in part released and liberated within by the same
 habits of life as his. Is not this the life of such a one?” “It is
 this,” he said. “And if,” I said, “there are only a few of this kind in
 a city,

and the others, the multitude as a whole, are
 sober-minded, the few go forth into exile and serve some tyrant
 elsewhere as bodyguard or become mercenaries in any war there may be.
 But if they spring up in time of peace and tranquillity they stay right
 there in the city and effect many small evils.” “What kind of evils do
 you mean?” “Oh, they just steal, break into houses, cut purses, strip
 men of their garments, plunder temples, and kidnap, and if they are fluent speakers they become sycophants
 and bear false witness and take bribes.”

“Yes, small evils indeed, ” he said, “if the men of this sort are few.” “Why,
 yes,” I said, “for small evils are relatively small compared with great,
 and in respect of the corruption and misery of a state all of them
 together, as the saying goes, don’t come within hail of the
 mischief done by a tyrant. For when men of this sort and their followers
 become numerous in a state and realize their numbers, then it is they
 who, in conjunction with the folly of the people, create a tyrant out of
 that one of them who has

the greatest and mightiest tyrant in his own soul.”
 “Naturally,” he said, “for he would be the most tyrannical.” “Then if
 the people yield willingly—’tis well, but if the city
 resists him, then, just as in the previous case the man chastized his
 mother and his father, so now in turn will he chastize his fatherland if
 he can, bringing in new boon companions beneath whose sway he will hold
 and keep enslaved his once dear motherland —as the
 Cretans name her—and fatherland. And this would be the end of such a
 man’s desire. ”

“Yes,” he said, “this, just this.” “Then,” said I, “is
 not this the character of such men in private life and before they rule
 the state: to begin with they associate with flatterers, who are ready
 to do anything to serve them,

or, if they themselves want something, they themselves
 fawn and shrink from
 no contortion or abasement in protest of their
 friendship, though, once the object gained, they sing another tune. ”
 “Yes indeed,” he said. “Throughout their lives, then, they never know
 what it is to be the friends of anybody. They are always either masters
 or slaves, but the tyrannical nature never tastes freedom or true friendship.” “Quite so.” “May we not rightly call
 such men faithless ?” “Of course.” “Yes,
 and unjust to the last degree,

if we were right in our previous agreement about the
 nature of justice.” “But surely,” he said, “we were right.” “Let us sum
 up, then,” said I, “the most evil type
 of man. He is, I presume, the man who, in his waking hours, has the
 qualities we found in his dream state.” “Quite so.” “And he is developed
 from the man who, being by nature most of a tyrant, achieves sole power,
 and the longer he lives as an actual tyrant the stronger this quality
 becomes.” “Inevitably,” said Glaucon, taking up the argument. “And shall we find,” said I, “that the man who
 is shown to be the most evil

will also be the most miserable, and the man who is
 most of a tyrant for the longest time is most and longest miserable in sober truth? Yet the
 many have many opinions. ” “That much, certainly,” he said, “must needs be
 true.” “Does not the tyrannical man,” said I, “correspond to the
 tyrannical state in similitude, the democratic
 to the democratic and the others likewise?” “Surely.” “And may we not
 infer that the relation of state to state in respect of virtue and
 happiness

is the same as that of the man to the man?” “Of
 course.” “What is, then, in respect of virtue, the relation of a city
 ruled by a tyrant to a royal city as we first described it?” “They are
 direct contraries,” he said; “the one is the best, the other the worst.”
 “I’ll not ask which is which,” I said, “because that is obvious. But
 again in respect of happiness and wretchedness, is your estimate the
 same or different? And let us not be dazzled by fixing our eyes on that one man, the tyrant, or a
 few of his
 court, but let us enter into and survey the entire city,

as is right, and declare our opinion only after we have
 so dived to its uttermost recesses and contemplated its life as a
 whole.” “That is a fair challenge,” he said, “and it is clear to
 everybody that there is no city more wretched than that in which a
 tyrant rules, and none more happy than that governed by a true
 king. ” “And would
 it not also be a fair challenge,” said I,

“to ask you to accept as the only proper judge of the
 two men the one who is able in thought to enter with understanding into
 the very soul and temper of a man, and who is not like a child viewing
 him from outside, overawed by the tyrants’ great attendance, and the pomp and circumstance which they
 assume in the eyes of the world, but is able to see through it
 all? And what if I should assume, then, that the man to whom we ought
 all to listen is he who has this capacity of judgement and who has lived
 under the same roof with a tyrant and
 has witnessed his conduct in his own home and observed in person

his dealings with his intimates in each instance where
 he would best be seen stripped of his vesture of tragedy, and who had likewise
 observed his behavior in the hazards of his public life—and if we should
 ask the man who has seen all this to be the messenger to report on the
 happiness or misery of the tyrant as compared with other men?” “That
 also would be a most just challenge,” he said. “Shall we, then, make
 believe,” said I, “that we are of those who are thus able to judge and
 who have ere now lived with tyrants, so that we may have someone to
 answer our questions?” “By all means.”

“Come, then,” said I,
 “examine it thus. Recall the general likeness between the city and the
 man, and then observe in turn what happens to each of them.” “What
 things?” he said. “In the first place,” said I, “will you call the state
 governed by a tyrant free or enslaved, speaking of it as a state?”
 “Utterly enslaved,” he said. “And yet you see in it masters and
 freemen.” “I see,” he said, “a small portion of such, but the entirety,
 so to speak, and the best part of it, is shamefully and wretchedly
 enslaved. ” “If,
 then,” I said,

“the man resembles the state, must not the same
 proportion obtain in
 him, and his soul teem with
 boundless servility and illiberality, the best and most reasonable parts
 of it being enslaved, while a small part, the worst and the most
 frenzied, plays the despot?” “Inevitably,” he said. “Then will you say
 that such a soul is enslaved or free?” “Enslaved, I should suppose.”
 “Again, does not the enslaved and tyrannized city least of all do what
 it really wishes ?” “Decidedly so.” “Then the tyrannized
 soul—

to speak of the soul as a whole —also will least of all do what it
 wishes, but being always perforce driven and drawn by the gadfly of
 desire it will be full of confusion and repentance. ” “Of course.” “And must the
 tyrannized city

be rich or poor?” “Poor.” “Then the tyrant soul also
 must of necessity always be needy and suffer from unfulfilled desire.” “So it is,” he said.
 “And again, must not such a city, as well as such a man, be full of
 terrors and alarms?” “It must indeed.” “And do you think you will find
 more lamentations and groans and wailing and anguish in any other city?”
 “By no means.” “And so of man, do you think these things will more
 abound in any other than in this tyrant type, that is maddened by its
 desires and passions?” “How could it be so?” he said. “In view of all
 these

and other like considerations, then, I take it, you
 judged that this city is the most miserable of cities.” “And was I not
 right?” he said. “Yes, indeed,” said I. “But of the tyrant man, what
 have you to say in view of these same things?” “That he is far and away
 the most miserable of all,” he said. “I cannot admit,” said I, “that you
 are right in that too.” “How so?” said he. “This one,” said I, “I take
 it, has not yet attained the acme of misery. ” “Then who has?” “Perhaps you will regard the one I am about
 to name as still more wretched.”

“What one?” “The one,” said I, “who, being of
 tyrannical temper, does not live out his life in private station but is
 so unfortunate that by some unhappy chance he is enabled to become an
 actual tyrant.” “I infer from what has already been said,” he replied,
 “that you speak truly.” “Yes,” said I, “but it is not enough to suppose
 such things. We must examine them thoroughly by reason and an argument
 such as this. For our
 inquiry concerns the greatest of all things, the good life or the bad
 life.” “Quite right,” he replied. “Consider, then, if there is anything
 in what I say.

For I think we must get a notion of the matter from
 these examples.” “From which?” “From individual wealthy private citizens
 in our states who possess many slaves. For these resemble the tyrant in
 being rulers over many, only the tyrant’s numbers are greater. ” “Yes, they are.” “You are
 aware, then, that they are unafraid and do not fear their slaves?” “What
 should they fear?” “Nothing,” I said; “but do you perceive the reason
 why?” “Yes, because the entire state

is ready to defend each citizen.” “You are right,” I
 said. “But now suppose some god should catch up a man who has fifty or
 more slaves and waft
 him with his wife and children away from the city and set him down with
 his other possessions and his slaves in a solitude where no freeman
 could come to his rescue. What and how great would be his fear, do you suppose, lest he and his wife and children be
 destroyed by the slaves?” “The greatest in the world, ” he said, “if
 you ask me.”

“And would he not forthwith find it necessary to fawn
 upon some of the slaves and make them many promises and emancipate them,
 though nothing would be further from his wish ? And so he would
 turn out to be the flatterer of his own servants.” “He would certainly
 have to,” he said, “or else perish.” “But now suppose,” said I, “that
 god established round about him numerous neighbors who would not
 tolerate the claim of one man to be master of another, but would inflict the utmost penalties on any such
 person on whom they could lay their hands.” “I think,” he said,

“that his plight would be still more desperate,
 encompassed by nothing but enemies.” “And is not that the sort of
 prison-house in which the tyrant is pent, being of a nature such as we
 have described and filled with multitudinous and manifold terrors and
 appetites? Yet greedy and avid of spirit as he is, he only of the
 citizens may not travel abroad or view any of the sacred festivals that
 other freemen yearn to see, but he must live for the most part cowering
 in the recesses of his house like a woman,

envying among the other citizens anyone who goes abroad
 and sees any good thing.” “Most certainly,” he said. “And does not such a harvest of ills measure the
 difference between the man who is merely ill-governed in his own soul,
 the man of tyrannical temper, whom you just now judged to be most
 miserable, and the man who, having this disposition, does not live out
 his life in private station but is constrained by some ill hap to become
 an actual tyrant, and while unable to control himself attempts to rule over others, as if a man with a sick
 and incontinent body should not live the private life
 but should be compelled

to pass his days in contention and strife with other
 persons?” “Your analogy is most apt and true, Socrates,” he said. “Is not that then,
 dear Glaucon,” said I, “a most unhappy experience in every way? And is
 not the tyrant’s life still worse than that which was judged by you to
 be the worst?” “Precisely so,” he said. “Then it is the truth, though
 some may deny it, that the real tyrant is really
 enslaved

to cringings and servitudes beyond compare, a flatterer
 of the basest men, and that, so far from finding even the least
 satisfaction for his desires, he is in need of most things, and is a
 poor man in very truth, as is apparent if one knows how to observe a
 soul in its entirety; and throughout his life he teems with terrors and
 is full of convulsions and pains, if in fact he resembles the condition
 of the city which he rules; and he is like it, is he not?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said. “And in addition, shall we not
 further attribute to him all that we spoke of before, and say that he
 must needs be, and, by reason of his rule, come to be still more than he
 was, envious, faithless, unjust, friendless, impious, a
 vessel and nurse of all iniquity, and so in
 consequence be himself most unhappy make all about him
 so?” “No man of sense will gainsay that,” he said. “Come then,” said
 I,

“now at last, even as the judge of last instance pronounces, so do you
 declare who in your opinion is first in happiness and who second, and
 similarly judge the others, all five in succession, the royal, the
 timocratic, the oligarchic, the democratic, and the tyrannical man.”
 “Nay,” he said, “the decision is easy. For as if they were choruses I
 judge them in the order of their entrance, and so rank them in respect
 of virtue and vice, happiness and its contrary.” “Shall we hire a
 herald, then,” said I, “or shall I myself
 make proclamation that the son of Ariston pronounced the best man and the most righteous to be the
 happiest,

and that he is the one who is the most kingly and a
 king over himself; and declared that the most
 evil and most unjust is the most unhappy, who again is the man who,
 having the most of the tyrannical temper in himself, become, most of a
 tyrant over himself and over the state?” “Let it have been so proclaimed
 by you,” he said. “Shall I add the clause ‘alike whether their character
 is known to all men and gods or is not known’ ?” “Add that to the proclamation,” he said. “Very good,” said I; “this, then, would be one
 of our proofs,

but examine this second one and see if there is
 anything in it.” “What is it?” “Since,” said I, “corresponding to the
 three types in the city, the soul also is tripartite, it will admit, I think,
 of another demonstration also.” “What is that?” “The following: The
 three parts have also, it appears to me, three kinds of pleasure, one
 peculiar to each, and similarly three appetites and controls.” “What do
 you mean?” he said. “One part, we say, is that with which a man learns,
 one is that with which he feels anger. But the third part, owing to its
 manifold forms, we could not easily designate by any one
 distinctive name,

but gave it the name of its chief and strongest
 element; for we called it the appetitive part because of the
 intensity of its appetites concerned with food and drink and love and
 their accompaniments, and likewise the money-loving part, because money is the chief instrument

for the gratification of such desires.” “And rightly,”
 he said. “And if we should also say that its pleasure and its love were
 for gain or profit, should we not thus best bring it together under one
 head in our discourse so as to understand
 each other when we speak of this part of the soul, and justify our
 calling it the money-loving and gain-loving part?” “I, at any rate,
 think so,” he said. “And, again, of the high-spirited element, do we not
 say that it is wholly set on predominance and victory and good
 repute?”

“Yes, indeed.” “And might we not appropriately
 designate it as the ambitious part and that which is covetous of honor?”
 “Most appropriately.” “But surely it is obvious to everyone that all the
 endeavor of the part by which we learn is ever towards knowledge of the truth of
 things, and that it least of the three is concerned for wealth and
 reputation.” “Much the least.” “Lover of learning and lover of wisdom would be suitable
 designations for that.” “Quite so,” he said. “Is it not also true,” I
 said,

“that the ruling principle of men’s
 souls is in some cases this faculty and in others one of the other two,
 as it may happen?” “That is so,” he said. “And that is why we say that
 the primary classes of men also
 are three, the philosopher or lover of wisdom, the lover of victory and
 the lover of gain.” “Precisely so” “And also that there are three forms
 of pleasure, corresponding respectively to each?” “By all means.” “Are
 you aware, then” said I, “that if you should choose to ask men of these
 three classes, each in turn, which
 is the most pleasurable of these lives, each will chiefly commend his
 own ? The financier

will affirm that in comparison with profit the
 pleasures of honor or of learning area of no value except in so far as
 they produce money.” “True,” he said. “And what of the lover of
 honor ?” I said; “does he
 not regard the pleasure that comes from money as vulgar and low,
 and again that of learning, save in so far as the knowledge confers
 honor, mere fume and moonshine?” “It is so,” he
 said. “And what,” said I, “are we to suppose the philosopher thinks of
 the other pleasures

compared with the delight of knowing the truth and the
 reality, and being always occupied with that while he learns? Will he
 not think them far removed from true pleasure, and
 call them
 literally the pleasures of
 necessity, since he would have no use for them if necessity
 were not laid upon him?” “We may be sure of that,” he said. “Since, then, there is contention between the
 several types of pleasure and the lives themselves, not merely as to
 which is the more honorable or the more base, or the worse or the
 better, but which is actually the more pleasurable or free from pain,

how could we determine which of them speaks most
 truly?” “In faith, I cannot tell,” he said. “Well, consider it thus: By
 what are things to be judged, if they are to be judged rightly? Is it not by
 experience, intelligence and discussion ? Or could anyone name
 a better criterion than these?” “How could he?” he said. “Observe, then.
 Of our three types of men, which has had the most experience of all the
 pleasures we mentioned? Do you think that the lover of gain by study of
 the very nature of truth has more experience

of the pleasure that knowledge yields than the
 philosopher has of that which results from gain?” “There is a vast
 difference,” he said; “for the one, the philosopher, must needs taste of
 the other two kinds of pleasure from childhood; but the lover of gain is
 not only under no necessity of tasting or experiencing the sweetness of
 the pleasure of learning the true natures of things, but he cannot easily do so even if he
 desires and is eager for it.” “The lover of wisdom, then,” said I, “far
 surpasses the lover of gain in experience of both kinds of
 pleasure.”

“Yes, far.” “And how does he compare with the lover of
 honor? Is he more unacquainted with the pleasure of being honored than
 that other with that which comes from knowledge?” “Nay, honor,” he said,
 “if they achieve their several objects, attends them all; for the rich
 man is honored by many and the brave man and the wise, so that all are
 acquainted with the kind of pleasure that honor brings; but it is
 impossible for anyone except the lover of wisdom to have savored the
 delight that the contemplation of true being and reality brings.”

“Then,” said I, “so far as experience goes, he is the
 best judge of the three.” “By far.” “And again, he is the only one whose
 experience will have been accompanied 
 by intelligence.” “Surely.” “And yet again, that which is the
 instrument, or O)/RGANON , of
 judgement is the instrument, not of the lover of
 gain or of the lover of honor, but of the lover of wisdom.” “What is
 that?” “It was by means of words and discussion 
 that we said the judgement must be reached; was it not?” “Yes.” “And
 they are the instrument mainly of the philosopher.” “Of course.” “Now if
 wealth and profit were the best criteria by which things are judged,

the things praised and censured by the lover of gain
 would necessarily be truest and most real.” “Quite necessarily.” “And if
 honor, victory and courage, would it not be the things praised by the
 lover of honor and victory?” “Obviously.” “But since the tests are
 experience and wisdom and discussion, what follows?” “Of necessity,” he
 said, “that the things approved by the lover of wisdom and discussion
 are most valid and true.”

“There being, then, three kinds of pleasure, the
 pleasure of that part of the soul whereby we learn is the sweetest, and
 the life of the man in whom that part dominates is the most
 pleasurable.” “How could it be otherwise?” he said. “At any rate the man
 of intelligence speaks with authority when he commends his own life.”
 “And to what life and to what pleasure,” I said, “does the judge assign
 the second place?” “Obviously to that of the warrior and honor-loving
 type, for it is nearer to the first than is the life of the
 money-maker.” “And so the last place belongs to the lover of gain, as it
 seems.” “Surely,” said he.

“That, then, would be
 two points in succession and two victories for the just man over the
 unjust. And now for the third in the Olympian fashion to the
 saviour and to Olympian
 Zeus—observe that other pleasure than that of the intelligence is not
 altogether even real or pure, but is a kind of
 scene-painting, as I seem to have heard from some wise man ; and yet this would be the greatest and most decisive
 overthrow. ” “Much the greatest. But what
 do you mean?” “I shall discover it,” I said,

“if you will answer my questions while I seek.” “Ask,
 then,” he said. “Tell me, then,” said I, “do we not say that pain is the
 opposite of pleasure?” “We certainly do.” “And is there not such a thing
 as a neutral state ”
 “There is.” “Is it not intermediate between them, and in the mean, being a kind of quietude of the soul in these respects?
 Or is not that your notion of it?” “It is that,” said he. “Do you not
 recall the things men say in sickness?” “What sort of things?” “Why,
 that after all there is nothing sweeter than to be well,

though they were not aware that it is the highest
 pleasure before they were Ill.” “I remember,” he said. “And do you not
 hear men afflicted with severe pain saying that there is no greater
 pleasure than the cessation of this suffering?” “I do.” “And you
 perceive, I presume, many similar conditions in which men while
 suffering pain praise freedom from pain and relief from that as the
 highest pleasure, and not positive delight.” “Yes,” he said, “for this
 in such cases is perhaps what is felt as pleasurable and
 acceptable—peace.”

“And so,” I said, “when a man’s delight comes to an
 end, the cessation of pleasure will be painful.” “It may be so,” he
 said. “What, then,we just now described as the intermediate state
 between the two—this quietude—will sometimes be both pain and pleasure.”
 “It seems so” “Is it really possible for that which is neither to become
 both ?” “I think not.” “And further, both pleasure and pain
 arising in the soul are a kind of motion, are they not?”

“Yes.” “And did we not just now see that to feel
 neither pain nor pleasure is a quietude of the soul and an intermediate
 state between the two?” “Yes, we did.” “How, then, can it be right to
 think the absence of pain pleasure, or the absence of joy painful?” “In
 no way.” “This is not a reality, then, but an illusion,” said I; “in
 such case the quietude in juxtaposition with the pain appears pleasure, and in juxtaposition
 with the pleasure pain. And these illusions have no real bearing on the truth of pleasure, but are a kind of
 jugglery. ” “So at any rate our argument
 signifies,” he said. “Take a look, then,”

said I, “at pleasures which do not follow on pain, so
 that you may not haply suppose for the present that it is the nature of
 pleasure to be a cessation from pain and pain from pleasure.” “Where
 shall I look,” he said, “and what pleasures do you mean?” “There are
 many others,” I said, “and especially, if you please to note them, the
 pleasures connected with smell. For these with no antecedent
 pain suddenly
 attain an indescribable intensity, and their cessation leaves no pain
 after them.” “Most true,” he said. “Let us not believe, then,

that the riddance of pain is pure pleasure or that of
 pleasure pain.” “No, we must not.” “Yet, surely,” said I, “the
 affections that find their way through the body to the soul and are called pleasures are, we
 may say, the most and the greatest of them, of this type, in some sort
 releases from pain. ?” “Yes, they are.” “And is not this also the character of the
 anticipatory pleasures and pains that precede them and arise from the
 expectation of them?” “It is.”

“Do you know, then, what
 their quality is and what they most resemble?” “What?” he said. “Do you
 think that there is such a thing in nature as up
 and down and in the middle?” “I do.” “Do you suppose, then, that anyone
 who is transported from below to the center would have any other opinion
 than that he was moving upward ? And if he
 took his stand at the center and looked in the direction from which he
 had been transported, do you think he would suppose himself to be
 anywhere but above, never having seen that which is really above?” “No,
 by Zeus,” he said, “I do not think that such a person would have any
 other notion.”

“And if he were borne back,” I said, “he would both
 think himself to be moving downward and would think truly.” “Of course.”
 “And would not all this happen to him because of his non-acquaintance
 with the true and real up and down and middle?” “Obviously.” “Would it
 surprise you, then,” said I, “if similarly men without experience of
 truth and reality hold unsound opinions about many other matters, and
 are so disposed towards pleasure and pain and the intermediate neutral
 condition that, when they are moved in the direction of the painful,

they truly think themselves to be, and really are, in a
 state of pain, but, when they move from pain to the middle and neutral
 state, they intensely believe that they are approaching fulfillment and
 pleasure, and just as if, in ignorance of white, they were comparing
 grey with black, so, being
 inexperienced in true pleasure, they are deceived by viewing
 painlessness in its relation to pain?” “No, by Zeus,” he said, “it would
 not surprise me, but far rather if it were not so.” “In this way, then,
 consider it. Are not hunger and thirst and similar states
 inanitions or emptinesses

of the bodily habit?” “Surely.” “And is not ignorance
 and folly in turn a kind of emptiness of the habit of the soul?” “It is
 indeed.” “And he who partakes of nourishment and he who gets, wisdom fills
 the void and is filled?” “Of course.” “And which is the truer filling
 and fulfillment, that of the less or of the more real being?” “Evidently
 that of the more real.” “And which of the two groups or kinds do you
 think has a greater part in pure essence, the class of foods, drinks,
 and relishes and nourishment generally, or the kind of true
 opinion,

knowledge and reason, and, in
 sum, all the things that are more excellent ? Form your judgement thus. Which do
 you think more truly is, that which clings to what is ever like itself
 and immortal and to the truth, and that which is itself of such a nature
 and is born in a thing of that nature, or that which clings to what is
 mortal and never the same and is itself such and is born in such a
 thing?” “That which cleaves to what is ever the same far surpasses,” he
 said. “Does the essence of that which never abides the same partake of
 real essence any more than of knowledge?” “By no means.” “Or of truth
 and reality?” “Not of that, either.” “And if a thing has less of truth
 has it not also less of real essence or existence?” “Necessarily.” “And
 is it not generally true

that the kinds concerned with the service of the body
 partake less of truth and reality than those that serve the soul?” “Much
 less.” “And do you not think that the same holds of the body itself in
 comparison with the soul?” “I do.” “Then is not that which is fulfilled
 of what more truly is, and which itself more truly is, more truly filled
 and satisfied than that which being itself less real is filled with more
 unreal things?” “Of course.” “If, then, to be filled with what befits
 nature is pleasure, then that which is more really filled with real
 things

would more really and truly cause us to enjoy a true
 pleasure, while that which partakes of the less truly existent would be
 less truly and surely filled and would partake of a less trustworthy and
 less true pleasure.” “Most inevitably,” he said. “Then those who have no
 experience

of wisdom and virtue but are ever devoted to feastings and that sort of
 thing are swept downward, it seems, and back again to the center, and so
 sway and roam to and fro throughout
 their lives, but they have never transcended all this and turned their
 eyes to the true upper region nor been wafted there, nor ever been
 really filled with real things, nor ever tasted stable and pure pleasure, but with eyes ever bent upon
 the earth and heads bowed down over
 their tables they feast like cattle,

grazing and copulating, ever greedy for more of these
 delights; and in their greed kicking and butting one another with
 horns and hooves of iron they slay one another in sateless avidity,
 because they are vainly striving to satisfy with things that are not
 real the unreal and incontinent part of
 their souls.” “You describe in quite oracular style, 
 Socrates,” said Glaucon, “the life of the multitude.” “And are not the
 pleasures with which they dwell inevitably commingled with pains,
 phantoms of true pleasure, illusions of scene-painting, so colored by
 contrary juxtaposition

as to seem intense in either kind, and to beget mad
 loves of themselves in senseless souls, and to be fought for, as Stesichorus says the wraith of Helen was fought for at Troy through
 ignorance of the truth?” “It is quite inevitable,” he said, “that it
 should be so.” “So, again, must not the
 like hold of the high-spirited element, whenever a man succeeds in
 satisfying that part of his nature—his covetousness of honor by envy,
 his love of victory by violence, his ill-temper by indulgence in
 anger,

pursuing these ends without regard to consideration and
 reason?” “The same sort of thing,” he said, “must necessarily happen in
 this case too.” “Then,” said I, “may we not confidently declare that in
 both the gain-loving and the contentious part of our nature all the
 desires that wait upon knowledge and reason, and, pursuing their
 pleasures in conjunction with them, take only those pleasures which
 reason approves, will, since they follow truth, enjoy the truest pleasures, so far as that is possible for them,
 and also the pleasures that are proper to them and their own,

if for everything that which is best may be said to be
 most its ‘own’ ?” “But indeed,” he said, “it is most truly its very
 own.” “Then when the entire soul accepts the guidance of the
 wisdom-loving part and is not filled with inner dissension, the result for
 each part is that it in all other respects keeps to its own task and is just, and likewise that each enjoys its own proper
 pleasures and the best pleasures and,

so far as such a thing is possible, the
 truest.” “Precisely so.” “And so when one of the other two gets the
 mastery the result for it is that it does not find its own proper
 pleasure and constrains the others to pursue an alien pleasure and not
 the true.” “That is so,” he said. “And would not that which is furthest
 removed from philosophy and reason be most likely to produce this
 effect ?” “Quite so,” he said. “And is not that furthest
 removed from reason which is furthest from law and order?” “Obviously.”
 “And was it not made plain that the furthest removed are the erotic and
 tyrannical appetites?” “Quite so.”

“And least so the royal and orderly?” “Yes.” “Then the
 tyrant’s place, I think, will be fixed at the furthest remove from true and proper pleasure, and
 the king’s at the least.” “Necessarily.” “Then the tyrant’s life will be
 least pleasurable and the king’s most.” “There is every necessity of
 that.” “Do you know, then,” said I, “how much less pleasurably the
 tyrant lives than the king?” “I’ll know if you tell me, ” he said.
 “There being as it appears three pleasures, one genuine and two
 spurious,

the tyrant in his flight from law and reason crosses
 the border beyond the spurious,
 cohabits with certain slavish, mercenary pleasures, and the measure of
 his inferiority is not easy to express except perhaps thus.” “How?” he
 said. “The tyrant, I believe, we found at the third remove from the
 oligarch, for the democrat came between.” “Yes.” “And would he not also
 dwell with a phantom of pleasure in respect of reality three stages
 removed from that other, if all that we have said is true?” “That is
 so.” “And the oligarch in turn is at the third remove from the royal
 man

if we assume the identity of the aristocrat and the
 king. ”
 “Yes, the third.” “Three times three, then, by numerical measure is the
 interval that separates the tyrant from true pleasure.” “Apparently.”
 “The phantom of the tyrant’s
 pleasure is then by longitudinal mensuration a plane number.” “Quite
 so.” “But by squaring and cubing it is clear what the interval of this
 separation becomes.” “It is clear,” he said, “to a reckoner.” “Then
 taking it the other way about,

if one tries to express the extent of the interval
 between the king and the tyrant in respect of true pleasure he will find
 on completion of the multiplication that he lives 729 times as happily
 and that the tyrant’s life is more painful by the same distance. ” “An overwhelming and
 baffling calculation,” he said, “of the difference between the just and

the unjust man in respect of pleasure and pain!” “And
 what is more, it is a true number and pertinent to the lives of men if
 days and nights and months and years pertain to them.” “They certainly
 do,” he said. “Then if in point of pleasure the victory of the good and
 just man over the bad and unjust is so great as this, he will surpass
 him inconceivably in decency and beauty of life and virtue.”
 “Inconceivably indeed, by Zeus,” he said. “Very good,” said I. “And now that we have come to this point in the
 argument,

let us take up again the statement with which we began
 and that has brought us to this pass. 
 It was, I believe, averred that injustice is profitable to the
 completely unjust man who is reputed just. Was not that the
 proposition?” “Yes, that.” “Let us, then, reason with its proponent now
 that we have agreed on the essential nature of injustice and just
 conduct.” “How?” he said. “By fashioning in our discourse a symbolic
 image of the soul, that the maintainer of that proposition may see
 precisely what it is that he was saying.”

“What sort of an image?” he said. “One of those natures
 that the ancient fables tell of,” said I, “as that of the Chimaera or Scylla or
 Cerberus, and the numerous
 other examples that are told of many forms grown together in one.” “Yes,
 they do tell of them.” “Mould, then, a single shape of a manifold and
 many-headed beast that has
 a ring of heads of tame and wild beasts and can change them and cause to
 spring forth from itself all such growths.”

“It is the task of a cunning artist, ”
 he said, “but nevertheless, since speech is more plastic than wax and other such media,
 assume that it has been so fashioned.” “Then fashion one other form of a
 lion and one of a man and let the first be far the largest 
 and the second second in size.” “That is easier,” he said, “and is
 done.” “Join the three in one, then, so as in some sort to grow
 together.” “They are so united,” he said. “Then mould about them outside
 the likeness of one, that of the man, so that to anyone who is
 unable

to look within but who can see only the
 external sheath it appears to be one living creature, the man.” “The
 sheath is made fast about him,” he said. “Let us, then say to the
 speaker who avers that it pays this man to be unjust, and that to do
 justice is not for his advantage, that he is affirming nothing else than
 that it profits him to feast and make strong the multifarious beast and
 the lion and all that pertains to the lion,

but to starve the man and so enfeeble him that he can be pulled
 about whithersoever either of
 the others drag him, and not to familiarize or reconcile with one
 another the two creatures but suffer them to bite and fight and devour
 one another. ” “Yes,” he said, “that is precisely what the panegyrist
 of injustice will be found to say.” “And on the other hand he who says
 that justice is the more profitable affirms that all our actions and
 words should tend to give the man within us

complete domination over the entire man and make him take charge of the many-headed
 beast—like a farmer 
 who cherishes and trains the cultivated plants but checks the growth of
 the wild—and he will make an ally of the lion’s nature, and
 caring for all the beasts alike will first make them friendly to one
 another and to himself, and so foster their growth.” “Yes, that in turn
 is precisely the meaning of the man who commends justice.” “From every
 point of view, then, the panegyrist of justice

speaks truly and the panegyrist of injustice falsely.
 For whether we consider pleasure, reputation, or profit, he who commends
 justice speaks the truth, while there is no soundness or real knowledge
 of what he censures in him who disparages it.” “None whatever, I think,”
 said he. “Shall we, then, try to persuade him gently, for he does
 not willingly err, by questioning him thus: Dear
 friend, should we not also say that the things which law and custom deem
 fair or foul have been accounted so for a like reason—

the fair and honorable things being those that subject
 the brutish part of our nature to that which is human in us, or rather,
 it may be, to that which is divine, while the foul and base are the things that enslave
 the gentle nature to the wild? Will he assent or not?” “He will if he is
 counselled by me.” “Can it profit any man in the light of this thought
 to accept gold unjustly if the result is to be that by the acceptance he
 enslaves the best part of himself to the worst?

Or is it conceivable that, while, if the taking of the
 gold enslaved his son or daughter and that too to fierce and evil men,
 it would not profit him, no matter how large the sum, yet that, if the result
 is to be the ruthless enslavement of the divinest part of himself to the
 most despicable and godless part, he is not to be deemed wretched

and is not taking the golden bribe much more
 disastrously than Eriphyle did
 when she received the necklace as the price 
 of her husband’s life?” “Far more,” said Glaucon, “for I will answer you
 in his behalf.” “And do you not think that
 the reason for the old objection to licentiousness is similarly because
 that sort of thing emancipates that dread, that huge and manifold beast overmuch?”
 “Obviously,” he said. “And do we not censure self-will

and irascibility when they foster and intensify
 disproportionately the element of the lion and the snake in us?” “By all means.” “And do we not reprobate
 luxury and effeminacy for their loosening and relaxation of this same
 element when they engender cowardice in it?” “Surely.” “And flattery and
 illiberality when they reduce this same high-spirited element under the
 rule of the mob-like beast and habituate it for the sake of wealth and
 the unbridled lusts of the beast to endure all manner of contumely from
 youth up and become an ape instead of a lion?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said. “And why do you suppose that
 ‘base mechanic’ handicraft is a term of reproach? Shall we not
 say that it is solely when the best part is naturally weak in a man so
 that it cannot govern and control the brood of beasts within him but can
 only serve them and can learn nothing but the ways of flattering them?”
 “So it seems,” he said. “Then is it not in order that such an one may
 have a like government with the best man that we say he ought to be the
 slave

of that best man who has within himself the
 divine governing principle, not because we suppose, as Thrasymachus 
 did in the case of subjects, that the slave should be governed for his
 own harm, but on the ground that it is better for everyone to be
 governed by the divine and the intelligent, preferably indwelling and
 his own, but in default of that imposed from without, in order that we
 all so far as possible may be akin and friendly because our governance
 and guidance are the same?” “Yes, and rightly so,” he said.

“And it is plain,” I said, “that this is the purpose of
 the law, which is the ally of all classes in the state, and this is the
 aim of our control of children, our not
 leaving them free before we have established, so to speak, a
 constitutional government within them and, by
 fostering the best element in them

with the aid of the like in ourselves, have set up in
 its place a similar guardian and ruler in the child, and then, and then
 only, we leave it free.” “Yes, that is plain,” he said. “In what
 way, then, Glaucon, and on what principle, shall
 we say that it profits a man to be unjust or licentious or do any
 shameful thing that will make him a worse man, but otherwise will bring
 him more wealth or power?” “In no way,” he said. “And how that it pays
 him to escape detection in wrongdoing and not pay the penalty ?

Or is it not true that he who evades detection becomes
 a still worse man, while in the one who is discovered and chastened the
 brutish part is lulled and tamed and the gentle part liberated, and the
 entire soul, returning to its nature at the best, attains to a much more
 precious condition in acquiring sobriety and righteousness together with
 wisdom, than the body does when it gains strength and beauty
 conjoined with health, even as the soul is more precious than the body?”
 “Most assuredly,” he said.

“Then the wise man will bend all his endeavors to this end throughout his
 life; he will, to begin with, prize the studies that will give this
 quality to his soul and disprize the others.” “Clearly,” he said. “And
 then,” I said, “he not only will not abandon the habit and nurture of
 his body to the brutish and irrational pleasure and live with his face
 set in that direction, but he will not even make health his chief
 aim, nor give the first
 place to the ways of becoming strong or healthy or beautiful unless
 these things are likely to bring with them soberness of spirit,

but he will always be found attuning the harmonies of
 his body for the sake of the concord in his soul. ” “By all means,” he
 replied, “if he is to be a true musician. ” “And will he not deal likewise with the ordering and
 harmonizing of his possessions? He will not let himself be dazzled by the felicitations of the multitude and pile up
 the mass of his wealth without measure, 
 involving himself in measureless ills.” “No, I think not,” he said.

“He will rather,” I said, “keep his eyes fixed on the
 constitution in his soul, and taking care and watching lest he disturb anything
 there either by excess or deficiency of wealth, will so steer his
 course and add to or detract from his wealth on this principle, so far
 as may be.” “Precisely so,” he said. “And in the matter of honors and
 office too this will be his guiding principle:

He will gladly take part in and enjoy those which he
 thinks will make him a better man, but in public and private life he
 will shun those that may overthrow the established habit of his
 soul.” “Then, if that is his chief concern,” he said, “he will not
 willingly take part in politics. ”
 “Yes, by the dog, ” said
 I, “in his own city he certainly will, yet perhaps not in the city of
 his birth, except in some providential conjuncture. ” “I understand,” he said; “you
 mean the city whose establishment we have described, the city whose home
 is in the ideal;

for I think that it can be found nowhere on earth. ”
 “Well,” said I, “perhaps there is a pattern of it laid up in heaven for him who wishes to contemplate
 it and so beholding to constitute himself its citizen. But it makes no difference
 whether it exists now or ever will come into being. The politics of
 this city only will be his and of none other.” “That seems probable,” he
 said.

“And truly,” I said,
 “many other considerations assure me that we were entirely right in our
 organization of the state, and especially, I think, in the matter of
 poetry. ” “What about it?” he said. “In
 refusing to admit at all so much of
 it as is imitative ; for that it is
 certainly not to be received is, I think,

still more plainly apparent now that we have
 distinguished the several parts of the soul.” “What do you mean?”
 “Why, between ourselves —for you will not
 betray me to the tragic poets and all other imitators—that kind of art
 seems to be a corruption of the mind of all listeners
 who do not possess, as an antidote a knowledge of its real nature.”
 “What is your idea in saying this?” he said. “I must speak out,” I said,
 “though a certain love and reverence for Homer that has possessed me from a boy would stay me from
 speaking.

For he appears to have been the first teacher and
 beginner of all these beauties of tragedy. Yet all the same we must not
 honor a man above truth, but, as I say, speak our
 minds.” “By all means,” he said. “Listen, then, or rather, answer my
 question.” “Ask it,” he said. “Could you tell me in general what
 imitation is? For neither do I myself quite apprehend what it would be
 at.” “It is likely, then, ” he said, “that
 I should apprehend!” “It would be nothing strange,”
 said I, “since it often happens

that the dimmer vision sees things in advance of the
 keener. ” “That is so,” he said; “but
 in your presence I could not even be eager to try to state anything that
 appears to me, but do you yourself consider it.” “Shall we, then, start
 the inquiry at this point by our customary procedure ? We are in the
 habit, I take it, of positing a single idea or form in the case of the various
 multiplicities to which we give the same name. Do you not understand?”
 “I do.” “In the present case, then, let us take any multiplicity you
 please;

for example, there are many couches and tables.” “Of
 course.” “But these utensils imply, I suppose, only two ideas or forms,
 one of a couch and one of a table.” “Yes.” “And are we not also in the
 habit of saying that the craftsman who produces either of them fixes his
 eyes on the idea or form, and so makes in
 the one case the couches and in the other the tables that we use, and
 similarly of other things? For surely no craftsman makes the idea
 itself. How could he?” “By no means.” “But now consider

what name you would give to this craftsman.” “What
 one?” “Him who makes all the things that all handicraftsmen
 severally produce.” “A truly clever and wondrous man you tell of.” “Ah,
 but wait, and you will say
 so indeed, for this same handicraftsman is not only able to make all
 implements, but he produces all plants and animals, including
 himself, and thereto earth and
 heaven and the gods and all things in heaven and in Hades under the
 earth.” “A most marvellous sophist, “

he said. “Are you incredulous?” said I. “Tell me, do
 you deny altogether the possibility of such a craftsman, or do you admit
 that in a sense there could be such a creator of all these things, and
 in another sense not? Or do you not perceive that you yourself would be
 able to make all these things in a way?” “And in what way, I ask you,” he said.
 “There is no difficulty,” said I, “but it is something that the
 craftsman can make everywhere and quickly. You could do it most quickly
 if you should choose to take a mirror and carry it about
 everywhere.

You will speedily produce the sun and all the things in
 the sky, and speedily the earth and yourself and the other animals and
 implements and plants and all the objects of which we just now spoke.”
 “Yes,” he said, “the appearance of them, but not the reality and the
 truth.” “Excellent,” said I, “and you come to the aid of the argument
 opportunely. For I take it that the painter too belongs to this class of
 producers, does he not?” “Of course.” “But you will say, I suppose, that
 his creations are not real and true. And yet, after a fashion, the
 painter too makes a couch, does he not?”
 “Yes,” he said, “the appearance of one, he too.”

“What of the
 cabinet-maker? Were you not just now saying that he does not make the
 idea or form which we say is the real couch, the couch in itself, but only some particular
 couch?” “Yes, I was.” “Then if he does not make that which really is, he
 could not be said to make real being but something that resembles real
 being but is not that. But if anyone should say that being in the
 complete sense belongs to the work of the
 cabinet-maker or to that of any other handicraftsman, it seems that he
 would say what is not true.” “That would be the view,” he said, “of
 those who are versed in
 this kind of reasoning.” “We must not be surprised, then, if this too is
 only a dim adumbration in comparison with reality.”

“No, we must not.” “Shall we, then, use these very
 examples in our quest for the true nature of this imitator?” “If you
 please,” he said. “We get, then, these three couches, one, that in
 nature which, I take it, we would say that God produces, or who else?” “No one, I
 think.” “And then there was one which the carpenter made.” “Yes,” he
 said. “And one which the painter. Is not that so?” “So be it.” “The
 painter, then, the cabinet-maker, and God, there are these three
 presiding over three kinds of couches.” “Yes,three.”

“Now God,whether because he so willed or because some
 compulsion was laid upon him not to make more than one couch in nature, so
 wrought and created one only, the
 couch which really and in itself is. But two or more such were never
 created by God and never will come into being.” “How so?” he said.
 “Because,” said I, “if he should make only two, there would again appear
 one of which they both would possess the form or idea, and that would be
 the couch that really is in and of itself, and not the other two.”
 “Right,” he said. “God, then, I take it, knowing this and wishing

to be the real author of the couch that has real being
 and not of some particular couch, nor yet a particular cabinet-maker,
 produced it in nature unique.” “So it seems.” “Shall we, then, call him
 its true and natural begetter, or something of the kind?” “That would
 certainly be right,” he said, “since it is by and in nature that he has made this and all other
 things.” “And what of the carpenter? Shall we not call him the creator
 of a couch?” “Yes.” “Shall we also say that the painter is the creator
 and maker of that sort of thing?” “By no means.” “What will you say he
 is in relation to the couch?”

“This,” said he, “seems to me the most reasonable
 designation for him, that he is the imitator of the thing which those
 others produce.” “Very good,” said I; “the producer of the product three
 removes from nature you call the imitator?” “By all means,” he
 said. “This, then, will apply to the maker of tragedies also, if he is
 an imitator and is in his nature three removes from the king and the
 truth, as are all other imitators.” “It would seem so.” “We are in
 agreement, then, about the imitator.

But tell me now this about the painter. Do you think
 that what he tries to imitate is in each case that thing itself in
 nature or the works of the craftsmen?” “The works of the craftsmen,” he
 said. “Is it the reality of them or the appearance? Define that further
 point. ”
 “What do you mean?” he said. “This: Does a couch differ from itself
 according as you view it from the side or the front or in any other way?
 Or does it differ not at all in fact though it appears different, and so
 of other things?” “That is the way of it,” he said: “it appears other
 but differs not at all.”

“Consider, then, this very point. To which is painting
 directed in every case, to the imitation of reality as it is or of appearance as it
 appears? Is it an imitation of a phantasm or of the truth?” “Of a
 phantasm, ” he said. “Then the mimetic
 art is far removed from truth, and this, it seems, is the reason why
 it can produce everything, because it touches or lays hold of only a
 small part of the object and that a phantom ; as, for
 example, a painter, we say, will paint us a cobbler, a carpenter, and
 other craftsmen,

though he himself has no expertness in any of these
 arts, but nevertheless if he were a good painter, by
 exhibiting at a distance his picture of a carpenter he would deceive
 children and foolish men, and make
 them believe it to be a real carpenter.” “Why not?” “But for all that,
 my friend, this, I take it, is what we ought to bear in mind in all such
 cases: When anyone reports to us of someone, that he has met a man who
 knows all the crafts and everything else that men
 severally know,

and that there is nothing that he does not know more
 exactly than anybody else, our tacit rejoinder must be that he is a
 simple fellow, who apparently has met some magician or sleight-of-hand
 man and imitator and has been deceived by him into the belief that he is
 all-wise, because of his own inability
 to put to the proof and distinguish knowledge, ignorance and imitation.” “Most
 true,” he said. “Then,” said I, “have we
 not next to scrutinize tragedy and its leader Homer, since some people
 tell us that these poets know all the arts

and all things human pertaining to virtue and vice, and
 all things divine? For the good poet, if he is to poetize things
 rightly, must, they argue, create with knowledge or else be unable to
 create. So we must consider whether these critics have not fallen in
 with such imitators and been deceived by them, so that looking upon
 their works

they cannot perceive that these are three removes from
 reality, and easy to produce without knowledge of the truth. For it is
 phantoms, not realities, that they produce. Or is there
 something in their claim, and do good poets really know the things about
 which the multitude fancy they speak well?” “We certainly must examine
 the matter,” he said. “Do you suppose, then, that if a man were able to
 produce both the exemplar and the semblance, he would be eager to
 abandon himself to the fashioning of phantoms and set this in
 the forefront

of his life as the best thing he had?” “I do not.”
 “But, I take it, if he had genuine knowledge of the things he imitates
 he would far rather devote himself to real things than to the imitation of them,
 and would endeavor to leave after him many noble deeds and works as memorials of
 himself, and would be more eager to be the theme of praise than the
 praiser.” “I think so,” he said; “for there is no parity in the honor
 and the gain.” “Let us not, then, demand a reckoning from Homer

or any other of the poets on other matters by asking
 them, if any one of them was a physician and not merely an imitator of a
 physician’s talk, what men any poet, old or new, is reported to have
 restored to health as Asclepius did, or what disciples of the medical
 art he left after him as Asclepius did his descendants; and let us
 dismiss the other arts and not question them about them; but concerning
 the greatest and finest things of which Homer undertakes to speak, wars
 and generalship

and the administration of cities and the education of
 men, it surely is fair to question him and ask, ‘Friend Homer, if you
 are not at the third remove from truth and reality in human excellence,
 being merely that creator of phantoms whom we defined as the imitator,
 but if you are even in the second place and were capable of knowing what
 pursuits make men better or worse in private or public life, tell us
 what city was better governed owing to you, even as Lacedaemon was
 because of Lycurgus, and many other cities

great and small because of other legislators. But what
 city credits you with having been a good legislator and having benefited
 them? Italy and Sicily say this of Charondas and we of Solon. But who says it of you?’ Will
 he be able to name any?” “I think not,” said Glaucon; “at any rate none
 is mentioned even by the Homerids themselves.” “Well, then,

is there any tradition of a war in Homer’s time that
 was well conducted by his command or counsel?” “None.” “Well, then, as
 might be expected of a man wise in practical affairs, are many and
 ingenious inventions for the arts and business of
 life reported of Homer as they are of Thales the
 Milesian and Anacharsis the
 Scythian?” “Nothing whatever of the sort.” “Well, then, if no public
 service is credited to him, is Homer reported while he lived to have
 been a guide in education to men who took pleasure in associating with
 him

and transmitted to posterity a certain Homeric way of
 life just as
 Pythagoras was himself especially honored for this,
 and his successors, even to this day, denominating a certain way of life
 the Pythagorean, are
 distinguished among their contemporaries?” “No, nothing of this sort
 either is reported; for Creophylos, Socrates, the friend
 of Homer, would perhaps be even more ridiculous than his name as a representative of Homeric
 culture and education, if what is said about Homer is true. For the
 tradition is that Homer was completely neglected in his own lifetime by
 that friend of the flesh.”

“Why, yes, that is the
 tradition,” said I; “but do you suppose, Glaucon, that, if Homer had
 really been able to educate men and make
 them better and had possessed not the art of imitation but real
 knowledge, he would not have acquired many companions and been honored
 and loved by them? But are we to believe that while Protagoras of Abdera and
 Prodicus of Ceos and many others are able by private teaching

to impress upon their contemporaries the conviction
 that they will not be capable of governing their homes or the city unless they put them in charge of their education, and
 make themselves so beloved for this wisdom that their companions all but carry them about on their
 shoulders, yet, forsooth, that Homer’s contemporaries, if he
 had been able to help men to achieve excellence, would have suffered him or Hesiod to roam about
 rhapsodizing and would not have clung to them far rather than to their
 gold, and constrained them to dwell with
 them in their homes,

or failing to persuade them, would themselves have
 escorted them wheresoever they went until they should have sufficiently
 imbibed their culture?” “What you say seems to me to be altogether true,
 Socrates,” he said. “Shall we, then, lay it down that all the poetic
 tribe, beginning with Homer, are imitators of images of
 excellence and of the other things that they ‘create, ’ and do not lay hold on truth? but,
 as we were just now saying, the painter will fashion,

himself knowing nothing of the cobbler’s art, what
 appears to be a cobbler to him and likewise to those who know nothing
 but judge only by forms and colors ?” “Certainly.” “And
 similarly, I suppose, we shall say that the poet himself, knowing
 nothing but how to imitate, lays on with words and phrases the colors of the
 several arts in such fashion that others equally ignorant, who see
 things only through words, will deem his words most
 excellent,

whether he speak in rhythm, meter and harmony about
 cobbling or generalship or anything whatever. So mighty is the
 spell 
 that these adornments naturally exercise; though when they are stripped
 bare of their musical coloring and taken by themselves, I think you know what sort of a
 showing these sayings of the poets make. For you, I believe, have
 observed them.” “I have,” he said. “Do they not,” said I, “resemble the
 faces of adolescents, young but not really beautiful, when the bloom of
 youth abandons them? ” “By all means,” he
 said. “Come, then,” said I, “consider this point: The creator of the
 phantom, the imitator, we say, knows nothing of the reality but only the
 appearance.

Is not that so?” “Yes.” “Let us not, then, leave it
 half said but consider it fully.” “Speak on,” he said. “The painter, we
 say, will paint both reins and a bit.” “Yes.” “But the maker will be the cobbler and the smith.” “Certainly.”
 “Does the painter, then, know the proper quality of reins and bit? Or
 does not even the maker, the cobbler and the smith, know that, but only
 the man who understands the use of these things, the horseman ?” “Most true.” “And shall we not say

that the same holds true of everything?” “What do you
 mean?” “That there are some three arts concerned with everything, the
 user’s art, the maker’s, and the imitator’s.” “Yes.” “Now
 do not the excellence, the beauty, the rightness of every implement, living thing, and
 action refer solely to the use for which each is
 made or by nature adapted?” “That is so.” “It quite necessarily follows,
 then, that the user of anything is the one who knows most of it by
 experience, and that he reports to the maker the good or bad effects in
 use of the thing he uses.

As, for example, the flute-player reports to the
 flute-maker which flutes respond and serve rightly in flute-playing, and
 will order the kind that must be made, and the other will obey and serve
 him.” “Of course.” “The one, then, possessing knowledge, reports about
 the goodness or the badness of the flutes, and the other, believing,
 will make them.” “Yes.” “Then in respect of the same implement the maker
 will have right belief about its excellence and defects from association
 with the man who knows and being compelled to listen to him,

but the user will have true knowledge.” “Certainly.”
 “And will the imitator from experience or use have knowledge whether the
 things he portrays are or are not beautiful and right, or will he, from
 compulsory association with the man who knows and taking orders from him
 for the right making of them, have right opinion ?” “Neither.” “Then the imitator will neither know nor
 opine rightly concerning the beauty or the badness of his imitations.”
 “It seems not.” “Most charming, then, would be the state of mind of the poetical
 imitator in respect of true wisdom about his creations.” “Not at all.”

“Yet still he will none the less 
 imitate, though in every case he does not know in what way the thing is
 bad or good. But, as it seems, the thing he will imitate will be the
 thing that appears beautiful to the ignorant multitude.” “Why, what
 else?” “On this, then, as it seems, we are fairly agreed, that the
 imitator knows nothing worth mentioning of the things he imitates, but
 that imitation is a form of play, not to be
 taken seriously, and that those who attempt tragic poetry, whether
 in iambics or heroic verse, are all altogether imitators.” “By all means.”

“In heaven’s name, then,
 this business of imitation is concerned with the third remove from
 truth, is it not?” “Yes.” “And now again, to what element in
 man is its function and potency related?” “Of what are you speaking?”
 “Of this: The same magnitude, I presume, viewed from near and from
 far does not appear
 equal.” “Why, no.” “And the same things appear bent and straight to those who view them in water and out, or concave and
 convex, owing to similar errors of vision about colors, and there
 is

obviously every confusion of this sort in our souls.
 And so scene-painting in its exploitation of this weakness of our nature falls nothing short of
 witchcraft, and
 so do jugglery and many other such contrivances.” “True.” “And have not
 measuring and numbering and weighing 
 proved to be most gracious aids to prevent the domination in our soul of
 the apparently greater or less or more or
 heavier, and to give the control to that which has reckoned and numbered or even
 weighed?”

“Certainly.” “But this surely would be the
 function of the part of the soul that
 reasons and calculates. ” “Why, yes, of
 that.” “And often when this has measured and declares that certain things are larger or that some
 are smaller than the others or equal, there is at the same time an
 appearance of the contrary.” “Yes.” “And did we not say that it is impossible for the same thing at one time to
 hold contradictory opinions about the same thing?”

“And we were right in affirming that.” “The part of the
 soul, then, that opines in contradiction of measurement could not be the
 same with that which conforms to it.” “Why, no.” “But, further, that
 which puts its trust in measurement and reckoning must be the best part
 of the soul.” “Surely.” “Then that which opposes it must belong to the
 inferior elements of the soul.” “Necessarily.” “This, then, was what I
 wished to have agreed upon when I said that poetry, and in general the
 mimetic art, produces a product that is far removed from truth in the
 accomplishment of its task, and associates with the part in us

that is remote from intelligence, and is its companion
 and friend for no sound and true
 purpose. ” “By all means,” said he. “Mimetic
 art, then, is an inferior thing cohabiting with an inferior and
 engendering inferior offspring. ”
 “It seems so.” “Does that,” said I, “hold only for vision or does it
 apply also to hearing and to what we call poetry?” “Presumably,” he
 said, “to that also.” “Let us not, then, trust solely to the plausible
 analogy from painting, but let us approach
 in turn

that part of the mind to which mimetic poetry appeals
 and see whether it is the inferior or the nobly serious part.” “So we
 must.” “Let us, then, put the question thus: Mimetic poetry, we say,
 imitates human beings acting under compulsion or voluntarily, and as a result of
 their actions supposing themselves to have fared well or ill and in all
 this feeling either grief or joy. Did we find anything else but this?”
 “Nothing.” “Is a man, then, in all this

of one mind with himself, or just as in the domain of
 sight there was faction and strife and he held within himself contrary
 opinions at the same time about the same things, so also in our
 actions there is division and strife 
 of the man with himself? But I recall that there is no need now of our
 seeking agreement on this point, for in our former discussion we
 were sufficiently agreed that our soul at any one moment teems with
 countless such self-contradictions.” “Rightly,” he said. “Yes, rightly,”
 said I; “but what we then omitted must now, I think,

be set forth.” “What is that?” he said. “When a good
 and reasonable man,” said I, “experiences such a stroke of fortune as
 the loss of a son or anything else that he holds most dear, we said, I
 believe, then too, that he will bear it more easily than the other
 sort.” “Assuredly.” “But now let us consider this: Will he feel no pain,
 or, since that is impossible, shall we say that he will in some sort be
 moderate in his grief?” “That,” he said, “is rather the truth.”

“Tell me now this about him: Do you think he will be
 more likely to resist and fight against his grief when he is observed by
 his equals or when he is in solitude alone by himself?” “He will be much
 more restrained,” he said, “when he is on view.” “But when left alone, I
 fancy, he will permit himself many utterances which, if heard by
 another, would put him to shame, and will do many things which he would
 not consent to have another see him doing.” “So it is,” he
 said. “Now is it not reason and
 law

that exhorts him to resist, while that which urges him
 to give way to his grief is the bare feeling itself?” “True.” “And where
 there are two opposite impulses in a man at the same time
 about the same thing we say that there must needs be two things 
 in him.” “Of course.” “And is not the one prepared to follow the
 guidance of the law as the law leads and directs?” “How so?” “The law, I
 suppose, declares that it is best to keep quiet as far as possible in
 calamity and not to chafe and repine, because we cannot know what is
 really good and evil in such things and
 it advantages us nothing to take them hard,

and nothing in mortal life is worthy of great
 concern, and
 our grieving checks the very thing we
 need to come to our aid as quickly as possible in such case.” “What
 thing,” he said, “do you mean?” “To deliberate,” I
 said, “about what has happened to us, and, as it were in the fall of the
 dice, to determine the movements
 of our affairs with reference to the numbers that turn up, in the way
 that reason indicates would be
 the best, and, instead of stumbling like children, clapping one’s hands
 to the stricken spot and wasting the time in
 wailing,

ever to accustom the soul to devote itself at once to
 the curing of the hurt and the raising up of what has fallen, banishing
 threnody by therapy.” “That certainly,” he said,
 “would be the best way to face misfortune and deal with it.” “Then, we
 say, the best part of us is willing to conform to these precepts of
 reason.” “Obviously.” “And shall we not say that the part of us that
 leads us to dwell in memory on our suffering and impels us to
 lamentation, and cannot get enough of that sort of thing, is the
 irrational and idle part of us, the associate of cowardice ?” “Yes, we will say that.” “And does not

the fretful part of us present many
 and varied occasions for imitation, while the intelligent and temperate
 disposition, always remaining approximately the same, is neither easy to
 imitate nor to be understood when imitated, especially by a nondescript
 mob assembled in the theater? For the representation imitates a type

that is alien to them.” “By all means.” “And is it not
 obvious that the nature of the mimetic poet is not related to this
 better part of the soul and his cunning is not framed to please
 it, if he is to win favor with the multitude, but is devoted to the
 fretful and complicated type of character because it is easy to
 imitate?” “It is obvious.” “This consideration, then, makes it right for
 us to proceed to lay hold of him and set him down as the
 counterpart of the painter; for he
 resembles him in that his creations are inferior in respect of reality;
 and the fact that his appeal is to the inferior part of the soul

and not to the best part is another point of
 resemblance. And so we may at last say that we should be justified in
 not admitting him into a well-ordered state, because he stimulates and
 fosters this element in the soul, and by strengthening it tends to
 destroy the rational part, just as when in a state one puts
 bad men in power and turns the city over to them and ruins the better
 sort. Precisely in the same manner we shall say that the mimetic poet
 sets up in each individual soul a vicious constitution by fashioning
 phantoms far removed from reality, and by currying favor with the
 senseless element

that cannot distinguish the greater from the less, but
 calls the same thing now one, now the other.” “By all means.” “But we have not yet brought our chief
 accusation against it. Its power to corrupt, with rare exceptions, even
 the better sort is surely the chief cause for alarm.” “How could it be
 otherwise, if it really does that?” “ Listen and reflect. I think you
 know that the very best of us, when we hear Homer or some other of the makers of tragedy

imitating one of the heroes who is in grief, and is delivering a long tirade in
 his lamentations or chanting and beating his breast, feel pleasure, and abandon ourselves and
 accompany the representation with sympathy and eagerness, 
 and we praise as an excellent poet the one who most strongly affects us
 in this way.” “I do know it, of course.” “But when in our own lives some
 affliction comes to us, you are also aware that we plume ourselves upon
 the opposite, on our ability to remain calm and endure,

in the belief that this is the conduct of a man, and
 what we were praising in the theatre that of a woman. ” “I do note that.”
 “Do you think, then,” said I, “that this praise is rightfully bestowed
 when, contemplating a character that we would not accept but would be
 ashamed of in ourselves, we do not abominate it but take pleasure and
 approve?” “No, by Zeus,” he said, “it does not seem reasonable.”

“O yes, ”
 said I, “if you would consider it in this way.” “In what way?” “If you
 would reflect that the part of the soul that in the former case, in our
 own misfortunes, was forcibly restrained, and that has hungered
 for tears and a good cry and
 satisfaction, because it is its nature to desire these things, is the
 element in us that the poets satisfy and delight, and that the best
 element in our nature, since it has never been properly educated by
 reason or even by habit, then relaxes its guard over the plaintive part,

inasmuch as this is contemplating the woes of others
 and it is no shame to it to praise and pity another who, claiming to be
 a good man, abandons himself to excess in his grief; but it thinks this
 vicarious pleasure is so much clear gain, 
 and would not consent to forfeit it by disdaining the poem altogether.
 That is, I think, because few are capable of reflecting that what we
 enjoy in others will inevitably react upon ourselves. For after
 feeding fat the emotion of pity there, it is not easy to restrain it
 in our own sufferings.”

“Most true,” he said. “Does not the same principle
 apply to the laughable, namely,that if in
 comic representations, or
 for that matter in private talk, you
 take intense pleasure in buffooneries that you would blush to practise
 yourself, and do not detest them as base, you are doing the same thing
 as in the case of the pathetic? For here again what your reason, for
 fear of the reputation of buffoonery, restrained in yourself when it
 fain would play the clown, you release in turn, and so, fostering its
 youthful impudence, let yourself go so far that often ere you are aware
 you become yourself

a comedian in private.” “Yes, indeed,” he said. “And so
 in regard to the emotions of sex and anger, and all the appetites and
 pains and pleasures of the soul which we say accompany all our
 actions, the effect of poetic imitation is the same. For it
 waters and fosters these feelings when what we ought to do is to
 dry them up, and it establishes them as our rulers when they ought to be
 ruled, to the end that we may be better and happier men instead of worse
 and more miserable.” “I cannot deny it,” said he.

“Then, Glaucon,” said I, “when you meet encomiasts of
 Homer who tell us that this poet has been the educator of Hellas, 
 and that for the conduct and refinement of human
 life he is worthy of our study and devotion, and that we should order
 our entire lives by the guidance of this poet,

we must love and salute
 them as doing the best they can, and concede to them
 that Homer is the most poetic of poets
 and the first of tragedians, but we must know the
 truth, that we can admit no poetry into our city save only hymns to the
 gods and the praises of good men. For if you grant admission to the honeyed muse in lyric or epic, pleasure and
 pain will be lords of your city instead of law and that which shall from
 time to time have approved itself to the general reason as the best.”
 “Most true,” he said.

“Let us, then, conclude
 our return to the topic of poetry and our apology, and affirm that we
 really had good grounds then for dismissing her from our city, since
 such was her character. For reason constrained us. 
 And let us further say to her, lest she condemn us for harshness and
 rusticity, that there is from of old a quarrel between philosophy and poetry. For such expressions as
 ‘the yelping hound barking at her
 master and mighty in the idle babble 
 Unknown

of fools,’ 
 and ‘the mob that
 masters those who are too wise for their own good,’ 
 Unknown and the subtle thinkers who reason
 that after all they are poor, and countless others are tokens of this
 ancient enmity. But nevertheless let it be declared that, if the mimetic
 and dulcet poetry can show any reason for her existence in a
 well-governed state, we would gladly admit her, since we ourselves are
 very conscious of her spell. But all the same it would be impious to
 betray what we believe to be the truth.

Is not that so, friend? Do not you yourself feel her
 magic and especially
 when Homer is her
 interpreter?” “Greatly.” “Then may she not justly return from this exile
 after she has pleaded her defence, whether in lyric or other measure?”
 “By all means.” “And we would allow her advocates who are not poets but
 lovers of poetry to plead her cause in prose without metre, and show that she is
 not only delightful but beneficial to orderly government and all the
 life of man. And we shall listen benevolently,

for it will be clear gain for us if it can be shown
 that she bestows not only pleasure but benefit.” “How could we help
 being the gainers?” said he. “But if not, my friend, even as men who
 have fallen in love, if they think that the love is not good for them,
 hard though it be, 
 nevertheless refrain, so we, owing to the love of this kind of poetry
 inbred in us by our education in these fine polities of ours,

will gladly have the best possible case made out for
 her goodness and truth, but so long as she is unable to make good her
 defence we shall chant over to ourselves as we listen the reasons that we have given as a
 counter-charm to her spell, to preserve us from slipping back into the
 childish loves of the multitude; for we have come to see that we must
 not take such poetry seriously as a serious thing that lays hold on
 truth, but that he who lends an ear to it must be on his guard

fearing for the polity in his soul 
 and must believe what we have said about poetry.” “By all means,” he
 said, “I concur.” “Yes, for great is the struggle, ” I said, “dear Glaucon, a far greater contest
 than we think it, that determines whether a man prove good or bad, so
 that not the lure of honor or wealth or any office, no, nor of poetry
 either, should incite us to be careless of righteousness and all
 excellence.” “I agree with you,” he replied, “in view of what we have
 set forth, and I think that anyone else would do so too.”

“And yet,” said I, “the
 greatest rewards of virtue and the prizes proposed for her we have not
 set forth.” “You must have in mind an inconceivable 
 magnitude,” he replied, “if there are other things greater than those of
 which we have spoken. ? For
 surely the whole time from the boy to the old man would be small
 compared with all time. ”
 “Nay, it is nothing,” he said. “What then? Do you think that an immortal
 thing ought to be seriously concerned for such a little
 time,

and not rather for all time?” “I think so,” he said;
 “but what is this that you have in mind?” “Have you never perceived,”
 said I, “that our soul is immortal and never perishes?” And he, looking
 me full in the face in amazement, said, “No, by Zeus,
 not I; but are you able to declare this?” “I certainly ought to be, ” said I, “and I think you too can, for it is nothing
 hard.” “It is for me,” he said; “and I would gladly hear from you this
 thing that is not hard. ” “Listen,” said I. “Just speak on,”
 he replied. “You speak of 
 good

and evil, do you not?” “I do.” “Is your notion of them
 the same as mine?” “What is it?” “That which destroys and corrupts in
 every case is the evil; that which preserves and benefits is the good.”
 “Yes, I think so,” he said. “How about this: Do you say that there is
 for everything its special good and evil,

as for example for the eyes ophthalmia, for the entire
 body disease, for grain mildew, rotting for wood, rust for bronze and
 iron, and, as I say, for practically everything its congenital evil and
 disease ?” “I do,” he said. “Then when one
 of these evils comes to anything does it not make the thing to which it
 attaches itself bad, and finally disintegrate and destroy it?” “Of
 course.” “Then the congenital evil of each thing and its own vice
 destroys it, or if that is not going to destroy it, nothing else

remains that could; for obviously the good will never destroy
 anything, nor yet again will that which is neutral and neither good nor
 evil .” “How could it?” he said. “If, then, we discover anything that has an evil which vitiates
 it, yet is not able to dissolve and destroy it, shall we not thereupon
 know that of a thing so constituted there can be no destruction?” “That
 seems likely,” he said. “Well, then,” said I, “has not the soul
 something that makes it evil?” “Indeed it has,” he said, “all the things
 that we were just now enumerating,

injustice and licentiousness and cowardice and
 ignorance.” “Does any one of these things dissolve and destroy it? And
 reflect, lest we be misled by supposing that when an unjust and foolish
 man is taken in his injustice he is then destroyed by the injustice,
 which is the vice of soul. But conceive it thus: Just as the vice of
 body which is disease wastes and destroys it so that it no longer is a
 body at all, in like manner in
 all the examples of which we spoke it is the specific evil which,

by attaching itself to the thing and dwelling in it
 with power to corrupt, reduces it to nonentity. Is not that so?” “Yes.”
 “Come, then, and consider the soul in the same way. Do injustice and other wickedness dwelling in it,
 by their indwelling and attachment to it, corrupt and wither it till
 they bring it to death and separate it from the body?” “They certainly
 do not do that,” he said. “But surely,” said I, “it is unreasonable to
 suppose that the vice of something else destroys a thing while its own
 does not.” “Yes, unreasonable.” “For observe, Glaucon,”

said I, “that we do not think it proper to say of the
 body either that it is destroyed by the badness of foods themselves,
 whether it be staleness or rottenness or whatever it is; but when the badness of the foods themselves engenders
 in the body the defect of body, then we shall say that it is destroyed
 owing to these foods, but by its own vice, which is
 disease.

But the body being one thing and the foods something
 else, we shall never expect the body to be destroyed by their badness,
 that is by an alien evil that has not produced in it the evil that
 belongs to it by nature.” “You are entirely right,” he
 replied. “On the same principle,” said
 I, “if the badness of the body does not produce in the soul the soul’s
 badness we shall never expect the soul to be destroyed by an alien evil
 apart from its own defect—one thing, that is, by the evil of another.”
 “That is reasonable,” he said. “Either, then, we must refute this

and show that we are mistaken, or, so long as it remains
 unrefuted, we must never say that by fever or any other disease, or yet
 by the knife at the throat or the chopping to bits of the entire body,
 there is any more likelihood of the soul perishing because of these
 things, until it is proved that owing to these affections of the body
 the soul itself becomes more unjust and unholy. But when an evil of
 something else occurs in a different thing and the evil that belongs to
 the thing is not engendered in it,

we must not suffer it to be said that the soul or
 anything else is in this way destroyed.” “But you may be sure,” he said,
 “that nobody will ever prove this, that the souls of the dying are made
 more unjust by death.” “But if anyone,” said I, “dares to come to grips
 with the argument 
 and say, in order to avoid being forced to admit the soul’s immortality,
 that a dying man does become more wicked and unjust, we will postulate that, if what he says is true,
 injustice must be fatal

to its possessor as if it were a disease, and that
 those who catch it die because it kills them by its own inherent nature,
 those who have most of it quickest, and those who have less more slowly,
 and not, as now in fact happens, that the unjust die owing to this but
 by the action of others who inflict the penalty.” “Nay, by Zeus,” he
 said, “injustice will not appear a very terrible thing after all if it
 is going to be fatal to its possessor, for that would be a release from
 all troubles. But I rather think
 it will prove to be quite the contrary,

something that kills others when it can, but renders
 its possessor very lively indeed, and not only lively but
 wakeful, so far, I ween, does it dwell from deadliness.” “You say well,” I replied; “for when the
 natural vice and the evil proper to it cannot kill and destroy the soul,
 still less will the evil appointed for
 the destruction of another thing destroy the soul or anything else,
 except that for which it is appointed.” “Still less indeed,” he said,
 “in all probability.” “Then since it is not destroyed by any evil
 whatever,

either its own or alien, it is evident that it must
 necessarily exist always, and that if it always exists it is immortal.”
 “Necessarily,” he said. “Let this, then,”
 I said, “be assumed to be so. But if it is so, you will observe that
 these souls must always be the same. For if none perishes they could
 not, I suppose, become fewer nor yet more numerous. For if any class of immortal things increased you are aware
 that its increase would come from the mortal and all things would end by
 becoming immortal. ” “You say truly.” “But,”
 said I, “we must not suppose this,

for reason will not suffer it nor yet must we think
 that in its truest nature the soul is the kind of thing that teems with
 infinite diversity and unlikeness and contradiction in and with
 itself. ” “How am I to understand that?” he said. “It is not
 easy,” said I, “for a thing to be immortal that is composed of many
 elements not put together in the
 best way, as now appeared to us to be the case with the soul.”
 “It is not likely.” “Well, then, that the soul is immortal our recent
 argument and our other proofs would
 constrain us to admit. But to know its true nature

we must view it not marred by communion with the
 body and other miseries as we now
 contemplate it, but consider adequately in the light of reason what it
 is when it is purified, and then you will find it to be a far more
 beautiful thing and will more clearly distinguish justice and injustice
 and all the matters that we have now discussed. But though we have
 stated the truth of its present appearance, its condition as we have now
 contemplated it

resembles that of the sea-god Glaucus whose first nature can hardly be
 made out by those who catch glimpses of him, because the original
 members of his body are broken off and mutilated and crushed and in
 every way marred by the waves, and other parts have attached
 themselves to him, accretions of shells and sea-weed and rocks, so that he is more like any wild
 creature than what he was by nature—even such, I say, is our vision of
 the soul marred by countless evils. But we must look elsewhere,
 Glaucon.” “Where?” said he. “To its love of wisdom.

And we must note the things of which it has
 apprehensions, and the associations for which it yearns, as being itself
 akin to the divine and the immortal and to eternal being, and
 so consider what it might be if it followed the gleam unreservedly and
 were raised by this impulse out of the depths of this sea in which it is
 now sunk, and were cleansed and scraped free of the rocks and
 barnacles which,

because it now feasts on earth, cling to it in wild
 profusion of earthy and stony accretion by reason of these feastings
 that are accounted happy. And then one might see whether in its real nature it is manifold or single in its
 simplicity, or what is the truth about it and how. But for the present we have, I think, fairly
 well described its sufferings and the forms it assumes in this human
 life of ours.” “We certainly have,” he said. “Then,” said I, “we have met all the other
 demands

of the argument, and we have not invoked the rewards
 and reputes of justice as you said Homer and Hesiod do, but we have
 proved that justice in itself is the best thing for the soul itself, and
 that the soul ought to do justice whether it possess the ring of
 Gyges or not, or the helmet of Hades to
 boot.” “Most true,” he said. “Then,” said I, “Glaucon, there can no
 longer be any objection, can
 there, to our assigning to justice and

virtue generally, in addition, all the various rewards
 and wages that they bring to the soul from men and gods, both while the
 man still lives and, after his death?” “There certainly can be none,” he
 said. “Will you, then, return to me what you borrowed in the argument?” “What,
 pray?” “I granted to you that the just man should seem and be thought to
 be unjust and the unjust just; for you thought that, even if the
 concealment of these things from gods and men was an impossibility in
 fact, nevertheless, it ought to be conceded for the sake of the
 argument, in order that the decision might be made

between absolute justice and absolute injustice. Or do
 you not remember?” “It would be unjust of me, ” he said, “if I did not.” “Well,
 then, now that they have been compared and judged, I demand back from
 you in behalf of justice the repute that she in fact enjoys 
 from gods and men, and I ask that we admit that she is thus esteemed in
 order that she may gather in the prizes 
 which she wins from the seeming and bestows on her possessors, since she
 has been proved to bestow the blessings that come from the reality and
 not to deceive those who truly seek and win her.” “That is a just
 demand,” he said.

“Then,” said I, “will not the first of these
 restorations be that the gods certainly are not unaware of the true character of each
 of the two, the just and the unjust?” “We will restore that,” he said.
 “And if they are not concealed, the one will be dear to the gods and the other hateful to
 them, as we agreed in the beginning. ” “That is so.” “And shall we
 not agree that all things that come from the gods

work together for the best for him that is dear to the gods, apart from the
 inevitable evil caused by sin in a former life ?” “By all means.” “This, then, must be our conviction
 about the just man, that whether he fall into poverty or disease or any
 other supposed evil, for him all these things will finally prove good,
 both in life and in death. For by the gods assuredly that man will never
 be neglected who is willing and eager to be righteous, and by the
 practice of virtue to be likened unto god

so far as that is possible for man.” “It is
 reasonable,” he said, “that such a one should not be neglected by his
 like. ” “And must we not
 think the opposite of the unjust man?” “Most emphatically.” “Such then
 are the prizes of victory which the gods bestow upon the just.” “So I
 think, at any rate,” he said. “But what,” said I, “does he receive from
 men? Is not this the case, if we are now to present the reality? Do not
 your smart but wicked men fare as those racers do who run well from the scratch but not
 back from the turn? They bound nimbly away at the start, but in the end

are laughed to scorn and run off the field uncrowned
 and with their ears on their shoulders. But the true runners when they have come to the goal
 receive the prizes and bear away the crown. Is not this the usual
 outcome for the just also, that towards the end of every action and
 association and of life as a whole they have honor and bear away the
 prizes from men?” “So it is indeed.” “Will you, then, bear with me if I
 say of them

all that you said of the
 unjust? For I am going to say that the just, when they become older,
 hold the offices in their own city if they choose, marry from what
 families they will, and give their children in marriage to what families
 they please, and everything that you said of the one I now repeat of the
 other; and in turn I will say of the unjust that the most of them, even
 if they escape detection in youth, at the end of their course are caught
 and derided, and their old age is made miserable by the contumelies of
 strangers and townsfolk.

They are lashed and suffer all things which you truly said are
 unfit for ears polite. Suppose yourself to have heard from me a repetition of all
 that they suffer. But, as I say, consider whether you will bear with
 me.” “Assuredly,” he said, “for what you say is just.” “Such then while he lives are the prizes, the wages,
 and the gifts

that the just man receives from gods and men in
 addition to those blessings which justice herself bestowed.” “And right
 fair and abiding rewards,” he said. “Well, these,” I said, “are nothing
 in number and magnitude compared with those that await both after death. And we must listen to the tale of
 them,” said I, “in order that each may have received in full what is due
 to be said of him by our argument.” “Tell me,” he said,

“since there are not many things to which I would more
 gladly listen.” “It is not, let me tell you,” said I, “the tale to Alcinous told that I shall
 unfold, but the tale of a warrior bold, Er, the son of Armenius, by
 race a Pamphylian. He once upon a time was
 slain in battle, and when the corpses were taken up on the tenth day
 already decayed, was found intact, and having been brought home, at the
 moment of his funeral, on the twelfth day as he lay upon the pyre, revived, and after coming to
 life related what, he said, he had seen in the world beyond. He said
 that when his soul 
 went forth from his body he journeyed with a great company

and that they came to a mysterious region where there were two openings side by
 side in the earth, and above and over against them in the heaven two
 others, and that judges were sitting between these, and that after every judgement they
 bade the righteous journey to the right and upwards through the heaven
 with tokens attached to them in
 front of the judgement passed upon them, and the unjust to take the road
 to the left and downward, they too wearing behind signs

of all that had befallen them, and that when he himself
 drew near they told him that he must be the messenger to mankind to tell them
 of that other world, and they charged him to give ear and to
 observe everything in the place. And so he said that here he saw, by
 each opening of heaven and earth, the souls departing after judgement
 had been passed upon them, while, by the other pair of openings, there
 came up from the one in the earth souls full of squalor and dust, and
 from the second there came down from heaven a second procession of souls
 clean and pure,

and that those which arrived from time to time appeared
 to have come as it were from a long journey and gladly departed to the
 meadow and encamped there as at a festival, 
 and acquaintances greeted one another, and those which came from the
 earth questioned the others about conditions up yonder, and those from
 heaven asked how it fared with those others. And they told their stories
 to one another, the one lamenting

and wailing as they recalled how many and how dreadful
 things they had suffered and seen in their journey beneath the
 earth —it lasted a thousand years —while those from heaven
 related their delights and visions of a beauty beyond words. To tell it
 all, Glaucon, would take all our time, but the sum, he said, was this.
 For all the wrongs they had ever done to anyone and all whom they had
 severally wronged they had paid the penalty in turn tenfold for each,
 and the measure of this was by periods of a hundred years each,

so that on the assumption that this was the length of
 human life the punishment might be ten times the crime; as for example
 that if anyone had been the cause of many deaths or had betrayed cities
 and armies and reduced them to slavery, or had been participant in any
 other iniquity, they might receive in requital pains tenfold for each of
 these wrongs, and again if any had done deeds of kindness and been just

and holy men they might receive their due reward in the
 same measure; and other things not worthy of record he said of those who
 had just been born and lived
 but a short time; and he had still greater requitals to tell of piety
 and impiety towards the gods and parents and of self-slaughter. For he said that he stood
 by when one was questioned by another ‘Where is Ardiaeus the Great?’ Now this Ardiaeos
 had been tyrant in a certain city of Pamphylia just a thousand years
 before that time and had put to death his old father

and his elder brother, and had done many other unholy
 deeds, as was the report. So he said that the one questioned replied,
 ‘He has not come,’ said he, ‘nor will he be likely to come
 here. “‘For indeed this was one of the
 dreadful sights we beheld; when we were near the mouth and about to
 issue forth and all our other sufferings were ended, we suddenly caught
 sight of him and of others, the most of them, I may say, tyrants. But there were
 some

of private station, of those who had committed great
 crimes. And when these supposed that at last they were about to go up
 and out, the mouth would not receive them, but it bellowed when anyone
 of the incurably wicked or of those who had not completed their
 punishment tried to come up. And thereupon,’ he said, ‘savage men of
 fiery aspect who stood by and
 took note of the voice laid hold on them and bore them away. But Ardiaeus

and others they bound hand and foot and head and flung
 down and flayed them and dragged them by the wayside, carding them on
 thorns and signifying to those who from time to time passed by for what
 cause they were borne away, and that they were to be hurled into
 Tartarus. And
 then, though many and manifold dread things had befallen them, this fear
 exceeded all—lest each one should hear the voice when he tried to go up,
 and each went up most gladly when it had kept silence. And the
 judgements and penalties were somewhat after this manner,

and the blessings were their counterparts. But when
 seven days had elapsed for each group in the meadow, they were required
 to rise up on the eighth and journey on, and they came in four days to a
 spot whence they discerned, extended from above throughout the heaven
 and the earth, a straight light like a pillar, most nearly resembling
 the rainbow, but brighter and purer. To this they came

after going forward a day’s journey, and they saw there
 at the middle of the light the extremities of its fastenings stretched
 from heaven; for this light was the girdle of the heavens like the
 undergirders of triremes, holding together in like manner the entire
 revolving vault. And from the extremities was stretched the spindle of
 Necessity, through which all the orbits turned. Its staff and its
 hook were made of adamant, and the whorl of these and other kinds was
 commingled. And the nature of the whorl was this:

Its shape was that of those in our world, but from his
 description we must conceive it to be as if in one great whorl, hollow
 and scooped out, there lay enclosed, right through, another like it but
 smaller, fitting into it as boxes that fit into one another, and in like
 manner another, a third, and a fourth, and four others, for there were
 eight of the whorls in all, lying within one another,

showing their rims as circles from above and forming
 the continuous back of a single whorl about the shaft, which was driven
 home through the middle of the eighth. Now the first and outmost whorl
 had the broadest circular rim, that of the sixth was second, and third
 was that of the fourth, and fourth was that of the eighth, fifth that of
 the seventh, sixth that of the fifth, seventh that of the third, eighth
 that of the second; and that of the greatest was spangled, that of the
 seventh brightest, that of the eighth

took its color from the seventh, which shone upon it.
 The colors of the second and fifth were like one another and more yellow
 than the two former. The third had the whitest color, and the fourth was
 of a slightly ruddy hue; the sixth was second in whiteness. The staff
 turned as a whole in a circle with the same movement, but within the
 whole as it revolved the seven inner circles revolved gently in the
 opposite direction to the whole, and
 of these seven the eighth moved most swiftly,

and next and together with one another the seventh,
 sixth and fifth; and third in
 swiftness, as it appeared to them, moved the fourth with returns upon
 itself, and fourth the third and fifth the second. And the spindle
 turned on the knees of Necessity, and up above on each of the rims of
 the circles a Siren stood, borne around in its revolution and uttering
 one sound, one note, and from all the eight there was the concord of a
 single harmony. And there were another three

who sat round about at equal intervals, each one on her
 throne, the Fates, daughters of Necessity, clad in
 white vestments with filleted heads, Lachesis, and Clotho, and Atropos,
 who sang in unison with the music of the Sirens, Lachesis singing the
 things that were, Clotho the things that are, and Atropos the things
 that are to be. And Clotho with the touch of her right hand helped to
 turn the outer circumference of the spindle, pausing from time to time.
 Atropos with her left hand in like manner helped to turn the inner
 circles, and Lachesis

alternately with either hand lent a hand to
 each. “Now when they arrived they were
 straight-way bidden to go before Lachesis, and then a certain
 prophet first marshalled them in
 orderly intervals, and thereupon took from the lap of Lachesis lots and
 patterns of lives and went up to a lofty platform and spoke, ‘This is
 the word of Lachesis, the maiden daughter of Necessity, “Souls that live
 for a day, now is the
 beginning of another cycle of mortal generation where birth is the
 beacon of death.

No divinity 
 shall cast lots for you, but you shall choose your own deity. Let him to
 whom falls the first lot first select a life to which he shall cleave of
 necessity. But virtue has no master over her, and each shall have more or
 less of her as he honors her or does her despite. The blame is his who
 chooses: God is blameless. “’ So saying, the prophet flung
 the lots out among them all, and each took up the lot that fell by his
 side, except himself; him they did not permit. And whoever took up a lot saw
 plainly what number he had drawn.

And after this again the prophet placed the patterns of
 lives before them on the ground, far more numerous than the assembly.
 They were of every variety, for there were lives of all kinds of animals
 and all sorts of human lives, for there were tyrannies among them, some
 uninterrupted till the end and others destroyed midway and
 issuing in penuries and exiles and beggaries; and there were lives of
 men of repute for their forms and beauty and bodily strength
 otherwise

and prowess and the high birth and the virtues of their
 ancestors, and others of ill repute in the same things, and similarly of
 women. But there was no determination of the quality of soul, because
 the choice of a different life inevitably determined a different character. But all
 other things were commingled with one another and with wealth and
 poverty and sickness and health and the intermediate conditions. —And there, dear Glaucon, it appears, is the
 supreme hazard for a man.

And this is the chief reason why it should be our main
 concern that each of us, neglecting all other studies, should seek after
 and study this thing —if in any
 way he may be able to learn of and discover the man who will give him
 the ability and the knowledge to distinguish the life that is good from
 that which is bad, and always and everywhere to choose the best that the
 conditions allow, and, taking into account all the things of which we
 have spoken and estimating the effect on the goodness of his life of
 their conjunction or their severance, to know how beauty commingled with
 poverty or wealth and combined with

what habit of soul operates for good or for evil, and
 what are the effects of high and low birth and private station and
 office and strength and weakness and quickness of apprehension and
 dullness and all similar natural and acquired habits of the soul, when
 blended and combined with one another, so that with consideration of
 all these things he will be able to make a reasoned choice between the
 better and the worse life,

with his eyes fixed on the nature of his soul, naming
 the worse life that which will tend to make it more unjust and the
 better that which will make it more just. But all other considerations
 he will dismiss, for we have seen that this is the best choice,

both for life and death. And a man must take with him
 to the house of death an adamantine faith in this, that even
 there he may be undazzled by riches and similar
 trumpery, and may not precipitate himself into tyrannies and similar
 doings and so work many evils past cure and suffer still greater
 himself, but may know how always to choose in such things the life that
 is seated in the mean and
 shun the excess in either direction, both in this world so far as may be
 and in all the life to come;

for this is the greatest happiness for man. “And at that time also the messenger from that
 other world reported that the prophet spoke thus: ‘Even for him who
 comes forward last, if he make his choice wisely and live strenuously,
 there is reserved an acceptable life, no evil one. Let not the foremost
 in the choice be heedless nor the last be discouraged.’ When the prophet
 had thus spoken he said that the drawer of the first lot at once sprang
 to seize the greatest tyranny, and that in
 his folly and greed he chose it

without sufficient examination, and failed to observe
 that it involved the fate of eating his own children, and other horrors,
 and that when he inspected it at leisure he beat his breast and bewailed
 his choice, not abiding by the forewarning of the prophet. For he did
 not blame himself for his woes, but fortune and
 the gods and anything except himself. He was one of those who had come
 down from heaven, a man who had lived in a well-ordered polity in his
 former existence,

participating in virtue by habit 
 and not by philosophy; and one may perhaps say that a majority of those
 who were thus caught were of the company that had come from heaven,
 inasmuch as they were unexercised in suffering. But the most of those
 who came up from the earth, since they had themselves suffered and seen
 the sufferings of others, did not make their choice precipitately. For
 which reason also there was an interchange of good and evil for most of
 the souls, as well as because of the chances of the lot. Yet if at each
 return to the life of this world

a man loved wisdom sanely, and the lot of his choice
 did not fall out among the last, we may venture to affirm, from what was
 reported thence, that not only will he be happy here but that the path
 of his journey thither and the return to this world will not be
 underground and rough but smooth and through the heavens. For he said
 that it was a sight worth seeing to observe how the several souls
 selected their lives.

He said it was a strange, pitiful, and ridiculous
 spectacle, as the choice was determined for the most part by the habits
 of their former lives. 
 He saw the soul that had been Orpheus’, he said, selecting the life of a
 swan, because from hatred of the tribe of women, owing to his
 death at their hands, it was unwilling to be conceived and born of a
 woman. He saw the soul of Thamyras choosing the life of a nightingale; and he saw a swan
 changing to the choice of the life of man, and similarly other musical
 animals.

The soul that drew the twentieth lot chose the life of
 a lion; it was the soul of Ajax, the son of Telamon, which, because it
 remembered the adjudication of the arms of Achilles, was unwilling to
 become a man. The next, the soul of Agamemnon, likewise from hatred of
 the human race because of its sufferings, substituted the life of an
 eagle. Drawing one of the
 middle lots the soul of Atalanta caught sight of the great honors
 attached to an athlete’s life and could not pass them by but snatched at
 them.

After her, he said, he saw the soul of Epeius, the son of Panopeus,
 entering into the nature of an arts and crafts woman. Far off in the
 rear he saw the soul of the buffoon Thersites clothing itself in the body of an ape. And it fell out
 that the soul of Odysseus drew the last lot of all and came to make its
 choice, and, from memory of its former toils having flung away ambition,
 went about for a long time in quest of the life of an ordinary citizen
 who minded his own business, and
 with difficulty found it lying in some corner disregarded by the
 others,

and upon seeing it said that it would have done the
 same had it drawn the first lot, and chose it gladly. And in like
 manner, of the other beasts some entered into men and into one another, the unjust into wild creatures,
 the just transformed to tame, and there was every kind of mixture and
 combination. But when, to conclude, all the souls had chosen their lives
 in the order of their lots, they were marshalled and went before
 Lachesis. And she sent with each,

as the guardian of his life and the fulfiller of his
 choice, the genius that he had chosen, and
 this divinity led the soul first to Clotho, under her hand and her
 turning of the spindle to ratify the destiny of his lot and
 choice; and after contact with her the genius again led the soul to the
 spinning of Atropos to make the web of its
 destiny 
 irreversible, and then without a backward look it passed beneath the
 throne of Necessity.

And after it had passed through that, when the others
 also had passed, they all journeyed to the Plain of Oblivion, through a terrible and
 stifling heat, for it was bare of trees and all plants, and there they
 camped at eventide by the River of Forgetfulness, 
 whose waters no vessel can contain. They were all required to drink a
 measure of the water, and those who were not saved by their good sense
 drank more than the measure, and each one as he drank forgot all
 things.

And after they had fallen asleep and it was the middle
 of the night, there was a sound of thunder and a quaking of the earth,
 and they were suddenly wafted thence, one this way, one that, upward to
 their birth like shooting stars. Er
 himself, he said, was not allowed to drink of the water, yet how and in
 what way he returned to the body he said he did not know, but suddenly
 recovering his sight he saw himself at
 dawn lying on the funeral pyre.—And so, Glaucon, the tale was
 saved, as the saying is, and was
 not lost.

And it will save us if we believe it,
 and we shall safely cross the River of Lethe, and keep our soul
 unspotted from the world. But if we are guided by me we shall
 believe that the soul is immortal and capable of enduring all extremes
 of good and evil, and so we shall hold ever to the upward way and pursue
 righteousness with wisdom always and ever, that we may be dear to
 ourselves and to the gods both during our
 sojourn here and when we receive our reward,

as the victors in the games go about to gather in theirs. And thus both here and in
 that journey of a thousand years, whereof I have told you, we shall fare
 well.