Plato and

Protagoras

Plato and

Protagoras

Truth and Relativism in Ancient Greek Philosophy

ODED BALABAN

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Protagoras’ statement that man is the measure of all things, is charac-teristic and essentially Mediterranean. What did he mean? What does it mean to measure? It is not to substitute for the object we are measuring the symbol of a human act whose repetition obliterates this object? To say that man is the measure of all things is thus to set up against the di-versity of the world the ensemble or group of human potentialities; and it is also to stand up against the diversity of our moments and the mo-bility of our impressions, and even the particularity of our individuality, our own unique and, as it were, specialized person confined in our local and fragmentary life, a me who sums it up, dominates and contains it, as a law contains the particular case, as the sense of our own powers con-tains all the acts possible to us. We are conscious of this universal Self, who is not our accidental self, determined by the coincidence of an infi-nite number of conditions and chances, for (between you and me) how many things in us seem to have been drawn by lot! . . . But I say we can feel, when we deserve to feel, this universal Self who has neither name nor history, and for whom our observable life, the life received and lived or undergone by us, is only one of the innumerable lives that this same Self might have adopted. . . . You must excuse me. I have allowed myself to be carried away!

Paul Valery, Mediterranean Inspirations.

It is plain that Socrates, besides being an original and powerful mind, was also something of an intellectual clown, a reveler in circus debate, a diabolical needler of his contemporaries. He is constantly on stage, in the agora, gymnasia and wrestling schools, festivals, dinner parties, the courtyards of great houses. He chooses his antagonists, fixes the subject, makes sure he has the attention of the audience, invites his opponent to speak his mind freely and without fear, elicits from him an opinion, a speech, a dogma, and then proceeds to counter-punch the poor man and his opinion to death, mixing in his blows not only philosophical points and arguments but also sarcasm, irony that borders on insincerity, and personal insults; and he does not rest until he has extracted from his victim a public confession of utter helplessness. At the end, when it is painfully obvious that his opponent will never recover, he proposes that they all go home and start all over again another time. It is no wonder that he never has a second dialogue with the same man. All this calmly and coolly. No excitement please.

Gerasimos Santas, Socrates.

vii

Contents

Abbreviations ix Preface xi Acknowledgments xiii Introduction xv

PART I A DISCUSSION OF INTERPRETATION IN GENERAL

Chapter 1 - De Interpretatione 3

PART II PLATO’S AND PROTAGORAS’ GENERAL ASSUMPTIONS

Chapter 2 - Exoteric and Esoteric Content and the Justification for Manipulative Thinking 37 Chapter 3 - Concerning Plato’s Epistemological Presuppositions in General and Lying in Particular 49 Chapter 4 - Socrates and the Sophistic Movement 69 Chapter 5 - What Is Consciousness? 121

PART III THE INTERPRETATION OF THE PROTAGORAS

Chapter 6 - Introduction to the Dialogue 131 Chapter 7 - The Tale of Protagoras and Its Interpretation 151 Chapter 8 - Protagoras’ Speech: Education or Instruction? 179

viii Contents

Chapter 9 - The Logical Grounds of the Protagoras-Socrates Disagreement 187 Chapter 10 - The Unity of Virtues 193 Chapter 11 - The Humorous Interlude—The Discussion about the Method of Discussion 221 Chapter 12 - The Critique of Simonides’ Poem 229 Chapter 13 - Returning to the Unity of Virtues 243 Chapter 14 - The Theory of Measurement 249

PART IV

EXTRAPOLATIONS Chapter 15 - Protagoras’ and Plato’s Approaches Compared 267 Chapter 16 - Protagoras’ Relativism and the Failure to Synthesize Theory and Practice 279 Chapter 17 - Plato’s Intellectualism and the Failure to Deduce Values from Knowledge 289

APPENDIXES Appendix A What Does “Man” Mean in Protagoras’ “Man Is the Measure...?” 299 Appendix B Critical Remarks on Some Interpretations of Plato’s Self-Consciousness 305 Bibliography 323 Index 339 About the Author 345

ix

Abbreviations

Alc. I, II Plato’s Alcibiades Major & Minor AJP American Journal of Philology An. Prio. Aristotle’s Prior Analytics Apl Plato’s Apology Chr. Plato’s Charmides CQ Classical Quarterly Crt. Plato’s Cratylus De Interp. Aristotle’s De Interpretatione DK Diels & Kranz, Die Fragmente der

Vorsokratiker Et. Nic. Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics Euth. Plato’s Euthydemus Euthyp. Plato’s Euthyphro Grg. Plato’s Gorgias GT Gomperz’s Greek Thinkers HGP Guthrie’s A History of Greek Philosophy Hip. Min. Plato’s Hippias Minor HPQ History of Philosophy Quarterly JHI Journal of the History of Ideas JHPhil Journal of the History of Philosophy JP Journal of Philosophy JVI The Journal of Value Inquiry Lach. Plato’s Laches LEP Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent

Philosophers Lys. Plato’s Lysis Met. Aristotle’s Metaphysics OSAP Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy Parm. Plato’s Parmenides Phaed. Plato’s Phaedrus Phys. Aristotle’s Physics Pol. Aristotle’s Politics PQ Philosophical Quarterly Prt. Plato’s Protagoras QJS Quarterly Journal of Speech

x Abbreviations

Rep. Plato’s The Republic Rhet. Aristotle’s Rhetoric Soph. Plato’s Sophist Sym. Plato’s Symposium TAPA Transactions of the American Philological

Association Tht. Plato’s Theaetetus Top. Aristotle’s Topics

xi

Preface

To be, or to have, a measure. This is the question that Plato and Pro-tagoras grapple with.

It is often said that Protagoras’ claim that “man is the measure of all things” is applicable both to the field of knowledge and to the field of values: he is unable to argue for the knowledge of any unconditioned re-ality, and unable to endorse any moral or practical decision.

It is often said that the Socratic Plato has a positive theory of knowl-edge and a positive moral theory. His moral theory, so it has been ar-gued, produces a technique for resolving conflicts between opposing val-ues. His theory of knowledge is resolved, in later Plato, into a theory of Ideas.

I will propose, instead, the following: When it comes to theoretical questions concerning either knowledge

of facts or knowledge of values, Protagoras is manifestly a relativist who asserts that human beings provide their own pattern of measure. Plato, by contrast, is looking for an absolute and absolutely knowable reality, in the name of which he denies the very possibility of a theory of knowl-edge.

However, when it comes to practical questions about values, Pro-tagoras believes in values that are not deduced out of knowledge. By contrast, Plato reduces values to knowledge. Thus, Plato is not a moral-ist, and Protagoras is not a relativist.

When the question concerns the subject-object relationship, Pro-tagoras refers everything to the subject, whereas Plato refers everything to the object. When the question concerns the relationships between

xii Preface

thought and perception, Plato reduces perception to thought, while Pro-tagoras does the opposite, reducing thought to perception.

Plato adopts the point of view of the content of knowledge, which can be either true or false (that is, can be either knowledge or ignorance). Plato insists that a criterion for determining truth is available and that our salvation consists in learning it by means of instruction. In accordance with this perspective, he reduces all values to knowledge. This is the meaning of his famous assertion that virtue is knowledge. Virtue, the subject matter of Plato’s philosophy, is therefore denied and refuted in his conclusion.

Protagoras, adopting the point of view of the form of knowledge, which is the aspect of knowledge that is neither true nor false, concludes that such a criterion for determining truth is unavailable. Therefore, all we need to do is to change our natural dispositions, which is the task re-served for education. In accordance with this perspective, he reduces knowledge to values. However, such a reduction implies that Protagoras the cognitivist contradicts Protagoras the educator.

xiii

Acknowledgments

This book is the result of years of teaching Plato and specially the Pro-tagoras at the University of Haifa. I am grateful to my graduate students for their challenging questions and helpful criticism.

In my approach to Plato, I am strongly influenced by Michael Strauss, my teacher, friend, and colleague, to whom I am deeply in debt. I give my special thanks to Robert Goodman, Menachem Luz, Samuel Scolni-cov, Mick Stern, and Henry Teloh for their intelligent and careful read-ing of the manuscript.

This book has benefited from the generous comments and reflections of a number of friends and colleagues, including Martin Bunzl, Celia Abramowicz, Avner Cohen, Nicholas Denyer, Anan Erev, Bernard Freydberg, Orna Harari, Giora Hon, Charles Kahn, Aida Aisensohn-Kogan, Ruth Lorand, Michael Maidan, Ephraim Navon, Pedro Resnik, Laura Roimiser, Yuval Steiniz, and Paul Woodruf. I am deeply indebted to them even if I have not always seen things in the same light they do. Specials thanks for the unconditional faith of my mother, sister, daugh-ter, son, and to Shimeon Chosyd-Abraham.

Prolonged writing of any kind, creative or scholarly, is a lonely occu-pation, alleviated in my lucky case by the constant warm support and intelligent advice of my wife, Asnat, without whom this book could hardly be written.

Scattered sections of this book draw on a number of my previously published articles, parts of which are reproduced here with the permis-sion of the publishers: History of Philosophy Quarterly and Theoria.

xv

Introduction

The Protagoras is a dialogue about the criterion for knowledge and valuation, namely, the standard by which anything may be known and valued. The very possibility of such a standard directly depends on the unity or disunity of virtues. This is, in my opinion, the key to under-standing the unity of the dialogue, even in its finest details.

More specifically, the Protagoras should be understood as a discus-sion concerning the tale that Protagoras recounts to his auditors, and to us. This tale has been generally ignored or else dismissed—mistakenly, in my opinion—as irrelevant to the central issues of the dialogue.1

When I set myself to the task of understanding the role of Protagoras’ tale in the context of the whole dialogue, I ran into some difficulties. When I tried to advance, I advanced by moving back. In other words, I felt the need to make my interpretative assumptions explicit. For this rea-son, I have decided to offer a general introduction—the first part of this work—in order to show how my interpretative approach differs from the hermeneutics of other interpreters in general, and from Plato’s commen-tators in particular.

I said that I am moving backwards. I believe that this is the result of my peculiar reading of the dialogue. Indeed, the more carefully I read it, the more I became convinced that the philosophies of the Socratic Plato and Protagoras are so different in kind that one cannot even assert that they are opposite points of view, because opposites at least reflect each other. Plato and Protagoras do not oppose each other in any simple way. Indeed, it seems unlikely that they can even engage in a true dialogue. A dialogue is a situation in which the partners assume some mutual under-

xvi Introduction

standing. In this light, Protagoras is an impossible dialogue. The discus-sion between Socrates and Protagoras seems endless; no fresh argument seems likely to bring about any agreement. I do not think, however, that this is an aporetic dialogue, as this word is generally understood—a situation in which Plato is unable to agree with himself. It is aporetic only if we understand by this term a discussion that does not finish in mutual agreement.

In the face of this perplexing situation, the reader of the dialogue must choose between two tactics: either to take a stand for (or against) one of the contenders, or to remain at a distance from the whole argument. A stand-taking reader would examine the issues under discussion, perhaps adding his arguments in support of one side or the other. A distance-keeping reader might prefer to analyze the presuppositions that underlie and generate the opposing arguments. This is the way I propose to take here. I will try, insofar as it is possible, to analyze the various arguments without taking sides in the quarrel.

From this reflective standpoint, the Protagoras reveals, in its rich-ness, a whole culture, one quite alien to ours. By this, I mean the values and motivations underlying the behavior and patterns of thought of the Greeks and their philosophers. I believe that this cultural gap is the rea-son that Greek philosophy is so difficult to translate into contemporary languages. Whenever Greek thought is under discussion, philosophical issues immediately become mixed up with philological questions. In-deed, words that appear easily translatable often turn out to have com-pletely different meanings, because they belong to an entirely different system of values.

That said, it seems to me that our problem with Greek texts is more philosophical than linguistic. We are prone to mistranslate because we do not fully consider the cultural context of the words. This cultural differ-ence reaches its peak in the case of the idea of labor. For Aristotle, work is an ignoble activity, since it is not practical, that is, it does not imply leisure: “. . . the citizens must not lead the life of artisans or tradesmen, for such a life is ignoble, and inimical to virtue. Neither must they be farmers, since leisure is necessary both for the development of virtue and the performance of political duties” (Pol. 1328b39-1329a2).

Thus when Athenians praised a person for being practical, in the sense of having practical experience or practical wisdom, they meant a person whom we would regard today as an idler and a dilettante. The word “practical” has persisted, but its meaning has changed radically.

We can find many other differences between our philosophical cul-ture and that of the Greeks. Compare, for example, the diversity of philo-sophical styles and approaches once found in a small corner of the

Introduction xvii

Mediterranean, with the scant number of philosophical schools (or rather, philosophical fortresses) that exist in the entire world nowadays. One can find no other time or place in history with such an abundance of philoso-phical controversies, disputes, and discussions. All these schools of philosophical theory surely had something in common, but that some-thing eludes easy identification.

Interpreters offer many reasons for this exotic flourishing of philoso-phy in ancient Greece: the absence of an authoritarian monotheism, the democratic spirit, the coexistence of different cultures within a relatively small territory, the climate of the Greek islands, still pleasant and invit-ing to this day. However, all these reasons would only explain Greek culture and its values by reducing everything to some element that is neither culture nor values. The culture and its values cannot be explained by such a disparate collection of causes, none of which is necessary or sufficient in itself. And if we attempt to explain this extraordinary culture by pointing to the Greeks’ capacity for wonder, their taste for beauty and harmony, their participatory democracy, their freedom from censorship, their love of science for its own sake, and so forth—we are merely fall-ing into a petitio principii, since these are precisely the phenomena we wanted to understand. This is not an explanation, but at best a descrip-tion, and at worst, a justification, or rather an exculpation.

Since I am unable to explain ancient Greek culture actively, I will try to understand it passively. I mean, to let it speak. Not, however, by itself, but through our eyes, which are the eyes of a different culture. What is self-understood in one cultural milieu may be surprising and strange for another. Thus, I would like to bring the philosophers of ancient Greece forward to speak to our times. The Protagoras provides us with a good starting point for this task. The Protagoras has a touch of originality that allows us to see how Greek thought could encompass such vastly differ-ent spirits as Socrates and Protagoras—the one (Socrates) a monomaniac for whom all values, emotions and interests, politics included, ultimately boil down to knowledge; the other (Protagoras) a supra-tolerant demo-cratic spirit always ready to accept any opinion as legitimate. Socrates’ mania for knowledge makes him anti-democratic and oligarchic, since only the expert is qualified to rule. In the Protagoras, this elitist faces the most democratic person in Greece.

Protagoras spent his life making tolerance the flag of democracy. I mean that he took democracy so seriously that he became a person who accepted everybody and anybody’s opinion without passing judgment, which is the extreme way to uphold democracy—as if democracy meant the annulment of all convictions. Thus, Protagoras’ democracy becomes a scandal, no less a scandal than Plato’s anti-democratic elitism. Democ-

xviii Introduction

racy means that any major decision must be discussed by a popular as-sembly. Thus, by its very essence, democracy does not tolerate demo-crats. It grows out of controversy and depends on individuals who define and defend their own points of view. Democracy enables those with con-flicting values to live together. Indeed, what would happen if a demo-cratic regime successfully persuaded all its members to abandon all their individual opinions and convictions in the interests of social harmony? Such a regime would lose its raison d’être, and perhaps disband itself by decree. But here comes Protagoras the sophist, who so valued equality and fairness that he seemed to oppose the very idea of taking a firm stand on anything. Thus, Protagoras’ refusal to discuss the existence of the gods springs, perhaps, entirely from a profound and exaggerated imparti-ality.

Such disparate figures as Plato and Protagoras seem unlikely to have anything to say to each other. Nevertheless, a dialogue takes place. It is so colorful that we must believe that it is more than a literary conceit, that such a conversation really took place as a real event there, in the house of Callias, just before the beginning of the Peloponesian war, in the year 433 B.C., when Protagoras was visiting Athens for the second time and stirring up profound excitement among its citizens, at least the intellectuals among them, those who were the friends of sophia.

Our interest in understanding ancient Greek culture in general and the Protagoras in particular does not require justification. We cannot under-stand ourselves without understanding what lies outside ourselves. If we fail to confront another set of cultural values, we run the risk of falling into a mere justification for our own values. Indeed, without such con-frontation we can hardly begin to analyze our own presuppositions or grasp the values underlying our thoughts and deeds. We are prone to be-lieve, like the conscious stones Spinoza speaks of, that what is, ought to be. We are prone to conclude that the ought can be deduced from the is. So we transform our self-knowledge into an ideological a posteriori jus-tification for our own values, and the analysis of other cultures as a mir-ror in which we see but ourselves.

On the contrary, when we examine our values in the light of alterna-tive ones, like those of ancient Greece (which we regard, paradoxically, as the birthplace of Western civilization) we can look at ourselves as if it were from outside. We can be humane without defending our humanity, without becoming humanists; we can be social without being socialists; we can become freer without becoming liberals. The peculiar character of the irreducible differences between Greek culture and our own is a matter for an epilogue.

Introduction xix

My main thesis in this book is that the issue under discussion in the Protagoras is the question of standards of measure. The question that underlies all the topics of discussion is, “What is the measure?” Not “What are virtues?” Not even “How do diverse virtues relate to each other?” The fundamental question concerns standards: knowledge as a standard of valuation, as Plato tries to show, or values, as Protagoras ar-gues.

The question of standards arises even regarding the form of the dia-logue itself. Should discourse be short or long, simple or complex? What is the standard for conducting literary criticism? Is there a criterion for the measurement of values in general and of virtues in particular? At first glance, it seems that Protagoras denies the existence of any criteria, while Socrates argues that we need to establish criteria in every field of analysis.

Though this first glance or impression is not false, I will try to show that the dialogue also runs against this overt meaning, so that strict Soc-rates, who defends the need for criteria, in the end accepts no criterion at all, except one—knowledge. Even virtue is knowledge. Protagoras, per contra, asserts that one may apply different criteria to different contents. Plato reduces values to knowledge, whereas Protagoras reduces knowl-edge to values. I believe that the philosophy of Protagoras is the real al-ternative to Socrates. In this sense, Protagoras is the best partner for a philosophical discussion with Socrates. He offers true opposition. For this reason, our understanding of Protagoras will be a great help in un-derstanding Socrates.

I will try, in this book, to interpret the Protagoras as impartially as I can. As I go along I will expose my own assumptions insofar and where-soever it may be necessary. I will be making a distinction (one not clearly articulated by either Plato or Protagoras) between values and knowledge. I believe this important distinction will clarify Plato’s reduc-tion of values to knowledge and Protagoras’ reduction of knowledge to values.

The last large work on the Protagoras, Patrick Coby’s Socrates and the Sophistic Enlightenment (1987), tried to bring the philosophies of Socrates and of Protagoras as close together as possible. I will try to show, per contra, their deep differences. Coby asserts that “propositions known as Socratic paradoxes: (1) virtue is knowledge, (2) virtue is one, (3) virtue is easy, (4) knowledge is the cause of faring well, and (5) evil is committed unwillingly” are, “to a remarkable degree,” also Protago-rean.2 Nothing is further, in my opinion, from Protagoras’ philosophy. It is interesting, indeed, that the same Platonic work is interpretable in so

xx Introduction

different and even opposite ways. Protagoras would have appreciated this democratic confusion.

My relatively extended introduction on interpretation (Part I) will en-able my critics to distinguish between, on the one hand, my interpretative presuppositions, and on the other hand, my actual interpretation of the Protagoras. I would like to anticipate critics who believe that arguing against the content of my interpretation is the same thing as criticizing my interpretative assumptions.

A note on gender bias: The words “he” and “him” only refer, in this book, to the male gender when some actual male person, living or dead, is under discussion. In all cases where the person referred to is hypo-thetical (such as “the reader,” “the philosopher,” “the liar,” and so on) the male pronouns must be taken in the broad sense of “he or she,” “him or her.” Such locutions, though more accurate, tend to sound awkward and forced, and may not be necessary. Indeed, we must all make an effort to read “her” into “him” and women into “man” whenever and wherever possible.

Notes

1. Let me quote Rutherford’s resume of the state of affairs about the inter-

pretation of the Protagoras: [T]he dialogue has often puzzled and irritated students of Plato. Much of the uncertainty felt by readers concerns the unity of the work—not that anyone has ever seriously doubted that it is indeed entirely a work of Plato, and wholly characteristic of him, but there is undoubtedly room for discomfort on the level of conceptual unity: What is the sub-ject of the Protagoras, what is it about? The main discussion seems to wander bewilderingly, some would say perversely—from the nature of Athenian democracy through the evolution of human society, the unity of the virtues, the analysis of a poem by Simonides, back to the virtues and particularly courage, and then on to a refutation of the popular view of the power of pleasure and emotion over reason. At the end, very little seems to have been settled. And what is the relevance of the introduc-tory scenes, first between Socrates and an unnamed friend, then be-tween Hippocrates and Socrates at the beginning of the narrated part of the dialogue, before the two of them arrive in the presence of the great sophist? (Richard B. Rutherford, The Art of Plato, 121).

2. Patrick Coby, Socrates and the Sophistic Enlightenment: A Commen-tary on Plato’s Protagoras (London and Toronto: Associated University Presses, 1987), 14.

Part I

A Discussion of Interpretation in General

3

Chapter 1

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

De Interpretatione

Understanding and Interpreting

It seems to me pertinent to the Protagoras to advance some considera-tions about interpretation in general. First, the dialogue itself can be de-fined as a dialogue about interpretation. It includes the interpretation of a tale and includes the interpretation of a poem, which both require further interpretation. In addition, it has gathered many interpretations over the centuries, each bearing its own interpretative criteria. It is thus in itself a dialogue in want of interpretation.

Everything about the dialogue is still open to discussion, to the point that interpreters do not even agree on what they are discussing. This is all to the best. In the worst cases, commentators on Plato settle for a sum-mary of what the dialogue itself exposes in extenso, perhaps in hopes of sparing their students the effort of reading the text themselves.

Let me go straight to fundamental questions. What justifies interpre-tation? The answer, obviously enough at first glance, is that it lies in our failure to comprehend the text, or at least some of its passages, which may be open to different readings. I am distinguishing, then, between understanding and interpretation.

Interpreters do not always make this distinction clearly, though Charles Taylor asserts that interpretation comes after incomprehension, implying that these two processes are not the same. He appears to regard interpretation as an activity that is different from understanding, and sub-sequent to it. He asserts that

Interpretation, in the sense relevant to hermeneutics, is an attempt to make clear, to make sense of, an object of study. This object must, therefore, be a text, or a text-analogue, which in some way is

Chapter 1

4

confused, incomplete, cloudy, seemingly contradictory—in one way or another, unclear. The interpretation aims to bring to light an underlying coherence or sense.1

I agree with him, if by “an object of study” he does not mean any ob-ject, but some opinion or idea that remains confused or incomplete for some reader. Not any object of study is a candidate for interpretation. When we study the behavior of fish, we are not trying to interpret them, since they are not trying to say something to us. Only a conscious effort to transmit some content to another human mind can be an object of in-terpretation, and only in the case that it remains unintelligible for the reader or listener. Only in this case do we experience the need for an in-ter-pretation, namely, a third party, as it were, whose task is to “trans-late” or mediate between author and reader. Let me remark, that a reader understands a text; it is only when he does not understand that he be-comes an interpreter.

Since interpretation comes after incomprehension, we must begin by proposing a general definition of the idea of incomprehension. Let me distinguish between non-understanding and misunderstanding. I need the distinction between misunderstanding and non-understanding to distin-guish between the two basic processes of understanding and interpreta-tion. Not all understanding is the fruit of interpretation.

Non-understanding precedes understanding, while misunderstanding follows understanding, or the attempt to understand. I cannot misunder-stand something that I did not previously attempt to understand, just as I cannot misconceive something that I did not first conceive, in some way or another. I mean that misunderstanding necessarily implies a prior un-derstanding, though an incorrect one. I take “misunderstanding” as a kind of error, as a kind of incorrect understanding and, as such, it is a kind of misinterpretation.

Non-Understanding

Non-understanding appears when, while reading a text for example, I understand it and at the same time, with this specific understanding on the background, do not understand some part of it. Some part does not make sense; I encounter a word or phrase that does not accord with the general order or meaning that I have already grasped. Non-understanding is thus a gap in understanding. It appears as a problem that I cannot solve and that does not allow me to read the text fluently, as some obstacle that

De Interpretatione

5

does not allow me to grasp the full meaning of the text. Non-understanding is a lack of meaning within meaning itself, and therefore provides the occasion for reflection.

Non-understanding is, relatively to misunderstanding, something pri-mary. Non-understanding is the correlative of understanding, and occurs at the general level of understanding. By primary I mean, then, that it comes before the advance yet of any interpretation.

Non-understanding is the first step toward reflection about meaning. It is indeed a primary reflection, though not a full one. Both together, understanding/non-understanding, define the field of understanding, which is an original and somehow spontaneous field of consciousness.

Interpretation

It is out of this play of understanding/non-understanding that the need for interpretation appears. While non-understanding appears as a conflict in the original level of consciousness, interpretation takes place on the reflective level, a second-order level (or, if we regard non-under-standing as a first level of reflection, we could call interpretation the “third level of reflection”). Phenomenologically, interpretation means the bestowing of meaning upon some given meaning that includes gaps of meaning. It concentrates on that which has no meaning but might yet yield some.

Far from being spontaneous, I mean, something primeval to inten-tional consciousness, we can begin to interpret a text only when we dis-tance ourselves from our normally fluent reading and understanding (in-cluding the first reflective level of non-understanding). Interpretation only transpires when we change gears, as it were, and adopt a fully re-flective point of view.

By reflection, I mean a shift in attention. We turn our attention from the content of the text to its form or context. I mean that it is a shift from the content to those aspects of the text that, though not a part of the con-tent, remain present and alive at the background. Reflection brings this background to the fore of our attention. Now the form itself becomes the content of our thinking. The original foreground thus moves to the back-ground, and vice versa.

Interpretation, which is a reflective task, does not concentrate on the original meaning, but on the way meaning is conveyed—on the carrier of meaning.

Chapter 1

6

The distinction between understanding and interpretation is thus a distinction between a non-reflective act of consciousness and a reflective one. It is also, for this very reason, a distinction between meaning (or content) and the carrier of meaning, so that understanding attends to the meaning, and interpretation attends to its carrier, though this carrier, in reflection, becomes the meaning. Reflection asks for the meaning of the meaning, implying that the original meaning is not yet meaningful.

I am trying to grasp the distinction between understanding and inter-pretation by assuming a more general distinction between meaning and the carrier of meaning, assuming that meaning is always conveyed to us by something that is not itself meaning and that is not grasped in the original intentional conscious act. It can only be grasped in the act of re-flection. If we do not sort things out in the way that I am sketching out here, we risk falling into the typical intellectualist fallacy that reduces all understanding to interpretation.

I do not agree with this kind or intellectualism. Indeed, the act of un-derstanding does not even depend on any prior interpretation. Interpreta-tion, as an act of reflection, comes out of a prior primary-reflective non-understanding. When somebody remarks that this or that idea is a misun-derstanding, he has already shifted to the level of reflection, which is the level of interpretation. Since the reflective level follows the original, non-reflective level, and indeed springs from it—the text that is not un-derstood at all cannot be mis-understood. If, on the other hand, the text has been understood, it does not require interpretation. Understanding does not depend on any prior interpretation, whereas interpretation does indeed depend on some prior understanding, or more precisely, some prior problem in understanding.

If the text is totally unintelligible, there is no need for interpretation. Interpret what? On the other hand, if the text is completely clear and in-telligible, there is again no need for interpretation. Interpret why? Thus, we have recourse to interpretation only in matters that fall between the extremes of comprehension and incomprehension: when we understand something only partially. It is a matter of hints or clues; we perceive si-multaneously the absence and the presence of something, or rather the presence of something absent. What is absent, that becomes then the ob-ject of reflective-interpretation, are the presuppositions of a text. It is present, since it belongs to the text and not, at least in principle, some-thing ascribed to the text by the interpreter. It is absent, since the text does not state explicitly these presuppositions; indeed, presuppositions are by definition not manifest in the content. They become explicit only when the reader begins thinking thematically, and this does not happen in

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the original process of understanding. Only when the process of under-standing becomes thematic does the implicit become explicit.

The need for interpretation is a symptom of an interruption in the flu-ent continuity of meaning. However, interpretation does not seek either to plagiarize the text or to rectify its presumed deficiencies. The inter-pretative effort is neither descriptive nor prescriptive. It elaborates the meaning of the text and draws it out into the light of day. By the same token, translation does not imply elaboration, nor can we consider copy-ing a form of creation.2

If we regard understanding as always already a kind of interpretation, we would fall into an endless regression.3 Why not claim that all reading is actually the interpretation of an interpretation, or the interpretation of an interpretation of an interpretation, and so forth?

The intellectualist claims that we lack the capacity to understand at the original level of thought, that we all stand in need of the completion offered by interpretation—an impossible task indeed, since under such an assumption interpretation creates, as it were, its own data.

Hermeneutical Reductionism

Those who make no distinction between understanding and interpre-tation fall into one of two kinds of reductionism: they either reduce un-derstanding to interpretation or interpretation to understanding.

For the first kind of reductionism, to interpret before understanding means to impose the reflection upon the datum. A salient example can be found in Brice Wachterhauser, who calls it “the hermeneutical axiom,” namely, that all human thought involves “interpretation.”4 Unlike Wachterhauser, we do not say that the author interprets his writings; only the reader may do so, and normally this is not even the case. The reader interprets only after he has experienced some difficulty in understanding. Wachterhauser, perhaps following Hans-Georg Gadamer, reduces under-standing to interpretation.5

Wilhelm Dilthey and his followers pursue the opposite reduction. For Dilthey, interpretation is merely a matter of greater understanding; the ideal is complete identification with the text. And, since they are asking for a return to the text in its most literal sense, their ultimate goal is sim-ply to repeat the text. This view reduces interpretation to understanding. It assumes that the best interpreter is the writer.

Both attitudes omit the idea of original understanding. They propose substitutive meanings for the original meaning, and are therefore intel-

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lectualistic—and I am using the term pejoratively—since both distort the very meaning they would otherwise be ready to understand. Both kinds of reductionism conflate understanding and interpretation into one single category; the only difference lies in how they do it. But without a prior understanding—namely, an understanding that does not imply interpre-tation but is really an original understanding—interpretation is not merely impossible, but non-existent.

Intellectualists of both kinds start by rejecting the notion of evident, present, or given meanings in a text. The first kind of intellectualist an-nuls meaning, reducing it to interpretation. The second kind of intellectu-alist annuls interpretation by subsuming it under the category of under-standing.

For all of them, the intentionality of consciousness creates, in its spontaneity, meanings, whereas we are receptive only regarding sense-data, which is not yet meaningful. All of them can grasp words insofar as they have, or are, sounds and images, but not insofar as they have or are meanings. For them, there is no such thing as a self-evident meaning. We do not find meaning in the text, we bestow it. The interpretative process is purely creative, and receptivity is regarded as the opposite of creativ-ity. When we read a text, so they believe, we grasp the carriers of mean-ing first; only afterwards do we bestow the meaning or content upon the text.

The difference between understanding and interpretation is qualitative as well as procedural. Understanding takes place spontaneously, whereas interpretation proceeds willingly and purposefully. We cannot refrain from understanding, and understanding is not goal-oriented. For the most part, we do not understand as a means to some end, or to achieve some goal beyond the act of understanding itself. On the other hand, we always interpret with a purpose in mind. We do not undertake the task of inter-pretation for its own sake. We interpret for the sake of something else—usually in order to understand some text better, or perhaps to use that understanding for some other purpose.

In the frame of both kinds of reductionism, however, the identifica-tion of understanding with interpretation undermines the grounds of in-terpretation itself. There is nothing to interpret. In hermeneutics, this amounts to confusion between the author and the interpreter. This ten-dency has its origins in Gadamer, but it is Rorty who takes it to ex-tremes.6

Gadamerians adopt consciously and freely their own point of view, the standpoint of the interpreter. However, their intention contradicts their results. Gadamerians start with the presuppositions concerning the interpreter’s times, in an attempt to gain neutrality regarding the text it-

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self. However, as a result of this attempt, neutrality gets lost when a to-tally extrinsic criterion explains the text. When this is the case, creation takes the place of identification. Since you cannot identify yourself with the original meaning or intention, you have no option but to create a new meaning. Interpretation thus becomes free creation. So nothing remains for the interpreter to do but become aware of his presuppositions, for they cannot be neutralized or set aside. Interpretation becomes self-consciousness.

However, free creation goes beyond interpretation, since there will be as many creations as interpreters. This is, in short, the Gadamerian ori-entation taken to its extreme. Let me call this orientation “creative” since interpretation depends on the free creative activity of the “interpreter.”

The creative orientation, then, asserts that any interpretation must be understood relative to the context of questions to which it functions as an answer, which means that any question posited to the text is ruled by the conceptual world of the interpreter, so that identification becomes impos-sible. Consciousness is, in this case, tantamount to self-consciousness. Questions about the text are understood according to the presuppositions of the interpreter. The interpretative effort cannot escape from being pre-judicious. This attitude also sets aside the source text, not in order to criticize it, but in order to leave it as it was—uninterpreted. Gadamerian subjectivity reaches an objectivism that forbids the reader to “touch” the text. The text is a limit that has a regulative function, like the Kantian thing-in-itself: without it, nothing else can be referred to.

This subjectivist or contextualist tendency leads to a confusion be-tween author and interpreter, or to put it another way, between the origi-nal text (or source) and its interpretation.7 Rorty, a radical Gadamerian, is already unable to offer a valid criterion for distinguishing between source and interpretation, between creation and interpretation, so that the inter-pretation itself becomes an act of creation. In another order of things, this is like confusing the legislator with the judge, or equating the composer with the performer. According to this view, the judge does not interpret the intention of the legislator, but in fact makes the law. The performer does not carry out the intention of the composer, but creates music, as if his activity, performing, were no different from the composer’s activity, composing. True, the performer and the judge, in their performing and judging, do create something, but something that falls within well-defined limits. The Gadamerian point of view asserts that there are no limits to the scope of the interpretative freedom of the judge or the per-former. The judge legislates, the performer composes, and the interpreter writes the text.

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Taylor’s approach is more moderate than Rorty’s. However, Taylor also denies the existence of an interpretable content. The text is reduced to the questions of the interpreter, and his questions are determined by his own milieu and times. Indeed, Taylor asserts that “we have to think of man as a self-interpreting animal. He is necessarily so, for there is no such thing as the structure of meanings for him independently of his in-terpretation of them.”8

For Taylor, interpretation is self-interpretation. He reduces the origi-nal intention to reflection. Though Taylor declares that there is an object, he cannot defend his own assertion. In the end, he asserts that the object whose coherence we seek is itself partly constituted by our attempt to find this coherence. This means reducing understanding to interpretation. This is true at least for Taylor; since for him, there is no meaning without interpretation.

Let me return to Rorty. His disregard of the source and his denial of the original meaning, which is the result of taking Gadamer’s standpoint to the extreme, obliges him to obliterate the difference between the origi-nal and the interpretative levels. He asserts:

For us pragmatists . . . the object of inquiry is “constituted” by in-quiry only in the following sense: we will answer the questions “What are you talking about?” and “What is it that you want to find out about?” by listing some of the more important beliefs which we hold at the current stage of inquiry, and saying that we are talking about whatever these beliefs are true of. The model here is the familiar contextualist claim that a non-Euclidean space is whatever certain axioms are true of.9

For Rorty, the question about content (“What are you talking about?”) is not about what but about how we speak, which is a totally different question. From the content of thought, he passes directly to the form, though he believes he is still referring to the content. So it is understand-able that he is left without an object, namely, without an original text, and thus without the possibility of non-reflective thought.

Rorty is a radical intellectualist, in the sense of reducing the original to the reflective thought. Philosophers tend to believe that every ordinary reader thinks like a philosopher. Philosophers do not seem to realize that they themselves can be (indeed, often must be) ordinary readers who ex-perience non-reflective thinking, behavior, feelings, and values.

Let us look for a moment at Rorty’s analogy about non-Euclidean space. Such space has a reference, which is just this space constituted by certain axioms. But then, geometers are not interpreting a space that they

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first perceived or grasped—rather, they have built this space themselves with their axioms. Thus, geometry is not interpretation. It has nothing to do with our desire to understand a problematic text.

To be consistent, therefore, Rorty must cast doubt on the very possi-bility of interpretation, because he leaves us with nothing but the consti-tution of some object. Nothing else remains in view as a possible candi-date for interpretation.

Straining very hard to avoid falling into conventionalism, Rorty goes further and asserts:

What we know of . . . texts . . . is nothing more than the ways these are related to the other texts . . . mentioned in or presupposed by the propositions which we use to describe them. At Level I a text of Aristotle is just the thing which is found on a certain page, has this visual form when printed in that font, and so on. At Level II the meaning of a text of Aristotle is whatever, for example, an un-reeducated Aristotle would say about it. At Level III it is what somebody like Werner Jaeger says about it; at Level IV it is what, for example, Heidegger says about it; at Level V it is, for example, what I am saying about it here.10

In the passage above, Rorty refers, probably not by accident, to something Aristotle definitely did not say concerning a “certain page” with certain “visual form” printed in a certain font, “and so on.” Every-thing is here, except something meaningful. If meaning existed, all other commentaries would have to be regarded as interpretations that eventu-ally lead us back to an original text. But we have no source, no object, only signs devoid of meaning pointing at other signs without meaning.

The idea that understanding and interpretation are the same is not pe-culiar to Rorty. It is widely assumed that only one criterion is necessary for understanding: the skill to interpret (and the knowledge that accom-panies such skill, of course). According to Nelson Goodman, “reception and interpretation are not separable operations.”11 Moreover, “[p]erceiving motion . . . often consists in producing it. Discovering laws involves drafting them. Recognizing patterns is very much a matter of inventing and imposing them. Comprehension and creation go on to-gether.”12 We find the same reduction in Donald Davidson: “All under-standing of the speech of another involves radical interpretation.”13

This reductive approach lays the foundations for a problematic con-ventionalism. If any understanding constitutes interpretation, and if in-terpretation means creation, what can we apply interpretation to? Is there no trans-interpretive object that means something for us as it is? No; its meaning depends on our interpretation of it. This is the core of conven-

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tionalism. In another society, with another perspective, alternative inter-pretations appear. What we do not understand, we interpret according to our presuppositions, and whatever we understood is understood insofar as we have interpreted it. According to conventionalism, there is no un-derstanding without interpretation. Since to understand is to interpret, I understand A after, and only after, I interpret it as B. But I do not under-stand B until, and only until, I interpret it as C, and so on ad infinitum. Interpretation is not interpretation of something. It does not sink its teeth into anything but itself. It only manages to bite its own tail.

To avoid this regressive chain, the conventionalist sometimes begins with certain data, but this data remains, by definition, devoid of meaning and finally irrelevant. Rorty speaks about pages, signs, words, and so on, and manages to discuss everything but their meaning. It is a mistake, Rorty tells us, to ask about an original meaning:

It is a mistake to ask what it is that is the same at each level, as if we were in quest of an enduring substrate14 of changing descrip-tions. All that is needed to make communication and persuasion, and thus knowledge, possible is the linguistic know-how necessary to move from level to level. An account of the acquisition of that know-how does not require that we postulate an object—the very text itself, or the true meaning of the text . . . —which is present to consciousness at each level. All that is required is that agreement should be obtainable about what we are talking about—and this just means agreement on a reasonable number of propositions us-ing the relevant term.15

There is, in addition, another problem. Rorty calls each interpretation a “level.” This loose use of the term “level” leads to confusion. We can speak of “levels” when one text refers to another (two levels), or when one text discusses another’s opinion of yet a third (three levels). These are different levels of reflection.

Such for example would be if we were to suppose that Jaeger inter-prets Aristotle, Heidegger interprets the Jaegerian interpretation of Aris-totle, and a pupil of Heidegger examines Heidegger’s interpretation of Jaeger’s concept of Aristotle. Rorty would be somehow right if the case is really one of levels. Indeed, each level thematizes a different issue. This is precisely what the notion of “level” finally means. In this particu-lar example, Heidegger’s pupil is studying Heidegger, not Jaeger, and certainly not Aristotle. Though the Aristotelian text “is present at each level,” this is not the theme under analysis. The theme, for Heidegger’s pupil, is Heidegger. If he agrees or disagrees with anybody, it is Heideg-ger, not Jaeger and not Aristotle either. Similarly, Heidegger’s theme is

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Jaeger. When Heidegger refers to Jaeger, he refers to him in order to de-bate with him or to analyze him. In this case, he is not discussing Aris-totle, but rather Jaeger’s interpretation of Aristotle.

Rorty creates a confusion that prevents us from grasping what is be-ing spoken in each case. Are we concerned with Aristotle, Jaeger, Hei-degger, or with Rorty himself? But Rorty has demanded that “All that is required is that agreement should be obtainable about what we are talk-ing about.” Yet, he has rendered this task impossible because he either fails or refuses to distinguish between (1) different levels of reflection and (2) discussion at the same level of reflection. Obviously, Rorty must avoid making this distinction if he is faithful to his thesis, which is that there is no such thing as an original text. However, the resulting confu-sion admits of no solution except to go back and assume once again the presence of an original object of interpretation, namely, the Aristotelian text itself.

It is finally easier, simpler, and more logical to begin with an under-standable or partly understandable text that exists before interpretation. To the extent that we understand the text, it requires no interpretation. That understanding provides us with a base for interpreting the parts that we do not understand. What we understand first are expressions, namely, given meanings.

If however we try to base human communication in a convention, we enter a cul-de-sac. Convention needs to assume beforehand something independent of convention, a community of meaning, a concordance of basic expressions, carriers of meaning that include in themselves mean-ings that require no further interpretation. This is the case in the gestaltic features of music, paint, tone of voice, and so on. We must assume, therefore, the presence of a Gestalt. This is the first level of understand-ing without interpretation: the presence of a meaningful ordered totality. On this ground, we can construct a viable and logical hermeneutics.

The Identification with the Text

Identification means first a return to the text. It is the recommendation to describe a text (recite, relate, report, and so forth) though in other words. What is being done is, let me take it to extremes, a plagiarism, namely, saying what was already said in the source, or the original text, without going any further.

Plagiarism is not a valid interpretative method. The plagiarist adopts the standpoint of the text itself. In our case, it is the adoption of the

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standpoint of Plato, who wrote about the central figures of the dia-logue—Socrates and Protagoras. I mean that plagiarism, or the rendering of the same idea or meaning with other words, is an interpretative method that identifies itself with the text. It is just this identification that prevents interpretation, even though it implies understanding. This is the tendency of Dilthey and his followers. I call this tendency “identifica-tory” since it aims at identification with the text. In theory, if not always in practice, it stands at the opposite pole from contextualism.

The central problem with the identificatory approach is that, being apparently the most objective attitude (since it annuls the interpreter in favor of the almighty text), it also becomes the most subjective. Indeed, by identifying with the source, the interpreter is obliged to assert (pre-cisely at those parts to be interpreted, at those parts that remain unintelli-gible) that the text or the author errs. Whoever asserts that the author makes mistakes does so—paradoxically, perhaps—due to an extreme and unconscious identification with it.

Upon what grounds indeed, can we attribute mistakes to the text? It may be only based on what the interpreter believes, by way of identifica-tion. He may feel that the text fails to state fully and explicitly what he would have wished to read in it. Perhaps he finds statements that he be-lieves are inconsistent with the general meaning of the text. Such a reader blames the text for failing to meet his expectations.16

There is yet a deeper reason why identification leads a certain kind of reader to claim that a text contains errors. Such a reader may think that the text says something that it actually does not. If this is the way he thinks, and there is nobody to correct him, he will not blame himself for the resulting problems, for he would not hold an opinion that he himself believes to be false. There is a tendency, when thinking by identification, to think in the name of the author and to assert that he got it wrong, not I.

The interpretation that turns to error as a category of explanation ends up by illuminating, in the harshest possible way, the limits and presuppo-sitions of the interpreter. This subjectivism with pretensions of objectiv-ism reaches such extremes that the interpreter often begins to argue with his own object of analysis.

Furthermore, this extreme subjectivism, which fails in its attempt to interpret the text, entirely accords with an extreme dogmatism. The in-terpreter who asserts, for example, that Plato errs, has done nothing but replace Plato’s concerns with his own. Such an interpreter has, in fact, replaced Plato with something else. This attitude is dogmatic because it allows us to take the liberty of accepting all those parts of the text that coincide with our expectations and disregard the rest. At minimum, such an attitude means that the interpreter is always right, because any dis-

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crepancies between the evidence of the text and the conclusions of inter-pretation can be blamed on the author’s own shortcomings or even in-competence. A theory that turns to error as an explanatory category can be neither proved nor disproved. Once the text has been shown inher-ently inconsistent or flawed, there is no way to contradict or refute any interpretation that may be brought to bear on it. Indeed, in these cases, the text itself has been refuted.

I do not contend that the alternative attitude for avoiding the category of error is the adoption of the so-called principle of charity. This princi-ple hints that the interpreter takes part in the discussion (the content un-der analysis) instead of interpreting it, no less than in the case of the turn to the category of error. With the category of error the interpreter expresses his disapproval, with the principle of charity his approval. I will propose an alternative that, based on the distinction between the form and the content of arguments, analyzes them by trying to reveal the form, or the assumptions of the argument.17

“Socratic Irony”

Another kind of identification with the text, close to the attribution of error, is the assumption underlying the assertion that what the author says is not what the author meant. This is the ground for the abuse of the no-tion of irony as it is generally used in regard to Plato’s Socrates.18 Greg-ory Vlastos goes a step further. Not only is there place for irony in Soc-rates’ philosophy, but it is a complex irony.19 According to Vlastos, in “‘simple’ irony, what is said is simply not what is meant. In “complex” irony what is said both is and isn’t what is meant.”20

The problem with this interpretive strategy is again the danger of failing into dogmatism due to a strong commitment or identification with the author’s intentions. What, if not identification, could inspire some-body to adopt this notion of “complex” irony? Where else could it come from? It seems highly improbable, at the very least, that Plato would rely on a device almost guaranteed to confuse and mislead the vast majority of his readers.

It seems to me more plausible to assume that the interpreter, Vlastos in this case, in unable to accept the far-reaching theses that Plato is trying to advance: Socrates’ disavowal of knowledge and his assertion that he is not a teacher of virtue, since virtue cannot be taught. It is easy enough for an interpreter to proceed in the following way: when some aspect of Soc-rates’ theories is acceptable—explain it. When Socrates’ theories look

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odd—conclude that he is ironic. And when even the category of irony does not provide relief—turn to the category of “complex” irony. Instead of these labyrinthic paths of interpretation, I will try to advance a non-reductionistic approach to the text.

I do not disapprove of the attempts to understand parts of Socrates’ philosophy by means of the category of irony. I think, however, that we should only appeal to the notion of irony when the irony is evident to the reader. There is no reason to assume that the reader himself may become a victim of Socrates’ irony. If this were the case, irony would lose its meaning. Irony is not intended to hide ideas. It is rather a way to express them. I mean, therefore, that irony lies at the level of understanding and not at the level of interpretation.

We must therefore not abuse the concept of irony when we interpret Plato or anybody else. Cases of Socratic irony must be clearly ironic. For example, we find the following statement by Socrates in the Protagoras:

Being, as it happens, a rather forgetful sort of person, Protagoras, I tend to forget, faced with a lengthy statement, the original point of the argument. Now, suppose I happened to be hard of hearing: if you meant to hold a conversation with me, you would think it nec-essary to speak more loudly than normal; so now that you are faced by a man with a poor memory, please cut your answers down and make them short enough for me to follow (Prt. 334d).

I am ready to call it a case of plain and simple irony, in which the author both means and does not mean what he says. In this case, Socrates attempts to bring the discussion into a dialogical form, in order to avoid lengthy speeches. The dialogic form is obviously his preferred method of developing an argument, for philosophical as well as, perhaps, tempera-mental reasons. In other cases, when it is not clear whether Socrates is being ironic or not, it would behoove us to take him and his statements seriously, even if they seem to offend common sense. Socratic irony is transparent and unmistakable.

Though I tried here to say something only about the use of irony in interpretation, let me add some words on Socratic irony itself. Interpret-ers frequently refer to Socratic irony, but they do not always address the question of why he uses it in philosophy. I think that irony suits his one-minded logos very well. Socrates was very critical of the two logoi no-tion of the sophists in general and Protagorean in particular. Protagoras asserted that there are two valid logoi in opposition in every “thing” (pantos pragmatos).21 Socrates’ irony is his response to this idea, which was widespread in his times. Irony, in Socrates, is not just a rhetorical

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trick; it is his way to show the absurdity of the implied counter-argument. Irony defends the Socratic “either/or” logic against the Pro-tagorean “both-and” logic. Irony subverts counter-arguments by taking them to their ultimate logical consequences, where they stand revealed as absurdities. For Socrates, thinking through the opposing logos to the end is a way of supporting, through negation, the logos that he endorses. Irony promotes a negative attitude by professing to adopt a wildly posi-tive attitude. In this context, it should be noted that Plato often uses metaphors whenever he tries to explain or justify his own logos. Contrary to irony, metaphors promote identification between what is said and what is meant.

This distinction between metaphor and irony has yet another mean-ing. Winner and Gardner contend that metaphors intend to say something about the world, whereas irony intends to say something about the speaker. And for Plato, metaphors say something about knowledge, whereas irony says something about beliefs or opinions.22

A Critique of Both Attitudes

Interpretation needs, on the one hand, an original text, an author’s in-tention within some specific context or milieu, and on the other side, an interpreter with his own context and interests. Hermeneutics insists, how-ever, that if you remain faithful to the author, you betray yourself, and if you remain faithful to yourself, you become disloyal to the authority of the text. It seems that the differences among interpreters lie merely in the kind of compromise they strike between two opposite sides. What seems to persist across the spectrum of opinion, however, is just this notion of opposite sides.

I do not see the relationship between text and interpreter as an oppo-sition, but as the necessary prerequisite for the interpretation. It is not a question of choosing one side over the other, or making concessions, however thoughtful or nuanced, because concessions are made between rival tendencies, one coming on account of the other. In interpretation, the interpreter and the interpreted are two necessary factors, so that if we take the one away, the other becomes completely meaningless.

Interpretation does not mean that you must renounce either yourself or your source. Rather, it is crucially important that the source, in the in-terpretative relationship, be relational to your standpoint, to your kind of understanding, though not relative to it. On the other hand, your own

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standpoint is, in its relevant aspects, relational though not relative to the source, which is the object to be interpreted.

On these grounds, we cannot interpret totally from the outside. If this were the case, there would be as many interpretations as the available number of interpreters. To interpret, we need to assume that there is something in the text that allows interpretation to develop in certain ways and not in others. This does not preclude the legitimacy of alternative interpretations. However, it does imply a concept, however broadly de-fined, of legitimacy. Nor does any of this imply the opposite attitude, namely, that the only way to interpret is to identify with the text or with the text’s presuppositions.

These are thus the limits of interpretation: it is neither a free creation nor a slavish imitation of the text. If we are either too far away from the text or too close to it, interpretation is impossible. The hermeneutical cir-cle operates beyond these limits, and it is there that it reaches its para-doxical conclusion—that interpretation is impossible.

The hermeneutic circle, obviously, contradicts our interpretative ex-perience. Whoever defends the paradox enters into contradictions. But this paradox gives us a deeper understanding of the problem. Now we know the limits of our enterprise. Interpretation implies, apparently, a paradox: the rescue of something that is already in the text, though unre-vealed to the intellect.

When considering both orientations, each one passes easily into the other, though without awareness. Dilthey is an unconscious Gadamer and vice versa. The Gadamerian or contextualistic approach ignores the source, which is a way of arguing with it, and the Diltheyian or identifi-catory approach argues with it—which is a way of ignoring the source.

Each tendency takes a stand or stresses one of the aspects that must be present in any interpretative labor. Each side absolutizes one of these two factors and relativizes the other one. For Dilthey, the main issue is the content of the interpretation, the object—the text. For Gadamer, the main issue is the form, the subject, the interpreter and its milieu. Diltheyanism tends, in principle, to assume that all the interpreter’s possible distortions can be annulled if he can identify himself completely with the text. Gadamerianism thinks that the interpretative aberrations can be avoided by means of self-consciousness, by becoming aware of one’s prejudices.

Despite their differences, both sides have made much the same epis-temological assumption: that the text has qualities independent of the reader’s perception, or else that the reader has some perception, some kind of understanding, that is unrelated to the text that he is reading. We do not need to make such distinctions, for they distort the nature of reading (and perception in general). When I read something or perceive

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something, I perceive something. The two cannot be separated. Percep-tion implies a perceived content.

What is the starting point of hermeneutical theories then? As theories of interpretation, they are, in themselves, reflections, though exaggerated ones. When Dilthey proposes identification with the author, he adopts, in his reflection, the point of view of the source and obliges the interpreter to think as the source does. This we may also call, with Rorty, historical reconstructivism. When Gadamer proposes to take into account the inter-preter’s circumstances, he allows the forgetting of the source and leads the way for Rorty. This may be called, again with Rorty, rational recon-structivism. However, in both cases we are rational in our reconstruction, and in both cases we are trying to reconstruct a historical situation dif-ferent from ours. These interpretative orientations, when extrapolated, either oblige the interpreter to adopt the standpoint of the text, or oblige the text to adopt the standpoint of the interpreter.

The Limits of the Interpretative Field

I hope that a synthesis of the distinction between understanding and non-understanding, and the distinction between original and reflective levels, will help to define the limits of the interpretative field, namely, will help in finding the ways of limiting the range of admissible inter-pretations.

Let me define, first, the boundaries of the field of interpretation. This field is based on the distinction between understanding and interpreta-tion. We are unable to interpret in two cases: (1) When we do not under-stand at all, or when we over-understand, namely, when there is no mis-understanding. The text cannot be totally unintelligible, nor should it be completely and absolutely comprehensible in every aspect. (2) When there is only one or there are infinite interpretations. Those are obviously the ideal limits that come only to define the field of hermeneutics. Actually this means that there is place for considering some analysis as an interpretation when it is neither a correction of the original text (there are infinite possible corrections) nor a mere transcription (there is only one transcription, like an absurd idea of a map made on a 1:1 scale, which is not a map but the thing itself. You can walk on such a city map just as you walk on city streets). An analysis may be an elaboration of the source text.

These are the axes, the poles which determine the limits of the her-meneutical field—understanding/non-understanding, and one/infinite

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interpretations. The first axis pertains to the original level, the level of understanding, which is the level that pushes, when there is a misunder-stood content, toward reflection, namely, to pass over a second level. The second axis pertains to the reflective level, the level of interpretation proper.

The presupposition of interpretation is, thus, that something is already understood to a certain degree beforehand and that, under such limits, there are contents that have remained opaque or misunderstood, and when the possibility of a limited number of alternative valid interpreta-tions is given.

Therefore, the fact that there are alternative possibilities does not in-validate but, on the contrary, bestows legitimacy to each interpretation as such. It is not a valid argument to assert that there is no alternative to an interpretation. On the contrary, an interpretation is only valid when other alternatives exist.

Rorty asserts, by contrast, that “we are not talking about the same thing if we say very different things about it.”23 What lurks here is the so-called anti-essentialist claim, namely, put it in my words, that you cannot really talk about anything. At the very moment you talk about some-thing—you are not talking about it. I am tempted to ask Rorty if I can even understand my own discourse if I do not understand its alternative. This seems to be impossible, according to him, since to understand an alternative is “to say very different things” about the issue in question. Moreover, in interpretative questions, to understand means the under-standing of an alternative interpretative discourse.

The claim I try to defend is that we interpret just when there is an al-ternative interpretation, and that both my discourse and its alternative refer to the same thing. This attitude needs a further explanation.

What makes alternative interpretations legitimate? The question arises when we assert that alternatives do exist, because such an assertion as-sumes a rivalry among differing interpretations. But different interpreta-tions flourish because they are products of different interpretive criteria (and not because they do not share a common source text).

However, some deny the text, in order to assert the importance of the circumstances of the interpreter; and some assert the significance of the source by suppressing the presuppositions of the interpreter. But all these confusions can be solved if we make the following distinctions:

There are two basic ways to define the goal of interpretation and its criteria, namely, the original approach and the reflective approach.

1. In the first case, my interest is not primarily about the author and his work. I came to them motivated by a different interest: my interest in an issue that I hope to find some reference to in the text. At this level, I

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am only interested in what the author thinks about the issue I am con-cerned with. I am interested in the text, though only insofar as it is some-how related to my former interest. This is the Gadamerian tendency.

For example, I may be concerned with the issue of friendship and I want to understand and interpret what Plato has to say about this. Thus, Plato’s ideas are relevant to my own interests. In this case, I may even try to argue with Plato and to enter into an imaginary dialogue with him—I may criticize him, I may think that he is wrong on some point or that he is right in another. In this case, I am not reflecting about Plato but—let me put it this way—I am actively sharing his interest in the issue of ethi-cal relativism. In this case, Plato is not an object of my research but my colleague in thought, my partner in a discussion. Plato may even be the representative of an alternative attitude that I must face in order to under-stand better my own ideas.

Let us return to the example of friendship. Gadamer indeed asserts that according to Plato in the Lysis,

he who feels friendship for someone sees in the other something which he himself is not, but the thing which he sees, which he is not, is more like something which has not yet been achieved in himself, something more like a potential in himself, which leads him to look for a model in another.24

Gadamer understands that for Plato the friend is nothing more than a means:

as though the friend were nothing more than a means, as though he were there only to rid me of my deficiencies . . . we would be re-luctant to say that the essence of true friendship consists in one person’s being the means of remedying the deficiencies of another. We know, as a matter of fact, that he who understands friendship in this way and who would thus reduce his significance to that of being there solely for the other, destroys the communal basis of the relationship.25

This is not really an interpretation of Plato’s theory, but a confronta-tion with it in the frame of a discussion about a common issue—friendship. For this purpose, this orientation tends to solve problems that arise in the text according to a textual analysis (not according to a contextual one). In this case, the question is not about the intention of the author. The main issue concerns the questions of the interpreter, not those of the author. Whoever reads Plato’s theory of friendship along these lines is not interested in Plato but rather in the nature of friendship.

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The limits of such an interpretative approach are constituted by a valuative criticism on one side, and a justification of the text on the other. To avoid reaching these limits (since when they are reached, inter-pretation becomes criticism or justification) the interpreter must keep himself away from starting a discussion against the source in the sense, for instance, of asserting that Plato is not right, or that he is inconsistent about such and such question, and so on. On the other hand, he must also refrain from justifying him, from fabricating an apology. The above pas-sage by Gadamer is, of course, a case of criticism.

In this regard, a Diltheyian-oriented approach is not so far away from a Gadamerian one. C. C. W. Taylor is the best example of a commentator who gets too close to the Protagoras. Taylor wants to test the truth of the issues being treated in the Protagoras, this being the motive for his analysis. However, instead of maintaining his distance, he identifies him-self with Plato, of whom he is severely critical only in those passages that he disagrees with, or in those passages that remain unintelligible to him.26 Other commentators, the Platonists, try to justify him at any price. This is not interpretation either.

2. Another case, the opposite of the previous one, is when I am inter-ested especially in the author and the author’s work. A question at this level would be, for instance, why the sophistic or anthropocentric Greek period comes after the physicalist one, and what this historical-intellec-tual frame tells us about Protagoras’ philosophy. In this case, my concern is not with the “truth” of his alleged relativism, but rather with its style and its place in the history of philosophy. My concern is not with the content of his philosophy, but with its form. In this case, Protagoras is the subject matter of my research. In the former case, Plato (or Pro-tagoras the sophist) was not the object of analysis of Gadamer or Taylor, but a kind of “debating partner.”

This time, I do not share any topic of interest with Protagoras, so I do not try to engage in a dialogue with him. Instead, I try to understand and interpret him. This is an interpretation at a meta-level. Whoever reads Aristotle’s Physics in this spirit is not interested in physics (perhaps he might be interested in the history of science, but in any case, Aristotle is no longer required reading in physics departments). In the same sense, whoever reads the Protagoras to discover something about the sophist’s relativism or about Plato’s theory of measurement is not interested in the issue of values.

In this approach, the solution to textual difficulties is not sought in the frame of the text but in the context, namely, in the presuppositions of the author, or in the author’s intellectual background or cultural milieu. It

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means looking for the assumptions that generate the ideas in the text, rather than examining the ideas themselves.

The limits of such an interpretation, namely, the limits beyond which it ceases to be an interpretation, are analogous to the limits of the inter-pretation of the first type. These limits are, on the one hand criticism, in the sense of assuming contexts that contradict texts, and on the other hand the explanation of the text with justificatory intention, namely, as-suming that the text is nothing but the product of the times in which it was written, as if the text were a necessary product of them. In this case, the text remains as if it were without any singular originality.

In short, to reach an authentic interpretation, if I may be permitted such an adjective, we must accept that interpretation does not mean a repetition of what is already expressed in the text, but implies a creative act. We must also recognize, however, that this creativity has its limits: (1) there is an interpretable text that imposes limits insofar as it is an in-terpretable datum. (2) There is no place for arguing against the text, or to presuppose arguments that the text “refutes.” The marine biologist does not argue, for example, that the Zigzag Fish would be better off swim-ming in a straight line. He only tries to understand why it swims as it does. In this way, interpreters of texts must not criticize the zigzags of the original texts.

Ways of Interpretation

Understanding is not reflective, whereas interpretation is. Interpreta-tion is second level thinking. To interpret, when we are unable to under-stand, is the attempt to close gaps that may have opened up in the flow of understanding.

The subject matter of understanding is the meaning of the text, whereas the subject matter of interpretation is the way, or ways, in which we understand the text. Therefore, interpretation is a reflection upon un-derstanding. By this I mean not only self-consciousness, awareness of our interpretative methods, but in the broadest sense, discovery of the hidden text or the subtext, namely, the formal or real aspect of the text, its presuppositions.

In interpretation, we move away from the author’s original intention, just to make it more accurate. In this effort, we encounter aspects that do not fully emerge in the level of content, aspects that are not part of the text but of its context. Seeking relationships between the text and its context, we go, as it were, to the other side of the text. In the course of

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this interpretative effort, we also try to become aware of our own cir-cumstances and values. For two reasons: first, we do not want our values to be mixed up with those of the text. Secondly, we learn something of both sides when we compare our own values with those of the author.

To interpret a text, we must usually read it at least twice: once to un-derstand it, and once to interpret it. Indeed, we cannot concentrate on two different issues at the same time. Sometimes, however, we read the text only once, but it is an interrupted reading, or rather an alternation be-tween reading and reflecting, so that the ultimate effect is that of two readings carried out side by side.

The interpretative effort is an effort of questioning. I totally agree with Gadamer’s contention that we must take any assertion in the text as an answer to a question:

Every proposition has presuppositions that it does not express. Only they who comprehend these presuppositions can really judge the truth of a proposition. Now I maintain that the ultimate logical form of such motivation of every proposition is the question. It is not the judgment that has logical priority but the question as is historically attested by the Platonic dialogue and the dialectical origin of Greek logic. The primacy of the question over against the proposition implies, however, that the proposition is essentially an answer. There is no proposition that does not represent a type of answer. Therefore, there is no understanding of any proposition that does not take its exclusive criterion from the understanding of the question that it answers.27

Now the question is not always explicit, especially for a reader who does not share the author’s presuppositions. An author may well consider some questions so self-evident that he does not even feel the need to formulate them. Now the reconstruction of a text needs to turn to the question lying behind the explicit text. In this case, one must adopt those questions that one assumes are the questions of the text—as one’s own questions. I mean that one’s questions are text-oriented questions.

Oriented to the questions behind the text, one may ask, for example, what Protagoras meant by repeating his own words, apparently or not—this is just the question—in his famous dictum, quoted by Plato, Sextus Empiricus and Diogenes Laertius, that “Man is the measure of all things (Panton chrematon anthrôpos metron), of things that are as to how they are, and of things that are not as to how they are not”” (fhs‹ gãr pou pãntvn xrhmãtvn

m°tron ênyrvpon e‰nai, t«n m¢n ˆntvn …w ¶sti t«n d¢ mØ ˆntvn …w oÈk ¶stin, Tht. 152a). A question oriented toward the source, for example, would ask about the alternative, namely, that the sentence is a refutation of “the

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existing things that are un-existent” and attempt to determine what that would mean. Or a question may merely ask why Protagoras did not say, plainly and simply, something about existing things, without redundancy.28 Now the question is, does the addition (“that are as to how they are” and “that are as to how they are not”) change the meaning of the non-repetitive saying, of the (perhaps) non-tautological argument? In this case, we are trying to complete an idea in order to understand it, and this is a legitimate interpretive approach.

I would like to recall three interpretative categories: completion, sub-stitution, and revelation.

Completion. We need an interpretative completion when there is a gap in the continuum of the meaning—a gap completed by adding another intermediate meaning. For example, the introduction, between two ap-parently contradictory opinions sustained by Protagoras of a third idea that may allow the mediation between the former ones and create thereby a continuity of meaning. We need this method mainly in the case of in-terpretations of philosophers like Protagoras, since we know him only through fragments. We are even obliged to build scaffoldings. Comple-tion is called for when we are faced with Plato’s strange definition of virtues as analogous to crafts and arts, or when he reduces all the virtues to knowledge. In these and similar instances, we remain unsatisfied with explicit arguments, and feel that there is a gap in the continuum of meaning.

Substitution. In other cases, we can offer a substitution in order to un-derstand the source. This is the interpretative technique of Plato himself. In the Theaetetus he corrects Protagoras’ phrase to make it be more in-telligible for him, asserting that Protagoras really meant to say that so as I feel them, so things are for me (see Tht. 151a). Plato claims that he is merely substituting a clear formulation for a less clear one. But it is fair to ask if the substitution actually clarified the meaning of the original sentence or changed it in some way. We can only answer this question by analyzing the content of the ideas.

Substitution means to replace one carrier of meaning with another. An exemplary case of substitution is the translation of a word into another language, or the substitution of a word by its synonyms. For the inter-preter, the original word functions as a carrier of meaning in both cases. But the same word can have different meanings, and different words can have the same meaning. The difference in meaning occurs in context, a circumstance that inspired a sophist like Prodicus of Ceos, who special-ized in the differences between synonyms, and was able to perceive similarities.

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Substitution is legitimate only if we are aware of its limits. Though “help!” and “assistance!” have the same truth-value, they do not have the same practical meaning, and so they are not substitutable.

Revelation. A third interpretative category is revelation. We turn to it when we assume that a text has hidden intentions. This may be the result of our ignorance of the exoteric meaning. Whoever is familiar with po-litical rhetoric cannot deny the legitimacy of such assumption, namely, that texts can hide more than they reveal. In such cases, we dig for the hidden meaning. To reveal what the text attempts to hide is a way to help us to make sense of it. We say “it is not about x but about y,” or “it is about x only apparently; in essence, it is about y.” Thus, revelation is an intermediate device between substitution and completion. It is based on the text and, in this sense, it comes to complete it. On the other hand, however, we assert that the text says one thing but intends something else—this is a matter of substitution.

There is no single adequate interpretation of a text, though not any interpretation is valid. When we interpret, we apply certain ends, inten-tions, or interpretative interests to something that is not in itself the same end, intention or interest, but rather a text. Different interpretations are functions of those ends, intentions, and interests of the interpreter. In cases where different interpreters have different ends, the alternative in-terpretations are not in conflict with one another. They can live together. Relativism in interpretation springs from just this difference in interests and goals.

Interpretation demands asking questions of the text, which is pre-cisely what Plato regarded as unfruitful since, for him, the text cannot answer our questions; it can only answer its own questions.

My analysis of the Protagoras constitutes a refusal of Plato’s explicit recommendation. Indeed, after having commenced an excellent and good-humored interpretative exercise, Plato rejects his own labor and asserts that those texts that demand interpretation—texts that we do not understand—are precisely those which cannot be understood, for we cannot ask the author about his intentions. If we attempt, in an imagined dialogue notwithstanding, to question the author, then we will ascribe all sort of inappropriate ideas to him.29 Thus, Plato’s opinion differs from that of Protagoras, who is, among other things, a professional interpreter of poetry.

Another interpretative problem, closer to Protagoras than to Plato, is parallel to the problem of distinguishing between primary and secondary sources in history, between, on the one hand, quotation and description, and on the other, interpretation. I mean the problem of distinguishing between ipsissima verba and secondary sources, between proper quotes

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and loose paraphrases of Protagoras’ sayings and writings. Of course, this distinction is in itself problematic, though it must be taken into ac-count. Ipsissima verba means, for example, when Diogenes Laertius as-serts that “Protagoras was the first to assert X,” it may or may not be that X is the ipsissima verba. We must take into account that classical authors (and not only they) did not take great pains to distinguish among the various forms of representing another’s words: verbatim quotation, para-phrase, description, and interpretation.

However, the criterion I would like to suggest is as follows: when an author quotes Protagoras in support of his own ideas, appropriating his words for the defense of his own theses, I am suspicious, more skeptical than the skeptics themselves. When, contrariwise, the quotation is quoted for the sake of refuting it, that is, when the quotation does not fit the ideas of those who quote it, I will be more confident with it, unless of course the quotation is a mere “straw dummy,” set up for the sole pur-pose of being knocked down. I will be even more confident when the quotation is not a point of argument, when those who quote it neither agree nor disagree with it. In other words, I will grant greatest credibility to the most neutral quotations. However, since such fidelity is quite rare, I am forced to deal with all sorts of quotations, even if I suspect that they have been shaped by other motives than the love of accuracy.

Plato is a champion when it comes to distorting arguments in order to demolish them more effectively. In these cases, I will not be confident with my former confidence. I will then make use of another interpretative tactic: I will try to rebuild a more defensible text, using the distorted text as a starting point. So, for example, I will view with suspicion any argu-ment in which Protagoras’ ideas strike me as being badly argued or easy to refute. I am assuming that Protagoras himself, who was considered one of the most brilliant thinkers of his time, would not advance simple-minded arguments.

I said that Plato was a great distorter of his rivals’ ideas. We must be aware that Plato was first and last a philosopher; thus, he made Pro-tagoras’ arguments weaker than they really were. Michael Nill says that it is not possible to be precise in the attempt to separate Protagoras’ and Plato’s account of his philosophy.30 With all due respect for Nill’s warnings, I am going to attempt just such a separation.

The problem with the search for sophist philosophy is that our best sources are the writings of their opponents, especially Plato and Aris-totle, and of their supporters. The Protagoras talks about a sophistic congress with plenty of humor. The Gorgias is a caricature of rhetoric, in the Euthydemus Plato makes fun of sophist pedagogy. The Phaedrus criticizes its oratorical skills, and Aristotle bristles with criticism in his

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Sophistic Refutations (155a 21). Some Hellenistic philosophers, on the other hand, adopted the sophists as their ancestors, and therefore adapted their theories to accord with their owns. As a result, we remain without faithful sources.

Fortunately for the interpretative labor, however, the Protagoras and the Theaetetus are exceptions to the rule. In these dialogues, Plato pre-sents Protagoras’ philosophy in a fair enough way.31 We have here, thus, a good opportunity to reconstruct a more accurate image of sophistry. It is only after this act of reconstruction that we will be able to offer an ac-curate interpretation of both philosophies, those of Protagoras and Plato.

The main problem with Protagoras’ philosophy is that only a few fragments of his ipsissima verba survive. Plato’s sources are the Pro-tagoras and Theaetetus, and perhaps Euthydemus and Cratylus. Thomas Sinclair asserts that since the original Protagoras texts are so scarce, in-terpretation becomes subjective. He almost calls for renouncing this task.32 I believe that the best way to face this opinion is to make a dis-tinction between the task of really revealing the truth of Protagoras and the mere attempt to reveal it. I identify myself with the pretension of truth alone and I am ready to leave aside its real achievement. We indeed have certain texts, we have the opinions of different authors expressed at different times, and if we became aware of such differences, I believe that the interpretative effort is justified. However, this will be valuable only at the end, not at the beginning.

The reconstruction of Protagoras’ philosophy is a rescue mission. The question is how to rescue his philosophy from the hands of his enemies as well as from the hands of his defenders. I am already hinting that I have no intention of defending his ideas, but only of recuperating them. Those who criticize him, like Plato in the Protagoras and the Theaetetus, did not allow him the last word. This was not Plato’s intention. Plato only intended to offer, by means of a discussion with rival theories, his own philosophy. He was neither an exegete nor a historian of philoso-phy. On the other hand, those who defend him, generally relativists and skeptics, are only supporting their own theories; for them, Protagoras is just a shoulder to lean on. We learn almost nothing about Protagoras from them. Since modern philosophers tend to transform Protagoras into their precursor, and ancient philosophers into an extreme relativist like themselves, I will try to remove him not only from the hands of his rival Plato, but from the hands of his supporters as well.

Anyway, we cannot decide if Protagoras was or was not a relativist without defining this term. But it has been so carelessly used and mis-used that we might be better off leaving it entirely. We should try to analyze Protagoras’ philosophy without resorting to unhelpful labels.

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The strategy of the rescue consists of attempting an interpretative elaboration of his philosophy starting from the scarce fragments of his ipsissima verba. The task is perilous and open to criticism. It is an at-tempt to elaborate on existing texts, to interpret them and even to tran-scend them, all for the sake of putting together a consistent and plausible account of this philosophy. Of course, I am running the risk of allowing my analysis of the fragments to be swayed by my own theories and ideas. I cannot pretend to approach the problem with a mind devoid of all opinions, but I can certainly try to correct my own ideas as I go along, always regarding the texts as the highest authority. In any case, I hope the result will be fruitful for future interpreters and critics.

Another problem with the interpretation of the Protagoras lies in the fact that the Protagoras is itself a text about interpretation and is itself an interpretation. For example, the tale that Protagoras relates is actually his own interpretation of some former tales. Another example: when Plato uses the word “knowledge” to define pleasure, he is interpreting. He can-not understand what pleasure is, or more specifically, what it means to be overcome by pleasure, so that this expression, “to be overcome by pleas-ure” is in want of interpretation.

I make those reflective assertions on a still higher reflective level. Namely, they are interpretations of interpretations—reflections on re-flections. While Protagoras and Plato are trying to understand the idea that they are debating, I will try to understand the way they are trying to understand. It may happen, in addition, that by this higher kind of reflec-tion we may be able to clear up the discussion itself. From the point of view of a strict logical analysis, this brings to a regressus from one level of reflection toward the next one ad infinitum. But from a pragmatic point of view, such regression stops at the place where we meet the needs of the specific relevant interpretation.

There is yet another type of interpretative approach, which I con-sciously avoid: the didactic interpretation. This will not be a meta-analy-sis since its end is not theoretical. I do not like an interpretation that ridi-cules its opponents in order to expose them to public scorn and rejection; it reminds me too much of political campaigns.

I hope that commentators, including myself, do not share this didactic approach, which is adopted mainly for practical uses, like the widespread use of Plato’s Apology to make new generations of students feel guilty for not being able to identify with a virtuous character, and so forth.

We can now formulate the famous “hermeneutical circle” in the fol-lowing manner: If you can interpret only what you already understand, then there is no need for interpretation. But if you are completely unable to understand something, there again is no need for interpretation, since

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there is no source, nothing to interpret. Once a teacher of philosophy asked his students to interpret some passage in Plato. However, he did not accept any answer that they offered him. He said, if you interpret the text in your own words, you are transforming the text, rather than inter-preting it. If you simply read the text—this is no interpretation either. Thus, the interpretation of a text is an impossible task.

This extreme view of the situation does contain some truth. Indeed, an interpretation does not restate the text; it must say something new, which means it moves away from the text. But it is not a matter of all or noth-ing. Interpretation appears only when we stay vis-à-vis understanding. Interpretation needs a quantum of incomprehension, needs a logical la-cuna. Furthermore, there are many possible interpretations, but all of them agree in one point: all are attempts to fill the lacuna.

Thus, the hermeneutical circle, so stated, is a circle only from a static or fragmented point of view. If we regard the understanding-interpreta-tion relationship as a process, the circle disappears. It is a circle only for a reflection that grasps its object of analysis partially and statically.

To resume my argument here: I began with a justification of the need for interpretation. Interpretation begins with lack of comprehension, which means that we must distinguish between understanding and inter-pretation. While understanding is something primary and spontaneous, interpretation is a reflective conscious act. Reflection means a shift from the original content to its periphery, its background or context; it is a dis-placement of attention from content to form.

Interpretation is a reflection upon understanding. Human thought does not necessarily involve “interpretation.” Writers and speakers do not in-terpret their words; at least, not at the moment they are writing or speak-ing. Readers and auditors do not interpret other people’s writings and words. They can interpret only later, at a second level of analysis when they, for example, reread what they wrote or rethink what they read or heard. In such case, they may even be unable to understand what they themselves wrote or read. Therefore, an interpreter needs a source that is not in itself an interpretation but a candidate for interpretation.

In the following chapters, I will try to apply the criteria that I have presented here to a value-neutral analysis of the dialogue and related is-sues. I am fully aware, however, that I did not really succeed in offering a definitive method of interpretation. Rather, I have only hinted at something like that. I have especially tried to create an adequate inter-pretative atmosphere for reaching the Protagoras, an atmosphere of un-derstanding, of questioning in face of misunderstanding, of constructing new grounds, deconstructing old ones, and reconstructing meanings.

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Notes 1. Charles Taylor, Philosophy and the Human Sciences, Philosophical

Papers 2 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1985), II, 16. 2. Nelson Goodman goes so far in his assertion as to say that philosophy

is world-making. See Ways of Worldmaking (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 1985), 22. The world “is as many ways as it can be truly described,” Languages of Art (New York: Bobs-Merrill, 1968), 6.

3. Those who, like Wilhelm Dilthey and Max Weber, make a distinction between interpreting and understanding as a distinction between natural and human sciences respectively, or as a distinction between explanation in human sciences (understanding or Verstehen) and explanation in natural sciences (in-terpretation or causal explanation) are turning to a somehow artificial distinc-tion, as if natural sciences were not themselves human sciences! However, a critical analysis of these theses is far beyond my task in this book.

4. Brice R. Wachterhauser, ed., Hermeneutics and Truth (Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 1994), 1.

5. Rosemary Desjardins adopts the same point of view regarding the analysis of Plato’s dialogues. She asserts that, like for Hans-Georg Gadamer, understanding means for Plato interpretation. She goes so far as to assert that Plato had in mind the same task that Gadamer had in trying to resolve the con-flict between dogmatic absolutism and critical relativism. See “Why Dialogues? Plato’s Serious Play,” in Platonic Writings, Platonic Readings, Charles Gris-wold Jr., ed., (New York: Routledge, 1988), 111, 125. Gadamer contends that German Romanticism taught us that “understanding and interpretation are the same thing” (“Verstehen und Auslegen letzten Endes ein und dasselbe sind”), and that “every understanding is an interpretation” (“Alles Verstehen ist Auslegen,”) Wahrheit und Methode: Grudzüge einer philosophischen Herme-neutik (Tübingen: J. C. R. Mohr, 1965), 366.

6. Indeed, Rorty, based on his interpretation of Gadamer, Sartre and Hei-degger, understands knowledge directly as self-knowledge. See Richard Rorty, Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), 360.

7. About Gadamer, See Stueber: “Gadamer’s own position concerning the question of the relativism of truth is far from clear. On the one hand, he stresses the dependence of understanding on the particular historical perspective of the interpreter and maintains that we are not justified in speaking of understanding better but only of understanding differently, since all understanding depends on the contingent prejudices of a particular time. On the other hand, he insists that this dependence on a historical situation does not exclude the correctness of un-derstanding. But when he addresses the problem of relativism directly and con-siders the question of how his position avoids the inconsistency of a relativistic position, he seems to deny the validity of any formal argument which reveals the inconsistency of relativism.” Karsten R. Stueber, “Understanding, Truth and Objectivity: A Dialogue between Donald Davidson and Hans-Georg Gadamer,” in Hermeneutics and Truth, Wachterhauser, 184.

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8. Charles Taylor, Philosophy and the Human Sciences, 26. 9. Richard Rorty, Objectivity, Relativism and Truth (Cambridge: Cam-

bridge University Press, 1991), 96. 10. Rorty, Objectivity, Relativism and Truth, 88. 11. Goodman, The Languages of Arts, 7. 12. Goodman, Ways of Worldmaking, 22. 13. Donald Davidson, Inquiries into Truth and Interpretation (Oxford:

Oxford University Press, 1984), 125 14. What Rorty calls an “enduring substrate,” I call, simply, “original

meaning.” 15. The same is said about “lumps,” something I omitted for the sake of

brevity. See Rorty, Objectivity, Relativism and Truth, 88-9. 16. See my “The Use of Error as an Argument in the Language of Human

Sciences,” Semiotica, 120 1/2 (1998): 139-59. 17. For a discussion of the principle of charity applied to Plato, see Marc

Cohen and David Keyt, “Analysing Plato’s Arguments: Plato and Platonisms,” in OSAP, Supplementary Volume, Julia Annas, ed., (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 173-200.

18. As an exception to the rule, Morrison asserts that irony is not a consti-tutive part of Socratic philosophy. See Donald R. Morrison, “On Professor Vlastos’ Xenophon,” Ancient Philosophy 7 (1987): 122-4.

19. Gregory Vlastos, Socrates: Ironist and Moral Philosopher (Cambridge [England]: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 31-4; Vlastos, “Socrates Irony,” in Essays on the Philosophy of Socrates, Hugh Benson, ed., (Oxford University Press, 1992), 71.

20. Vlastos, “Socratic Irony,” 71. 21. See LEP, 9.51. 22. See Ellen Winner, and Howard Gardner, “Metaphor and Irony,” in

Metaphor and Thought, Andrew Ortony, ed., (Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-sity Press, 1993), 428-9.

23. Rorty, Objectivity, Relativism and Truth, 105. 24. Hans-George Gadamer, “Logos and Ergon in Plato’s Lysis,” in Dia-

logue and Dialectic: Eight Hermeneutical Studies on Plato (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1980), 13-4.

25. Gadamer, “Logos and Ergon in Plato’s Lysis,” 15. 26. Another example of such identification is that of Justin C. B. Gosling,

who has objections against some of Plato’s ideas. See Justin Cyril Bertrand Gosling, Plato (London: Routledge Kegan Paul, 1973), 97ss.

27. Wachthauser, Hermeneutics and Truth, 42. 28. I accept Kerferd’s translation, since it makes sense against the objection

that Protagoras incurs in redundancy. So translated, it becomes clear that the dictum refers to an epistemological context, without bestowing to things any ontological status. See George B. Kerferd, The Sophistic Movement (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 85.

29. See Prt. 348e.

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30. See Michael Nill, Morality and Self-Interest in Protagoras Antiphon and Democritus (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1985), 4.

31. I agree with Ferdinand C. S. Schiller’s Plato or Protagoras (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1908). Also Burnet has this opinion, indicating that Plato’s caricature of the sophist in the Protagoras is not made in his presence. See John Burnet, Greek Philosophy, Thales to Plato (London: Macmillan, 1943), 112. About the Theaetetus he contends that it is true that Plato “does caricature his [Protagoras’] teaching, but he immediately confesses that it is a caricature, and goes on to give a much more sympathetic account of it.” Burnet, Greek Philoso-phy, 113. Against my interpretation, see Joseph P. Maguire, “Protagoras or Plato?” Phronesis 18 (1973): 15-38; also “The Protagoras,” Phronesis 22 (1977): 103-22. Regarding specifically the Protagoras, it is interesting enough that Heinrich Gomperz asserts that it is a faithful report (GT I, 458), whereas Gagarin asserts that it is flattering. See Michael Gagarin, “The Purpose of Plato’s Protagoras,” TAPA 100 (1969): 133-64. Obviously however, Plato’s fairness does not imply that he fully understands Protagoras’ philosophy.

32. Thomas A. Sinclair, A History of Greek Political Thought (London: Routledge Kegan Paul, 1959), 44.

Part II

Plato’s and Protagoras’ General Assumptions

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Chapter 2

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Exoteric and Esoteric Content and the Justification for Manipulative Thinking

The Esoteric Meaning of Rhetoric

Let me start by going directly to the issue itself. An unavoidable question arises just at the beginning of a commentary to the Protagoras. What is the subject matter of the Protagoras? Though the explicit issue of the dialogue is whether virtue is teachable, its very core is unclear. In Plato’s other dialogues, we do not have this problem; we generally know what kind of issue is under discussion. Not here. At first glance, it is a disor-dered dialogue. Apparently, there is no single issue under discussion, or a great many. If either case is true, then we are not dealing with a philoso-phical piece, but merely with an account of a historical event, a loose transcription of a real meeting during Protagoras’ second visit to Athens. Indeed, an account of an event does not have to have a specific philoso-phical subject matter. Its interest may be entirely memorial.

Such an interpretation is unacceptable for several reasons, including methodological ones. If we accept the historical approach, namely, that we have nothing here but mere reportage, I suspect that such an explana-tion would only be the result of our inability to propose a rational, meaningful, philosophical answer to the questions that the dialogue con-fronts us with. If we take it as being merely a historical account, we have lost our criterion for determining the difference between philosophical misunderstanding and this kind of interpretation of the dialogue. Indeed, does not this historical approach rid us of troublesome philosophical problems all too easily? If we accept the assumption that the dialogue is merely an account of an event, we are in effect proposing that, from a

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philosophical perspective, there is nothing here that requires explanation. This kind of attitude may be a facile way of avoiding the rigors of true understanding. Let us then make an effort to compose a philosophical response instead of giving up before we begin.

Asking these general questions expresses our disconformity with the understanding that by necessity precedes its interpretation. From the point of view of its content, the dialogue seems circuitous and elusive, to amount to nothing more than a simple response to the question of whether it is possible to teach virtue. Its complexity leads us to set aside, at least momentarily, its explicit content. I will look first at the way the dialogue is written in hopes of uncovering some clue that will point us to the pattern behind the puzzle.

Formally speaking, the text is presented to us as Socrates’ description of a dialogue that has recently taken place in the house of Callias, at the behest of Hippocrates son of Apollodorus and brother of Fasson. Socra-tes’ auditor is an anonymous friend. Thus, the Protagoras is a dialogue about a dialogue. It is noteworthy that the dialogue itself has not taken place days or even hours before the description. Rather, Socrates goes straight over to his friend’s house as soon as the dialogue is over. Two strange circumstances: Socrates ignored a meeting with his lover Alci-biades in order to engage in the dialogue; though the philosopher, at the end of the dialogue with Protagoras, pleaded that he had an “urgent ap-pointment,” we, his readers, know that he had no such appointment. He only wished to go over to his friend’s house to tell him how his encoun-ter with Protagoras had gone. His preference for Protagoras instead of Alcibiades ends in a preference for sustaining a monologic discourse to an anonymous friend in preference to continuing a dialogue with Pro-tagoras. I detect, in all these manifestations of Plato’s style, some taste for trickery.

Socrates desired the meeting with Protagoras more than he desired the presence of Alcibiades. In fact, as in the Symposium, Alcibiades arrives at Callias’ house in pursuit of Socrates, but Socrates’ entire attention is focused on Protagoras—focused on the love for wisdom rather than on physical love for the young Alcibiades.1

Alongside with his trickery, the two strange circumstances (that no appointment was on Socrates’ agenda and that he ignored Alcibiades) imply another meaning. They indicate that Socrates was very interested indeed in carrying on a philosophical dialogue with Protagoras. The name of Alcibiades is introduced, along with praise for the youth’s male beauty, in order to emphasize Socrates’ preference for philosophy over physical love. Plato was virtuous in describing two opposite meanings in

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the same narration, one mundane—the other celestial. The first is a refer-ence to the world of appearances, the last—to the realm of reality.

Socrates’ explicit interest in meeting Protagoras strongly contrasts with the fact that Plato presents the dialogue in a narrated style, as an ac-count of a very recent event. This structure is undeniably important, whether or not we can explain what it means. Some other dialogues also have the form of a report, but that does not explain why the Protagoras itself has it.2 Moreover, we can better understand the Protagoras in its idiosyncrasy just by comparing it with dialogues that Plato wrote in straight dramatic style. I mean, we can better understand the Protagoras by comparing it to dialogues that follow a different strategy.

Now, the question is why Socrates relates something that just hap-pened instead of relating the events directly, without bringing an extra auditor, one who was not present at the original discussion. It seems that Socrates wants to experience the event twice, that he wants to live his life twice, without any interval.

To a certain extent, we all attempt—with no chance of success—to live twice: first as experience, then as reminiscence, which is a kind of substitute for the original experience. However, this second reported ex-perience requires a temporal distance between the original and its reca-pitulation. In this case, no such interval exists. Why does Plato choose to present things in this way?

A textual evidence for Plato’s intention (even if we do not know yet in what it consists of), is that Socrates sustains the actual dialogue with “a friend,” namely, with no specific person. Unlike other dialogues, it matters little who listens: Here we have a friend without a name (what a friend!), the presence of an absence. We, the readers, become anonymous friends of Socrates as well.

The literary technique of having a character tells his own story is sometimes called “framing.” In our search for the meaning of Plato’s framing device, let us begin by asking about its alternative. What kind of dialogue would it be without this first-person narrator? What would re-main outside the dialogue? The answer is obvious: Socrates’ innermost thoughts, those which he is not ready to share with Protagoras and with the rest of those present at Callias’ house. Nevertheless, he is ready to share these thoughts with those who are absent—the readers. There are two kinds of audiences, two kinds of auditors, each one knowing some-thing different from the other. The way Plato wrote the dialogue indi-cates that there are two different discourses. Socrates’ narration is not just a repetition of the events but the addition of something new, at least for the second audience, for us, as his readers.

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We the readers are the absent audience for matters not shared with the original audience present at Callias’ house. What Socrates hid from them, he reveals to us. He wants to show us just what he intentionally concealed from Protagoras. In dialogues that were written in a direct way (like the Meno) he conceals his intimate thoughts and intentions from us. At the very least, the Protagoras exhibits a Socrates who knows per-fectly well how to conduct a dialogue without revealing his true inten-tions. The Protagoras is indeed an insincere and a manipulative dia-logue. But it manipulates the crowd at Callias’ house, not the minds of its readers. From this standpoint, we can define it as the most genuine and sincerely argued of all Plato’s Socratic dialogues.

The next question is obvious. Why does Socrates expose his manipu-lations and intentions to us? No doubt to turn our attention to the hidden side of his explicit discourse, in order to help us grasp the real meaning of his exoteric discourse. For us, the readers, his exoteric discourse is just the manifest part of the esoteric meaning of sophistry. It is Protagoras, not Socrates, who makes a distinction between an exoteric and an eso-teric content. Socrates only shows us that he is better prepared than Pro-tagoras to do this.

In this regard, let me indicate that Plato’s dialogues do not reveal something for the purpose of hiding something else. Plato’s dialogues do not carry double intentions. It is only manipulative dialogues, only the rhetoric of persuasion, that has this character. In a manipulative dis-course, one does not reveal one’s thoughts and one does not believe what one says. Sophist rhetoricians specialized in using words as a means of persuasion or dissuasion. The sophists regarded speech as a technique, as a means to achieve something other than mere communication. In rheto-ric, communication becomes a means to achieve something else. The sophists realized that words are capable of hiding real intentions. From the formal standpoint, what is chiefly being hidden is precisely the use of language as an instrument. When a speech is instrumental, when it is a means, it must not reveal itself as such to the auditor. To be effective, and as a mark of its success, rhetorical manipulation must pass itself off as simple, ordinary communication. This is an issue put under theoretical analysis and applied in practical life by the sophists.3

The issue is analyzed in the Gorgias, in which Socrates attempts to make Gorgias say what he cannot say. Indeed, to remain coherent in his defense of rhetoric, Gorgias would need to assert that it is a technique of persuasion and, as such, does not bear directly on the subject matter un-der discussion but aims at swaying the others’ mind. Gorgias is unable to assert this, since he cannot reveal the manipulative character of language without sacrificing its power to persuade and convince. For this reason,

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Plato puts this confession in the mouth of Polus, who clearly explains the contradiction implied in the rhetorical discourse:

Polus: And do even you, Socrates, seriously believe what you are now saying about rhetoric? What! because Gorgias was ashamed to deny that the rhetorician knew the just and the honourable and the good, and admitted that to any one who came to him ignorant of them he could teach them, and then out of this admission there arose a contradiction—the thing which you dearly love, and to which not he, but you, brought the argument by your captious questions—[do you seriously believe that there is any truth in all this?] For will any one ever acknowledge that he does not know, or cannot teach, the nature of justice? The truth is, that there is great want of manners in bringing the argument to such a pass (Grg. 461b-c).

Indeed, at that point in the dialogue, Gorgias would need to defend the legitimacy of rhetoric, to assert that it is a technique of persuasion, but such a confession would annihilate its effectiveness, it very function as rhetoric. Polus recognizes that Gorgias cannot assert that rhetoric has nothing to do with justice. By confessing that it is only a technique, rhetoric runs against the very capacity of persuasion. Persuasion cannot be effective unless it borrows its legitimacy from some other value—in this case, justice. The explicit values defended in a rhetorical discourse, however, are not ends but means. Though rhetoric may invoke the name of justice, or any other relevant value, it may do so in the service of any value or goal whatsoever, even one that is inimical to the professed value.

This is at least the way Plato understands sophist intentions in gen-eral, not only that of Gorgias, but also of Protagoras in particular. Once the point is established, Plato tries to show that he is more sophist than the sophists themselves, more rhetorician than the rhetoricians. The Protagoras is a sophistic-competitive dialogue rather than a Socratic-cooperative one, as Malcolm Schofield perceptively points out.4 Socrates generally tends to imitate his partners, but in order to become their ideal image, in order to draw out their ultimate conclusions and then to refute them by showing, as much as possible, that their claims do not stand up to scrutiny. Or to show, and this amounts to the same thing, that their claims are valid insofar as they become themselves Socratic.5 In the Protagoras, his method is to show us the insincerity of Protagoras by showing us, the readers, the insincerity of his own attitude. Since Plato (Socrates?) is technically unable to reveal Protagoras’ hidden intentions, he shows in himself what he wants us to see in the sophist. Plato reveals

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the technique of sophistic speech by exposing for the reader his own use of this very technique. All this besides and beyond the discussion of vir-tue that is being carried on.

The narrated dialogue, in which the central conversation is reported in indirect discourse, allows Socrates to sustain a double dialogue: He dia-logues publicly with Protagoras and intimately with himself and the reader. There are two partners: on one side Protagoras and all those pre-sent in Callias’ house, and on the other Plato and ourselves, the readers. In the direct dialogue method, this duality could simply not be expressed. For this task, he needs a friend, an anonymous listener—anonymous be-cause it is not relevant who he is or what he thinks. Through the device of this listener, he hopes to succeed in reporting not only what Protagoras says, but also what he himself (Socrates) thinks about Protagoras, with-out having to share his thoughts with him. And not only what he thinks about Protagoras, but—this is the crucial point—to reveal his hidden in-tentions to the readers, and furthermore, to raise the possibility that the sophists are also concealing their intentions. Plato obliges Protagoras to say just the opposite, namely, that he has nothing to hide. Protagoras says that unlike former “sophists” he openly admits that he is one of them and, therefore, the best of them (see Prt. 317c-d).

Socrates, after this declaration of sincerity, makes a remark that re-veals the “real” intention of Protagoras: “Now I had a suspicion that he wanted to show off to Prodicus and Hippias, and parade the fact that the new arrivals were admirers of his. So I said: ‘Well then, why don’t we call Prodicus and Hippias and their companions? They can listen in on our conversation as well.’” (Prt. 317c).

Now it is clear that Protagoras only wants to show his rhetorical ca-pabilities. This sort of remark would not be possible in a direct dialogue. And in general, Plato uses the narrated dialogue to say what is not said and what cannot be said at an exoteric, direct level.6

Socrates, then, shows himself to be sophistic so that the reader grasps him as insincere in his approach to Protagoras. Plato intends this effect. Thus, the formal analysis of the dialogue reveals its first non-explicit subject matter—the hidden discourse and the double intention. The first subject matter is insincerity, about which Plato is an expert.

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The Assumptions of the Philosophy of Double Intentions and the Hidden Discourse

Despite the fact that the Socratic Plato is strongly anti-sophist, in a certain light we must regard him not as an anti-sophist but as more sophist than the sophists, at least in the Protagoras.

In the Protagoras, we shall encounter Plato’s understanding of the sophists not in his exoteric discussion with Protagoras, but in his hidden discourse, the one he shares with the reader. I emphasize that out of Plato’s approach, we may not conclude what the sophists are, or what the sophists predicate, but only what he thinks of them. Here we have a case of Socratic imitation: He imitates those who he wants us to believe are imitators, but in order to reveal the ideal image of sophistic trickery.7 Under this method, the sophists may appear to be a pale resemblance of the ideal. Plato criticizes them in their own field and with their own weapons. He uses their kind of argumentation, especially here in the Protagoras and in the Sophist and the Gorgias. Plato imitates those who he believes are imitators of appearances (see Soph. 268a). However, though he imitates them, he does not imitate the real sophists, but rather his own purposefully exaggerated replica of them. As a result, we learn much more about the imitator than we do about the originators. Now if we remain alert to what Plato is doing, we may be able to reconstruct the philosophy of Protagoras and the other sophists. But sophist philosophy is mediated by Plato’s eyes, so we need to elaborate Plato’s approach. He holds a preconceived opinion of the sophists; they strike him as being insincere. But the presumed insincerity of the sophists is not proven. What appears instead in the dialogue is an expression of Platonic insin-cerity alone.

Let us see what this Platonic insincerity may offer us. As hinted in the dialogue, Plato has certain positive valuation for the intentional lie.8 As I will try to show later, it is highly improbable that the historical Pro-tagoras would have agreed with Plato on this point. I will first analyze, however, the Platonic intentional lie. Let us see what Plato attributes to his opponent, taking his opinion as an expression of his own convictions.

The analysis of Plato’s approach to falsehood will set us on the path to a better understanding of his approach to knowledge in general and his famous assertion that virtue is knowledge in particular.

What does it mean to be an expert in lying? I have to digress from Plato for a moment to clarify this point.

To be an expert means, obviously, to possess a deep knowledge of one’s field of expertise. Not every liar is an expert in lying. There are at

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least two kinds of lies, or rather two ways of lying. We may distinguish between (a) the expert lie, uttered for professional reasons, or as means to an end and (b) the spontaneous and frank lie. The expert deceit and lie consists of the use of language as a means for an end, whereas the spon-taneous lie is the lie for itself, the pathological lie for instance, which lacks any conscious end, or might be uttered out of fear of telling the truth, which, though conscious, is not premeditated, and is not the same thing as a professional lie. For the sake of the analysis, let me call the intentional lie a “technical lie” and the non-intentional one a “spontane-ous lie.”

Let me begin with the technical lie. Whoever makes use of the techni-cal lie knows what he’s lying about. That is, he knows the truth. Thus, Plato asserts that the intentional liar is better, even morally better, than the unintentional liar is. The intentional kind of liar is superior because he knows the truth and possesses knowledge. The issue is under explicit analysis in the Hippias Minor. There, Socrates debates Hippias’ argu-ment that Achilles is better than Odysseus, for Achilles is sincere and utters the truth, whereas Odysseus is cunning and deceitful.

The “technical liar,” according to Socrates, is one who possesses something that others do not possess. The technical liar has an advantage over the rest of the humans. He has certain astuteness; he is intelligent or has knowledge. He lies “in virtue of a perfidious intelligence” (Hip. Min. 365e). Being intelligent, the technical liars know what they are doing and what they are saying.

Thus, it is not true what Hippias asserts—that liars are different from truth-tellers. Moreover, the liar is not an ignoramus. The ignoramus is unable to deceive and lie. Socrates refers to Hippias himself as an exam-ple. As an expert mathematician, he is also the person who can do the best job of lying if he decides to lie in such issues. The ignoramus, on the contrary, cannot be a good liar. He might inadvertently err and tell the truth. The knowledgeable liar, by contrast, can keep his lies consistent.

Thus, those who tell the truth are no better than those who lie, since both are one and the same (Hip. Min. 365-368). Whoever knows the truth has the ability to hide it. Ignorant people do not possess this ability. This is the reason that one can lie only to others, and not to oneself, since the mind cannot conceal from itself the truth it knows. There is no place for self-deception. No one can ignore what he knows. If Plato defends the thesis that virtue is knowledge—as he does in the Protagoras and in other places—then he is asserting, implicitly, that the liar is also a virtu-ous person due to his knowledge.

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Socrates’ argument is difficult to acknowledge, let alone accept. In fact, it seems a mere game of words. What plausible meaning we may attach to this idea is yet to be seen.9

For the sake of comparison, let me state that Plato’s approach to falsehood is diametrically opposed to that of Aristotle, who conforms better to Protagoras’ opinion. Aristotle indeed contends that those who deceive and lie purposefully, as a means for an end, are less good (in fact have an uglier character) than those who lie for its own sake or even for mere reputation. Unlike Plato, Aristotle distinguishes between those who lie in the sense of poesis (goal-oriented thinking, namely as a means for an end), and those who lie in the sense of praxis (for its own sake). Plato’s morality is goal-oriented; it is a kind of poesis, whereas for Aris-totle’s morality is a kind of praxis. As Plato says explicitly, he prefers Prometheus to the other gods, while Aristotle’s morality fits better with Zeus, and so does Protagoras’ morality, as we will see later. Morality for Aristotle, as for Protagoras, is not a question of technical skill. It is not and cannot be a means for something else. Plato is thoroughly goal-oriented, and even recognizes the advantage, in the Laws and the Repub-lic, of the useful lie.10

Plato violates common sense, which opposes liars to those who tell the truth. Plato opposes the wise (any of whom can be liars) to the igno-rant (who are incapable of successful lying). Let me leave open the question of whether Protagoras lies purposefully, or out of ignorance, or does not lie at all. For the moment, I am only examining the assumptions of Plato’s philosophy.

It is certain that the intentional liar cannot deceive himself or lie to himself. Plato, however, takes a step further, pushing his analysis of the liar to its extreme logical conclusions. Indeed, he even comes close to asserting that are no liars, or at least has serious doubts about the liar’s existence. The question for an interpretative effort is, then, how to recon-cile these two theses, namely, that only the wise person lies, and that liars do not exist. At first glance, we can see no possible reconciliation; one of these two notions has to make way for the other one, or so it appears. In fact, to clarify this issue we need first to delve into the deepest presuppo-sitions of Plato’s philosophy. It is only then that we will be able to offer a reconciliatory explanation of this apparent contradiction—that the wise person lies purposefully in defense of the truth. The wise person turns, therefore, to a useful lie. His motivation is nothing other than the truth.

Notes

1. Actually persecuted by Alcibiades’ love, Socrates sustains that love is a

46 Chapter 2

persecution. In his role as persecuted, he sets up the philosophy of the persecutor (see Sym. 212d-223d).

2. Written as a report are also Charm ides, Lysis. £lIIhydemlls, Symposilllll. The Republic. and Parn/enides.

3. About "h idden meaning" and its revelat ion, see Tht , 1 52c8-1O, ISSd9-el. See Rosemary Desjardins, " Why Dialogues? Plato 's Serious Play," in Char les Griswold Jr. , ed., Platonic Writings. Platonic Readings (N ew York: Routledge, 1988), 11 3.

4. See Malco lm Schofie ld , "Socrates versus Protagoras," in Socralic Questions: New Essays on the Philosophy of Socrates and I fS Significance. Barry S. Gower and Michael C. Stokes, cds. (London: Routledge, 1992), 122 fr. Grube contends thai Socrates behaves as an "outsoph isticated sophists." George M. A. Grube, "The Structural Unity of the Protagoras," CQ 27 ( 1933): 302. Even if Ihis is the case, this is not yet a reason for asserting thaI Plalo's theoreti­cal proposals in the dialogue are but mere irony. Plato's method is mimetic in­deed, but does become an ideal image by means of which his opponents' meth­ods are being refuted.

S. This is the real meaning, in my opinion, of the Socratic irony. If th is is the case, his irony does not clash with his philosophical content ions.

6. Following are all the cases in the dialogue, except the one [ quoted, where we can read what cannot be said in the third person's style: (1) [Hippo· crates]: "as soon as I had slept offmy fatigue, I gOI s traight up and was on my way here, as you see." [Soc.]: "Knowing how bold and volatile he is .. . " And, instead of telling to the volatile Hippocrates this opinion about him, he asserts. [Soc.]: "But what has th is got to do with you? You don't have some charge 10 bring against Prolagoras, do youT (Pr/. 310d) . (2) [Soc]. " to put Hippocrates to the test I gave him a searching look and said" (Prl. 31 1b). (Following, Socrates puts quest ion s to Hippocrates without telling him that he is actually testi ng him). (3) [Soc}: " And then, with a blush- for it was just growing light enough for me to see him clearly- he said" (Prl. 312a). (Socrates d id not share with Hippo­crates his acknowledgment of his blush). (4) [Soc]: "50 Protagoras concluded thi s lengthy exh ibition of his sk ill as a speaker" (Prt. 328d, Taylor trans.). Hub­bard-Kamofsky's translation ("Such was Protagoras' demonstration which he now brought to an end") misses the point, nalJlely, tha! Socrates_is say in g. somet...hing ,he ca!,lno~ say pu~licly (new Tayop,?S" },(V, TO<7a\JTa I(a . TO.CI\JTa ("TT.SnSaj-l(vo<) CI"!T("TTa\J<7aTO T O\J AOYO\J ). (5)"[t was ob­vious that Protagoras was riled and spoiling for a fight , setting out his answers in batt le array. Realizing this, I con tinued with more caution and asked gen tly" (Prl. 333e). (6) [Soc] : "With these words I rose as if to go away" (Prl. 335d, Lamb's trans.). Or W. R. M. Lamb's translation: " I was now standing up as tho1lgh 10 go out." Other translations miss the man ipulative character of Socrates words. See Hubbard-Kamofsky: '"With t!~ese w~rqs I got ul? to I~ave/' an9 ... so the mean ing of the first person ' s style ('lo'l O€ a1JH<7T'l"'l WS" .:!i.W1J ) . (7) [SocJ: ''' Personally, [ do.' I said (though at the same time [ was afraid he might be right). "Don't you?" (Pr!. 339c , Taylor trans .) (I(CI: ~j-lCl j-l:1JTO.

£wteric and £wteric Content 47

~ • 0 ~ 0"; I-' '1 v ~ '1 H )" ~ y 0 ~). Here, clearly Socrates is imitating the man ipu· lative philosophizing of the sophists (as he understands them, obv iously). (8) [Soc]: "Then-and to be perfectly candid with you, I was trying to gain time 10 think oul what the poet d id mean- J lumed and called on Prodicus" CPr!. 33ge, Hubbard·Kamofsky's trans.). In what fol lows, there is no hint that he really thought such thoughts. (9) "Prolagoras seemed 10 me to be slung by this, be· cause at these words of A1cibiades, and with Callias and most of the others adding their pleas, he reluctantly agreed to take up the discussion and told me that I could ask the questions while he answered" (Prl. 348c). It is surprising that Stewart misperceived thc disparity between Socrales' e.'(oteric words and his idea about Protagoras' speech, believing that Plato is really praising Pro­tagoras.

7. See Aryeh Kosman, "Silence and Imitation in the Platonic Dialogues," in OSAP. Julia Annas, ed., (1992), 9l.

8. For a same interpretation of deceive in Plato, see Paul Friedlander, Plaro 2 The Dialogues. First Period (New York: Bollingen Foundation, Pan· theon Books, 1964), 145; and Michael O'Brien, The Socratic Paradoxes and (he Greek "'"ind (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 1967), 102ss.

9. Vlastos, in order to avoid to interpret Plato as an extreme intellectualist, takes "virtue is knowledge" as meaning that knowledge is ;'the necessary and the sufficient condition of virtuous action" (Gregory Vlastos, Plmo's Pro/agoras ( Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1965), xxxviii n. 47. See Michae l O' Brien , The Socratic Paradoxes. 137. And Vlastos adds: "anyone who knows what is the best course of action open to him in any given situation cannot fail to fol1ow it" (Vlastos, Protagoras, xxxviii n. 47). This expression, due to its vagueness, more than clarifYing Plato's intention, obscures it and, just for this very reason, makes it more plausible for common sense. See also my critique to Robert Nozick in Appendix B § 5.

10. See Aristotle: He who claims more than he has with no ulterior object is a contemptible sort of fellow (otherwise he would not delight in falsehood). but seems futile rather than bad; but ifhe docs it for an object. he who does il (lies) for the sake of reputation or honor is (for a boa,,; ler·bOa<iI, vain) nO! very much to be blamed, but he who does it for money, or the things that lead to money. is an uglier character (it is not the capacity that makes the boaster. but the choice; for it is in vit1ue of his state and by being a man of a ('eMain kind that he is a bO:lster): as one man is a liar be· cause he enjoys the lie itself. and another because he desires reputation or gain. Now those who boast (boastful ) for the sake of repUiation claim such qualities as win praise or congratulation. but those whose object is gain claim qualities which arc of value to onc's neighbors and one's lack of which is not easily detected. e.g. the powers of a secr, a sage, or a physician. For this reason it is such things as these that most people claim and boast about; for in them the above-mentioned qualities arc found VNc. Ell!. 1127bIO-1127b22).

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Concerning Plato’s Epistemological Presuppositions in General and Lying in Particular

Socrates . . . this despotic logician (Nietzsche, Birth of Tragedy, Section XIV)

I believe that Plato’s opinion about lying is based, ultimately, on two as-sumptions: (1) Knowledge should be the only reason, cause, and/or mo-tive of human thinking and action. I mean, it is the only reason for hu-man values, namely, for the stands people take and the standards by which they valuate deeds and thoughts. (2) Plato rejects the idea of self-knowledge. Self-knowledge, that is, the knowledge of knowledge itself, adds nothing new to the knowledge one already possesses, so that self-knowledge is nothing more than mere knowledge.

To begin with, a paradox emerges: It is true that the most skillful cal-culator is the one who is best able to make a false calculation. Therefore, the wise person lies more successfully than the ignorant person, but only concerning those matters about which he is lying.1

On these grounds, the question arises, who is morally better, the one who utters a technical lie, or the one who utters the “ignorant” lie? Only the wise person lies, not the ignorant person. When the ignorant person commits what is called lying, he believes he is telling the truth. He has simply mistaken the false for the true. Therefore, the ignorant person is unable to lie. For this reason, there is no such thing as a spontaneous lie, but only a technical lie or at least a conscious lie. We cannot attribute to Plato the idea that the ignorant person is morally better than the wise per-son, for this notion runs counter to the core of all of Plato’s philosophy. Moreover, to remain consistent, he needs to praise the wise liar. The liar

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is virtuous since he has knowledge and, as we must not forget, virtue is knowledge and only knowledge.

Plato’s logic, followed strictly, leads him to assert that Odysseus is better than Achilles, since Odysseus lies purposefully, consciously. Whoever has the power to do evil purposefully is better than whoever does it unintentionally.2 This fits with Plato’s philosophical assumptions about knowledge and, therefore, there is no need to explain his state-ments any further, or to dismiss them as mere ironies. Accordingly, in the Hippias Minor, Socrates asks: Who is the better runner the one who runs slowly on purpose, or the one who runs slowly only because he can-not run faster? The answer is obvious: in a race, whoever does worse purposefully is the better racer. This is the case in any other order of things. The person who lies intentionally is better than the person who lies unintentionally. Because the wise soul, the one which possesses knowledge, is the best one. Generalizing from that assumption, we must conclude that the soul who is most able to tell the truth is also the most able to lie. The conclusion is, that whoever does evil and lies intention-ally, is good, “if there is such a person at all” (Hip. Min. 376).

Now the pending question is whether the virtuous person does or does not lie. True, at the end of the Hippias Minor, Plato seems to assert that “the art of virtue is unique in that no one who has it breaks its rules in-tentionally.”3 Now the question is whether or not lying means breaking the rules of virtue. One interpretation asserts that lying is compatible with virtue. Regarding the alternative interpretation, let me argue as fol-lows: Though Plato asserts that no one breaks the rules of virtue inten-tionally, he does not offer any argument about why this should be true of just this art and not of the others.4

At this point, Platonic logic enters a cul-de-sac. Plato must assert that the person who lies willingly is better. However, he is unable to express this opinion openly. He only asserts that the virtuous person does not lie willingly, and that the true science excludes the possibility of doing evil. However, this assertion remains dogmatic; it is not supported by any ar-gument.5

What can a consistent Plato assert? The question is, against which at-titude does he lack an argument. His logic leads him to defend the thesis that the end justifies the means. Means are just, good, honorable, and virtuous insofar as they lead to a just, good, honorable, and virtuous end. The evil is justified if it is put into the service of the good. Injustice may be recommendable if it is put at the service of justice. Nothing prevents Plato from writing and distributing an insincere dialogue as a means to his goal—which is to spread truth. Therefore, what he criticizes in the sophists happens to constitute the marrow of his own philosophy. It is

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difficult to show that this is also the marrow of Protagoras’ philosophy, though it may be the core of a sophistry like that of Gorgias. Rhetoric, I mean, the instrumental use of the discourse, is a technique that Socrates shares with a figure like Gorgias, though not with Protagoras. Protagoras is not a rhetorician but an educator, even a moralist. As such, he cannot accept these Platonic conclusions.

Let me follow the path of the Platonic philosophy about the technical lie. Let me ask about its presuppositions. I shall begin with the Socratic Plato, and then turn to the mature Plato.

For the Socratic Plato, logical truths have no limits whatsoever. The person who lies willingly is better than the person who lies unintention-ally—this is a good example. Indeed, what leads him to accept this the-sis, which is so at odds with common opinion? Only one reason—a logi-cal reason. The extreme example of this attitude in the Protagoras, is when he asserts that fear is due to ignorance about what is frightening. Who can accept that this is the case in human affairs?

This example, however, comes not out of the presuppositions of his logic, but is only one of its consequences. Plato’s presuppositions are hinted in the odd and typical way he asks certain questions. In our dia-logue, before he concedes to Hippocrates’ request to be introduced to Protagoras to be accepted as a pupil, Socrates asks him if he knows who Protagoras is and what exactly he wants from him. To this question, that has the form of “who is x,” Hippocrates responds that Protagoras is a sophist. This answer satisfies Hippocrates at least partially, as it satisfies an unprepared reader. However, it is unsatisfactory for Socrates. For him, nothing yet has been said. To convince Hippocrates that nothing has been yet said, Socrates asks him what a sophist is. Hippocrates says that a sophist is “someone who has knowledge of wise things” (Prt. 312c). Still Socrates considers that nothing has been said; though, at least it is going in the right direction.

Socrates succeeds, by means of his questioning, in forcing Hippo-crates to abandon his original intention of defining the subject matter by means of itself and to try a new tactic—to define a subject by means of its object. A subject cannot be defined by itself—it lacks self-definition. That is, nothing can be said about it as a subject. To make his position clear, Socrates turns to examples drawn from common professions. Plato is a kind of technocratic philosopher. He draws all his examples from activities that are means for the achieving of ends; those are instances in which the end defines the means. On these grounds, Terence Irwin cor-rectly asserts that for Plato, “virtue is simply craft-knowledge.”6

Chapler J

The C raft Analogy a nd the Annulment of the Subject

Plato's intention emerges through his examples, which is called his "craft analogy": A painter is not a painter but a person whose goal is not to paint but to produce paintings. The goal of a constructor is to build houses, and not to build houses ; the goal of the physician is to cure ill bodies, the goal of the captain is to take the ship to the port, the art of a carpenter is "knowledge of the making of wooden objects" (Tht. 146a), the art of a shoemaker is "knowledge of the making of shoes" (Tht. 146d). Again and again, the means is in the service of the end, so that it is defined by the end. Knowledge is defined by putting into the "defini­tion that wh ich each of them is knowledge of' (Thl. 146e). Thus, the subject is, so to speak, in the service of the object; the object defines the subject.

The craft analogy is highly attractive for Plato because the craftsman, as Irwin contends, "can explain each step in production by its contribu­tion to the product. If the product is an artifact, each step will be justified by its contribut ion to an Object separate from any exercise of the craft.,,7

We can understand the craft analogy in the following way: just as the means are sacrificed for the sake of the final product, so the subject is sacrificed for the sake of the object. The subjec t is the means and th e object is the end, so that any question about the subject becomes a ques­lion about the object. This, howeve r, is the case only if there is st ill something to understand beyond the objec t. In fact, there is merely nothing; the subject is lLHerly reduced to the object. [n crafts, indeed, the means leave no traces in the final product. g

For this reason, th e answer that the sophist is "someone who has kn owledge of wise thing" (""I"O~TOY HVCU TO'Y Tr:V (7"otr:v

~TH(7" T ~""OVtl) is not an answer at all. Indeed, in this answer we are still focused on the subject. The expression "wise things" is still a way of de­fining the object by the subject, whereas the task is to define the subject by the object. In this case, to define the subject we have not yet what is essential-the object. So, in Plato the question for tbe subject becomes a question for the object. For this reason, Hippocrates' answer provokes yet a new quest ion:

"And our answer might possibly be true, too,'· I said, "but not suf­ficient. For the answer raises a further question as to what (Italics mine] the sophist makes a man clever at speaking about. For ex­ample, the Iyri st presumably makes people clever at speaking on the subject [object] about which he makes them knowledgeable" (Prl.312e) .

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The same attitude returns when, already in discussion with Pro­tagoras, the latter asserts that if Hippoc rates comes to learn with him, each day he will become better. To this answer. Plato appl ies hi s odd and typical question: "but towards what, Protagoras, and in relation to what?" (Pr(, 3ISd). To be clearer, Plato tums again to examples borrowed from specific professions, the teacher of painting and the teacher of lyre play­ing. Each of them will teach us to be better in something: not just better in some vague ly general sense. We will become better in the manage­ment ofa specific object, in ou r chosen specialty, and not, as is generally said in many orders of things, "better persons."

Plato believes there is no wisdom in and for itself. Wisdom is a being­for-other; it is knowledge of something else, of truth, namely, knowledge of the object. Stated briefly. there is no knowledge but tru th. Knowledge would be ditferent from truth if there were something in it that differed from the reference to the object>. This addendum, that is not part of the object, is precisely the reference itself that, as such, as reference, lies be­yond the object. It would be different if we would be able to make a dis­tinction between the object of the re ference, and the reference to the ob­jt:ct. Huwt:vt:r, since Plato denies that we can refer to the reference itself~there is no wisdom but (knowledge of) the object alone. Plato does not understand what wisdom would be if it were not knowledge.9

To ask for the know ledge of wisdom is to ask for the object of knowl· edge. The physician is a specialist in knowing sickness and health. To know is always to know something. Knowledge goes always beyond it­self; it is transitive; it always refers to an object and, at the same time, never goes beyond the object. Knowledge is always one with its object.

Just as in techne, then, the means is wanted for the sake of the end but the end is not wanted for the sake of the means, so the subject resolves itself in the object, but the object does not resolve itself in the subject. Th is is the kind of relation he assumes between knowledge and known- <.

thing. 11 is a relation with a direction. If what occupies the mind is the known-thing, the object, if the object is the content of consciousness, then there is nothing in the subject that is no! in the object. I mean, once the end is achieved, the means can be discarded. The subject is reduced to the object and the means are annulled by the end. Knowledge is re-duced to truth.

For Plato, truth is not an epistemic relation; it is not a relation of a subject with an object. 11 is only a manifestation of the object. This mani­festation. as manifestation, resolves itself in nothingness or is merely a limiting point. Plato is extrapolating his craft analogy to its furthest­reaching philosoph ical results. He takes it to its intellectual extremes. He finds in crafts the ideal he seeks: the annulment of the means. The ideal

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of technology is indeed the magic invocation that spares us a lot of hard work—we say “abracadabra” as the ideal means that brings to us the presence of the end.

For this reason, knowledge cannot be an object of itself. Indeed, since it is merely a relation to the object, it cannot be, in itself, an object. That is, there is no place for knowledge of wisdom, for knowledge of knowl-edge, or for science of science, but only science of the object of science, knowledge of the object of knowledge, and so forth. His approach is similar to the image of knowledge that Wittgenstein offers in his Trac-tatus Logico-Philosophicus or that Sartre sets forth in his Being and Nothingness.10 Outside of knowledge and ignorance, and the range of intermediate states, nothing exists.

This is the secret of Socrates’ characteristic and odd-shaped questions about how to define subjects—they are definable like the definition of professions, by their goal, content, or object. The unity of virtues is but the logic result of this basic way of thinking. Since virtues have the same referent, they cannot be different from one other.11

Let me turn to the analysis of some of his early dialogues, to see how consistent and coherent he is in this matter.

In the Charmides, Plato explicitly analyzes the issue of the reference to the subject, which is the problem of knowledge of knowledge. Socra-tes asks if knowledge and ignorance can be known (Chr. 167b11-c3). He criticizes the famous precept “Know thyself!” that, contrary to the inter-pretative tradition, cannot be recalled as expressing Socrates or Plato’s philosophy. Indeed, the case in point of self-knowledge is not knowledge of oneself, but knowledge of itself, as William Guthrie rightly puts it, though he understands the two as being the same.12 Socrates is hard put to understand what sort of knowledge this knowledge of knowledge could possibly be. He asserts that there is no place for something like a reflective knowledge—knowledge that refers or relates to itself. He then goes on to cite a number of examples to bring home the point. With his examples, Plato tries to show that in self-knowledge, we fall into either contradiction or paradox. His logic runs this way:

a. If we consider a reference (= knowledge) as referring solely to something else, as a pure relation, then self-referral becomes a contra-diction. By definition, reference is only reference to something else. Thus, we cannot know this reference independently of the object to which it refers, since its very definition depends on, and is circumscribed by, the object.

b. If we consider reference (= knowledge), in addition, as being also something in its own right, then self-referral is a paradox. Indeed, we can know something only insofar as it is, or refers to, an object. Thus, we

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cannot refer to a reference, for a reference without an object is unknow-able and even unthinkable.

Plato concludes that a relation cannot be known as such, as relation. To be known it must either be a thing, or be turned into a thing—into something that is not relation. This point is a clear implication of the ex-amples that Plato puts into Socrates’ mouth in the Charmides. Color can be seen but sight cannot, since sight has no color. To be seen, sight would have to possess a color; and this is impossible since it must fulfill two contradictory conditions: to be both sight and a seen object—to be simultaneously itself and beyond itself (or opposed to itself). The case of the eye is quite different, since the eye is something in itself and not a visual relation. It is a thing—it can be seen. Sight, on the other hand, is a plain and purely visual relation.13

The same may be said of desires. To desire means that one desires something. But to say that one desires the desire is to assume that the de-sire is something that exists by itself, apart from the desired object—a thing in itself which is also desirable. So, if we are to regard someone as being justified in claiming that he desires his desire, we must interpret him to mean that he desires the desired object, and not the desire itself. At least, this is the case according to Plato’s logic.

The cases that Plato regards to be contradictions are those that pro-pose a relation that he is unable to conceive of as being anything else—in other words, as being not relation but a thing. Such is the case of “dou-bleness,” which we must not confuse with something being two times something else. For something that is twice something can also be one-half something: it can be twice relative to x and half relative to y. “Dou-bleness,” however, cannot be “halfness,” and therefore cannot be twice itself.

But to return to the point: if knowledge were nothing more than epis-temic relation, it could not be known. It could only be known if it were also a thing, and only insofar as it is a thing, not a relation. So, there can be no knowledge of a cognitive relation.

What, then, does the notion of epistemic relation mean for Plato? Al-though it is clearly different from the thing to which it refers, one cannot ask what it is without referring, at the same time, to its object. If one nevertheless insists on asking this question, one is really asking about the object and not about knowledge of knowledge. This is why Plato, having for the sake of argument initially accepted knowledge of knowledge as a possibility, responds negatively to the question of whether knowing “what one knows and does not know” is useful (Chr. 169d). It should be remarked that Plato’s question is not about knowledge itself, but about the content of knowledge. The point at issue is what one knows; it is not

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about the possibility of knowing the process of knowledge as something different from the object that is ultimately to be known. Plato does not differentiate the process of knowledge from its end product, the known object.

Plato takes the process of knowledge to be identical with its result, with the known. Which indeed it is, if what we take into account is solely the content of knowledge, and only to the extent that we already know this content—that is, only when the process of knowledge has been con-cluded.14 According to Plato, there cannot be something in knowledge other than that which is known. There can be no modes of knowledge, except insofar as they reflect the modes of being of the object. Therefore, knowledge of knowledge refers to the process of knowledge only insofar as the process is finished—at which point it contains only the object.

If, contrary to Plato’s approach, we were ready to take into account the process of knowledge, it would become immediately evident that we can differentiate between the thing known and the process by which it is known. This process, treated as something apart, would become itself the object of knowledge. Since the process is in this case knowledge, it can be regarded as a new content discovered in the process by which we come to know knowledge itself. Therefore, we must consider here (as the object of reflective knowledge) not the object of a given knowledge but the epistemic relation to the object. Nevertheless, conceiving of this re-lation as being completed, Plato identifies it with the result of the process of knowledge, and so identifies it completely with the known object. That is to say, he does not admit that knowledge, when taken indepen-dently of the objects of knowledge, is knowable in itself.15

The above considerations constitute the grounds for Plato’s rejection of the possibility of a sophist philosophy. Sophist philosophy originates in a reflection that takes the form of knowledge as its object of analysis. The sophists are, then, the kind of epistemologists who are not ready to bestow any ontological status on the content of their thoughts, whereas Plato is an ontologist inclined to the objectification or ontologization of the contents of thought. For Plato, who sees no difference between knowledge (rather, the process of knowledge) and the known thing, there is no difference between epistemology and ontology. Here lies the ground for his characteristically odd questions about medicine, science, sophistry, and so on. He assumes that all these arts are defined by their object alone, by their product. Thus, Plato lacks a theory of knowledge, that is, a theory about the process of knowledge. Or, if you like, he has a theory of knowledge that denies itself, that refuses to recognize the proc-ess of reflective thought.

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Plato seems to consider only two possible meanings for the knowl-edge of knowledge: to know what is known (to know the content), or to know only that one knows or does not know. He rejects the first possi-bility, but appears to accept the second. Regarding the first one, Socrates asks:

How will this [knowledge of knowledge] help [someone] to know what he knows? For of course he knows health by means of medi-cine, not [knowledge of knowledge], and harmony by means of music, not [knowledge of knowledge], and building by means of the builder’s art, not temperance; and so it will be in every case, will it not? . . . Then he who is ignorant of all this [medicine, music and the art of building] will not know what he knows, but only that he knows (Chr. 170c).

Socrates therefore concludes that only the second possibility can be validly maintained, and that knowledge of knowledge “will not be this knowledge of what one knows or does not know, but, it would seem, merely knowing that one knows or does not know” (Chr. 170d).

Thus, Plato considers that the knower of knowledge does not know, in his reflective state of mind, the content of knowledge—the what of knowledge itself. If this is so, then his is an empty knowledge—a science of science that is, paradoxically, a science of nothing. For example, imagine a medical science that does not involve knowledge of sickness and health. In other words, Plato is saying that a physician is not a master of the science of medicine, but of the science of good and bad health (see Chr. 171a). Thus Plato rejects the second possibility too—that of the knowledge of knowledge consisting in “knowing that one knows or does not know” (Chr. 170d). At least he seriously doubts it. Plato’s alterna-tives, then, consist of either a return to the content already known in the initial knowledge, or postulating a vacuous science that is a science of nothing.

Why precisely these alternatives? Perhaps disciples of Sartre and early Wittgenstein, and others, who share some of Plato’s assumptions, will be unable to see any alternative to them. But there is another way of approaching these matters, as I will try to explain.

The reason for asserting that the only possible alternatives are to know only that you know and to know what you know is that Plato does not make a distinction between the form and the content of knowledge. Plato maintained that knowledge refers to a content, and indeed must have content, a known content. This raises the question of why Plato identifies knowing the very process of knowledge with its content. And the answer to this question, I think, is that Plato does not conceive of

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knowledge as a process; or rather, he grasps the process of knowledge only as a product, as a result. When knowledge is reduced to its results or products, the only relevant question is what is known, not how it comes to be known.

However, if one asks the second question, the question about the epistemic process, one is clearly not asking about the content of knowl-edge, but about knowledge as something different from its content. When we think in this way, we grasp knowledge as a process rather than a thing, product, or substance. Plato, however, tends to explain processes in terms of Ideas.16 An idea can only be described: when we ask what it is, and describe its properties, but we cannot ask how it is. From a Pla-tonic perspective, the question “How is an Idea?” is strange, almost in-comprehensible. Platonic Ideas are the precursors of the idea of sub-stance.

If Plato however had taken this other aspect of knowledge into ac-count—that of the process of knowledge—he might have realized that there is an aspect of knowledge that is in itself neither true nor false, but merely is. Since he considers content only, and excludes all consideration of process, knowledge for him can only be true or false: if the content of knowledge corresponds to its object, the knowledge is true; if not, it is false. As content, knowledge is identical with its object. We may com-pare knowledge, as Plato conceives of it, with a loose translation in which the original wording in the original language is disregarded and only the content is taken into account. The point of such a translation is that it should be faithful—or true—to the original. However, irrespective of whether such a translation is faithful to the content of the original or not, we cannot ask about the truth or falseness of all those aspects of the translation that are not in themselves translations. Language, for instance, as form, is neither true nor false.

To recognize that knowledge has also a form or mode, and that this form or mode is neither true nor false, means to understand that there is something in knowledge that does not refer to the object; and that this thing which is not an object of reference is the epistemic relation, which can become an object of knowledge in itself. Plato refuses to concede precisely this point. Because knowledge refers to an object, he concludes that knowledge is defined entirely in terms of its object, and to the exclu-sion of aspects of knowledge that are not so defined. But it is this very aspect, that is, reference or relation, which is the part of knowledge that is not determined by the object. The way the object is described, ex-plained, or evaluated does not originate in the object. So, for example, selection of those aspects of the object that the knower regards to be relevant is not made by the object. Hence, contrary to Plato’s view of the

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matter, the same object may be known differently by different kinds of knowledge. The object may be the same; but the object as it is known—that is to say, the way in which the object is known—will differ from one knower to the next.

A word of caution. This alternative approach does not imply that knowledge can exist independently of its object. It only suggests that the form of knowledge is the way in which content moves in thought. This process of thought is the object that the knowledge of knowledge sets out to describe.

Plato’s conclusions in the Charmides furnish a key to understanding the general tendency of his dialogues, especially those of the early and middle periods. As we have observed, for Plato only the object of knowl-edge validates it; knowledge itself cannot be an object of knowledge. This attitude is decidedly different from what popular belief tells us and Protagoras maintains. To common sense and belief—that is, for practical rather than theoretical thinking—senses, desires, wishes, emotions, and opinions, are not identical or reducible to the objects that they refer to. Hunger refers to food, but is regarded as different from food. Similarly, desire is different from the desired thing, fear from the feared thing, opinion from the thing about which it is an opinion. To hold an opinion does not mean “to hold” the thing or issue about which it is an opinion. However, doxa can offer no theoretically consistent account of the forms or ways in which the object is intended. Moreover, in doxa, these states of mind are not regarded as being either true or false; they can be known, but are not in themselves truly regarded as epistemic capacities.17

Plato however denies that references or relations that are attitudes—such as virtues and their opposites—have an existence independent of their objects; he reduces them to, and merges them with, their objects. Apart from the objects to which they refer, they are nothing. This is an important step for the comprehension of his philosophy. What Plato reduces to its results is the process of knowledge. Once the process of knowledge reaches its end, object and process, “what” and “how,” be-come the same. Namely, they become indistinguishable. They are clearly distinguishable when the process of knowledge is still active, that is, be-fore it arrives at its conclusions. During that time in which ignorance moves toward science, we can most clearly distinguish the form of knowledge, namely, the process, from the content of knowledge, namely, the thing that we know about.

Thus, the Charmides may also be a clue for the understanding of Plato’s craft analogy on moral matters. It is precisely because of his craft-oriented mind that Plato reduces the form of knowledge to its con-tent. By the same token, virtue is knowledge of the object of virtue, so

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that it is nothing but knowledge, nothing but content, namely, it is not virtue but something other than itself, so as carpentry is nothing but the results acquired by it, say, a table.18

All the Platonic distinction between “levels” of knowledge, namely, ignorance, false opinion, true opinion, and science, are categories of con-tent, not of form. Indeed, when we hold an opinion, for instance, Plato does not describe the opinion as opinion; he describes the type of object that pertains to such opinion. The process of forming opinions means nothing to him. It remains outside any consideration, since there is noth-ing to be considered. His distinction, therefore, between true and false opinions is not an epistemological distinction, but its ontologization.

Contrary to Plato, we can best observe the difference between the form of knowledge and the content of knowledge when there is a false opinion rather than a true thinking process. Since a false opinion misses the truth, it is then that we can easily differentiate between thing and thought.

The reduction of the form of knowledge to its content implies the subjective contribution of knowledge’s reduction to the object. The re-duction to the object directly opens the path to the reduction of the epi-stemic relation, as a process, to its achieved result, namely to the truth or to what has truth-value. Content implies object, object implies truth, and both imply the recognition of the results of knowledge and the denying of the epistemic process. When asked how one improves and advances one’s knowledge, Plato always points to the object. He suggests that his partner try to see things (the object) more clearly, to pay attention only to it. This approach is so fundamental to him that it requires no proof, only emphasis.

Once Plato establishes this reduction, vices are but distortions of the truth that we can correct by means of knowledge. Plato’s rejection of forms or modes of knowledge is extremely intellectualist: a conflict be-tween virtues is a consequence of ignorance; and the virtues result from knowledge, which means that they result from different degrees of knowledge. This is the core of his famous reduction of virtue to knowl-edge. Consider the following illustrations in point contained in some dialogues:19

In the Laches, Plato reduces courage to knowledge and fear to igno-rance: “courage is knowledge not merely of what is to be dreaded and what dared, for it comprehends good and evil not merely in the future but also in the present and the past and in any stage” (Laches, 199b-c).

In the Apology, fear of death is overcome by knowledge. Socrates’ fearlessness in the face of death has an epistemic origin (see Apl. 29e ff.).

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In the Lysis we read, “a friend is a friend because of whom he loves [the beloved] and whom he hates [the hated person]” (Lys. 219b). Here, Plato defines friendship, too, by its object. This is why Plato dismisses Hippothales’ love poems, since “it is [Hippothales] to whom these songs refer” (Lys. 205e). He considers poetry and friendship only in reference to their objects.

In the Gorgias Plato attempts to define rhetoric with reference to its object: “Since you claim to be skilled in rhetorical art, and to be able to make anyone else a rhetorician, tell me with what particular thing rheto-ric is concerned: as, for example, weaving is concerned with the manu-facture of clothes?” (Grg. 449c-d). The object of rhetoric is oration or discourse. Plato distinguishes between oration per se and what it is about. Of course, he rejects the idea of oration per se just as he denied the idea knowledge per se in the Charmides (see Grg. 450). Plato denies the existence of medicine apart from good and ill health, of gymnastics apart from the good condition of the body, indeed of every art in the ab-sence of its object. As for rhetoric, it has no function beyond “that of ef-fecting persuasion in the minds of an audience” (Grg. 453). But persua-sion may be undertaken either with knowledge or with opinion, these being different kinds of persuasion. Plato rejects persuasion based purely on opinion. If rhetoric is to be valid as persuasion—if it is to be anything at all—then the rhetorician must have knowledge of the matter to which he addresses himself.

Especially illuminating in this regard is Plato’s attitude on the nature of language in the Cratylus. It might be argued against Plato that lan-guage has a form of its own that is distinguishable from the objects or matters which language is about; in other words, that language is clearly different from the objects to which it refers. The word, purely as word, is not related to the thing it denotes. It has nothing in common with the thing it denotes except (loosely speaking) its content. Thus, grammar is not a mirror image, the mere reflection of content, but a form pertaining to language alone. Language is therefore a symbolic form that can be treated for its own sake.20 Indeed, language would seem to furnish an ex-cellent example for explaining this difference between form and content. When we compose a sentence that describes an object, the object obvi-ously has nothing in common with the well-ordered set of sounds that we have strung together. What the two share, however, is content, even though the content of language is of a different order than the content of the object itself.

Plato is consistent even concerning this difficult point. He tries, inso-far as possible, to deny the existence of the form of language, and at-tempts to reduce language to content, or to the object denoted by lan-

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guage. The contrary would imply a recognition that linguistic referral included something more than the referent.

According to Plato, language has a natural and non-conventional character. It has therefore been created by someone possessing the ap-propriate skill for the purpose—a lawmaker.21 The only aspect of lan-guage that Plato takes into account is what it denotes: “Whether the same meaning [denotation] is expressed in one set of syllables or another makes no difference; and if a letter is added or substracted, that does not matter either, so long as the essence of the thing named remains in force and is made plain in the name” (Crt. 393c-d). And: “[t]he man who knows about names considers their value [denotation] and is not con-fused if some letter is added, transposed, or subtracted, or even if the force of the name is expressed in entirely different letters” (Crt. 394b).

Names are given epistemically. To discover their true meaning, an etymological regression has to be carried out. That leads us back to the primal non-compound names, stripped of their accretions. Language is built out of these elementary names. Such primal names are not reached by means of a reduction to other names, but by a reduction to their corre-sponding objects—and in a way that points not to the accidents of the thing, but to its essence (see Crt. 424). The truth-value of these ultimate and non-derivative names consists in their imitative denotation; that is, the characters and sounds of words imitate the objects that they denote. So, the letter rho “seems to be an instrument expressing all motion” (Crt. 426b-428a). Therefore language, consisting as it does in imitation, ac-quires its truth-value from the object; and just as there is true and false imitation, so there is true and false speech (see Crt. 421a-b).

It would appear nevertheless that Plato does admit that a distinction can be made between a thing and its linguistic image, and that the form of language can therefore be studied. He asserts that if the image were similar to the object, there would be two objects and not an object and an image (see Crt. 432b-c). Images do not possess the same content that their original models do (see Crt. 432d). Nor can letters be expected to possess the same content that their objects possess. But immediately following his acknowledgment of the existence of this form, Plato rejects it or asserts it to be defective. Names indeed exist so that things might be known; but things can be known directly, or they can be known indi-rectly by means of their names, by means of language. To know things indirectly by means of language is to know them starting from their im-age, whereas to know them directly is to know them starting from the truth. The direct way is the way of knowing. Therefore things “are to be learned and sought for, not from names but much better through them-selves than through names” (Crt. 439b).22

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We may conclude that for the Socratic Plato there is no place for a theory of knowledge, or rather, he sustains a theory of knowledge that denies the possibility of such a theory. Theory of knowledge analyzes the form of knowledge, but Plato believes that such a form is plainly noth-ing. If there is no place for such a theory, there is no place for any kind of teaching of methods without relation to the content those methods serve.

This is the ground for his opposition to rhetoric in the Protagoras. If we understand Plato’s approach to rhetoric, we can go a long way

toward explaining his whole philosophy. If I am right about Plato’s phi-losophy (which I will later call, following Michael Strauss, “anti-formal-ist”), his attitude to rhetoric must be thoroughly negative. Indeed, rheto-ric, as a science, or as a field of analysis in itself, without relation to its content, can be developed only under assumptions that allow room for a theory of knowledge.23

Let us sum up the meaning of the early Plato’s philosophical reflec-

tion: Knowledge cannot be known and thus the knower-subject cannot be known either, at least in his capacity as a knower. He can be known only insofar as he is a possessor of knowledge, namely, insofar as the knower is something and not merely a relational function. To put it in other words, the subject can be known only to the extent that he is something else beside a knower-subject.

Plato’s reflection implies the reduction of morality to the content of knowledge. His interpreters, modern and ancient, find this difficult to accept, due, perhaps, to their own moral convictions. Indeed, Plato’s convictions imply the annulment of morality. More sharply stated, there is no virtue but knowledge. Virtue is reduced to knowledge.

There is no such thing as a virtuous subject, and no place for a virtu-ous object. There would be a place for a virtuous object only if the virtu-ous subject were an object of reflective knowledge. However, the subject is, for Plato, only a limiting point, something that intends but cannot be intended to. For Plato the subject is a nothingness that has the Being as its object. Justice, piety, truth, and so forth, are nothing but one and the same thing—the truth (or knowledge of the object.) This is the ground for his thesis that virtue is knowledge, a point I will return to.

Denial of the epistemic process means that intentionality cannot be distinguished from the content it intends. Intention becomes one with the content, loses its specificity and, therefore, cannot be known. Thus, there can be no theory of knowledge, only knowledge, period. Any attempt at knowledge brings us again, and always again, directly to the content.

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This is the case, according to Plato, regarding any example of rela-tional qualities or any logic of relations. What we would call “fear in-stinct” has no character of its own. It is only the mirror image of all that is said about the frightening object. But we should note that, in spite of Plato, fear is not just a quality of what is fearsome. It is not a quality that belongs to the fearsome object; rather, fear is a state of mind. However, a state of mind is, for Plato, nothing but a state of “knowledge that ‘p.’” Fear depends, for him, on what we know about the thing.

Generalizing, we can say that knowledge has no specific character of its own beyond, before, or behind what we know about the known-object, namely, about what it is or what it would be. The object, actually everything, is, in principle, only either true or false. Nothing is, in itself, true or false. Even knowledge itself cannot be known. If it were know-able, then contrary to Plato’s assumptions, it would be an epistemic process, neither true nor false.

Plato lacks a theory of knowledge, or at least the Socratic Plato does. Any attempt to establish a theory of knowledge ends in a theory about the object of knowledge. All the following reductions lie on the same presupposition. Plato understands the process only by its results, the knowledge only by what is already known, the means only by its ends, the subject by its object. Nothing can be asserted about the process that is not already present in the result, nothing about the subject that is not al-ready present in the object, nothing about knowledge that is not already present in what is known.

The very fact that interpreters differ over the question of whether Plato does or does not have a positive theory of knowledge is itself, in my opinion, an argument in favor of the thesis I am trying to advance, namely that he has a theory of knowledge that annuls itself. Interpreters tend to take a stand for one of two sides. Some interpreters claim that Plato lacks a positive theory of knowledge.24 Others, however, insist that Plato succeed in his attempt to define knowledge.25 One of the latter’s groups, Ronald Polansky, asserts that in the Theaetetus we shall find

three accounts of knowledge: perception, true opinion, and true opinion with an account. These three conceptions of knowledge, in the full treatment given them, cover all the real possibilities for what knowledge may be. They are all that Plato has ever offered and perhaps all that anyone has ever reasonably suggested.26

However, when we try to understand what perception, true opinion, and so on mean, we find that they all resolve themselves into the object of knowledge. Again, we remain without knowledge per se. Polansky

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himself seems not to distinguish between the content and the form of knowledge.27

In the following chapter, I will analyze the sophistic alternative to Plato, trying to summarize the discussion between Plato and the sophists. I will contend that while the Socratic Plato maintains an anti-formalist philosophy, the sophists propose a formalist tendency.

Notes

1. The following analysis is based in Yigal Wagner, and Michael Strauss,

Thinking—On Unrequested Results of Praxis in Cognition, [Hebrew], Haifa, pub. by the authors, 1962, 155-65, to whom I am in debt.

2. It seems that Whitlock Blundell is unable to believe that this is indeed Plato’s assertion, and instead of realizing that this is what Plato asserts, she as-serts that we have here an exemplification of what Vlastos calls “complex irony.” About the “overinterpretation” that results from the use of the category of complex irony, see chapter 1, where I discussed interpretations that fall into an identification with the text resulting in dogmatism. See Mary Whitlock Blun-dell, “Character and Meaning in Plato’s Hippias Minor,” in OSAP, Supplemen-tary Volume, Julia Annas, ed., (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 131-72.

3. Michael O’Brien, The Socratic Paradoxes and the Greek Mind (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 1967), 17.

4. See Rep. (334a10) where if justice is like the rest of the arts, it will in-clude the ability to do wrong efficiently.

5. We may distinguish in Plato two meanings of evil: purposeful and non-purposeful evil. Purposeful evil is done as a means for the sake of the good, namely, it is not really evil. Real evil, on the other hand, does not exist. It is merely ignorance. Thinking of this second meaning of evil, Reino Palas asserts that Plato was unconcerned with the problem of evil. See Reino Palas, Die Bew-ertung der Sinnenwelt bei Plato (Helsinki: Druckerei A.G. der Finnischen Lit-eraturgesellschaft, 1941), 52. I would like to put this idea even more radically, and to assert that for Plato, at least the early Plato, evil (not as a means) does not exist, and it is only a sign of, or is itself, ignorance. And good, on the other hand, exists only if reduced to knowledge, which is a way to assert that even the good does not exist iff it is deduced out of knowledge. Out of this radical idea of evil as inexistent, namely, as ignorance, the latter Plato constructs a more com-plex idea though in the same spirit. About the latter Plato, see Harold Cherniss, “The Sources of Evil According to Plato,” in Plato: A Collection of Critical Es-says I, Gregory Vlastos, ed., (Garden City, N. Y.: Anchor Books Doubleday, 1971), 244-58.

6. Terence Irwin, Plato’s Moral Theory: The Early and Middle Dialogues (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977), 7. Irwin explains Plato against those who do not take him seriously in his “craft-analogies.” See also, for a similar position, David L. Roochnik, “Socrates’ Use of the Techné-Analogy,” in Essays on the Philosophy of Socrates, Hugh H. Benson, ed., (Oxford University Press, 1992),

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! 85-8. [ agree with his thesis. 1 cannot agree, however, with his assertion, that "Socrates' theory provides answers to central questions that face any moral th e­ory. and to that extent satisfies his demand ror a ra tional account," Irwin, Plato's Moral Theory. 97-8.

7. 1rwin, PlaID '.I' Moral Theory, 73. For a discussion around the craft anal-ogy, see the discussion between Irwin and Vlastos in The Times Literary SIIP­plemelll, Feb. 24, April 21, June 9, July 14, Sept. 27,1978. Against Irwin, see also Gregory Vlastos "Happiness and Virtue in Socrates' Moral Theory" in Soc­rates, Crilical Assessments. IV, William Pri or, ed., (London: Routledge, 1996), 167· 202; and, though more moderate, Donald J. Zeyl, "Socratic Virtue and Hap­piness," in Socrates [V, William Prior, ed., 153-66.

8. For a more complete analysis of the meaning of goal-oriented activities, see "The Promethean Function" in chapter 7.

9. I can understand, though not agree, with Donovan's contention that the reduction of virtue to knowledge, and the reduction of knowledge to craft­knowledge brought Plato to retreat from the teaching of virtue. [ concede Ihat there are textual evidences for such an approach. However, [ understand Plato's reductions as proposing that virtue is knowledge, know ledge is a lways craft­knowledge, then virtue is teachable. See Brian R. Donovan, "The City and the Garden, Plato's Retreat from the Teaching of Virtue," Educational Theory 45 (1995): 453-5, 462-3.

[0. See my "The Sources of Wittgenstein's Negation of the Knowing Sub­ject," Semiotica 113 (1997): 159-69

I I. To believe that the virtues, having thc same object or reference, can still be different, is a misunderstanding of Plato's approach. Thc error of Ferejohn is to attribute to Plato this distinction between virtuc-temls tllat, though core fer­entia!, are not synonyms. Michael T. Ferejohn "The Unity of Virtue and the Db· jects of Socratic Inquiry," JflPhil20 (1982): 1-21.

12. Guthrie, flGP. vol. IV, 169. 13. The process of perception may be explained as the encounter between

sense organs and objects of perception. Plato however is not ready to accept this even in later periods. Friedlander, discussing the Theaetel!ls. states the same idea though more moderately: "Plato might well have accepted this theory [the rela­tional character of sense qualities, DB) provided it were confined in scope- and also provided we did not fail to see that there is something beyond it, something "ordered" (iv toEfl), or --fixed" (I"EVOV), or "in and by itself' (O~tO >:a 64> auto). This is mentioned only in passing, however, in order to be discarded as unreal" (! 53E), Paul Friedlander, Plato 3: The Dialogues. Second and Third Pe­riods (London: Routledge Kegan Paul, 1969), 157.

14 . Hintikka has observed that the --linguistic counterpart to Plato's idea of knowledge . . is the use of verbs for knowing together with a direct (grammati­cal) object in contradistinction to their uses with propositional clauses (knowing that, knowing whether. knowing wh o, and so forth)." See laakko Hintikka, "Knowledge and Its Objects," in Palferns in Plato's Tlwuglll. Julius Moravcsik, ed., (Dordrecht and Boston ' Reidel, 1973), 18.

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15 . Hintikka assens that Plato's confusion of term s between knowledge and its object is due to the conceptual primacy of teleology in his thinking; " In epistemology th is way of thinking takes the form of a tende'ncy to handle knowledge, bel ie f, and thinking on the conceptual model of a goal-directed ac­tivity. with spec ial emphasis on these goals" (Jaakko Hintikk a, " Knowledge and Its Objects," 5. It shou ld be remarked that the goal-oriented mind does not nee­essari[y overlook the process by which the end is achieved. This is merely the special case of the ancient approach to te leo [ogy, by which final causes are treated as primordial in order to understand motion and processes in general.

16. I am not assuming, [ike Chemiss, that the theo!)' of Ideas is already pre­sent in the early dialogues. See Harold Chemiss, Riddle of rhe Early Academy (Berk eley: University of Californ ia Press, 1945) 4-5 . However. the mature Plato may be the key for the understanding of the Socratic Plato. The immature Plato reveal s tendencies that become clear only at a later period of his philosophy. The problem of sel f-predication as appears in the Parmenides, for instance, is al­ready present in the Charm ides and in the Protagoras.

17. [t should be observed that to common sense, bad cannot be reduced to false, nor can good be reduced to true. Bad and good are expressions that refer to moral action or to the character of the actor. A man or his deeds may be good or bad, but he and his deeds cannot be true or false in the same sense that state­ments can be true or false.

[8. For a similar approach, see Irwin. Plato's Moral Theory. For a different view, see David L. Rooch nik , "Terence Irwin's Reading of Plato," in Platonic Writings. Platonic Readings. Charles Griswold Jr. , ed., (New York: Routledge, 1988),183-93; and Klosko, "The Technical Conception of Vi rtue," JHPhif 18 ( 1981 ): 95 -102. Zeller asserts that according 10 Socrates, knowledge is " not only an indispensable condition and a means to true morality, but it is the whole of morality," Eduard Zeller, Socrates and the Socratic Schools (London: Long­manns & Green, 1885), 142. However, like all other interpreters, as much as 1 know. Zeller does not go so far as to conclude that Socrates reduced, if he is right, virtue to knowledge, namely, annulled it as virtue.

19. I am in debt for the collection of these examples to Michael Strauss, and Yi ga l Wagner, Tflinking (Haifa, authors ed., 1962), 117-21.

20. See Ernst Cassi rer, The Philosophy of Symbolic Forms, I (New Haven : Yale University Press, 1960).

21. " [n James possess a certain natural correctness, and not every man knows how to give a name well to anything whatsoever" (Crt. 39Ia-b).

22. It should be nOled that language is considered by Plato only in regard 10 words, and grammar is not discussed by him at all.

23. The discussion among commentators is best resumed in Rollin Quimby, "The Growth of Plato's Percepti on of Rhetoric ," Philosophy and Rhetoric 7 (19 74): 71-9. The reasons offered are not always based in an attempt to grasp Plato's cons istency. See also Everett Lee Hunt . "Plato and Aristotle on Rhetoric and Rhetoricians," in Studies in Rethoric and Public Speaking in Honor of James Albert Winans (New York : Appleton-Century, 1962),42; George M. A. Grube. Plalo's Thoughl (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1980), 2 15. For a more moderate

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view, see Oscar L. Brownstein, “Plato’s ‘Phaedrus’: Dialectic as the Genuine Art of Speaking,” QJS 51 (1965): 392-8. He contends that Plato was against rhetoric. Others support Plato’s approval of rhetoric: Edwin Black, “Plato’s View of Rhetoric,” in Plato: True and Sophistic Rhetoric, Keith V. Erickson, ed., (Amsterdam: Rodopi N.V., 1979), 362-3. Reginald Hackforth, Plato’s Phaedrus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1952), 3-7. Gilbert Ryle in Plato’s Progress (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1966) stands in the halfway.

24. For instance, George Grote, Plato and the Other Companions of Sok-rates, vol. II (London: John Murray, 1865), 391-2; John McDowell, Plato’s Theaetetos (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973), 177, 257ss; Gilbert Ryle, “Plato’s Parmenides,” Mind 48 (1939): 129-51.

25. For instance, Ronald M. Polansky, Philosophy and Knowledge: A Com-mentary on Plato’s Theaetetus (Salem: Associated University Press, 1992), Gail Fine, “Knowledge and Logos in the Theaetetus,” Philosophical Review 88 (1979); and Rosemary Desjardins, The Rational Enterprise: Logos in Plato’s Theaetetus (Albany: SUNY Press, 1990).

26. Polansky, Philosophy and Knowledge, 19. 27. Polansky asserts that “An inquiry into knowledge must especially con-

sider two things, the suitable objects of knowledge and the epistemic relation of the mind or soul to these objects” Ronald M. Polansky, Philosophy and Knowl-edge, 11. However, he did not make a merely declarative distinction without explaining what it consists of.

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Chapter 4

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Socrates and the Sophistic Movement

Sophistry as the Self-Consciousness of Pre-Socratic Philosophy

What is the place of the sophists in the history of philosophy?1 We can-not fully understand earlier philosophical movements if we confine our attention to what they were interested in. We must also look at the way in which they were interested. The first question is one of content, the sec-ond, of form.

The pre-Socratic thinkers were philosophers of the real rather than of the natural. They were not really physiologists or naturalists. Their object of analysis is not nature, but what lies behind it. As Guthrie rightly stated, the paradoxes of Zeno the Eleatic, the Being of Parmenides and the Logos of Heraclitus, even the arche of Thales the Milesian and the nous of Anaxagoras, are not just natural forces. These thinkers did not want to know nature; they wanted to know what the principle of nature was. They wanted to understand the way nature functions beyond imme-diate sense-perception.

However, the pre-Socratics explained nature mostly according to their own human models. Of course, they were not aware of this. They them-selves believed that nature functioned just as they treated it. Empedocles, for instance, explained the flight of birds as if it were a purely human skill: faced with the resistance of air, birds simply row.

The sophists, on the contrary, represent the self-consciousness of pre-Socratic philosophy. They discovered the secret of the former analogies and concentrated just on them, passing from the content of the analogy to its form, and analyzed analogy itself. From the former interest in the ob-ject of analogies, they centered their efforts in the analysis of the natural scientific and practical methods themselves. If the physiologist went

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from the appearance of things to th eir essence, the sophist tried the return from essence to appearance. Ju st for this reason, there was also a shift in the object of interest. The interest in nature is now replaced by an interest in human beings and their social life. They adopted the soc ial (or human) perspective in their discussions about nature. Nomos replaces phusis . The pre-sophists' principles of nat ure became the sophists' human principles. The unconscious principle of the pre-sophists, the anthropocentric under­sta nd ing of nature, became the sophists' conscious principJes. 2

The sophists were phi losophers of appea rance. This is not to say they denied nature. On the contrary, they believed th at the only reality is not what lies beyond appearances and contradic ts them, but rather what ac­cords with our senses and with our common ways of thinking.

The question now is not how things are, but how human beings grasp them. Guthrie defines th is epoch as "a reacti on from an interest in exter­nal nature to a concentration on human affairs.") The philosopher of the rea l may be interpreted as saying " what Is, is" (Pannenides).~ The phi­losopher of th e appearance- as say ing "what Is is not (ovS'( TO OV '(O' HV ) and nothing exists" (Gorg ias).s The quest ion is not, then , what things are in and for themselves, but what they are for human beings.6

They di scovered the relational aspect of human knowledge and va lues. Pannenides cou ld not discover this c haracter because of his identification of thinking with its content.

That the truth is hidden to the senses is an assertion that can be as­cribed both to Democritus and to Protagoras. Democritus however, de­duced out of it a negative skept ic ism, whereas Protago ras a pos itive one . By negative skeptic ism, I mean the assumption that there is a truth be­hind th e appearance- for appea rance offe rs a false picture of reality . Protagoras' skepticism assumed that the appearance itself was the truth, and all that lay behind it is nothing but mere speculation. It is a conjec­tural, abstract and hypothetical reality, one beyond the possibility of human life to decide about it and , therefore , someth ing unk nowab le. Democri tllS traveled around the world seeking for the hidden truth. Pro­tagoras searc hed for the natu re of the appearance itse lf, trave li ng not quite around the world, but certainly around G reece , spread in g th e irrefutable truth of the senses. He regarded "appearance" as a subject matter of an a lys is, and the only scrutab le real ity. The pre-sophists we re interested in the principles of reality, the sophists in th e reality of princi­ples themselves.

Conceptua lly, disregarding the controversies about the historical dates of their li ves, Protagoras' philosophy can be interpreted as a reaction against DemocrilUs, whose empiricism grew out of his skepticism con­cerning (he possibility of acquirin g any true knowledge through the

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senses. 7 Protagoras tried to solve the main contradiction in pemocritus' philosophy, at least as expressed in Aristotle's writings. Aristotle states that Democritus "identifies what appears with what is true" (De Anima 404a27-29), and that for him ;'either there is no truth or to us at least it is not evident" (Mel, 1 009b 11 - 18). Prolagoras, instead of asserting that there is no truth or that sense-perception does not grasp it, expresses the principles of know ledge as a question of the principle of measure, which makes it a question about the form of knowledge rather than about knowledge itself. Things have an extrinsic measure that is intrinsic for human beings, so that there is no contradiction betwe·en perception and truth.

The distinctions that I have been making do not yet touch the basic tendency that distinguishes the sophists from their precursors. The ques­tion remains, why the pre-sophists were phi losophers of the real, while the sophists were philosophers of the appearances. Why the pre-sophists were interested in the principles of reality and the sophists-in the reality of the principles? I thi nk the answer is that th e Greek science had reached its limits, in the sense that the fonn of thought prevalent in an­cient Greece did nOI allow for any new radical advance in the paradigm of their understanding of nature. This circumstance pushed the Greeks toward reflection about the way of thinking about nature, a totally differ­ent task.s

We may properly call thi s period anthropological, under the condition that Ihe earlier period can also be regarded as interested in human nature. Both were interested in human beings. The earlier philosophers objecti­fied their interest for the principles of natufe, thinking that they might find in nature even their own attitude toward it, while the later phi loso­phers, the sophists, subjectified their own approach, believing that they could find nature with in the relation to nature itself. The pre-sophists re­duced the relation to nature to the principle or the form of nature itself, whi le the soph ists reduced the fonn of nature to the relati on to it. The former reduced relation to object, the latter---object to relation. Now the question is how the sophists tfied to su bjectify the principles of nature. Let me tum to this question.

The anthropological period is the result of the acknowledgment of the singularity of human existence itself. Now comes the attempt to kn ow, elaborate , and change human existence acco rding to values. PhI/sis, the principle of the natural, gives way to lIomos, the principle of the artifi­cial. Now, instead of allowing human nature to develop by itse lf, without consciOllsness and without be in g the objec t of a subject, human beings have themselves for themselves, both as objects of political and social

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practice, and as objects of contemplation, of theory. From this point on human nature becomes an object of analysis.

This analysis has consequences. In the practical dimension, human consciousness becomes an object toward which ends are applied and means adopted. An example in kind is rhetoric: convincing, persuasive speech that is both an object of study (thus the science of rhetoric) and a means for education.

Thanks to their interest in rhetoric, the sophists were regarded—not without some grudging respect—as clever frauds. Their alleged duplic-ity, however, was merely an expression of the prevalent character of hu-man consciousness. People like to believe that they base their values and their behavior on rational and convincing arguments, but in fact these arguments, clever though they may be, are really only defenses and justi-fications. We often put forth logical arguments in order to explain atti-tudes that spring from other motives entirely. In other words, argument is often the a posteriori disguised as the a priori. This is the core of the power of argumentation and rhetoric. The new tendency, supported by democracy, is to understand human mind in order to motivate it as a means for ends. Thus, participatory democracy becomes the secret of rhetoric.9

From the side of the subject, the result of this new tendency is the conscious attempt to change human consciousness. We are at the begin-nings of an attempt to produce an artificial human nature, which means the beginnings of the creation of a really human nature, in the sense of being a nature purposefully and consciously created by human beings themselves. That means, we are at the beginnings of education as a fully conscious activity. What was once an unconscious social adaptation now becomes, thanks to the idea of education, a systematic, self-conscious activity.

Human nature is now the object of a conscious human activity. Edu-cation’s explicit goal is the transformation of the subject, since the sub-ject is now the object of both theory and practice. Before that, the “ob-ject,” since it was not an object for a subject, was “natural,” in the sense that it grew as social, as human, in a process that was neither the practi-cal object of goal-oriented transformation, nor the object of analysis of theory.10

Obviously, I am willingly exaggerating the inner tendencies of both periods; even the distinction of periods is an exaggeration. Historically this distinction is not so clear-cut. However, I am trying to sharpen the difference between the dominant influence of phusis and the dominant influence of nomos as a distinction between the pre-sophist philosophers and the sophists. We can understand this difference both in the field of theory and in the field of practice. In the field of theory, we can under-

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stand it as a conceptual shift from the knowledge of nature to the nature of knowledge. In the field of practice, we can understand it as a shift from the attempt to change the external nature to an attempt to change internal, human nature. As I will try to show later, Protagoras tried to synthesize these two tendencies.

The rise of sophistry encourages all thought that shares the sophist spirit, even those philosophies that are not directly identified with it. Now philosophy concerns itself with human-oriented sciences: medicine, language, gymnastics, rhetoric, politics, and ethics. At the same time, in-terest in nature does not disappear; it undergoes, however, a fundamental shift: Neither nature nor its principles are the focus of the new interest, but the value or status of nature. Now thinkers are concerned with the valuation of natural research and not natural research itself. From this standpoint, there is no basic difference between the interest in language and the interest in natural science. They are the same, and the very same concern motivates them both—the concern with human consciousness. From this point of view, indeed, natural science is mediated and only mediated by language.

We can define this philosophical period, then, by pointing at its awareness of the contribution of the human consciousness to the charac-ter of human nature. External nature becomes part of the landscape, of the contour, so that human thought focalizes the life of that which faced and faces nature. Now philosophy turns its sight upon itself. Thus: a re-flective, “anthropological period.”

Let me here say some words about the definition of sophistry.11 Jac-queline de Romilly stays that

The word [sophist] itself means professionals of the intelligence. And they certainly set out to teach people how to use their intelli-gence. They were not sages, sophoi, a word which connotes not a profession but a state of being. Nor were they philosophers, for this word suggests a patient search for the truth rather than an optimis-tic confidence in one’s own abilities.12

I am not sure if I can agree with Romilly. Though this discussion may be only about labels, I believe that the sophists were really philosophers, though of a singular kind: they were philosophers of reflection. That means, according to their own definition, seekers of truth. More pre-cisely, it means seekers for the truth about human capacities, skills, abilities, including intelligence.13 I would even venture to say that the sophists are more genuine philosophers than those who fail to take into account the method of thinking, the form of thought as a subject matter,

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not just for the sake of knowledge or theoretical analysis, but for the sake of practical improvement and of values. Protagoras at least tried to dis-tinguish between knowledge and valuation.

Pre-sophist philosophy grappled with mythology and rejected the idea of a divine intervention in natural processes. The sophists grappled with both modes of thought and transformed human beings into the basis for understanding both mythical and natural explanations.

Scopes and Limits of Sophistry

At a higher level of reflection, sophistry has also its typical limits. I said that it was a reflective period. For the understanding of these limits, we may make a further distinction, not only between levels of reflection, but also between different kinds of reflection at the same level.

Human reflection, when it turns upon itself, does not do so necessar-ily or automatically. It does not easily understand itself exactly as it is. Quite the reverse, usually it understands itself, especially at its begin-nings, not as it is, but as it is for the subject who reflects upon itself. I mean that it understands itself according to the character of its own form of thought, according to its own kind of consciousness. In self-con-sciousness, there is a split of the subject into two sides. On one side we have the subject as subject and on the other side, the subject as object. Now, the understanding of the subject as object depends on the patterns of thought of the subject as subject. One’s form of knowledge determines the general patterns and features of what is known, if it is known. One’s own kind of reflection determines, for example, the priorities of one’s search of itself as object, the extent of the search, the ease or difficulty of the search, and the criteria for measuring the success of the search. Thus, form takes part in the determination of the content of knowledge. This is a consequence of the inadequacy between knower-subject and known-object—an inadequacy the subject may not be aware of.

At the level of the Greek self-consciousness, the form of the subject, as knowing consciousness, adopts, during this anthropological period, two contraposed and characteristic styles, the sophistic and the Socratic.

The sophists and Socrates were not merely representatives of ancient Greek self-consciousness, but of its philosophical self-consciousness. They were the representatives of a kind of self-consciousness that at-tempted to build, with variable success, a coherent system of thought.

The sophists and Socrates were both discoverers of the form of thought. They both oriented their philosophical curiosity to the form of

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knowledge on behalf of the content. Nature indeed remained in the fore-ground, but not in the focus, of their attention.

In their reflection, we can clearly see the tendency to concentrate on the form and even the tendency to absolutize it, especially in matters that interested the sophists. For example, the emphasis in arguments. For the sophists, everything begins and ends in the force of argument; theirs was a philosophy of argumentation. By so defining sophistry, I characterize it as a shift in focus away from content of thought and toward form of thought. I mean, instead of being interested in the actual topics of debate, the sophists preferred to examine the conduct of the debate itself. For them, the idea, or the content did not have the last word; instead, the last word had the content. In other words, they believed things are what they are thanks to the persuasive force of argument. For this reason, I regard their philosophy as reflective, for it is philosophy whose subject matter is the thinking of itself, of its power and reality, and not of the known-con-tent of the original thought.

The sophists and Socrates agree in this point. However, each of them adopts a different variant of reflection. By going to extremes and polar-izing their points of view, the two kinds of self-consciousness grasp the Being and the human consciousness not as they are, but under two per-spectives that, if taken to their extremes, create two contraposed philoso-phies about human beings: The sophist view is formalist; the Socratic, anti-formalist.

The Formalist Perspective

The sophists take a formalist point of view, that is, a point of view that reduces the content of knowledge to its form assuming that the con-tent is the content of the form. The Socratic Plato reduces (in his reflec-tion) the form of knowledge to its content assuming that the form is the form of the content. The sophists are interested in human values, in cul-tural phenomena. They direct their attention to the nature of thought and of knowledge, rather than the content of thought and knowledge.

In addition, they consider language not as a means to grasp something extra-linguistic (as non-reflective consciousness treats it) but as an object of research in itself. In fact, language increasingly becomes an object of research. It grows to occupy the entire field and horizon of conscious-ness. Everything else, the content of all thought, is either relegated to a secondary importance or completely annihilated by skepticism about the accuracy or stability of semantics. Sophist skepticism is a sign of the tri-

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umph of form over content. According to this view, we cannot ascertain the content of anything. We can only know what we think about some-thing. Our knowledge does not extend to the thing itself.

According to the sophists, there are singular human ways of knowl-edge, and these ways can be an object of analysis, an object of knowl-edge. The sophists are, therefore, philosophers of consciousness who recognize themselves as such; namely, they are philosophers of self-knowledge. As we will see, this is the ground for the so-called sophistic relativism in general and of Protagorean relativism in particular. Only human beings are real—their forms or ways of knowing, acting, living, their emotions and intellect. Or (at least) these are the only things about which we can think.

Pre-sophist consciousness was not concerned with this reality, but with natural reality, and more precisely the spiritual underpinnings of natural reality, which could only be grasped by the mind, and not by the senses. But when the mind went searching for an ineffable and intangible principle, it tended to encounter itself, or a shadow of itself. Indeed, pre-sophist philosophy unconsciously projected its own categories onto Na-ture. The sophists, in their turn, became aware of this projection and made it an object of conscious examination. But if the pre-sophists’ ten-dency to project themselves onto nature caused them to overlook human beings, the sophists, in the process of becoming aware of this projection, forgot about nature. The first reduced consciousness to nature, the lat-ter—nature to consciousness.

It is no wonder that paradoxes, absurdities, and logical games in gen-eral were recognized, or at least half-recognized, as forms of thought in those days. But since the means by which the form is recognized is the necessary prerequisite for knowledge, we can know nothing unless it passes through this sieve. That being the case, then we cannot know the thing directly, but only know it insofar as it is mediated by knowledge itself.

On the grounds of these remarks, we can call sophistry a subjectivist philosophy, not in the common opinion meaning of the term, but because the natural subject is the ground of non-subjective nature; the subject is the ground for reality. To put it in extreme terms: only the subject exists and is real. We can assert, then, that they regarded knowledge as knowl-edge of phenomena, namely, of what appears to their consciousness alone.

The ontological status of what lies beyond known phenomena is highly dubious. Even the gods are not firm on Olympus. Edward Schiappa points out that “when Protagoras attempted to set aside the is-sue of the existence of the gods, he was both challenging the traditional

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status granted to muthos and preparing the way for what now would be called an anthropological approach to theology.”14

Protagoras gives us three subjectivistic reasons to explain why he cannot know whether the gods exist. First, the matter is obscure. Second, life is short, and third, the more profound reason, we lack sense-experience of the gods. They have no phenomenal existence.15 Since the gods are unknowable, then human nature and what it grasps through sense-experience remains the only subject of study. The senses are part of human nature—including perceptible things, insofar as they are per-ceived.

The scientific and philosophical concern becomes now a concern for what is human. Medicine, gymnastics, rhetoric, politics, ethics, natural sciences (the methods of natural inquiry and not natural inquiry in itself), language, and so forth. All these become now at the focus of attention. The concern with natural science has become concern for the nature of science. Logos is no more opposed to Being, but Being becomes now experience (pragma), and pragma becomes logos.

Myth is not, for Protagoras, knowledge. He does not think mythically, like Homer. His myths are allegories, carriers of meaning alone—they are tales. Their true meaning lies elsewhere, outside the story. Protagoras understands myths as symbolic expressions with a content that is not the manifested expression itself. They are an expression of human nature, and refer to human beings, but one must be aware of this level of mean-ing, which provides explanations about human values and behavior.16 The succinct way in which Protagoras relates his tale already signals to his audience that he intends to offer a conceptual account of myth, rather than settling for the myth’s own account of its meaning.

The sophists (Protagoras included) offer a reductionist and reflective point of view. I mean that in their reflection they reduced the content of knowledge to its form. For this very reason, they regarded the form, the way of knowledge, not as a way, not as a relation, but as a thing. Ferdi-nand Schiller correctly asserts that they never raised the question “If man is the measure, then how do we manage to measure?”17 When the Greeks perceived that “all things flow,” the next question would be “at what rate?” When Protagoras asserted that man is the measure of all things, the next question was not “how does he measure?”18

Beyond the question of whether this criticism should be directed at the interpreters of sophistry or at the sophists themselves, it seems clear enough that Protagoras, like Plato, was unable to ask such questions. Both of these reductionist philosophers transformed the relation itself into a thing, into a substance; you cannot ask how an Idea (or a sub-stance) is, but only what it is. The relational character of the form be-

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comes a thing, and the question is about the standard of measure as a thing.

Modern science starts with diametrically opposite categories. For modern science, substances are functions. A modern scientist can only ask how things are, but not what they are.19

The Anti-Formalist Perspective

Knowledge has a content, and this content can be true or false. How-ever, the dedicated formalist, the one who wishes to remain coherent, must reject this notion. For the formalist, everything is a matter of knowledge, in the sense that knowledge has no content beyond itself; the form of knowledge is the content. Formalist reflection only takes into account the situation of the subject. There is no other reality for the sub-ject but the subject. To recognize a reality outside the subject would lead him, due to his own perspective, to insurmountable contradictions. In-deed, if reality is always known only in the context of the form of knowledge, how can reality be knowable at all?

The Socratic Plato, who adopts, against the sophists, an anti-formalist viewpoint, makes this reality, which is not the subject, but for the sub-ject, the central issue. He reduces all form to this reality. To avoid be-coming entangled in contradictions, he adopts the standpoint of the con-tent, denying any independence to the form of knowledge. Plato sees only the content of knowledge, and does not grasp the idea as such. What he calls “Idea” is the ideatum alone. Plato reduces the knower-subject and the knowing process to pure appearance. The subject’s only reality is the Idea, the known-object, the product of the process.

Let me remark that Plato’s attitude is no less reflective than the soph-ist approach. Nevertheless, Plato’s reflection stresses the very aspect that the sophists purposely forget.

It is not easy to explain Plato’s attitude or account for its strangeness. Its origins can be found in his sui generis way of understanding the epis-temic process: He does not understand the process as a process. Let me examine the assumptions of his viewpoint.

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The Epistemic Process

The epistemic process takes place in the frame of language. Language is built up by means of sentences, which are the elementary units of meaning. Each sentence consists of a predicative process, a process that creates meanings. Yet, Plato is unable to grasp this process as such. Or, to be more precise, he recognizes the predicative process in his ques-tions. However, in his answers he adopts the perspective of common sense. Paying attention to the content of sentences, common sense disre-gards, or ignores, the form, that is, the predicative process.

The use that the original level of thought makes of thought and lan-guage is not necessary identical with the process of thought itself. The process of thought has a form that the original level uses but remains un-aware of, since consciousness at its original level concentrates on the content. The form cannot be recognized as long as consciousness re-mains focused on the content of thought.

Thus, a kind of reflection that adopts the standpoint of the original level necessarily ignores the form (namely, the process of thought itself). Such reflection can know and recognize only the end of the process of thought: the content. Such an attitude regards language as a means to an end (which would be the communication of some content) and does not acknowledge that language can be analyzed in itself.

Thus, the predicative process indeed remains unknown. The intention of a sentence, of predication, overlooks the predicative process, and con-centrates solely on the result, namely, on the determination of what the subject is, according to the predicate. And, since the subject is deter-mined by the predicate, and by that alone, the predicate is the subject. This is the very intention of the sentence.20

Formally speaking, any sentence asserts that the predicate is the sub-ject. If we say, “The lion is an animal,” then “animal” is predicated of lion. “Animal” is thus a partial explanation of what a lion is, and in this sense, it is a characteristic of the lion to be an animal. The predicate thus accounts for the subject. If the lion is an animal, and, in general, if the subject is everything that the predicate asserts that it is, the subject will be entirely reduced to the predicate. To put this in Plato’s style, since the subject is the phenomenon and the predicate is the Idea, then the phe-nomenon is reduced to the Idea. Everything that we can say about the phenomenon can be found in the Idea, and not in the phenomenon itself.

Plato reduces not only the subject to its predicate, but also reduces the predicative process itself. Due to this inability to offer an account of the predicative process, the origin of the Idea remains as something mysteri-ous. Indeed, Plato only describes ideas, but does not explain them. He

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has no explanation because he does not regard the subject-predicate rela-tionship, the judgment, as the “factory” in which the ideas are produced. For Plato, ideas are independent from the judgments in which they ap-pear. Thus, there is no process of knowledge, no accumulation of knowl-edge; rather, the soul acquires it immediately. This leads to a non-acquisitive theory of knowledge, namely, to the Theory of Recollection. I will try to explain his approach more in detail by means of a critical analysis of this theory.

Plato’s Theory of Recollection and the Subject-Predicate Relationship

We can regard Plato’s Theory of Recollection as the product of an anti-formalistic consistency.

Plato’s principal references to the Theory of Recollection are in three dialogues: the Meno (80d-86d), the Phaedo (72e-77a), and the Phaedrus (249c ss).21 Although the focus in this section will be on the Meno, I be-lieve its conclusions to be equally valid for the other two dialogues.

The Meno ostensibly addresses the question “What is Virtue?” This is how Plato’s commentators have traditionally understood the dialogue. I wish to argue, however, that we can interpret the Meno rather as a dia-logue about the predicative process.22 The confusion arises since Plato adopts for this discussion, out of his anti-formalism, an objectifying point of view. The question about what is virtue, under the clothes of a discus-sion of the Idea of virtue, is the question about what is a predicate. Soc-rates’ interlocutors always regarded virtue as a predicate. Socrates re-quested them to put this predicate as a subject. Thus, the debate centers on the idea of the predicate. I am not asserting that Plato wears these clothes purposefully. On the contrary, I would like to show that he is un-able to grasp the predicative process. He always reduces it to something else, to a discussion about virtue or about the Idea.

The analogy between Virtue and predication becomes clear if we re-gard Virtue as genus and particular virtues as species, so that the genus is predicated of the species. I assume the genus-species distinction for the sake of the analysis, without assuming that Plato himself was aware of if.

Let us regard the Idea as a genus or as a predicate, and particular ideas as species or grammatical subjects.23

Plato’s interlocutors possess specific ideas, specific contents, but they have no knowledge of the Idea per se, namely, of the predicate. In the

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Meno, however, Plato deals both with specific ideas (as he does in Charmides, Laches, Republic I, Euthyphro, Protagoras, and so forth) and, as I will argue, with the Idea per se.

I believe that only through replacing Virtue with predicate (or Idea) can we understand the origin of the Theory of Recollection in the Meno. Plato’s Theory of Recollection intends to refute the “heuristic principle,” according to which it is impossible to search either for the known or the unknown. To search for the known is superfluous; to search for the un-known is impossible. One cannot search for the known since it is already known, and one cannot search when one does not know what to search for (see Meno 80d-e).24 I shall attempt to show that the Theory of Recol-lection neither refutes nor replaces the heuristic principle. This is because Plato’s theory and the heuristic principle share the same presuppositions.

Taken at face value, Plato’s words seem to reject unambiguously the heuristic principle (see Meno 81a). A careful analysis of his theory, how-ever, reveals that Plato does not show how new ideas are produced. He only rejects the heuristic assumption of the absence of knowledge by as-serting that knowledge, or science, exists in a finished manner; he as-sumes that the question has been answered before it was asked. It turns out, then, that the heuristic principle and the Platonic Theory of Recol-lection have in common much more than is generally assumed. They both reject the possibility of acquiring or generating new knowledge. Neither Socrates nor Meno acknowledge the possibility that ideas can be generated.25 The only difference between them is that, for Meno, knowl-edge either is or is not, whereas for Socrates it always is. For Plato, in-deed, knowledge is innate. Therefore, he does not ask how we generate new ideas, but only how we recollect what we already somehow know.

To prove his point, he presents his famous demonstration that the slave does not learn but only remembers. The geometrical exercise that shows that a slave can understand what is meant by an irrational propor-tion (Meno 82c-86c) does not explain how knowledge or science is pro-duced. It only proves that the result can be recalled.26

What is the source of this astonishing theory? To say that the theory of anamnesis derives from Plato’s belief in the eternity of Ideas would be a petitio principii. Because this leads to the question about the source of Plato’s belief in the eternity of Ideas.

The clue for understanding Plato’s belief lies, in my opinion, in his consideration of the functions of subject and predicate in sentences. Even in his earlier dialogues, Plato discovered their different functions.27 These different functions are the key to understanding his dialogues, which express, in different ways, his discovery of the predicate.

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As a discoverer of the predicate, Plato was surprised by its “wonder-ful” character. In the Meno Socrates rejects the use of predicate-ideas that have not served as subjects in previous propositions. They have no meaning because they have not yet been defined.28 Indeed, to function as a predicate, a term must have previously functioned as a subject. This typical Socratic requirement perplexed and even angered his interlocu-tors, who had never found it necessary to define their terms. The need to define evaluative terms was particularly objectionable. Plato stated that subject-ideas could only be defined by previously defined (or known) predicate-ideas (see Meno 75e). This means that what is unknown be-comes known by means of what is already known.

Socrates’ demand for known terms reveals a certain conscious recog-nition of the way the thinking process creates ideas. Plato (Socrates per-haps?) discovered that the subject-predicate relationship is a particular-universal relationship. He also seems to have grasped that this “particu-lar,” or grammatical subject, functions as explanandum insofar as it is (or functions as) the unknown. The “universal,” or predicate, functions as explanans insofar as it is (or functions as) the already known. Plato knew that we must find in every meaningful proposition both an unknown par-ticular factor and an already-known universal factor. He was also aware that knowledge of the universal must precede knowledge of its instances. But he knew only that universals exist, not how they came into being. Plato did not ask where they come from; for him, their existence was given in the proposition. Since the universal-explanans (the predicate) is already known, Plato failed to see that predicate-ideas (which constitute the content of thought) are produced by having been defined in previous propositions.29 In other words, Plato’s misconception begins with his fo-cus on the already-defined predicate, on the content already produced. We can call him the philosopher of the finished product, because he chose to ignore the process of production that takes place when the predicate is defined.

In every predication, a universal-predicate subordinates a particular subject.30 By its nature, this is not a symmetrical relationship. In the clas-sic example, “man is mortal,” the term “man” is particular relative to “mortal,” which is universal. It does not follow from this, however, that every mortal is a man. This is also true for atypical propositions such as “the man runs,” in which the universal “running” subordinates “man” as a particular. Even negative propositions like “man is not a beast” do not verge from this particular-universal relationship since “not-beast” is uni-versal relative to “man.” This is true of all other propositions.31 The ne-gation that defines negative propositions does not negate the subject-predicate relationship itself. It is negative from the point of view of the

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content, though positive from the point of view of the form of the sen-tence.

How, then, does predication produce ideas? Predication is a process that relates a universal-predicate (that functions as the known and there-fore as explanans) to a particular subject (that functions as the unknown and therefore as explanandum). Subject and predicate, it should be noted, are not absolutely unknown or known; they are only unknown and known in the context of the specific proposition. Although a subject can be absolutely unknown, it is usually “unknown” only relative to the spe-cific proposition in which it appears. It has an unknown aspect that the proposition purports to make known. The same is true of the predicate. It can have unknown aspects, granted, but when viewed in a specific proposition, only the known aspects of the predicate are relevant—the aspects that enable it to function as explanans.

We must regard every proposition as a two-way process. The propo-sition leads first from subject to predicate, from the unknown to the known. Then it moves in the opposite direction, from the predicate (the known) to the subject (the unknown). The result—the raison d’être of the proposition—is that the particular-unknown subject becomes something known: an idea, a universal. The predicate, then, tells what this subject is and is, therefore, a means for converting the subject into an idea. Thus, in every proposition, knowledge begins with the predicate, not with the subject. Knowledge cannot start where it does not exist. As Plato as-serted, this is why an unknown word can function as subject, though not as predicate. Plato claimed that a speaker cannot use predicates unknown to the listener (see Meno 75d). If this were the case, words would constitute a set of meaningless sounds rather than a proposition. The content of predication must fulfill the requirement that the predicate must be known before it may be used in a proposition.

Now we may ask what happens to the subject-term once the predica-tion has been made. Usually, content of the predicate not only passes to the subject but also joins all the other predications that have been cou-pled with the same subject in previous propositions.32

The accumulation of content in the subject-term enriches and changes it by means of different predicates. For example, my idea of Plato’s phi-losophy changed when I began to consider the problem of predication. My ideas on Plato may change again if I consider them in light of a new problem (a new predicate). Ideas are not fixed. The accumulative char-acter of the idea implies changeability. Plato did not realize this aspect of the idea. He conceived of the Idea as fixed and eternal. Plato’s kind of reflection grasped only the results, and not the process that produced them, and certainly not the process qua process. From the standpoint of

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the content indeed, the predicate (the universal) appears to have a rela-tively fixed meaning.

The accumulative character of an idea enables the retention of new content even after the predicative process has been finished. The intro-duction of new content leads to a new idea. Predication, therefore, pro-duces an idea out of the subject, an idea that can go on to function as a predicate in future propositions. This explains the Platonic require-ment—that predicate-terms should function first as subjects. Plato does not accept (and rightly so) an explanans that has not previously func-tioned as an explanandum.

To summarize, we may now claim that every proposition—every subject-predicate relationship—has two aspects:

1. The content of the proposition. The result or product of the process: the idea on which we normally focus our attention.

2. The form of the proposition. The predicative process, with its back-and-forth movement, which normally escapes our attention.

Plato, in the Meno, discovered the form of propositions and this is perhaps the most notable achievement of his philosophy. However, he interprets form in terms of content, and regards propositions as products, not as processes.

No accident or inadvertence here; these attitudes have deep roots in Plato’s thought. In his reflection on the form of thinking (or the form of the proposition as the elementary unit of thought) Plato refused to ac-knowledge the predicative process. This is because the consciousness on which he bases his thought—normal human consciousness—does not identify it either. Indeed, the content of Platonic reflection, the object of his analysis, is normal consciousness. He cannot transcend it. Plato grasped the proposition only from the standpoint of the product, or of the content, and not as an active relationship between subject and predicate. Reginald Allen suggests that in Plato we have “a theory of predication without predicates.” It might be more accurate to say we have a theory of predicates without predication.33

Because Plato’s theory is based on predication’s results rather than its processes, he identified Idea with words. In the multitude of predications, words remain unchanged.34 Ideas, however, change according to the predications acquired by the word in its function as subject. A word, while accumulating new meanings or ideas with every new predication, nevertheless remains the same. Therefore, it is not an idea or meaning itself, but simply the vehicle for transmitting ideas or meanings. The dif-ference between the word and the idea that it conveys gives rise to the illusion that the subject-idea has an existence independent of its predi-cates—the illusion that ideas exist before their predicates, or that predi-

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cates do not in any way affect or change ideas. Rather, the subject-idea exists only because of its predicates, and without either an expressed or an implied predication, the subject word is an empty word, devoid of idea.35

When we think, when we produce new ideas (not when we merely recollect and re-produce an already existing idea)—the proposition pre-cedes the idea that it produces. Therefore, the idea is not something fixed. It changes with each new predication. However, since the word precedes the proposition, Plato attributed the stability of the word itself to the changeable idea denoted by the word. To Plato the source of the idea is not predicative motion, but its result: the idea as a product and as telos. He does not perceive of the idea as crystallization of diverse predi-cations. Plato recognizes the what, but not the how, of the Idea. For him, the only question that arises concerning the product is “What is the idea?” He never asks, “How has it come about?” The “how” question refers to a process, not to a product.

We may ask how predicative motion happens, as well as what its re-sults are. The what question addresses a completed object or a completed state. Because the process is complete, one cannot ask “how” this object or that state came to be. In this kind of reflective framework, one does not ask how, because this question will instantly provoke another ques-tion: “How what?” The how-question inevitably is reduced to a what-question. If, however, we wish to analyze a process, and not a completed object or a state, we must ask how, and only how. Plato answered the what-question. However, because he did not consider the process, he in-evitably arrived at a mythical rather than a philosophical solution to the problem of the origin of Ideas. This explains why he had to make re-course to his Theory of Recollection and, later on, to his Theory of Ideas. The Theory of Recollection contains the germs of Plato’s later Theory of Ideas.

Plato’s Reductionism

Plato reduced the predicative process to its product, the idea. In fact, there is no essential difference between the idea as the product of the predicative process (the what—the content of thought) and the predica-tive process (the how—the form of thought). Though we can distinguish between them for purposes of analysis, in actual practice, they cannot be separated. One cannot exist without the other.

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In the subject-predicate relationship, the subject may be regarded as representing the goal of predication: the subject is that which is being produced and transformed by a series of predications. The predicate, on the other hand, may be regarded as representing the formerly produced aspect of predication. This product is relatively fixed, for its function is to serve as a constant, as the productive aspect of predication, indifferent to the subjects it refers to because it is a tool for producing ideas, a tool for “producing” subjects.

As with any other tool, the productive process does not alter the predicate. To sum up, the subject-predicate relationship is an interaction between two elements (subject and predicate) and must be understood as such.

Plato, however, regarded the entire process solely from the point of view of the predicate, and he regarded the predicative process from the standpoint of its resulting content. His philosophy is, therefore, a “phi-losophy of the predicate.” It fails to give an adequate account of the sub-ject and of the predicative process.

The question provoked by Plato—which his Theory of Recollection attempted to answer—is “How is the universal Idea known?” Note the form of the question as I posit it. He did not ask how the idea is produced by the human mind, nor did he ask by what method we arrive at new thoughts. These questions are only relevant from the point of view of the subject. When Plato asked how the Idea is known, he revealed that he regards the Idea as something complete, as a predicate, already present to human consciousness. The idea already exists; our task is to apprehend it.

In adopting this point of view—the standpoint of the predicate, of the changeless content—Plato made the predicate extrinsic to predication. Plato asked Meno to understand the idea in its function as predicate by understanding the relationship between the predicate “bee” and its differ-ent subjects or classes (Meno 72a-b). When bees are divided into classes, they themselves are not divided—they remain bees. As such, they are indivisible. This means that the predicate “bee” is indifferent to its sub-jects. Numerous and diverse as its subjects may be, the predicate remains fixed. The various subjects do not influence it, change it, or produce it. Thus, the predicate appears to be quite detached from the process of predication.

When Plato adopted the point of view of the predicate, he went so far as to refuse to acknowledge that the proposition can produce new con-tents (or, in Plato’s terminology, new Ideas). For this reason, knowledge is not an epistemic process for Plato and, consequently, he was unable to discover or even recognize the tools that we need to produce new knowl-

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edge. The only tools Plato recognized were memory and recollection, because all of knowledge was already complete, fixed, eternal, and pres-ent in our minds.

This brings us into the domain of the theory of anamnesis, a theory that does not explain the generation of the Idea in the predicative proc-ess. In this theory the Idea is a mysterious entity, apprehensible only by “initiation in the mysteries” (see Meno 76e)—an existing but forgotten form.

Seeing as Plato believed that the predicate does not influence the subject, we must ask how he interpreted the subject, the particular, and in what sense the particular subject is different from the universal-predicate. Plato knew that the subject is the changeable and creative element in the proposition. However, he did not regard this creative process as imma-nent in the predication. He invested the form (or process) of thinking with ontic existence. He projected the form of thought (or process) onto reality, and then interpreted the form of thought, the predication, as a re-flection of reality. Subject and predicate, then, are not merely forms of thought for him, but forms of reality, forms of Being. For him, the par-ticular and the universal are not merely forms of thought; they are forms of being which exist independently of each other.

As we have already seen, Plato’s philosophy was based upon the predicate. Predicates have, for him, an epistemic primacy over subjects. This epistemic primacy, expressed in his reflection on language, became an ontic primacy of the Idea over the senses. The ontic correlate of the predicate is the Idea; the ontic correlate of the subject is sense-data.36 The subject is the variable aspect and the predicate is the fixed aspect of thought. Plato believed that the predicate does not constitute the subject and, therefore, the various predicates are not accumulated in the subject. Thus, the only remaining possibility for the subject is to participate ex-trinsically in the predicate. Indeed, the sensible and phenomenal either participate (metexeis) and are present (parousía) in the Idea,37 or they imitate it.38

Plato’s philosophy is, therefore, anti-formalist because it ends by on-tologizing the Idea. For this reason the Theory of Recollection is a theory of the innate, of the given. Unable to explain the production of ideas, it assumes their factual existence, as if they sprang up independently of predication.

According to the interpretation I have suggested, Plato’s Theory of Recollection and Theory of Ideas evade, rather than explain, the question of the generation of Ideas. To understand Plato and, more generally, to understand the problem of the generation of Ideas, we must first attempt to explain this Platonic evasion. This is a paradox resembling Meno’s

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heuristic principle. We may express it in sophistic terms, as follows: “How are predicate-ideas produced if, in every proposition, they already exist? If, on the other hand, Ideas are produced in their function as sub-ject-ideas, that is, if Ideas are always a result of predication, how is it that they precede predication?”39

At this point, the heuristic principle becomes circular. The question is now, “What precedes what?” Does predication precede the idea, or does the idea precede predication? Both Meno and Socrates failed to provide an answer to this question, and rightly so. In the framework of an analy-sis of a single proposition and a single idea, this question has no answer. Only an analysis of the historical process of knowledge can provide the answer. Such an analysis will raise not only a conceptual problem, but a pragmatic one as well. This is, of course, a matter that ultimately leads us outside the boundaries of this analysis, for although it begins with Plato, it concerns not only the Idea per se, but the origin of the a priori in gen-eral.

Socrates and the Sophists Compared

Plato’s anti-formalist kind of reflection was an answer to the sophist’s formalism. If the sophists contended that there is a place for an analysis of the methods of knowledge and valuation, Plato denied the very possi-bility of a theory of knowledge. He recognized only knowledge, not a theory about it. First, he asserted that we have nothing but knowledge, and then he reduced virtue—even valuation in general—to knowledge. Under this assumption, virtue can be, if at all, instructed but not taught, since teaching implies a turn to the form of knowledge, whereas instruc-tion refers only to the content.

The sophists believed that virtue could be taught. They defended re-flection by taking it to extremes; in the end, they possessed a theory of knowledge without knowledge. If Plato maintained that we have knowl-edge without knowledge of knowledge, they asserted that we do have knowledge of knowledge—but we do not have knowledge itself.

The sophist movement was the result of a strange historical process. In ancient Greece, philosophy and science began in the form of private communities and esoteric associations. The sophist movement carried these sciences into public life, hoping to gain a measure of social legiti-macy for these endeavors. Two questions I would like to leave open: why science always originates as a private activity, and whether or not the sophists succeeded in making science public.

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Be that as it may, the sophists, whether they recognized it or not, managed to burden themselves with two irreconcilable tasks: (a) they taught natural science, but did not practice it; (b) they concerned them-selves with the science of the teaching of science, the very teaching itself became their object of analysis.

Both tasks are, generally speaking, the expression of a transition from theoretical science to practical or applied science. This is what happens when science is put on the service of non-scientific goals. Mathematics, for instance, did not arise in Greece as the result of certain practical needs, but for its own sake. The term “irrational numbers” expresses the theoretical purity that is so fundamental to the Greek spirit. More practi-cal spirits would not dream of using such a term. Only those who appre-ciate rationality, proportion, and order for their own sake would make a point of designating some numbers as more “ideal” than others.

Later, Hippodamus takes science in the direction of construction and techné. Hippocrates turns physiological research into a curative disci-pline. From knowledge for its own sake, science becomes an activity that offers practical solutions and addresses the needs of practical life. The sage, the scientist, the least practical person in the village, becomes the most skillful and successful. Sagacity becomes the goal of pragmatic minds, because to succeed in practice one needs to be well versed in the-ory.

However, practical life did not mean, in this new period, a technical capacity to cope with nature. Social relations were now the mediators of the practical relation with nature, and these social relations became dem-ocratic in spirit. The sui generis combination of democracy and science implied a common effort and common decisions in the face of a mysteri-ous nature. Now to forge any common effort, one must convince others that they can all benefit from pursuing the same goal. Persuasion then becomes the mediator of knowledge.

Persuasion is a skill that requires technical knowledge. However, what happens next is that knowledge and truth become subordinated to pseudo-knowledge, to opinion. Precisely because they were mediators, opinion and persuasion supplanted the truth they had been assigned to convey.

All this new view is the result of the awareness of values as being dif-ferent from knowledge and of the immediate valuative reduction of knowledge to values, a reduction to which Socrates reacted reducing val-ues to knowledge. Thus, the sophists were committed to persuasion. Without persuasion, without opinion (or untrue opinion, as Plato would define it) there can be no advancement of science. Science determines the means, and the opinion the ends. If we cannot determine what our

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goals are, science will be of little use to us. Plato interpreted this as the triumph of ignorance over science and vehemently opposed this intel-lectual movement. He opposed the alliance of technique and democracy. This is the source, in my opinion, of his anti-democratic attitude.40 And Athens, the cultural center of ancient Greece, was the place where the contradiction between science and democracy became most pronounced.

The contradiction between technique and democracy, between the sphere of means and the kingdom of ends, between means applied to nature and ends determined by social decision, democratically resolves itself in the transformation of the kingdom of ends itself into means. Now thinkers pay attention, reflectively, to persuasion, especially to the technique of persuasion. The methods they once employed in investigat-ing nature are now applied to an investigation of social consciousness. One of the chief issues concerns the techniques of persuasion, which promise to yield practical benefits in commerce and politics. Science thus becomes a path to worldly advantage and profit. Therefore, the sophists are in a position to sell science, specifically, the technique of manipulating an audience with words. This skill is indispensable in a so-ciety where every free-born man has the right to hold opinions and give out advice, whether or not he can claim any expertise in the matter; Pro-tagoras asserted so and Socrates approved, albeit only as an account of the thinking and behavior of the Athenians.41

In short, democracy rewards those who know how to speak to the public, and the sophist teaches this skill. This technique replaces the ear-lier science. The student of nature becomes a teacher of eloquence.42

At this point, a clarification may be in order. I have generalized the situation to emphasize certain important features. In fact, the sophist movement was divided into two camps: the Gorgias school, which trans-formed the end into a means, and the Protagoras school, which regarded society as a kingdom of ends. Both tendencies had a practical character, though practical in very different meanings: Gorgias and Trasymachus were ready to regard human consciousness as a means, to manipulate it, whereas Protagoras regarded it as an end in itself, and regarded himself as an educator of human souls.

This practical tendency clashes with another sophist tendency, their scientific attitude. The focus of the new science was not, as I already said, the science of nature, but the social relations of science. With the same reflective force, the issue that began to concern them was not sci-ence itself, but scientific methodology. Interest shifted from the object of science to its subject. On the one hand, then, practice prevailed over the-ory and, on the other hand, to put it in Cartesian terms, formal reality im-posed itself over the objective reality.

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George Kerferd finds continuity between the sophists and their prede-cessors, pointing out that the sophists still were interested in physical speculation.43 I think, however, that the discontinuities become more striking when we consider the difference between the objects that occu-pied the attention of the pre-sophists and the sophists. The pre-sophists contemplated the principles of nature, whereas the sophists contemplated their own contemplation of these principles.

The difference between the notions of nomos and phusis will illumi-nate my thesis. The former is generally considered artificial and the latter natural. Sometimes the nomos is regarded as false and the phusis is re-garded as true.44 However, we can find an Empedocles denying birth and destruction, asserting that they conform to nomos, and a Democritus de-claring that sensible qualities exist only in nomos. That means that nomos is “for us” and phusis is “in and for itself.” In this sense, the sophists are philosophers of the nomos; this is the source of Protagoras’ alleged rela-tivism.45

This understanding does not contradict the view most commonly ac-cepted by the interpreters, namely, that nomos implies “(i) usage or cus-tom based on traditional or conventional beliefs as to what is right or true, (ii) laws formally drawn up and passed, which codify “right usage” and elevate it into an obligatory norm backed by the authority of the state.”46 Rather it elucidates them. Nomos indicates the form and not the content, and the form, in reflection, is the object of analysis. Discussion of religion turned on whether the gods existed by phusis—in reality—or only by nomos.47 Guthrie believes that the intellectual climate of ancient Greece was similar to that of England in the seventeenth century, which was (so he claims) a utilitarian era.48 However, if I am right, the sophists were not utilitarian, at least Protagoras was not.

One very interesting scholarly debate turns around the question of whether the sophists were rhetoricians, namely, people dedicated to the social life, or whether they lived in seclusion (Ettore Bignone). The ex-treme advocate of the former opinion is Theodor Gomperz.49 Bignone stands at the other extreme. He contrasted the orators, “living amid the harsh realities of politics,” with the sophists, who led the “sheltered and sequestered lives of paid educators of the public.”50 I imagine that this is the first and last time that we can expect to see the life of the Sophists described as “ombratile e appartata.” Indeed, it was the first, but not the last. I agree with Bignone, though only partially. Guthrie follows Plato’s opinion of the sophists. Plato says that “Every one of these individual professional teachers, whom the people call Sophists and regard as their rivals in the art of education, in fact teaches nothing but the beliefs of the

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people expressed by themselves in their assemblies. This is what he claims as his wisdom” (Rep. 493a).

The sophists’ practical tendency, which pulled them toward active so-cial involvement, and their theoretical tendency, which pulled them to-ward reflection and contemplation, did not contradict each other in es-sence. The same presuppositions support both the inner and outer life. The one is a fertile soil for the other. Practice is a fertile soil for the transformation of practice, which then becomes an object of theory. The-ory takes its revenge on tyranny of practice by turning back to theory for its own sake, to science for the sake of science. The new subject matter of science, however, is not nature but rather human knowledge itself, namely, the relation of humans to humans and to their many cultural products. The sophists are, then, more precisely, those who put theory in the service of practice by making practice itself the primary object of theory.

Some regard this movement as the decadence phase of Greek science. The sophists are sometimes regarded as empty formalists that contribute nothing to knowledge. In my opinion, this attitude comes from a mis-reading of the sophist spirit. The sophists discovered a new continent, the continent of the subject. Their primary interest turns from knowledge of the subject to the subject of knowledge. They move in crab like fashion from the predicate to the subject. They reflect on the content of science and so, instead of the content, they grasp the form of thought in general and of scientific thought in particular.

A common scholarly opinion contends that the sophists knew how to speak in an elegant and effective style whatever the matter at hand, but contributed nothing to knowledge. This view fails to discern that their understanding of style was itself their contribution to knowledge. The sophists were the first to become aware of the fact that any content, any piece of knowledge, must be communicated; outside communication, content is not only ineffective, but also practically nonexistent. The ad-dressee is the subject, and the subject is only able to understand a dis-course that takes into account his patterns of thought and capacity for understanding. This is the reason for the elegance in discourse. In order to speak with elegance, you must understand the mind of the audience.

However, elegance is not the central issue of sophist rhetoric. The general tendency is to regard rhetoricians as those who are ready to speak on any topic under the sun. However, rhetoric is not filibuster. The rheto-rician not only knows how to speak but also how to hold his tongue. The sophist Gorgias asserts that nobody in the world can speak more con-cisely than he can (See Grg. 449c). He is indeed a rhetorician, and a master of brevity. The real issue is not speaking, but swaying the mind of

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the audience. Sometimes a long speech will do the trick and sometimes a short one, depending on the circumstances.

Sophistry, which begins as the art of verbal persuasion, in the end turns its attention to its object: human consciousness. Human thinking and willing become the subject matter of theory. This is not annulment of traditional science but the birth of a new one. Anthropology, or subjec-tivity, is the new issue. With Prodicus, for example, speculations on lan-guage replace cosmic theories, just because these theories are expressed in language, and only in language. Speculation about the origin of the cosmos is replaced by speculations about the origins of language. We can clearly see this reflective shift in sophist thought in Prodicus’ assertion that the first natural objects to be venerated were those which exercise the most lasting and beneficent influence on human life. Among these objects, he counted the sun, the moon, and the rivers (reminding his readers at that point of the Egyptian worship of the Nile).51 Prodicus is thus on the verge of asserting that human beings create their gods ac-cording to their aspirations and needs. Critias, who was more extreme, explained that the belief in the gods was an invention of rulers.52

Another sophist, Antiphon, seems to have been the discoverer of the phenomenon that is variously called hypostasy, reification, or the “con-cretization’ of ideas. This is the case when he speaks of time as “a con-ception or a measure, not a substance.”53 Antiphon’s distinction between substance and conceptualization tells us a lot about the new philosophical interest.

In another fragment, Antiphon asserts that “He who recognizes any long objects neither sees length with his eyes nor can perceive it with his mind.”54 The true point at issue was undoubtedly the substantial exis-tence of general ideas, a motive for Gomperz to refer to Antiphon as the earliest of the nominalists.55

Formerly, in the cosmological period, science asked—already in a philosophical spirit—about what is universally valid. What is the arche, or the principle that explains natural variances? Water, air, fire, and so forth were all given as basic principles. All these principles, though spiritual in kind, still maintained the character of “incarnated” spirits, namely, of things perceptible to the senses. Later, Anaxagoras’ nous, Anaximender’s apeiron, Parmenides’ Being, and Heraclitus’ logos freed themselves from the senses and thus took the first steps toward an an-thropological world view. These principles are the prelude to the sophist interest in human beings, who are the carriers of principles. All these principles are already beyond the content of perception as a criterion. The subject as a criterion is a notion that can already be discerned on the horizon.

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The spiritualization that begins to reject sense-data provides us with a clue for understanding how one question leads to another. If the earlier question asked, “What is universally valid?” the new question concerns validity itself. The new question is about the criterion as such; now the search is not for a principle, but for a criterion that is universally valid. This is a radically different problem. It casts doubt on that which was formerly unassailable. Now it is on the focus of what formerly was not, namely, the subject that does not return as if it were formerly forgotten, but appears now as something new. The extreme case of formalism (or anti-objectivationism) is Gorgias’ work on Not-Being or Nature, a work that was probably extremely provocative, to judge from the only frag-ment we have.

Sophistry and Democracy

Democracy and the continuous changes of constitutions legitimized the subject as the only field of inquiry.56 Democracy, ontologized and put in Platonic epistemic terms, means that every person’s opinion is worthy of consideration as truth, and if the majority endorses it, it is indeed true.57 The question now is not what kind of constitution is valid for each state, but if it can be a valid one. Democracy, regarded in its purity, shakes the grounds of religious belief, puts customs into question, and has no respect for authority. I mean, religion, customs, tradition, and authority as such, run against the democratic spirit. For this reason, the main problem of democracy is survival, because the threat comes both from its enemies and from its own extreme proponents. To stay alive, a democracy needs safeguards against the two extremes—authoritarianism and anarchy. That is to say excessive social control and excessive indi-vidual freedom. Democracy is a question of moderation, of proportion, of measure.

According to the new interpretation offered by Protagoras of an an-cient myth, these safeguards, these controls, are the gift offered by Zeus: the sense of justice and the sense of shame. Justice functions as a safe-guard against authoritarianism, and shame stands guard against anarchy and against the proliferation of anti-social behaviors.

By its very nature, democracy provokes a crisis in the norms of social legitimacy. The champion of the defense of democracy against its ex-tremes was Protagoras. However, he did not offer an ideological defense of democracy, but rather a philosophy imbued with the democratic spirit.

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The inner contradictions of Protagoras’ philosophy are the contradictions inherent to the democratic regime.

I contended that sophistry embodies a contradiction between science and democracy. The natural answer to such a conflict is negative: there is no place for a truth criterion with universal validity. This does not imply the approval of falsehood. By a retreat from the confidence in the content of knowledge, and due to a democratic spirit, the new science directs its search toward a reality that is neither true nor false. It is not the criterion for truth that is neither true nor false, but the criterion of the criterion, namely, the human subject. Here we can find the beginnings of psychol-ogy, of the search for the origins of ethical norms and for the study of logic and axiology. This is a new tendency that offers responses to the needs of practice. The ability to put theoretical achievements into prac-tice is only a later product of this process.

The sophists were not radical relativists, however, since they did not renounce the possibility of finding the truth, at least the truth of their own reflective skeptical assertions. Nor did they renounce the priority of some positive values. They asked (or at least those who maintained a scientific spirit) for a criterion capable of explaining the spontaneous relativistic consequences of the contradiction between science and democracy. If there are no evident universal truths in practical life (in social, demo-cratic life), one can at least continue one’s search for them in the frame of theory. Prodicus dedicated himself to the search of language, Gorgias to the refutation of Eleatism, Hippias examined the methods of the di-verse sciences, and Protagoras tried to offer the raison d’être for all of the new inquiries.

Socrates, though he disagreed with the sophists, was totally immersed in the spirit of the new times. We could call him a “reactive sophist,” a thinker who rebelled by trying to offer a positive answer to the question of whether universal truth exists or not. His positive answer, though anti-sophist in content, is sophist in form. Socrates does not look for truth, or for the criterion for truth, but rather for the criterion of the criterion of truth. Conclusions aside, the approach itself is sophist.

The contradiction between science and democracy has another aspect: it is also the contradiction between is and ought. Protagoras resolves the contradiction by asserting that science must spread openly and not re-main in the secluded enclaves of esoteric schools. However, this stand has its price. To spread science is not to do science. He lived, so it seems, with this heart-rending conflict. From the one side—to think freely. From the other side—to teach freely. He produced and distributed science. Let us recall what kind of science he refers to. He does not refer to natural science, but to the science of the method of science. Methodology per se

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was not the heart of his interest, but ethics, the inquiry and recommenda-tion for certain kinds of ought, rather than a pure inquiry into the is. The ought is the order of the day.

Socrates solved the contradiction, science/democracy, is/ought, in a different way. He asserted that virtue lies in knowledge, in science. He rebelled, in this way, against the power of nomos over phusis, that is, against the power of prescriptions of changeable validity over immutable natural laws. Plato tried to introduce criteria of phusis in a world of no-mos. He tried to reduce nomos to phusis. We will see later, in more de-tail, how this exigency functions in the Socratic Plato.

The sophists tend to the opposite reduction, of phusis to nomos. The case is not that they tried, as it were, to project their opinions about law on the natural world. They had two alternative approaches instead. The first approach was to state that man is the criterion of validity of nature. The more moderate approach, endorsed by Protagoras, was to ignore natural phenomena because they transcend the capacities of human un-derstanding. I shall insist that, in the sophist milieu, even the recommen-dation to pursue natural law, to let natural law guide one’s life, is still anthropocentric. It is really only a recommendation because it is suffused with awareness about the alternative; otherwise, it would not be a rec-ommendation but an obligation.

For purposes of clarity, willingly and consciously, I am exaggerating the history of the sophist movement. In fact they did not all endorse the same approach. One finds important differences among them. I am em-phasizing certain features, however, in order to prepare for an analysis of Protagoras’ thought.

A main feature of Protagoras’ philosophy is his sui generis way of distinguishing between phusis and nomos and, which is the same, the distinction between science and democracy. According to him, we know nothing and there is nothing we can know about the natural world or about the gods. We can know only whatever directly affects our human life and registers as sense experience. Protagoras does not refer, for ex-ample, to the justice imparted by Zeus, but to the quality of justice that belongs to those who received it from Zeus—human beings. Justice is not a subject matter in itself, but a capacity, the capacity to be just. This is the difference between a divine and a human ethics. Regarding rela-tionships with the divine world, Protagoras emphasizes that we can only speak about what is immanently human; thus, he refused to engage in discussions about transcendent realities. Regarding our relationship to nature, we cannot know what it exactly is, in itself. We can only know nature to the extent that it responds to our technical capacity to dominate

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it. The main point here concerns not nature, but our technical capacity, the Promethean capacity or quality.58

Once installed in the human field, Protagoras makes other distinc-tions: phusis, which is something impenetrable, is replaced

1. By human desires and impulses, namely by pleasure, which is the leading value. They are, as it were, a phusis within the nomos.

2. There is place, in his philosophy, for the technical-utilitarian rela-tionship with the external phusis that refers to phusis from the point of view of nomos.

3. Morality, which is nomos properly, namely, the moral relationships between persons expressed by the value of the moral good. Morality does not have a utilitarian character. For Protagoras indeed, democracy is an expression of morality and therefore democracy itself does not have a utilitarian character.

From an analysis of the Protagoras, it is clear enough that Socrates, contrariwise, regarded ethical virtue as analogical to technical ability. That is, he reduced ethics to utility to later identify utility with rationality by defining rationality as the technique that calculates benefits and losses that can result from certain hypothetical decisions; calculations of this sort can be the ground for the effective taking of decisions. This is what Plato understood as sophrosune, moderation in behavior.59 Indeed, for Socrates, contrary to all appearances, nothing is merely good for its own sake, but always as a means for something else, as a matter of utility.

Protagoras defends both the rights of the passions and the rights of morality to exist for their own sake, which is something more in accor-dance with democracy. Plato’s opposition to democracy is deeply rooted in his philosophical presuppositions.

At this point, we might do well to ask how Protagoras and Socrates differ regarding Protagorean relativism. Both philosophers appear to be relativists. It seems indeed that the criteria employed by them are the same. However, if we compare Protagoras with Socrates, we discover that his thought is somewhat less relativist and Socrates’ thought some-what more relativist than is generally believed. For Protagoras, indeed, some things are good in themselves, for example justice and pleasure (Zeusian and Epimethean values). Moreover, as an educator, Protagoras clearly preferred Zeusian values to all others; there is nothing relative about those preferences. The problem of relativism is actually more a problem for Socrates than it is for Protagoras.

It is noteworthy that Socrates, or at least the Socratic Plato, tries to reconcile Good with Utility. Though he reduces Good to Utility, the Su-preme Good is the last end for the sake of which something can be use-ful. Put thus, it will seem that I am contradicting myself or that the re-

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duction goes the opposite way, that Utility is actually reduced to Good. Indeed, the reduction does not consist of asserting that the Good is good for something else, but that something useful is useful for the sake of the Good. However, the point here is that when Socrates reduces Good to Utility, he calls utility “Good.” Socrates may say, as it were, that the good is good for the sake of the good, namely, as a means for an end. In fact, he does use this line of argumentation, but only very indirectly after a lot of beating around the bush, by means of a series of definitions; all this in order to avoid being caught in a tangle of contradictions. I will analyze these matters later in more detail.

Protagoras, in criticizing Plato’s approach, was not renouncing sci-ence. He only thought that the only possible science is the science of human affairs. What was, formerly, an art—speaking persuasively and eloquently—becomes for him a science. We can regard him as the crea-tor of grammar and syntax. With Protagoras, linguistics takes its first steps. He studied the parts of the sentence, articulated the tenses of verbs, and divided speech into its different modes of voices.60 He studied the use of words, etymology, and synonymity. He was the first to see lan-guage as an object of inquiry, rather than as a tool whose function can be taken for granted. He was also the first Greek thinker on record to have noticed the gender of word endings.61 Accordingly, he was concerned with literary criticism. His analysis of Simonides’ poem in the Pro-tagoras is a good example in kind.

The issue now is not the object to which science must offer proofs, but only proofs as such. The proofs themselves become the object of analysis.

In my opinion, if we understand properly this interest in proofs—in and of themselves—we will better understand the sophistic spirit in gen-eral. The interest in proofs, properly understood, will bring us to recog-nize that even proofs are not the central matter of analysis, but just the opposite—refutations. In the field of proofs, indeed, when something is proven—for instance, the existence of something in nature—the proof sends us, as it were, to the proven object. A refutation, however, does not coincide with the refuted notion, but rather remains separate from it in our minds. Thus, the refutation seems to exist on its own account, so to speak. We grasp it more easily as something in itself; for this reason, refutations are easier to examine than proofs.

Refutations became more important than proofs. They are more closely related to the workings of the human mind than are proofs used in natural inquiry. In the field of logic, for example, the central issues are now contradictions, paradoxes, and absurdities. Let me state this as fol-lows: Nothing can be proved but everything can be refuted. This is the

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central point of sophist logic, and it has given rise to the widespread as-sumption that Protagoras espoused an extreme relativism. But was Pro-tagoras really defending an “ism,” and was he merely attempting to de-scribe refutatory logic? I think the latter—that on the one side he took a stand in value matters, being therefore non-relativist, and, on the other side, in his meta-theory, his relativism consisted of elucidating certain kinds of logic in a very neutral and scientific spirit. Indeed, Protagoras has been credited with the development of a principle for refutatory logic, a law of contradictory judgments that states that two contradictory sentences can be offered for each object.

Zeno the Eleatic paved the way for Protagoras. However, while Zeno used paradox in order to dramatize the truth of Being against motion and change, Protagoras was interested in the very logical form of the paradox itself.

A sign of the sophistic’s shift can be found in their sense of humor. Sometimes they ended up with absurd questions and absurd answers, which occurred when they could not find sensible alternatives to their intellectual dilemmas. This humor signals the reflective shift that char-acterized the sophistic thought (as opposed to common sensical thought). Therefore, neither were they outspoken advocates of ordinary common opinion, nor did they criticize it. The sophistic scientific spirit was sweetened with humor, which did not hurt its success in assemblies. And both sophistic tendencies, practice and theory, were essentially reflec-tions about thought. The word was a matter of effective expression. The sophistic tendency to theory was not audience-oriented. Sophist theory allowed no room for ambiguity of expression or lack of coherence. In a debate, they attempted to put their opponent in the position of defending absurdities, and that was enough.62 The sophists played with words, with special recourse to etymology (Etymology indeed, is usually a matter for reflection, not for ordinary common sense.) Such new uses of language excited the surprise of the public. The sophists knew how to turn a ques-tion inside out and hand it back in an unrecognizable shape. The answer, therefore, whether positive or negative, would be necessarily absurd, thus preventing their intellectual opponent from reaching an expected conclu-sion. The sophists became champions of debate, of heuristic reasoning. Their theoretical achievements in the field of language were recognized as very useful in such very practical fields as law (the art of cross-examination) and politics (interrogation of the opposition’s motives). The sophists discovered and consciously practiced the instrumental use of language, namely, its political use. This tendency culminated with Di-odoros Cronos. He was famous for his sophisms, aporias, and contradic-tions.63

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The sophists studied and reappropriated the old philosophical dis-putes, making them relevant to their new interest. For this reason Pro-tagoras is considered a follower of Heraclitus and Gorgias a follower of Parmenides. In certain sense, they are, but they contradict their predeces-sors. They altered the logic of former thinkers to suit their own patterns of thought. Gorgias discovered the consequences of the non-contradic-tion principle, namely, that only the principle of identity is logically valid. We can only predicate what a thing already is; that is, the predicate must assert what was already asserted in the subject, being is being. However, this means nothing can be said.

If plurality and motion were once regarded as absurdities, the sophis-tic translation of the same reasons means now that what is absurd is Eleatism, since it implies that one predicate can be attributed to a subject. Indeed, for Gorgias, Being, Knowledge, and Learning are impossible tasks. Nothing exists, asserts Gorgias, taking the Eleatic logic to its ex-tremes. Indeed, Being, either as eternal or as perishable, as either simple or multiple, is inconceivable. The same can be said about not-Being. Both are contradictory ideas. If something would exist, it would not be knowable. Because whatever we think about Being must necessarily be wholly different from Being; otherwise it would not be possible to dis-tinguish between Being and Thought. Finally, if knowledge of being were possible, it could not be taught. Because each one has his own rep-resentations, and there is no available means to confirm whether the oth-ers’ minds employ the same signs as does your mind, which is a neces-sary condition for the communication of knowledge.

If my assumptions about the sophists are correct, it is unprovable and improbable that Protagoras wrote a treatise on Being. Those who believe in the authenticity of such a (lost) book regard it as a response to Par-menides in support of Heraclitus.64 In this writing, Protagoras supposedly defends the plurality and motility of Being. However, Being was not a matter of concern to Protagoras. In all likelihood the reason for this par-ticular misinformation originates in Protagoras’ own contemporaries, a situation not unusual in the history of philosophy.

Protagoras’ interest lay elsewhere: in the consciousness of Being. Not the logos of the world, but the world of logos, namely, the way the logos is understood by human beings in general and by philosophers in par-ticular. His concern with plurality is not with natural plurality but with the plurality of opinions, an approach that would no doubt have puzzled the great pluralist Heraclitus. However, since opinion is the only possible knowledge in matters of truth, he reduces truth to opinion.

Sextus Empiricus also reverses the order of things. He believes that

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“human beings are the measure of all things” is based on some conception hold by Protagoras, as it were, of the nature of matter; he says that matter is in a state of flux, and that as it flows addi-tions continually replace the effluxes . . . the reasons for all appar-ent things are present in matter, so that the matter can, as far as it itself is concerned, be all the things it appears to anyone to be.65

This but inverts the order, since for Protagoras, the fact that every-thing continually changes is a function of the knowing subject and not of the known object. Mutable things do not form the basis for the measure of nature, but the mutable opinion. I mean, that Protagoras’ idea of na-ture is not deducible from his natural investigations, but from his investi-gation into human nature, into knowledge and valuation themselves. He is not a natural scientist, but a human scientist.66

Sextus adds: “all things that are apparent (perceptible) to men actually are (exist), and what is apparent to nobody is not (does not exist).” To this passage, Mario Untersteiner, who accepts Sextus’ interpretation, quotes Giuseppe Rensi with approval. Rensi says that for Protagoras,

the act of appearing, of manifestation, is the essence of being a thing, i.e. that in which being a thing consists. But what is meant by appearance, manifestation? Recognizability. The essence of that which is a thing, therefore, is to be manifest, recognizable. “Thing” means “recognizability.” Hence it is correct to say: “The subject is the necessary correlate of the object.” But not in the further sense that the subject is cognition in action, endowed with life, that is, capable of experience, having a soul (since Protagoras, as has been said, excludes the concept of soul from his epistemology); only in the sense that things in order to exist must be grasped by cognition, or rather understood and thought; and certainly also in the sense that as a correlate to the object there is the pure subject, which simply means the capacity, potentiality, possibility of cognition.” Therefore “Nature, in order to exist, must manifest itself, reveal it-self, appear, that is, conform to the conditions of cognition.”67

The alternative approach is that of Karl Koestlin, also quoted by Un-tersteiner though with disapproval:

existence is only in so far as and through the fact that a man states that something is; non existence is simply in so far as and through the fact that a man states that something is not; existence and non-existence are merely human notions; if there were no man who be-lieved that something is or is not, it would not be possible to speak of the existence or non-existence of anything.68

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The Rensi-Koestlin discussion, so stated, is a discussion about the ontological status of the object in Protagoras’ philosophy. One may agree with Rensi regarding the nature of knowledge, but the question is whether Protagoras indeed went so far. I find it very improbable, not only for Protagoras, but also for ancient Greek thinkers in general. In-deed, Rensi’s thesis assumes that the Greeks understood the form of knowledge as a process concerning the subject and the object, so that the subject changes when related to the object and the object when related to the subject—a concept of change and motion that is alien to their spirit. In their reflection, Protagoras, like Plato, reduced one of the poles to the other. The alternative view was pure skepticism about the very possibil-ity of knowledge. For this reason, they ended up either as formalists or anti-formalists.

I tend to agree with Koestlin’s interpretation. I believe that Protagoras was a phenomenologist who put the status of reality into brackets. He was unconcerned with the ontological status of the object. For Pro-tagoras, nature exists only insofar as we know it. Thus nature, since it only exists for human consciousness, has only relational qualities and no fundamental, independent, qualities of its own (and if it does, we will never know).69 In this regard, see Theaetetus 160a: “it follows necessar-ily . . . that the given object when it is experienced as sweet or bitter or anything similar, is experienced by someone. It is, in fact, sweet—but it cannot be so without being sweet to someone.” See also: Tht. 167a: “It is not possible to think that which does not exist, nor anything except what one experiences, but the later is always true.”70

Protagoras in his reflection reduces Being to manifestation. Substance has not yet acquired an independent status, as in Aristotle’s thought. Nevertheless, this does not imply that factual-being and predicated-being “were actually fused and unified” as Guido Calogero claims.71 Rather, Protagoras reduced factual being to the predicated (copulative) being.72 This subjectivistic turn also implies the annulment of knowledge, or more precisely the reduction of knowledge to people’s opinions about things. Knowledge, in other words, is reduced to values. What can no longer be justified by reference to the gods or nature now derives its va-lidity from human nature.73

If we concede that matter has a meaning in Protagoras, it only ratifies the assumption that everything originates in perception. Indeed, Pro-tagoras holds that matter lacks form, which is like saying that it lacks meaning. Only sense-perception bestows meaning, or form, to matter. Matter becomes merely a correlate of the form of knowledge, which, since it is neither true nor false, becomes an expression of the attitude toward things, without transcendent existence. The diverse representa-

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tions of the subject are then functions that belong to the subject, that change, that are not always, even in the same subject, identical to them-selves. This is the essence of his homo mensura tenet.

Knowledge is not the subject-object relationship, as Rensi would have it, but the reduction of content to form, of object to subject. From the point of view of content, there is no universal and necessary Being. From the point of view of the form, there is no epistemic community. This does not mean that “man is the measure of all things” implies the ab-sence of a criterion. On the contrary, there is a measure and a measured thing as well. If Plato’s predicate bestows the measure, as indeed it ap-pears to be in isolated sentences, in Protagoras we find an inverted im-age: the subject bestows the measure.

In this reflection (and it is possible to take such an epistemic stand only in reflection) man is the measure for the essence and for the exis-tence of things. The subject determines the essence of things. Essence depends on the stand that the subject takes. And that on which the subject takes a stand has not an ontological status. This is the meaning of the ad-dendum: “of all things that are as to how they are.” This abstract idea of matter is the result of Protagoras’ reflection, in which Being is reduced to its appearance or manifestation.74 He does not and cannot deal with the factual Being but with the being in the copulative sense in the sentence, as in Parmenides (when the latter is interpreted, at least, in a non-ontological way).

Aristotle (Met. 1062b12) asserts that Protagoras’ “man as the meas-ure” implies a contradiction since, according to this principle, one and the same thing may be and not-be at the same time, namely, to be good and bad, beautiful and ugly, since what seems to each one is the standard for knowledge. This is an ontologistic interpretation. However, Pro-tagoras did not say that the same thing is good and bad (and so forth) at the same time and under the same perspective. It may be good and bad at the same time but in different perspectives, namely, for different people. It may also be good and bad under the same perspective, namely, for the same person, but at different times. Things are their epistemic or valua-tive properties, namely, as dependent on the subject, and do not possess substantial realities beyond and away from the subject. The subject is the real substance. True, Protagoras, in this opinion, contradicts the idea of “the masses,” but contradicts it as it contradicts itself in its own reflec-tion. Indeed, popular opinion becomes, when it reflects on its opinions, relativist; such relativism, in fact, contradicts the original position. If they were also relativist at the original level, they would not even be able to affirm that something is good, bad, beautiful, just, and so on; that is, values are regarded as qualities of things. If this were not so, the asser-

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tion would be that it is not the thing that is good or bad, but only the opinion, and this is by no means the original valuative intention in hu-man language and thought.

Protagoras, however, does not merely adopt a relativist understanding of ordinary reflection in order to transform it, as it were, into the impos-sible task of establishing it as the criterion for truth. He goes a step fur-ther than that. People believe that some of their representations are true and others false. Protagoras responds that any perception as such is ac-tual, real. Plato quotes Protagoras as saying that any perception is true. What the multitude would interpret, perception as such, as being some-times neither true nor false, and other times as true or false, Protagoras interprets as always being, in Plato’s account at least, “true,” or better in-terpreted, neither true nor false. This is the case at the reflective level. At the non-reflective level, on the other hand, when Protagoras educates in the name of certain values, he takes a stand for some perceptions over others. He adopts the point of view of what is convenient or beneficiary. And since convenience is for someone or for something, he contradicts himself in his capacity as educator, since as such he predicated for a change in the soul in name, or for the sake of socially positive values against others.

In his educative efforts, then, Protagoras provided the ideological jus-tification for the conscious (and democratic) change of the social institu-tions. In the previous period, the gods were responsible for the character of social institutions, but now Protagoras asks if the gods really exist.75

This attitude does not mean neglect of science, I shall insist, but the discovery of a new one, the science of the form of knowledge.

The central concern of Protagoras was with the problem of represen-tation. Gorgias, on the other hand, was concerned with the impossibility of knowledge of Being. However, they shared the same presupposition: that there is a gap between what things are in themselves, and what they are for the knower-subject. Once this gap is recognized, Protagoras ori-ents himself toward the subject, as well as toward perception, language, and thought.

Therefore, the anonymous Dissoi Logoi (“double-, alternative-accounts” or “twofold arguments”) fragment (DK 90) is an expression of the Protagorean translation of Heraclitus’ thinking into the field of lin-guistics, a field into which Heraclitus did not venture.76

The idea that there are two logoi about a thing demonstrates that Pro-tagoras posits a distinction between thought and reality, and then directs his attention toward thought and the thinker. The opposite attitude, Soc-rates’ anti-formalism, is expressed in Plato’s theory of denotation in the

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Cratylus, which argues for a direct relationship between language and thing, thus reducing the subject to a mere receptacle for reality.

That there are two logoi regarding the same thing is not the same as asserting that the one and the same thing has, itself, two logoi. This is the difference between Protagoras and Heraclitus. Protagoras is an episte-mologist, whereas Heraclitus an ontologist.

Julius Moravcsik makes the same distinction as a distinction between laws of logic and causal laws. Regarding the two logoi, he asserts that

We can treat opposites in terms of the laws of logic, rather than merely in terms of causal laws, only when we construe these as ab-stract elements, or at least abstract features of natural entities. . . . It is a long leap from causal laws governing opposite forces to the logical laws of negation and contradiction.77

The difference between Protagoras and Heraclitus, as a difference between epistemological and ontological approach, is one of times and spirit. The epistemological tendency coincides with pedagogy since the issue is the subject. This is the basis for his assertion that thought cannot go beyond the senses. Moreover, Protagoras tried not to distinguish be-tween thought and perception; perception is already thought,78 though not judgment. The source of error is in neither perception nor in thought, but in a third factor, judgment about what is perceived and thought. On the other hand, Protagoras was known to refrain from judgment. This restraint casts light on his notion that all judgments are true. It does not mean that judgments cannot be false (as Plato erroneously believed) but rather that they are neither true nor false at the reflective non-valuative level and true or false at the original non-reflective valuative level. His formalism, I shall insist, is the common assumption of both levels.

We can better understand Protagoras’ formalism by analyzing his ap-proach to perception. Perception is a kind of motion. The atomists, Anaxagoras and Empedocles, believed that it was a reciprocal motion, both of the perceived object and the perceiving subject. Protagoras, faith-ful to his own assumptions, attributes motion only to the perceiver-subject, the only available criterion of perception. About the other crite-rion, ontologically in kind, we know nothing. Protagoras is an extreme skeptic but only skeptical regarding the object. Plato says in the Theaetetus (156a) that according to Protagoras, the perceived is passive and perception is active. This is a way of expressing the point of view of the subject. Perception is true because it encompasses the form, the per-ceptive act, and the content of perception. However, the content is rela-tive to the form of perception. Therefore, the question is not about truth

, , , itself, which is a matter of content, but about the criterion for truth, whic h is a matter of Fonn. When Plato asserts that Protagoras contends that all our perceptions are true (Till. 167b), it seems that it is due to his own incapacit~ for awareness to the form of thought, which is neither true nor false. 7

Thus goes Protagoras' formalism: for each individual, things are as they appear to be for him . This is the idea expressed in the dictum: "Man is the measure of all th ings, of things that are as to how they are, and of things that are not as to how they are not" (Thr. 152a).80

Let me analyze more in detail this dictum. which looks like a tautol· ogy but is not one.

First, let me ask why Protagoras does not say that "man is the meas­ure of all thin gs: of those that are and of lhose that are not." Why does he say, "that are as to how they are," and "that are not as to how they are not"? What does this addendum mean?

Ifhe had sa id only "man is the measure of all things: of those that are and of those that are not" a contradiction would be implied, since ifman is the measure, the measure does not belong to things, and ifit be longs to them, man is not the measure. The addendum precludes such contradic­tion.

Therefore, to make it clear that he is nOI speakin g about the ontologi­cal status of things, he adds, "that are as to how they are" and "that are not as to how they are nol." Things do not exist beyond measure­ment-which also means beyond what we humans can possibly know.

Plato translates the t-' ~"'PO\l ({\l6pWTTOras meaning that "everything is, for me, the way it appears to me, and is, for you, the way it appears to you; and you and I are, each of us, a man" (Thl. ! 52a).

There are big differen ces between the original and the way Plato translates it. The subject matter, to beg in wi th, is different. Protagoras asks about the measure of all things, while Pl ato asks what things are. Protagoras' subject maner is man , whereas Plato's is the nature and status of the things. The first question is epistemological and asks about the criterion for knowledge, while the second question is ontological and asks about things, about the object. Protagoras is a philosopher of the subject, and the subject is not the result of his degree of knowledge, but has a nature (emotions, thoughts, feelings, sensations, and perceptions). For this reason I tend to agree with Thomas Robinson, who asserts in his analysis of the Dissoi Logoi, that things (pragmQIQ) may be translated, in the Protagorean meaning, as experience.

s, Moreover, the dictum seems

to be part ofa critical reflection on Ionian and Eleatic philosophy.

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There is another difference between Protagoras' original words and Plato 's vers ion of those words. Plato translates Protagoras as if he were saying that things are as they appear to me. This approach assumes that things have a being different from their being as they appear to me. To put it another way, Plato assumes that for Protagoras, as for himself, things have a truth beyond their appearance. For Plato, sense·percepti on is correlative fo r appearance and falsity, whereas thought is correlative to being and truth. He ultimately accuses Protagoras of confounding ap­pearance with truth and of reducing truth to falsehood and being to ap-.' pearance. -

Plato's version of Protagoras' statement, besides making a place for criticism from an objectiv ist point of view, constitutes an attempt to make Prolagoras out to be more subjective than he actually is.

Let me ask why Plato does not say that, according to Protagoras, "everyth ing is the way it appears"? Why does he add "to me"?

If everything is simply "the way it appears," then everything is differ­ent for each person. Things cannot be both what they appear to me, and what they appear to another, since this would imply a contradiction. The addendum tries to avoid this contradiction. Therefore, in order [0 make it clear that he is not speaking about things in themselves, he adds "for me." Hi s addendum asserts that what appears to me is my perception of the world, without emphasizing the world upon which or in which I act; that world is the world from which I receive my knowledge. I do not have any other perceived world, any other source of knowledge. How­eve r, it may be that another person has another percept ion of the same source of knowledge. s3 What is the nature of that source? About this, nothing can be said, except that such a source exists.

In any case, th is does not imply what things are without their relation to me. Namely, what is not related to me is not relevant. My concern or commitment is to my world, and only m)' world . The world in itse lf is something unreachable, as the gods are.s Why do 1 not concern myself with the mystery that we call the gods? Because life is too short. That is, because the gods are not relevant to my life, , have no sense-experience of them. Protagoras' intention is twofold: to avoid making a judgment about the world, and to reduce subjectiv ism to its necessary minimum. He does not bluntly assert that the gods do not ex ist, but that they are relevant only regarding the world within which I act, think, and perceive.

Protagoras' reasons for doubting the existence of gods, therefore, are more radical than it is generally assumed. They are also valid for hi s doubts about the existence of nature. 8S As in the case of the gods, we may know nothing about nature, or at least we only kn ow whatever co n­fonns to our senses. Th us, without extrinsic nature and transcendent gods

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truth lies in human beings themselves, and therefore in human percep-tion.

Thus, Protagoras’ opinion of the gods is of the greatest importance, since it emphasizes his main concern—the human perspective. Or rather, his philosophy is a reflection on the human perspective and not human perspective itself, since unreflective human perspective spontaneously recognizes the existence of both gods and nature.

Taking both phrases together, we learn that the repetition (“that they are” and “that they are not” in the original, and “to me” in Plato’s trans-lation) defines the exact bounds to Protagoras’ anthropocentrism: There is a world that appears to each one separately, and all the rest is irrele-vant.

What remains outside the bounds of his theory? (1) Any extreme subjectivism or relativism that assumes that the world depends on my own point of view. (2) Any argument about the world as it is in itself, without relation to me. Protagoras does not assert something about the world; he asserts something about how it is grasped. There is a world indeed, though it is only relevant insofar as it appears to me. Though Protagoras and Thales, for instance, lived in the same world, Protagoras did not live in the relevant world of Thales, and Thales did not live in the relevant world of the sophists.

This orientation to the subject is the clue to understanding the special role of the self-valuation typical of the sophist movement. They not only tried to understand the nature of the subject, but also applied their valua-tions to this understanding. They valued the subject’s capacities, though not in a practical, teleological way, that is, in terms of achieving ends and goals. On the contrary, human capability, human skill, became some-thing for and in itself. For instance, they valued the ability to speak, something precisely ridiculed by Plato in the Protagoras. There Plato characterizes the sophistic kind of argumentation as a kind of idle pas-time fit only for eristic disputation and competition, a game that requires such useless skills as the development of fallacious arguments, the ca-pacity to interpret poems, the gymnastic use of intellect, and so forth. In other words, Plato regards sophistry as a mental competition rather than as a search for truth. The symptomatic question for the sophists is there-fore “Who is better than me?” However, while Plato himself, in the voice of his protagonist Socrates, did not use fallacious arguments, he did something similar: he took his arguments to their extremes, as we will see in detail in his interpretation of the poem of Simonides.86

Protagoras does not deny the truth. He asserts something more mod-erate: Truth is irrelevant. His starting point is not the question of truth, which is a problem of content, but of the status of knowledge itself,

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which is neither true nor false. In so doing, he takes the form as the crite-rion for the content. However, this approach requires a kind of truth—the truth of reflection. What is relative in his reflection is only the content of reflection, that is, the way people judge and know. What is not relative and true is the form of this reflection, namely, what is said about relativ-ism, which is a third level of reflection, a reflection about the ways of thinking (which is itself a reflection). For this reason Protagoras dedi-cates himself to the interpretation of poems and not to the investigation of realities. And, when he interprets poems, he believes he can find errors in them. As we shall see, Protagoras accuses the poet Simonides of contradicting himself.87

Indeed, there is no truth beyond the way people understand the truth. There is no truth beyond poems or beyond the form of knowledge in general. It has been reported that Protagoras’ books were books of argu-mentation, not of science. Or rather, his science was the science of argu-mentation. He was concerned with the truth of argumentation, and not with the argumentation of truth, with the truth of the appearance, with the truth of opinion, and not with opinion as truth. It is in this context that we may understand his approach even in its minor details like the correc-tions about the gender of words.88

Ronald Polansky, in his analysis of Protagoras’ homo mensura, states the deep motivation of Protagoras’ approach in a right way:

[Protagoras] teaches rhetoric . . . rather than physics. So the doc-trine that “as things appear, so they are” is no physical theory, but the basic principle of rhetorical practice. It makes little difference in the courtroom or political assembly how things really are, he seems to say, but all the difference how people suppose they are, for once people are persuaded that something is the case it is the case for them.89

Strepsiades, in Aristophanes’ Clouds, who has come to Socrates to learn the unjust argument to avoid payment of his debts, discovers that he must first learn “about names, which of them are masculine and which feminine.”90 Common language fails to distinguish things of different sex by different suffixes, since masculine articles are used with nouns that have a feminine ending.91 His analysis of gender of names, was not meant to reform language by improving its correspondence with reality; rather, he “was moved by purely morphological considerations con-nected with their terminations” as Guthrie correctly asserts.92 The aim was probably corrective and practical, namely, to teach the correct use of language. But we may understand the notion of “correct use” not in the

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frame of a referential theory of truth that assumes the primacy of the ob-ject over the subject, of the thing over its name. Names have their own gender, independently of the object, but depending on their morphology. We may understand the Cratylus as Plato’s response to this non-referential theory.

Protagoras says, in the so-called “apology” of Protagoras:

[T]o a sick man what he eats appears, and is, bitter, whereas to a healthy man it is, and appears, the opposite. Now what must be done isn’t to make either of them wiser because that isn’t even possible: nor is it to accuse the sick one of being ignorant because he makes the sort of judgments he does, and call the healthy one wise because he makes Judgments of a different sort (Tht. 166e-167a).

So, since knowledge is unrelated to the character of the subject, or rather, since the subject is not the result of his knowledge but even offers resistance to the dictates of knowledge—the only thing that we can do with human beings, to change their behavior, is to educate them, not to instruct them. This is clearly Protagoras’ consequence of the assertion in the last quotation. He indeed asserts immediately:

What must be done is to effect a change in one direction: because one of the two conditions is better. In education, too, in the same way, a change must be effected from one of two conditions to the better one: but whereas a doctor makes the change with drugs, a sophist does it with things he says (Tht. 167a).

Education is the alternative to Plato’s instruction, since “It’s not that anyone [an instructor] ever makes someone whose judgments are false come, later on, to judge what’s true” (Tht. 167a). This is the peak of his formalism; namely, there are no false opinions. What is called “false” is an opinion that is genuinely espoused, genuinely experienced as true (“it isn’t possible to have in one’s judgments the things which are not, or anything other than what one’s experiencing, which is always true”) (Tht. 167b). Immediately after, he states his theory of education as alternative to instruction, based in the cultivation of human dispositions, resulting in knowledge. Opinions are neither true nor false:

when, because of a harmful condition in his mind, someone has in his judgments things which are akin to that condition, then by means of a beneficial condition, one makes him have in his judg-ments things of that same sort—appearances which some people,

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because of ignorance, call true; but I call them better than the first sort, but not at all truer (Tht. 167b).

And when he asserts that some people may be wiser than others, this does not imply, for him that the latter hold false opinions (“It’s true, both that some people are wiser than others, and that no one judges what’s false”) (Tht. 167d). The difference is a difference of values and openness to education; it is a difference not of the content of knowledge, but of its form.

Does Protagoras renounce the idea of validity in knowledge? Does he indeed assert that things exist only for the perceiver and at the very mo-ment of their being perceived? If this is the case, is this very criterion devoid of general validity? In short, is Protagoras a phenomenalist who accepts the presence of a general criterion, or a skeptic that denies even this?

All agree, I think, that Protagoras asserts that each one has his own opinion of the truth at the moment he states it. This is also the way Plato interprets him in the Theaetetus. Indeed, whoever opines cannot be a skeptic, since a consistent skeptic must refrain from judging. If this is indeed Protagoras’ theory, then he is not a skeptic.

In his reflection about these individual opinions, therefore, he is merely describing knowledge and valuation, and not taking a stand. On the other hand, in his valuative attitude, when he indeed takes a stand, Protagoras is anti-relativist, for he supports some values over others.93 Protagoras is a moderate relativist in his reflective epistemic account of knowledge and valuation, but he is distinctly anti-relativist in his valua-tive attitude. That is, in his valuative attitude, Protagoras actually contra-dicts his object of analysis as it appears in his reflection. Pursuing this line of thought, some post-Protagorean sophists even asserted that error is impossible and that we cannot only assert anything about anything, but also about nothing. Protagoras does not touch these extremes. He be-lieves that we cannot assert something about nothing, since we cannot have in our judgment “the things which are not, or anything other than what one’s experiencing, which is always true” (Tht. 167a-b).

Protagoras is neither a total skeptic nor a total relativist.94 An extreme relativism and an extreme skepticism undermine themselves the moment they emerge. A consistent relativism must assume something beyond relativism toward which the relativistic consciousness intends. It should be added that Protagoras was a democrat, and complete skepticism is in essence anti-democratic. Indeed democracy does not need the suspension of opinion, but just the opposite. Holding an opinion, any opinion, al-ready removes one from radical skepticism. Democracy needs to assume,

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on the one hand, an idea of the original level that asserts that opinion is valid nor invalid in itself, and that anyone may regard his own opinion as valid and others’ as invalid. That means, on the level of reflection, that anyone’s opinion is valid, while at the valuative level, some opinions are more valid than others. This is the inner contradiction that defines de-mocracy and his own philosophy. Democracy and Protagoras presuppose pluralism, namely, a degree of tolerance toward others’ opinions.

Democracy is based only on opinion, which is similar to argumenta-tion; both are the only available logos. Thus, the democratic regime as-sumes that knowledge is not the source for decisions making. Each logos can be matched by a counter-logos or anti-logos, and every argument can be understood as a response to some other contrary opinion. Arguments cannot be refuted.95 What then is the source of decision? Protagoras’ an-swer may be: values, not knowledge.

Whatever Protagoras may have thought of this, the post-Protagoreans, being more extreme, believed that contradiction is impossible. They be-lieve that each individual continually perceives continuously new con-tents, and thus the same object of knowledge cannot accept different predicates. What is clear is that Protagoras himself rejected the positive determination of things. Real, changeable things did not worry him. Rather, he was concerned with motion and the appearances that things provoke in perception. He looked at the form of motion, not its content, not what moves by itself. Protagoras’ theory of knowledge fed out of the atomistic school of Abdera, to which this reduction of quality to quantity was something essential. Not what moves but the quantity, that is, a more abstract principle, one independent of the content. This is another sign of formalism, one that refrains from analyzing the object or the content of thought.

When Protagoras spoke of perception, he meant not only sensations and intuitions, but also emotions and desires. Just as we do not argue against perceptions, we cannot argue against emotions. What appears pleasant, useful, and valuable to somebody, is so for him and only for him. The measure of things is also this ephemeral and individual con-sciousness. There is no place here for a universally valid valuation of objects. In this sense, Aristippus’ hedonism is fed by Protagoras’ doc-trine. Aristippus teaches that we do not know things in themselves but only the value they may have for us and our own emotional states (pathée).

There is in Protagoras, however, a model for his model. The model of perception has human activity in general as his model, in all its modes. The foundation of his theory of knowledge is neither perception nor rea-son, but practice. When he states that man is the measure of all things,

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we must bear in mind that the application of norms to facts—namely the application of a measure to Being—is the deeper model. In order to act we do need to know things as they are, but not in some absolute sense. We need to know things as they are in the pertinent human perspective, a perspective represented by the measure, the norm. The norm divides the Being into a relevant and an irrelevant reality. Now then, Protagoras re-fers to the relevant reality alone, since, let me put it this way, the irrele-vant reality is just irrelevant, or, to quote Laszlo Versényi, “things of our concern, concern us.”96 Whatever man is able to change, to influence, and to adapt to and for his own nature—this is what is relevant.

All seems to end in the imposition of reflection upon the original level, so that Protagoras is a philosopher of reflection. This is the reason that he doubts truth and puts it into brackets. But, since he is not aware of the distinction between original and reflective levels, the achievements of reflection are imposed, projected, on the original level so that they are taken off from their specific role, in which the neutrality toward truth and toward other values is not implied. Protagoras is unable to explain why the non-reflective consciousness actually contradicts the theoretical re-sults of his own philosophical reflection.

We can assert the same for Plato’s philosophy, though in the opposite direction. Reality is what may agree with the idea, the ideal, or the end of human activity. Plato, however, goes on to ontologize the idea. The measure of things is replaced by the things themselves; the subject is transformed into a phenomenon, and the predicate into an independent idea, an idea that becomes the measure of all things. If Protagoras takes a stand for the subject, Plato takes a stand for the predicate.

On one important point, Protagoras and Socrates agree: they are committed to human knowledge and values, not to knowledge of nature. They also agree in that knowledge is only relevant to matters of human practice. Both agree in that there is a place for knowledge of practical life. I will exaggerate for the sake of clarity: Socrates believes that we can only know rational things, as if all human beings were philosophers, whereas Protagoras believes that all philosophers are humans.

Notes

1. For a detailed analysis of the historical impact of the sophistic move-

ment, see George Grote, A History of Greece from the Earliest Period to the Close of the Generation Contemporary with Alexander the Great (London: John Murray, 1888).

2. For an account of the distinction between nomos and phusis in Greek thought, see H. D. Rankin, Sophists, Socratics and Cynics (London: Croom

Helm, 1983), 79-9J. 3. Guthrie, HGP, vol. I!!, 14. 4. See Guthrie, HGP. vol. II , 14. I am nO( trying to say Ihat Pannenides

was a natural philosopher, but he was renecting on natural philosophy. I mean, he was thinking about thinking about nature. However, he defined thinking by means of the content of thinking, so that exists only that which can be thought about. He defined thinking by means of its content, whereas the soph ists defined the content of thought by means of its form. In this sense, they reflected on Par· men ides' renection, staying at a higher level or order of reflection.

5. See Aristotle: "Plato was in a sense not wrong in saying that sophistic deals with that which is not" (Met. 1026b). " Plato was not wrong when he said that the sophist spends his time on non-being" (Met. 1064b29).

6. See Joseph P. Maguire, " Protagoras or Plato?" Phronesis 18 ( 1973): 120-1.

7. See Havelock: "Chronol ogically Protagoras in the tradition is usually regarded as the oldest of the Sophists and as a little older than Democritus. The difference in years must have been trivial. It is at least clear that, while De· mocritus even in his politics still represents the scientific objectivitY and severity of the physicist, Protagoras is the father of the communications·men." The Lib· era! Temper in Greek Politics (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1957),156. Nill sustains an opposite and well-argued point of view. See Michael Nil1 , Mo· ratify and Self-Interest in Praagoras Antiphon and Democritus (Leiden : E. J. Brill, 1985), 1·3.

8. Contrary to Burnet's contention, therefore, Protagoras does not take a negative attitude toward science . See John Burnet, Greek Philosophy, Thales to

Plato (London: Macmillan, 1943), 109. By the radical limits of the ancient kind of science, I mean the limits imposed by the conce pt of genus as a category of explanation. The alternative way of thinking appeared first in the Renaissance, with the conception of the category of natural laws. Genera and species explain mOlion by means arrest, whereas laws explain rest by mean~ ormotion. Thi.~ is an issue that goes far away from aUf subject matter.

9. See Jacqueline de Romilly, The Great Sophists ill Periclean Athens (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 1-30.

10. See Havelock, The Liberal Temper. 180ss. I L For the etymology of the tenn sophist, see George B. Kerferd. The So·

phistic Movement (Cambridge: Cambridge Univers ity Press, 1981 ), 24-41; and Guthrie, HGP. 111 , 26ff.

12. Rami lly, The Great Sophists, l. 13. Romil1y is not even consistent, since she defi nes the sophi sts as phi·

losophers. See The Great Sophists, 9 14. Edward Schiappa, Pro/agoras and Logos: A Study in Greek. Philosophy

Socrates and the Sophistic Movemelll liS

and Rhetoric (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1991), 55. 15. The fi-agment is quoted in Diogenes Laertius, L£P, IX, 31. DK section

80, A.23. 16. See Romilly, The Great SophisfS, 163. 17. Ferdinand C. S. Schiller, Studies in Humanism (Westport, Conn.:

Greenwood Press, 1970),39. 18. See Schiller, Studies in Humanism, 30. 19. See my "The Modem Misunderstanding of Aristotle's Theory of Mo­

tion." Journalfor the General Philosophy of Science 26 (1995): I-10. 20. I do not mean that the subject is identical with the predicate. 21. Versions that are more moderate app'ear in the Philebus (34b-c) and in

Laws (732a). 22. It follows that [do not agree with Ross on this point. He thinks that in

the Meno, no anempt is made to connect the Ideas with the doctrine of anamne­sis. For two reasons, in his opinion: because no reference is made in the Meno to the ideas, and because "the method by which the slave-boy is got to discover what square has twice the area of that of a given square is a purely empirical one." Sir David Ross, Plato's Theory of Ideas (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966)~ 18. This would be the case indeed if Plato would.accept some independent "un­derstanding" to sense-perception, something far beyond his extreme intellectu­alism.

23. This is obviously not the way Plato grasped the problem, but a way to put things in order to understand the limits of his approach. If Plato' were think­ing in this way, he would never propose a theory of ideas, at least in the way he proposed it.

24. "Not to know" implies "not to know even what is unknown." 25. A. E. Taylor says that in the Theory of Recollection "we are said to

"have learned" truth but to have lost it again, and we have to recover what we have lost." A. E. Taylor, Plato: The Man and His Work (London: Meuthen, 1948), 136. But Taylor's question is not how we have leamed something. [fthis question were a sim ple one, Plato would n01 have had to resort to a theory that asserts the i~morta1ity of the soul; he would have sought the solution in this world. However, his assumptions being what they were, they could only be re­solved by resorting to metaphysics.

26. Properly speaking, Plato does not have a theory of knowledge, that is, a theory about the process of knowing. Gu l1ey, as most of the interpreters, over­looked this point: Nonnan Gulley, Piato's Theory of Knowledge (Bristol, Eng­land: Methuen, 1962). Plato however asks for a theory of knowledge, but he rejects it in his answer.

27. I wish to make it clear that the term s "subject" and "predicate" used here are not Plato's tenns. I have used them here to describe the Platonic ap­proach from the subject-predicate point of view. Moreover, Plato lacked the concept of "predication." In the Phaedrus, he says that the particulars are "called by the same name" (0I-,u..Jvv!-'ov) oflheir universals (forms) (Phd. 78e2). See Reginald Allen, "Participation and Predication in Plato's Middle Dialogues," in R. Allen, Studies in Piato's Metophysics (London: Routledge Kegan Paul,

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1964), 45-7. 28. For Plato, the predicate only defines Ideas, and does not produce them.

The predicate defines an already eternally existing Idea. 29. See previous footnote.30. On this subject, see my Subject and

Consciousness (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, 1990), 135-41. See also my “Quality, Genus and Law as Forms of Thinking,” Auslegung 13 (1986): 71-85.

31. This includes statements whose predicate relates to existence (e.g., “God exists”) and statements that make comparisons (e.g., “the length of the desk is the same as the length of the table”). In the latter, the predicate functions as the measuring scale (universal) and the subject is the object measured (par-ticular); and the statement is not, strictly speaking, reversible.

32. There are cases in which accumulation of content does not occur. In these cases, the subject is not a conceptual term but, rather, a value, or signal, and so on. This issue is beyond the scope of this book.

33. Allen, “Participation and Predication,” in Allen, Studies in Plato’s Metaphysics, 46.

34. While change in the form of words does take place, this does not occur intentionally. Rather, it is the result of their repeated use as predicates. Such change is comparable to the change undergone by tools (which wear and tear during production).

35. I wish to stress that I am referring to ideas, not to words or sense-images.

36. In order not to fall into the error of explaining Plato’s earlier thought in the light of his later thought, I deliberately refrain from referring to Plato’s later thought. In later dialogues, he adopts more concessive and moderate attitudes.

37. “Nothing else makes a thing beautiful but the presence or communion of the beauty-in-itself, however this presence may have been achieved” (Phaed. 100d).

38. “I think the most likely view is, that these ideas exist in nature as pat-terns, and the other things resemble them and are imitations of them; their par-ticipation in ideas is assimilation to them, that and nothing else” (Parm. 132d).

39. For a similar problem in Hegel’s philosophy, see my Subject and Con-sciousness, 95-109.

40. On this point it is crucial the way we interpret Plato’s definitional ques-tions on values (“What is x”). If we interpret that he has an answer to his ques-tions, Plato becomes an enemy of democracy. If we interpret him as having not an answer, he becomes a defender of democracy. If each particular virtue is knowledge and if virtue in general is knowledge, and if knowledge implies ex-pertise, he is an enemy of democracy. If virtue is knowledge but he has not, in principle, an answer for this question, democracy is justified. For the opinion that he has not an answer, see Kraut, who believes that such an opinion is a mere myth sustained by interpreters. Richard Kraut, Socrates and the State (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 245-306. For the opinion that he has an an-swer, see Laszlo Versényi, Socratic Humanism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963), 75-110; and Henry Teloh, The Development of Plato’s Metaphys-ics (Pennsylvania State University Press, 1981), 46-64. As a third interpretation, I think that Plato has an answer, though one that annuls the very turn to virtues by reducing them to knowledge of their objects. Thus, Plato, remains anti-de-

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mocratic, but for a different reason than the reasons under discussion. It is be-cause he believes in knowledge, not of virtue, but of its content.

41. See Prt. 323c. Socrates agrees with Protagoras, though only with the facts under analysis, since while for Protagoras political questions concern val-ues, for Plato values depend, as in any other field, on knowledge, even if for him knowledge and valuation are indiscernible.

42. The idea that Protagoras tried to “make the weaker argument the stronger” (Rhet. 1402a22), is but an expression of this democratic spirit. It means the theoretical effort to help each side to present his case as best as possi-ble in order to make it transparent for the others. See Versényi, Socratic Hu-manism, 36.

43. George B. Kerferd, The Sophistic Movement (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 13.

44. See Guthrie, HGP, vol. III, 56. 45. Though Protagoras does not explicitly refers to the nomos-phusis dis-

tinction, his philosophy is fully embedded by it. See Versényi, Socratic Human-ism, 29-32.

46. Versényi, Socratic Humanism, 55. 47. Versényi, Socratic Humanism, 57. 48. See Versényi, Socratic Humanism, 59. 49. “The prime necessity was to master the art of persuasive speaking, and

it has even been argued (by Gomperz) that the whole teaching of the Sophists is summed up in the art of rhetoric.” Versényi, Socratic Humanism, 19.

50. Ettore Bignone, Studi sul Pensiero Antico (Roma: Edition Anastatica “L’erma” Di Bretschneider, 1965), 32.

51. See Gomperz, GT, vol. I, 430. 52. See Sextus Empiricus, Against Math, IX, 51-4. 53. DK 87-8. 54. DK 87-1. 55. See Gomperz, GT, vol. I, 434, 585. 56. Protagoras was a pioneer of democracy, providing ideological argu-

ments for its advancing. See Schiappa, Protagoras and Logos, 169ff. 57. For other views on sophistry and democracy, see F. Rosen, “Did Pro-

tagoras Justify Democracy?” Polis 13 (1994): 12-30; Cynthia Farrar, The Ori-gins of Democratic Thinking: The Invention of Politics in Classical Athens (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988); Stanley Moore, “Democracy and Commodity Exchange: Protagoras versus Plato,” HPQ 5 (1988): 357-68; Arthur W. H. Adkins, “‘Areté’ ‘Techné,’ Democracy and Sophists: ‘Protagoras’ 316b-328d,” JP 93 (1973): 3-12; Arnold H. M. Jones, Athenian Democracy (Oxford: Blackwell, 1957); Sir Moses Finley, Democracy Ancient and Modern (London: Chatto & Windus, 1973); Harold Barrett, The Sophists: Rhetoric, Democracy, and Plato’s Idea of Sophistry (Novata, Calif.: Chandler and Sharp, 1987); Sam-uel Perlman, “The Politicians in the Athenian Democracy of the Fourth Century B.C.” Atheneum 41 (1963): 327-55; R. K. Sinclair, Democracy and Participa-tion in Athens (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988); Martin Ostwald,

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Nomos and the Beginnings of Athenian Democracy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969); Paul Veyne, “Did the Greeks Invent Democracy?” Diogenes 124 (1983):1-32; Enrico Berti, “Ancient Greek Dialectic as Expression of Freedom of Thought and Speech,” JHI 39 (1978): 347-370.

58. See chapter 8. 59. See “The Craft-Analogy and the Annulment of the Subject” in chapter

3, and “The Theory of Measurement” in chapter 14. 60. Diogenes Laertius, LEP, 9.53-4. 61. See Aristotle, Rhet. 1407a-b. 62. See Euthydemus, where Euthydemus and Dionisidorus tried only to

laugh at their partners, without any other practical-political aim. Aristotle dedi-cated his Sophistic Arguments to this issue.

63. Like his argument against the idea of possibility: Only the real is possi-ble, since something possible that is not real would be precisely the impossible. See Cicero, De Fato 7. 13.

64. See Schiappa, Protagoras and Logos, 125-9, who, in the subjectivistic-objectivistic interpretative controversy, adopts the objectivistic point of view.

65. Sextus Empiricus, Pyrroneioi Hypotyposeis (Julia Annas trans.), 56. 66. See also Mario Untersteiner, The Sophists (Oxford: Blackwell, 1954),

43. 67. Giuseppe Rensi, Il materialismo critico (Milano: Casa editrice sociale,

1927), 205-6, quoted by Mario Untersteiner, The Sophists, 47. Regretfully, I could not find the original.

68. Karl Koestlin, Die Ethik des klassischen Alterthums, vol. I: Die griech. Ethik bis Plato (Tübingen: 1887), 227, quoted and translated by Mario Unter-steiner, The Sophists, 51 n. 28. Regretful, I could not find the original.

69. For a similar view, see José Solana Dueso, “Un ensayo de recomposi-ción del protagorismo,” Convivium 6 (1994): 53-71.

70. All seems as if Rensi tries to expose, via Protagoras, his own approach to knowledge, and Untersteiner uses this approach in order to justify Protagoras, to take a stand. I, for my part, try, without supporting him, to understand his approach to knowledge.

71. See Guido Calogero, “Protagora,” Enciclopedia Treccani, vol. XXVIII, 369-70, quoted by Mario Untersteiner, The Sophists, 90 n. 34. Regretfully, I could not find the original.

72. For another view, see Charles H. Kahn, “The Greek Verb ‘to Be’ and the Concept of Being,” Foundations of Language 2 (1966): 245-65; and Schiappa, Protagoras and Logos, 97.

73. See Romilly, The Great Sophists in Periclean Athens, 162. 74. Contrary to my opinion, Kerferd sustains that “the perceived qualities

are in fact objectively present in the perceived object” (“The Sophists,” 250), which means that they have an ontological status.

75. In this sense, Epicure can be regarded as the follower of Protagoras. Farrington asserted that Protagoras “taught that Man is the measure of all things, or, in other words, that he is free to alter his institutions.” Benjamin Farrington,

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Science and Politics in the Ancient World (New York: Barnes & Noble, 1965), 82. See also Benjamin Farrington, Greek Science: Its Meaning for Us (London: Penguin Books, 1953), 87.

76. Heraclitus indeed was not concerned with a critical analysis of poems, but was against poetry in general. See Schiappa, Protagoras and Logos, 57.

77. Julius M. E. Moravcsik, “Heraclitean Concepts and Explanations,” in Language and Thought in Early Greek Philosophy, Kevin Robb, ed., (La Salle, Ill.: Hegeler Institute, 1983), 139.

78. Diogenes Laertius, LEP, IX, 51. 79. Let me add here that what Plato calls the “secret doctrine” of Pro-

tagoras, the doctrine that everything is the offspring of flux and change (Tht. 152d-153d), is not, as several interpreters contend, but Plato’s own invention. Thinking on secret doctrines fits Plato more than Protagoras. See chapter 2 in this book. See Gomperz, GT II, 231; Guthrie, HGP III, 185; David Bostock, Plato’s Theaetetus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 60-2. For the oppo-site view, see Schiappa, Protagoras and Logos, 126ss; and Nicholas Denyer, Language, Thought, and Falsehood in Ancient Greek Philosophy (London: Routledge, 1991), 84-94.

80. See Crt. 386a-d; and Aristotle, Met. 1062b13. 81. See Thomas. M. Robinson, Contrasting Arguments: An Edition of the

Dissoi Logoi (Salem, N.H.: Ayer, 1979), 90. 82. Kerferd, like most modern interpreters, was led astray by Plato’s inter-

pretation of Protagoras’ dictum. He believes, like Plato, that the question is about things. In this respect, he resumes the attitudes of modern interpreters re-garding the object of perception: 1) There are not things but private things each one defined by its sense-qualities. 2) There are public things that have no quali-ties, and 3) things have opposite qualities, and each one perceives one of them. See Kerferd, Sophistic Movement, 85-7. Vlastos is an exception, since he thinks that Plato was not concerned to pronounce on the status of the unperceived wind. In my opinion, it is just Plato and the interpreters who believe that Pro-tagoras was concerned with the status of things, while Vlastos believes that it was Plato who was not concerned with the status of things. In fact, Plato was concerned, though Protagoras was not. Also Cornford’s opinion, following Plato, that Protagoras is following Heraclitus’ coexistence of opposites in things, is inadequate, since Protagoras is unconcerned with the nature of things at all. See Francis M. Cornford, Plato’s Theory of Knowledge: The “Theaetetus” and the “Sophist” of Plato (London: Routledge Kegan Paul, 1935), 34-6.

83. Burnyeat’s translation of Protagoras’ dictum as “true for x meaning true in x’s world,” is an anti-formalistic interpretation of his formalism. Burnyeat disregards the relational character of the dictum, which is not at-tempting to contend something about the world not even about “x’s world.” See Myles F. Burnyeat, “Protagoras and Self-Refutation in Later Greek Philosophy.” Philosophical Review, 85 (1976): 44-69. See Bostock, Plato’s Theaetetus, 90.

84. See DK, 80 B4. 85. I agree with Charles H. Kahn, who asserts that Protagoras’ agnosticism

represents “a new, more critical attitude in regard to natural theology and the

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discourse of deity,” “Greek Religion and Philosophy in the Sisyphus Fragment,” 254. I believe however, that Protagoras is more radical than Kahn assumes, since he applies his agnosticism even to nature. Atomism is the logical result of this skepticism. In what sense can it be asserted, I ask, that atoms “exist”?

86. Klosko, on the contrary, tries to interpret some of Plato’s arguments in the Protagoras not only as fallacies but also as intentional fallacies. See Klosko, “Toward a Consistent Interpretation of the Protagoras,” in Socrates II, Prior, ed., 240-56. In my opinion, we cannot decide about if they are intentional since we need to agree, beforehand, if they are fallacies at all.

87. See Rudolf Pfeiffer, History of Classical Scholarship from the Begin-nings to the End of the Hellenistic Age (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968), 32-3. See also Aristotle’s remark on Protagoras’ criticism to Homer’s Iliad for using the mode of command rather than request (Poetics 1456b15.)

88. See Aristotle, Sophistic Refutations, 173b26-174a9. 89. Polansky, Philosophy and Knowledge, 81. 90. See Aristotle’s Sophistic Refutations, 173b17-173b25. 91. Guthrie, HGP, vol. III, 221. See Dupréel, Les Sophistes, 50; Kerferd,

The Sophistic Movement, 67ff; Italo Lana, Protagora (Torino: Universita di Torino Pubblicazione, 1950), 56ff.

92. Guthrie, HGP, vol. III, 221. 93. Thus, Protagoras is not a “pragmatic relativist” as Cherniss would like.

See Harold Cherniss, “The Philosophical Economy of the Theory of Ideas,” in Plato: A Collection of Critical Essays I, Gregory Vlastos, ed., (Garden City, N.Y.: Anchor Books Doubleday, 1971), 19.

94. About the apology of Protagoras in the Theaetetus and the so called Protagoras “relativism,” see more details in chapter 16.

95. See Michael Billig, Arguing and Thinking: A Rhetorical Approach to Social Psychology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 41-6. See also Don H. Bialostosky, “Antilogics, Dialogics, and Sophistic Social Psychol-ogy: Michael Billig’s Reinvention of Bakhtin from Protagorean Rhetoric,” in Rhetoric, Sophistry, Pragmatism, Steven Mailloux, ed., (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 85-8.

96. Versényi, Socratic Humanism, 13.

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Chapter 5

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What Is Consciousness?

Before entering an analysis of the Protagoras, I would like to resume some issues I have already referred to, though indirectly, concerning Plato’s and Protagoras’ understanding of consciousness. Later I will try to show, with textual evidences, the accuracy of my hypotheses.

As I already stated, Protagoras and Socrates have reflective attitudes. More specifically stated, they have attitudes about human consciousness. For this reason I would like to advance some definitions about con-sciousness and reflection that will later help us interpret the dialogue, as the reader will eventually see.

The best way to analyze the character of consciousness is to start with its function. We can thus avoid the problematic question about the reality of consciousness and devote ourselves to an easier and clearer notion—the conscious of reality. We will not feel obliged to determine the ontological status of the real itself, since we will refer only to the con-sciousness about reality, and not to reality in itself: that which is inde-pendent of our consciousness.

We will also be excused from supposing that there is a being called consciousness—we will be excused from assuming an ontological status for the consciousness. Because insofar as it is consciousness, I will ask how it functions without trying to reduce it to some foreign component derived from some other field like psychology or physiology.

Now, regarding the function of consciousness, I propose a distinction between one non-reflective and three kinds of reflective consciousness. Among the varieties of reflective consciousness, I will distinguish be-tween two kinds of consciousness that are unaware of being reflective, and one kind that is aware that it is reflective.

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Non-Reflective and Reflective Consciousness

Consciousness, in its basic or original function, pays attention only to its content; it does not distinguish between the process of knowledge and its results. Such a consciousness does not yet ask itself about its being knowledge, but it plainly and simply knows. It does not ask whether it knows something; it only knows it, period. When one is hungry, one does not ask about hunger itself but only about food. When a person thinks about some object, he does not ask himself if he really thinks, or how he thinks, or why he thinks. He concentrates on the object.

This is therefore an unreflective level, where the intention of con-sciousness is oriented entirely to the content or the meaning itself. If the intentionality is of an epistemic nature, if it is theoretical reasoning, it seeks for some truth, though not for a general truth, but for the specific truth of the issue being analyzed. If the reasoning is of a valuative or practical nature, if it is a practical reasoning, it seeks for the application of some value to certain facts. It does not ask what a value is but applies it, thinks valuatively.

Based on this universal phenomenon of knowledge, consciousness has also a capacity for thinking about itself. When this happens, con-sciousness thinks about the form of knowledge. In original conscious-ness, we pay attention to the meaning itself, whereas in reflective con-sciousness we pay attention to the process or the way the meaning is be-ing analyzed. When we move from one consciousness to another, our attention shifts. Originally, we pay attention to the content of knowledge. In reflection, we pay attention to the process of knowledge, to its form.

We can also state the issue, asserting that now, in reflection, we are not thinking about the object of knowledge, but about knowledge itself. Moreover, in reflection we think about the way of knowledge. The way of knowledge has thus become itself the object, or content of knowledge. The “how” is now the “what.”

At this point, the question of whether reflective consciousness is syn-onymous with self-consciousness is still open. The knotty point is whether reflection is aware of its being reflection.

This is not a reflective question, but rather, a question about reflec-tion. It is a matter relative to a third level, to the level of reflection on reflection. It is at this third level that we can really understand the con-frontation between Plato and Protagoras. However, they themselves did not necessarily understand their own dialogue in precisely this way. However, in order to build up a conceptual framework for the sake of interpretation, let us temporarily put their understanding aside.

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Based on the distinction between levels of reflection that I have just adumbrated, I would say that Protagoras is a philosopher of the second level, whereas Plato is a philosopher of the third level. I mean that Plato’s level of reflection is one level “higher” than that of Protagoras. (Here I am using the terms “higher” and “lower” in a strictly schematic sense. No valuation is implied.)

Let me begin by looking at what the two philosophers have in com-mon. In their reflection, neither of them distinguish between the process of knowledge and the content of knowledge. This does not mean that process and result, form and content, lack, in their minds, a direction. They have two possible directions. One can understand this lack of dis-tinction as a reduction of content to form, the other as a reduction of form to content. Indeed, Protagoras’ philosophy reduces content to form, and Plato’s form to content. With these different kinds of reductions in mind, I call Protagoras’ approach “formalism” of a second level, whereas Plato’s approach is an “anti-formalism” of a third level.

Second level formalism consists of reflecting about the form of thought. We see in Protagoras a “natural tendency” for this kind of re-flection. He adopts a point of view that puts form before content and even while determining it. In second level reflection, the content always appears as something mediated by the form. In extreme cases, the con-tent becomes totally absorbed by the form, so that it almost disappears. The result is a formalization of the content. The formalist point of view debates the reflective point of view that adopts the point of view of the original consciousness; that is, the point of view that asserts that truth is both real and accessible. Protagoras does not reflect on the form; he im-mediately adopts the point of view of reflection. Such identification, I shall insist, prevents him from reflecting on his own reflection.

A theory opposed to Protagoras’ at his own level would reduce the form of the original consciousness to its content, denying, in this way, the presence of a form. In other words: a second level anti-formalism.

Third level anti-formalism consists of reflecting about the form of the second level reflection. We find this very tendency in Plato’s thought. To understand him, we must distinguish between the object of his questions and the object of his answers. His questions are not about the object of knowledge, but about the epistemic relation. He does not discuss specific moral acts, which are for him only instances, but rather refers, for in-stance, to justice itself. Plato does not ask about how and where we can find virtuous men, but ultimately about what makes them so—he asks about virtue in itself, the Idea or the definition of virtue. He does not ask about the content of opinion, but about opinion in itself, as a concept. This is the case regarding his questioning.

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On the other side, when he tries to offer an answer, Plato denies the very question. Rather, he denies the object of the question. He always answers by turning to the object of the object of the question. The ques-tion about virtue, for instance, resolves itself into an answer that inquires about the object of opinion. It is due to his rejection of the object of the question—namely, his rejection of the form of knowledge—that we can label Plato’s approach as “anti-formalist.” However, since he achieved a level of reflection that enabled him to question opinion itself, virtue itself (and so forth), I call him a “third level anti-formalist.” Indeed, the ques-tion does concern the form of knowledge. It is thus a question about the second level of reflection. In other words, Plato reflects on reflection. In his answers however, we find him denying this third level reflection and adopting the point of view of the object of reflection, namely, the content of second level reflection. For this reason, I assert that Plato is offering a self-conscious philosophy that is unaware of being self-conscious.

For this reason, Plato makes no distinction between asking about the nature of knowledge and asking about the nature of reality. For him the two questions are the same question. They are the same because he passes over the epistemic process and attends only to its results. He is unable to distinguish between epistemology and ontology, because he has reduced the former to the latter. This is the essence of his third level anti-formalism.1

On these grounds, we are better qualified to analyze the Protagoras. But we still need to take a further step. If we assume, contrary to Plato and Protagoras, that there is a difference between the process and the content of knowledge, and if we do not reduce the one to the other in some way, then we will see that the question “What is knowledge?” is not the same question as “What is reality?” Knowledge has a role in constituting the knowable object, but that does not mean that knowledge is identical to the object. Knowledge is the being-in-relation to the object and, as such, is not part of the object but rather aligns itself toward it. Knowledge is not part of what is being known, and what is being known is not part of knowledge. This is the same as saying that the process of knowledge or the epistemic relation is not part of the object of knowl-edge and the object of knowledge is not part of the epistemic relation.

On the other hand, knowledge and its object are not totally alien to each other. Neither knowledge, nor the object of knowledge, can be un-derstood outside of their relationship. When we look at one or the other in isolation, we will inevitably fall into some kind of fallacy. Either (1) we will transform cognition into something more than mere relation and deny the objectivity of the object, as Protagoras does, or (2) we will

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transform the object into something entirely independent of knowledge, as Plato does.

At the same time, we must realize that each factor—subject and ob-ject, form and content—exists by itself. How could they be related to each other, or anything else, if they were intrinsically nothing? Certainly, they are something in themselves; however, they are only meaningful within their relations. This attitude is difficult to maintain; it is much easier to drift toward formalism or to anti-formalism. The Platonic anti-formalist stand denies the existence of the subject qua subject. It is not anti-subjectivist. Moreover, the subject can, in principle, be the object of analysis. What Plato rejects is the subject as an epistemic relation, as a functional aspect of knowledge. He accepts only that the subject is something more than merely relation, and as such, can be known. But insofar as it is an epistemic relation, the subject cannot be know. Let us bear in mind what Plato asserts in the Charmides, that is, that we can analyze the eye but not sight. The eye is an object—sight is a relation.

Protagoras’ formalism refuses to give the object of knowledge any independent status. The object is always related to, or mediated by, a subject. We can only state theories of knowledge. Protagoras does have a theory of knowledge, but it looks very much like an ontology, one in which the subject comes to replace the object of original consciousness. Everything turns on the pivot of the subject. One can assert the existence of things only insofar as they move around the subject—more specifically, what moves around the subject insofar as it relates to sensation.

Asserting that Plato’s reflection does not know that it is a reflection, we are only describing his approach in negative terms. We can state the matter positively as well. In this case, we can ask, what, in fact, replaces consciousness of consciousness in Plato’s thought? It is this: Plato adopts the point of view of the object of inquiry. His kind of reflective knowl-edge has no specific content. Indeed, it has, but not for the anti-formalist reflective consciousness. If an anti-formalist wishes to know something, he must learn the science that deals with that particular subject. It is no more conceivable that a science should study itself than that medicine should heal itself, or that sight should see itself, or that the ear should hear itself. The organ of sight—the eye—can be seen, but vision cannot. A thing that is the double of another thing can at the same time stand in a different relation to a third thing. But the relation itself can never be re-lated to itself. By the same token, the content of knowledge can be known, but the epistemic relation itself cannot.

The same idea occurs in the Protagoras, where it is the leitmotif of Socrates’ criticism of the sophists: “What is this thing of which the

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sophist himself has knowledge and gives knowledge to his pupil?” This is the question that Socrates asks and Hippocrates fails to answer (Prt. 312e). Indeed, there is no answer to the question because Plato is un-willing to accept the study of a science in isolation from the specific ob-jects of its concern. For him, science exists only as an end product, and not in its methods or manner of apprehending reality. Science is consti-tuted by its content, and not by the manner by which that content is reached. Plato demands from any science to be defined according to what it does (produces), to its object, and not by means of what it is, say, a technique or a knowledge as such.

Let me reassert that in his Socratic period Plato maintained that we can know only the “what” of knowledge, not the “how”; Plato does not conceive of knowledge as an ongoing process, but as a finished product or result. The content already embeds the means eliciting a particular item of knowledge. Therefore, a theory of knowledge—insofar as Plato might admit that such a thing were possible—would merely replicate a content that was already in existence, and so would be pointless.2 The content of knowledge absorbs, as it were, the form. And, since theory of knowledge means the knowledge of the form of knowledge, the mere presence of a theory of knowledge means that we have not yet arrived at knowledge itself. Knowledge rises, like hot-air balloons, by discharging weights. In this case, the weights are forms of knowledge. In another sense, the form of knowledge is like a distorting glass that must be cast off if we are to see clearly. Therefore, when Plato speaks about knowl-edge of knowledge, he speaks of it as an obstacle to be removed, a bar-rier to be overcome. Whoever has it does not know, and whoever knows does not have it.

There would seem to be a contradiction between Plato’s rejection of reflective knowledge and the statement attributed to Socrates in both the Apology and the Alcibiades that he only knows that he doesn’t know, so that it is his awareness of his own ignorance that makes him the wisest of the Athenians.3 In the Alcibiades, moreover, self-knowledge is presented as a prerequisite of knowledge.4

This is not a contradiction, though it certainly looks like one. In the Apology, the focus is on the content of knowledge alone. When Socrates sets out to find wise citizens to disprove the assertion of the Pythian ora-cle, he discovers that human claims to knowledge are not borne out by what they actually know. In this context, the Delphic injunction, in Soc-rates’ words “Know thyself,” may only mean “Know what thou know-est”; be aware of the range and limits of your knowledge. Socrates dis-covers that people do not really know what they think or vaguely feel they know. Hence self-awareness here refers solely to the discrepancy

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between what people claim they know and the actual state of their knowledge. Moreover, for these reasons, it is highly improbable that the dictum “Know thyself” can be attributed to Socrates. It is totally alien to his philosophical spirit. The subject is not something to be known (inso-far as it is a relation to an object). For this and other reasons I explore in my discussion of Annas’ approach, I do not believe that we should at-tribute the Alcibiades to Plato.5

Notes

1. The real alternative to Plato’s anti-formalism is, for example, the mod-

erate formalism of Aristotle, not Protagoras’. However, an analysis of Aris-totle’s philosophy goes far beyond the intention of this book.

2. Hence Gould is mistaken in claiming that “the episteme which Socrates envisaged was a form of knowing how, knowing, that is, how to be moral,” John Gould The Development of Plato’s Ethics (New York: Russell & Russell, 1955), 7. For a criticism of Gould’s argument, see Gregory Vlastos, “Socratic Knowl-edge and Platonic ‘Pessimism,’” Philosophical Review 66 (1957): 226-38. Here Vlastos counters Gould by asserting that “Throughout Plato’s Socratic dialogues we see a man who uses ‘knowledge’ constantly to explain other things but never once doubles back on this term to turn on it his ‘What is?’ question” (p. 229). And in a footnote he adds: “Even when he is under urgent provocation to do so, as when he inquires into the possibility of ‘knowledge of knowledge and un-knowledge’ in the Charmides [165c]. . . The question [Plato] raises is quite dif-ferent: ‘What is this or that knowledge?’, and the answer he expects is one that will distinguish areas of knowledge (by their specific object and use) not modes of knowing” (“Socratic Knowledge and Platonic ‘Pessimism,’” n. 7). But Vlas-tos inverts the order of the argument. What he takes as Plato’s question is in fact Plato’s answer. It is precisely the question “What is Knowledge?” that is being asked in the Charmides. The question is about whether knowledge can be con-sidered apart from its content, as something separate from the known object. And Plato’s answer is that it cannot. Even so, Vlastos is right in asserting that Plato rejects “modes of knowing” per se.

3. See Apl., 21. 4. See Alc., 259. 5. See “Julia Annas: Self-knowledge is knowledge of the self,” in appen-

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Part III

The Interpretation of the Protagoras

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Introduction to the Dialogue

Provided with the general distinction between the philosophy of Socrates and that of Protagoras, let me go into a commentary and interpretation of the Protagoras.

The Protagoras is “as amusing as a comedy of Aristophanes,” as Al-exander Koyré asserts.1 It is intended to be a dialogue in its form and an anti-dialogue in its content. Schofield says that it is a “philosophical fail-ure but that Plato has constructed it exactly as such.”2 Indeed, Plato proves to be more sophist than the sophists (at least as he understands them).3 He conducts large and misleading discourses, all the while hiding his true thoughts. However, my main thesis is that this dialogue pos-sesses a unity that its commentators and even admirers have never fully recognized. More specifically, this dialogue concerns the relationships between three values: efficiency, pleasure, and moral goodness.4 Plato tries to reduce all three of these values to knowledge; Protagoras, on the other hand, tries to keep them as qualitatively different from each other as possible.

According to John Morrison, the dialogue probably should be dated about 433 B.C., shortly before the outbreak of the First Peloponesian War, when Socrates was about thirty seven years old, and Protagoras about fifty seven.5

From the discussion of Socrates with his anonymous friend, it is clear that Protagoras’ visit to Athens is an event of some importance. Pro-tagoras’ arrival even made Socrates forget about the presence of his lover and admirer Alcibiades. The text is without a doubt highly caricatural; it is a parody of the Athenian emotional state of mind surrounding the Protagoras’ visit. When Socrates also asserts that Protagoras is even nicer than Alcibiades, we can be sure that “nice” here has a different meaning that the current one. Protagoras ought to be nice, Socrates im-

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plies, since he is so wise; or so he pretends to be . We may be sure that Socrates is being insincere about Protagoras' wisdom, because Socrates is not one to accept passively anybody's claims to wisdom.6

Plato, using Socrates as the narrative voice, relates how Hippoc rates barges in to Socrates' house some lime before dawn and wakes him up. Somebody in Socrates' house hold opened the door for him at thi s hour. We can contrast the ease of entering Socrates' house with the later diffi­cu lty that Soc rates himself will experience when he tries to enter the house of Ca ll i as.

We should note th e con trast between the agitation of Hippocrates and the calm of Socrates. Soc rates kn ows that the great Protago ras has al­ready been in Athens for t\vo days but literally hasn' t lost any sleep over it. Though the rest of intellectua l Athens is in an uproar, Socrates sleeps. This reveals hi s attitude toward Protagoras. The presence of the great sophist changes nothing for him.

Meanwhile, Hi ppocrates gropes around in the darkness looking for Socrates' bed, just as the who le of Athens gropes around in ignorance, looking fo r wisdom.

We learn next that Hippocrates wants to become a student of the great sop hist-and that he is prepared to pay for the privilege. Herein lies the motive for his urgent visit to Socrates. He wants Socrates to persuade Protagoras to accept him, Hippocrates, as a pupil. Thi s is Protagoras' second visit to Athens. At the time of his first vis it, Hippoc rates was only a chi ld, and understood noth ing about Protagoras or his ideas; he only knew that Protagoras was we ll -known fo r his wisdom. Thus, we can as­sume that the first visit took place around ten or fifteen years before the second one.

The impatient Hippocrates wants Socrates to accompany him imme­diate ly to Callias' house, where Protagoras is staying. Socrates attempts to cool hi s friend 's ardor by persuading him to take a stro ll and wai t for sunr ise; aga in, note the contrast between the eagerness of Hippocrates and the calm of Socrates .

As they stroll, they talk, and what they say may hel p us understand something about the sophists' function and character. Young Athenians flocked to the sophist thinkers because they offered a new kind of contest and new weapons in the struggle for power, though at the same time they were loathe to openly declare themselves in pursuit of this goa l. "Would you not be ashamed of you rself to appear as a Sophist before the Hel­lenes?" Socrates asks him. "Yes, by Zeus, Socrates, to confess the truth, I should be" (Prl. 312a).

Paul Friedlander interprets this reply as "the confession of eve I)' well­bred Athenian.'" [t is not a confess ion indeed, but the contrary. Though

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the you ng Athenian wishes to become a pupil of soph ists, he cannot de­clare his intention publicly. The techniques of power are, by necess ity, esoteric in character.

Thus, the prelude already hints at the background of the dialogue. The first (typically Socratic) question conce rn s the content of Protago ras' teachings. If yo u become the studen t of Hippoc rates of Cos, the physi ­cian, you learn how to be a physician. If you become a sculptor'S student, you learn how to be a scu lptor, and so forth. By this logic, if you go to a sophist, you will ieam how to be a sophist. But what does it mean to be a sophist?

Hippocrates defines who a soph ist is- "he who is wise about wise ~ '"' , ~ ~ , .-

things" (TOV T OV ut)cu. T Ot) TW t) O"O~Wt) £TT~CTTT]tJoot)a). However, for Socrates, the questi on remains unanswered. It is first of all a tautol­ogy. Hi ppocrates says only that a sophist is a sophist. This answer is not an answe r for Socrates because any question about a subject must be an­swe red in terms of its object. To be a subject is on ly to refer to an object; a subject is defined by its object, so that as such, or as a relation 10 an obj ect, it does not exceed the limits of the objec t itself. We should ask what a wise person is wi se abOll/. Pl ato indeed regards rheto ric as a purely fonna l art. Koyre correctly asserts that, fo r Plato, "a purely fonnal art of speakin g wou ld lead to speech wi th out thought , sin ce there is no purely formalthought. "s

On the othe r hand , Robinson", Christopher C. W. Taylor, and others assert that thi s is a typical case of ind uctive argumen t. 1O Tay lor, after de­c iding that this is the case, criti cizes it :

The chief danger of the method is that instances chosen may be atypical. Th at is so in this case [apropos Pn 312d5-e6, O.B.]. Soc­rates ignores the possibil ity that A may make B an effective speaker, not by impaning some specialized knowledge to speak about, but by traininp him in techniques of effective presentation of any subject-matter. I

J believe this is a misconception of Socrates' approach. The instances of phys ic ian, sculptor, and so on , do not come as instances in order to generalize, but on ly examples for th e general case already decided be­forehand. Thus, in Soc rati c pri nciple, one cannot teach a technique (a form) all by itself, without reference to content. Socrates typically re­duces the fonn of knowledge to its content, as we have already seen. If Robin so n and Taylor bad merely tried to understand Socrates' logic in stead of criti ciz ing it, and instead of following Aristotle, they would not be gu ilty of such inductionism.

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To return to the dialogue, Hippocrates has no answer to such a ques-tion. He believed that he could substantialize the relation without refer-ring to that which the relation relates.

Socrates adds that the lack of an answer poses a serious problem. In matters related to the health of the body we are, commonly, ready to take advice of anyone who can give it. Contrariwise, it seems that in matters concerning our soul, Hippocrates does not take any advice about the quality of the spiritual food before eating it. Socrates says:

where the purchase of instruction is concerned, the danger is much greater. For when we buy food and drink from a dealer or mer-chant, we can take them away in other containers and, before we allow them to enter our system by eating or drinking them, we can take them home, put them away and take the advice of an expert as to which we should eat or drink and which we should not, and in what quantities and upon what occasions so that the purchase itself carries no great risk. But with a course of instruction we can not take it away in any other container, but are compelled to put down our money and go away after we have learned and let the course enter our very mind, whether to its benefit or detriment (Prt. 314a-b).

Here is a typical piece of Socratic anti-formalist reasoning. Socrates assumes that in matters of soul, as in bodily matters, there is no such sub-stance that, as it were, can absorb certain contents without being altered in the process. There is no such inalterable essence, no independent, sub-stantive subject. And since none such essence exists, knowledge implies the transformation of soul.

The discussion between Hippocrates and Socrates is in fact a good prologue to the discussion with Protagoras. Plato’s approach will be that there is no knowledge by itself; there is only knowledge of truth or knowledge of the object. Protagoras, on the other hand, will distinguish between knowledge and truth, since the two are not necessarily related. Protagoras believes that if we are able to assert something with certitude, it is our capacity to be wise, but not our capacity to know. We can be wise without knowing anything. We can talk about the wanderings and adventures of the gods, without knowing anything about their existence. We can educate without instructing, namely, without transmitting infor-mation. Knowledge itself is knowable; the object of knowledge is not. This is the essence of his formalism.

After this preliminary discussion, Socrates invites Hippocrates to walk to Callias’ house. Callias has transformed his house in a sophist assembly, honored by the presence of Hippias and Prodicus followed by

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their disciples. Callias himself belonged to a rich family and according to Plato (Apl. 20a4-5) spent more money on sophists than all the other dis-ciples put together. His mother was Pericles’ first wife before marrying Callias’ father Hipponicus.

Callias was not the only private patron of sophists—we learn from Plato that Gorgias stayed at the house of Callicles and was prepared to lecture there (Grg. 447b7-8). Later speculations suggest that Protagoras gave a reading of his work On Gods either at the house of Euripides or at the house of a certain Megaclides.12

Anyone can walk into Socrates’ house at any time, but Callias’ house is a different matter. The gatekeeper of Callias’ house, believing that Socrates and Hippocrates are sophists who perhaps want to take advan-tage of Callias’ hospitality, refuses to admit them. He slams the doors with both hands and insists that Callias is busy. Socrates tells him that they are not sophists and that they only want to see Protagoras.

Once inside the house, Socrates describes three comic scenes with great malevolent gusto.13 The three actors of the spectacle are Protagoras of Abdera, Hippias of Elis, and Prodicus of Ceos. It is a picture that evokes Greek intellectual life of the time, especially around the sophists:

Protagoras walking up and down the portico, while walking up and down with him were, in order, on one side Callias the son of Hip-ponicus, his maternal step-brother Parallos the son of Pericles, and Charmides the son of Glaucon, and, on the other side, Pericles’ other son Xenthippos, Philippides the son of Philomelus and Anti-moerus of Mende, who is Protagoras’ star pupil and is studying to acquire the art and become a sophist. And of those who followed behind, listening in on their discourse, the majority seemed to be foreigners. Protagoras draws these people from every city he visits, enchanting them, like Orpheus, with his voice, while they follow after his voice spellbound. But there were also a few native Athe-nians in the chorus. I particularly enjoyed the spectacle of this cho-rus and the splendid care they took never to be in Protagoras’ way or get in front of him. Each time he and his companions turned about, his audience parted ranks in good order, this way and that, and so, circling about, returned each time to their positions in the rear: magnificent! (Prt. 314e-315b).

In contrast with this picture of the wandering sophists,14 Socrates paints a static scene that expresses the sedentary sophists.15 Hippias of Elis was sitting on a high chair,

while about him, on benches, sat Eryximachus the son of Acu-menus, Phaedrus the Myrrhinusan and Andron the son of An-

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drotion, together with some foreigners from his own native city, and some others. As it appeared, they were plying Hippias with questions about natural science and astronomy while he, from his chair of state, was deciding any arguments which arose and giving lengthy expositions in answer to their questions (Prt. 315c).

At the height of his chair, a substitute for the real sky, Hippias ex-presses the distinction between the sophists and natural philosophers. The chair, as the point of view out of which stars and sky are being ex-plained, is not already a scanning of the sky itself. Plato takes it as a sub-stitute, as a copy instead of the original. It is, however, an expression of the sophists’ awareness of the distinction between the subject in its rela-tion to its sky as object. Here, the subject comes instead of the object. Thales scanned the sky by looking at it. The new astronomy is conducted indoors. It is the science of the method of astronomy, and not the science of stars and their relative movements itself.

Contrasting again with this second scene,

Prodicus was still in bed, wrapped in sheepskins and blankets—a considerable quantity, to judge from his appearance. Sitting beside him on the nearby couches were Pausanias from Cerameis, and with Pausanias a young stripling, of good breeding, I think, and extremely good looking. I heard his name as Agathon, I think, and I shouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t actually Pausanias’ boyfriend. Anyway, there was this lad, the two Adeimantuses, one the son of Cepis and the other the son of Leucolophides, and apparently some others. But from where I was standing, outside, I was unable to discover what they were discussing, though I was eager to hear Prodicus. For I think he is a very wise man indeed—wonderfully so. But his voice was so deep that the reverberation of the room made his words indistinct (Prt. 315d-316a).

Hippias at the greatest high—Prodicus on the ground. Note that the words of Prodicus were indistinct; these are the very words of a sophist who specializes in making fine distinctions between the meanings of synonyms.

Three kinds of sophistic styles, then, are described in a suggestive or-der: wandering, sedentary, and recumbent.

Socrates turns to Protagoras, and says that he and Hippocrates have come to see him. Protagoras responds: “Do you want to speak with me in private, or in front of the others?” (Prt. 316a). Now, if Protagoras were really interested in privacy, he would have taken Socrates aside and asked him the same question discreetly. But no, Protagoras clearly wants

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to speak publicly. Plato decides that Protagoras is interested in spreading his ideas as well as in enhancing his fame and reputation.

Protagoras then explains to Socrates, with all those present as wit-nesses, that a sophist like himself must take precautions, for he is a for-eigner in great cities, one who persuades young men to forsake the com-pany of others. “Jealousy, hostility and intrigue on a large scale are aroused by such activity” (Prt. 316d). For this reason,

its practitioners in former times were intimidated by its unpopular-ity, and therefore concealed it behind specious façades.16 Thus there are some, like Homer, Hesiod or Simonides, who have hid-den it behind a façade of poetry, while others made use of mystery cults or prophecy, as did the Orphic and the followers of Musaeus. Similarly I have perceived some such use of physical training: Ic-cus of Taras, for example, and even today Herodicus of Selymbria, formerly of Megara, is as able a sophist as any. Then there was your own Agathocles who presented himself to the public as a practitioner of music, though he was in fact a great sophist, and Pythocleides of Ceos and many more besides. All these men, I say, fearing unpopularity, used these arts as window-dressing (Prt. 316d-e).

The above is a description of what Protagoras rejects:

But I differ from all of them. I consider that they failed to accom-plish their objective: for they did not pass undetected by those men who played a leading part in their communities, and for whose benefit they put up these façades in the first place; after all, the masses (polloi) notice hardly anything for themselves, merely ac-claiming whatever these leading citizens pronounce. For a man to run for cover, and not only to fail to get away but actually to make himself conspicuous in the process is in itself sheer stupidity; be-sides which it will inevitably make people even more hostile, since they regard that sort of man as unprincipled into the bargain. Which is why I have taken precisely the opposite course from these men and openly admit to being a sophist and an educator, thinking it a better precaution to admit to it openly than to be caught deny-ing it. And in addition to this I have taken other precautions which, with the help of God, ensure that I can openly admit, without any unpleasant consequences, that I am a sophist. And yet I have been practicing the art for many years now; indeed I have been alive for a great many years—indeed, I am old enough to be the father of any one of you. So if there is something you want, much the most agreeable course for me would be to talk it over in front of all the other visitors to this house (Prt. 317a-c).

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According to these declarations, Protagoras is clearly a teacher of civic education, though neither a politician that rules nor one with politi-cal aspirations. Quite the contrary, by openly speaking in this way he warns citizens against the tyranny of those who hold power. His declara-tions are a defense of democracy against the manipulative power of pro-fessional politicians. By preferring sincerity to concealment, and by openly proclaiming himself as a sophist, he reveals himself primarily as an educator. Later on, we will see what Protagoras means by education.

The presence of Socrates disrupts the order of things in Callias house, which takes on a new order. The benches are put in a circle, and Prodicus is roused from his bed to participate.

Once everybody is seated, Socrates begins by asking in his favorite question: In the name of Hippocrates, he wants to know

what, if he does associate with you, the outcome of his studies will be. “If you associate with me, young man,” said Protagoras in reply, “then you will be able, at the end of your first day in my company, to go away a better man; and the same will happen on the next day, and each day after that you will continue to grow better and im-prove” (Prt. 318a-b).

This kind of explanation reminds us immediately of the definition of the sophist offered by Hippocrates at the beginning of the dialogue, namely, that he is wise about wise things. Now we know, in addition, that he is wiser than we are, and that we, his potential disciples, will grow better than we were before.

Socrates says that he is not surprised, because it is useful to learn something that one did not know before. This is an ironic way of telling Protagoras that he has said nothing yet, and that Protagoras still hasn’t revealed what it is that he teaches. Socrates, of course, understands edu-cation to be instruction.17 He tries to explain why he has yet learned nothing:

suppose Hippocrates here were suddenly to change his mind and set his heart on associating with that young man who is in town at the moment—Zeuxippus, from Heraclea, I mean—and came to him, just as he has come to you, and heard him say just what he has heard from you: that each day on which he associates with him he will grow better and make progress; and suppose someone were to ask Zeuxippus the further question, “At what are you saying he will grow better, and towards what will he make progress?” Zeuxippus would say at painting. Or suppose that in company with

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Orthagoras of Thebes he heard what he has heard from you, and were again to ask at what he would be better each day by his asso-ciation with him; he would say at playing the flute. Well, in the same way, Protagoras, tell the young lad and me (since I am asking the question on his behalf) the following: If Hippocrates here asso-ciates with Protagoras, he will go away better on the first day and will make progress every day after that—but towards what, Pro-tagoras, and in relation to what? [Italics mine] (Prt. 318b-d).

The question is then, for Socrates, not in what manner he can grow better but in what matter. What is the content of this so-called improve-ment, what is the object of knowledge? He hints that there is no such thing as “growing better” without knowledge, or that it is not a manner of growing better besides knowledge. There is no process of knowledge, but only results; more precisely, the process is crystallized and defined by its result and has neither value nor existence in itself. It is not a form of knowledge.

Protagoras very well understands the question and the subtle critique it implies. Now the dialogue begins. Protagoras offers a distinction that shows he knows exactly what is under discussion:

You ask a good question, Socrates . . . and I’m always pleased to reply to a good question. If Hippocrates comes to me he won’t have the same experience as he would have had by associating with one of the other sophists. These others are a curse on young men. Just when they have escaped from technical subjects they bring them unwillingly back and throw them once again into tech-nical subjects—arithmetic, astronomy, geometry, music—this with a pointed look at Hippias but with me he will learn only the subject which he came to learn and no other. The course of instruction is good planning both of his own affairs, to the end that he would best manage his personal estate, and of the city’s to the end that he would be in the strongest position to conduct, in speech and action, the common business of the city [Italics mine] (Prt. 318d-319a).

What does Protagoras mean by technical subjects? Clearly he does not mean the good planning of personal and civic affairs. For Protagoras (as for Aristotle) common business of the city, politics, is not a technical matter, a matter of employing specific means to achieve ends. Goal-oriented activity is transitive, in the sense that the means are used for the sake of something different; the activity is not undertaken for its own sake. Now, if the end is the content of the activity, and if politics is not a technical, goal-oriented activity, then the subject matters of politics are not the contents of consciousness. We can conclude that the content of

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Protagoras’ teachings are not the objects of sciences, but the way these objects are approached. His focus is on the subject of the activity, not on its object. His aim is to know the subject better. He does not seek to im-prove knowledge in the sense of knowing different matters, but to im-prove the form of knowledge—our patterns of thought—as well as the patterns of behavior in the polis.18 Thus understood, it makes sense to say that one grows better without referring to the Socratic question, namely, “in what,” since for Protagoras the “what” becomes irrelevant.

Besides, to put it in Kantian terms, politics belongs to the Kingdom of ends, and as such is a matter of values and not of facts.

If Protagoras had been conducting this particular discussion with the other sophists, rather than with Socrates, his words would have no doubt transcended their individual differences and elicited a general agreement. The other sophists did not teach content, either. Even Hippias the as-tronomer was concerned with the methods of astronomy rather than with the stars themselves. The sophists were not interested in science but in the scientific mind. Sophistry was not science but meta-science—the philosophy of science.

The sophists dwelled plainly and purely at the level of anthropocentrism. However, sophist thought differs considerably from primitive and mythic anthropocentrism. The sophists were quite con-scious of being anthropocentric. They realized that human consciousness is not the sum total of reality, but theorized that human consciousness is all we can know of reality.

Socrates, however, is not at all ready to accept a reality bounded by human consciousness. Quite the contrary. He responds, with some irony, that he does not believe that political virtue can be taught. He offers a de facto argument.19 When citizens are convened in assembly, he points out, they must make decisions on technical matters, which means taking ad-vice from various specialists. They must consult builders in matters of building, shipwrights in matters of ship construction, and so forth.

And if someone else attempts to give them advice (sumbouleuein), whom they don’t consider a skilled professional, be he handsome (kalos) and wealthy and well-born, they will have none of him, for all that, but laugh and jeer at him until this man who has ventured to speak either stands down of his own accord, discouraged by the uproar, or is dragged from the platform by the police or removed on the order of the presidents. That is what they do when they con-sider a technical skill (techné) to be at issue. But when they come to deliberate (bouleuesthai) political issues, then a builder can get up and give advice (sumbouleuein), or, equally, smith or cobbler, merchant or shipper, rich or poor, high-born or low without dis-

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tinction. And nobody heckles them, as they do in the previous in-stances, with shouts of You didn’t learn about it anywhere. No qualified instructor trained you, and now you try to give us advice! And the reason is plainly that they don’t consider that it can be taught (Prt. 319b-d).

This argument may convince if we do not grasp its irony. It is in fact not a real Socratic argument, for two reasons:

1. Socrates, as clearly stated later in the dialogue, does not accept the opinion of the masses. Here he is critical of the democratic assumptions and practices of the Athenians. In political affairs, they are all too ready to hear advice from ignorant people, since democracy grants equal voice to the wise and the foolish, to the virtuous and the unscrupulous.

2. The very turn to a de facto argument does not accord with Socra-tes’ extreme rationalism. In his account of this state of affairs, Plato rec-ognizes de facto (though not de jure) the distinction between the attitude of the Athenians on political matters and their attitude on technical ques-tions. They distinguish between matters of means, technical questions, in which the skilled is always superior to the unskilled, and matters con-cerned with ends, which they do not perceive as a matter of expertise. What Athenians assume—and this is the basis for democracy in general and the basis for political decisions in particular—is that there are no ex-perts on values or goals. The decision to build a temple is not a technical decision but a matter of values. Once the decision has passed a vote, once the end has been democratically validated and approved, they call upon the professional builder, the expert on means. The Athenians do not vote on the best method to quarry marble. Such a decision is a matter of technique only. Democracy concerns ends, while technique concerns means.

All this is valid not only in public affairs, but also in private life. In this regard, we can easily understand Socrates’ deprecation of Pericles and his sons. He says, with brutal honesty, that wise men like Pericles taught their sons all that was teachable, but did not teach them virtue. Pericles let his sons “wander about on their own like sacred cattle look-ing for pasture, hoping to pick up virtue by chance” (We note in passing that Pericles’ sons were among those present when Socrates made this remark!).20

Socrates once again criticizes Pericles. He says, indeed, that Clinias, Alcibiades’ young brother, was educated by Pericles “for fear he should be corrupted by Alcibiades” (Socrates’ lover) (Prt. 320a). Pericles placed him in Ariphon’s household to be educated. “But not six months had

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passed before he returned [Clinias] to his brother, not knowing what to do with him” (Prt. 320a-b).

Let me contrast my interpretation at this point with that of C. C. W. Taylor. Taylor has evidently missed Socrates’ irony:

The difference between technical questions as conceived by Soc-rates, e.g. how best to build a temple, and policy questions is that in the former some goal is assumed and what is in question is the best way to achieve it. Here technical experts are alone qualified to speak, because they alone know the facts on which a decision de-pends. In policy questions, on the other hand, what is in dispute is the question of which goal is to be adopted, or perhaps more fre-quently which of a number of agreed goals are to be given higher priority. Here the ultimate question is not one of fact, but of prefer-ence, and hence there are no experts.21

This is indeed the point of view of democracy, but not of Plato. If he shared this point of view, he would be a democrat rather than an elitist who believes in the rule of philosopher-kings. Values are, for Plato, also a matter of knowledge. As we will see later, his famous dictum “Virtue is knowledge” implies that preferences are deduced out of knowledge, and that a fortiori, value is knowledge.

In addition to ascribing to Socrates non-Socratic views, Taylor intro-duces his own values and his own point of view in his discussion, con-trasting them with Socrates’ point of view:

In fact Socrates greatly oversimplifies the dichotomy, since even questions of the former kind [technical questions] generally in-clude non-technical questions calling for decision rather than a factual answer, e.g. which of a number of proposed temples is the more beautiful, or whether it is better to spend more on an admit-tedly more beautiful temple than to build a cheaper one and use the balance for some other desirable purpose. On these questions ex-perts have no special status. Yet even though running the city in-volves making non-factual decisions, it does not follow that one cannot be taught how to do it. One can, for instance be trained in decision-making, e.g. by working through a number of practice situations and being made aware of the kinds of factor that have to be taken into account and the kind of mistakes that can be made; one can also be taught subsidiary skills such as oratory and diplo-macy. Someone who had undergone that kind of training might reasonably claim to speak on matters of policy with a certain de-gree of authority, which would increase with wider experience of actual affairs. But since the element of preference is especially

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prominent in questions of policy it is reasonable that even those who lack this training should be listened to, just as it is reasonable that a layman should be heard on the aesthetic, social, and other non technical aspects of a public works program.22

Taylor is not arguing against Plato, but rather against Protagoras, and perhaps, mutatis mutandis, also against David Hume or even against Ar-istotle. He is paving the route to Plato’s reductionism of values to knowl-edge.

More precisely, Taylor’s approach falls halfway between Plato and Protagoras. Unlike Plato, Taylor distinguishes between matters of fact and matters of value, but not sharply; Plato understands the distinction, but opposes it strongly. Protagoras, as we will see, together with the opinion of the masses on democracy matters, makes a sharper distinction than Taylor is prepared to accept. The fact that one can be trained in de-cision-making does not imply that the training itself involves no deci-sions, and the fact that one is an expert in temple building does not imply that they must be built, as Taylor himself may be ready to accept. Tech-nical matters address means, while value issues (What Taylor calls ques-tions of preference) address ends. So the distinction between, on the one hand, decisions taken out of values and concern to ends, and on the other hand, knowledge of facts that concern means—remains clear and sharp. It seems that Taylor, in his haste to take up a position, fails to make a distinction between Protagoras’ and Plato’s points of view. Plato indeed thinks that the whole matter is one of experts, while Protagoras believes that in these matters there is no such thing as expertise. Plato reduces “preference” matters to knowledge of facts. This is the source for the su-periority he attributes to expertise.23 For Plato there are only technical subjects; that is, he reduces all other patterns of activity to goal-oriented or purposive activity.24 Protagoras thinks that the means-ends distinction has nothing to do with political life. For Protagoras, politics is not a technical matter. He is neither a Machiavellian nor a representative of the modern State.

Let me return to Plato’s line of argumentation. Socrates concludes at the end of this discussion that virtue is not teachable. Now he asks Pro-tagoras to prove that it is teachable. Plato’s genuine and non-ironic point of view is that virtue is teachable in principle, but not in practice.

Let me now resume Socrates’ arguments. Socrates begins his discus-sion with Protagoras by offering two arguments that challenge Pro-tagoras’ pretensions of being a teacher of political virtue.

First Socratic Argument. If virtue were teachable, then its teaching should be left to experts. Most Athenians do not accept this assumption,

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however. They allow all citizens to express their ideas on political mat-ters. Democracy assumes that there are no such experts, that there is no need for special training or certificates of any kind. Athenians assume that virtue is not teachable.

Second Socratic Argument. If virtue were teachable, then political leaders as Pericles would teach it to their sons. This, however, is not the case, since Pericles leave his sons, Xenthippos and Parallos, to “wander about on their own like sacred cattle looking for pasture, hoping to pick up virtue by chance” (Prt. 320d). Virtue is then, regarded as non-teachable, even by the best of the Athenians.

This is the case, however, if we take into account only what Socrates explicitly asserts. A more profound interpretation, however, would reveal that the argument here is not that virtue is not teachable, but only that (according to the presuppositions of Protagoras) we do not know how to teach it. Indeed, it is not Socrates who assumes that virtue is not teach-able, but the Athenians, at least as he portrays them in his first argument.

It is noteworthy, however, that the discussion is not between the Athenians and Protagoras, nor is it about the way Socrates understands the Athenians, nor even is it between Socrates and Protagoras about how they understand the Athenians. The discussion is between Protagoras and Socrates. Placing just their discussion at the focus, the question about the possibility of teaching virtue becomes much more complex than it looks at first glance. Indeed, apparently, there is no discussion between Pro-tagoras and Socrates on this point. Indeed, both agree that virtue is teach-able. This is, therefore, not the issue under discussion. The issue under discussion, as I will try to show, concerns why virtue is teachable and the way each one understands the meaning of teaching.

As a matter of principle, Plato maintains that virtue is teachable be-cause it is knowledge. Protagoras also maintains that virtue is teachable. Indeed, they have no quarrel on this point. Due to this apparent agree-ment, John Stewart even asserts, against George Grote and Friedrich Schleiermacher’s opinion,25 that the Protagorean myth is a Platonic myth—a story that embodies Platonic philosophy.26

However, the discussion is precisely on the point were they seem to agree. For Protagoras, indeed, virtue is teachable because it is not knowl-edge. If virtue were knowledge, it would then be unteachable.

Protagoras and Plato understand virtue and knowledge in very differ-ent ways. Michael O’Brien summarizes the discussion quite cogently: “Virtue is knowledge, says Socrates, and yet no one teaches it or learns it. Everyone teaches it and learns it, says Protagoras, but it is no knowl-edge.”27 Obviously, the fact that no one teaches something does not nec-

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essarily mean that it cannot be taught. Protagoras’ position is, however, less clear.

The issue about why virtue is teachable is directly connected with an-other issue—the unity of virtues. In order to analyze these issues, we will have to separate them, for they are conflated into the same subject mat-ter.

In order to facilitate the progress of my interpretation, I will summa-rize the theses of Protagoras and Socrates:

Socrates defends the unity of the diverse virtues. Protagoras will de-fend the thesis that there is no such unity because the virtues are qualita-tively different. They are irreducible, and therefore cannot be made to harmonize with each other. We may resume both stands as follows:

1. According to Socrates, virtue is teachable if virtue is knowledge, and if there is a unity among the virtues (Prt. 361a5-c2).

2. According to Protagoras, virtue is teachable if virtue is not knowl-edge and if there is not a unity among virtues.

This is in my opinion the main point under discussion in the dialogue. This is confirmed by the finale of the dialogue, where Socrates sums up the discussion while at the same time declaring that it has not reached its end:

it seems to me that the outcome of our discussion is like someone pointing an accusing finger and laughing; and could he but speak he would say: “What a pair you are, Socrates and Protagoras! You, Socrates, who were originally maintaining that virtue is not teach-able, are now eagerly turning yourself inside out attempting to prove that all things are knowledge, including justice, moderation and courage, which would make it obvious that virtue must be teachable. For if virtue were anything other than knowledge, as Protagoras was attempting to maintain, it obviously could not be teachable; but now, if it turns out to be entirely a matter of knowl-edge, as you are so eager to maintain, Socrates, it would be amaz-ing if it were not teachable. But Protagoras, on the other hand, after committing himself to the view that it is teachable, is now appar-ently rushing off to the opposite extreme and trying to show it to be almost anything rather than knowledge, in which case it could not possibly be teachable” (Prt. 361a-c).

This is clearly a Platonic view of the discussion and not an impartial assessment. However, it in now quite clear that Plato’s original asser-tion—that virtue is not teachable—was intentionally ironic. He does be-lieve that virtue is teachable, because it is knowledge, while Protagoras

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believes, as he shows this in his discourse, that it is teachable because it is not know ledge.28

Lei me engage some details. At a first glance, Socrates' pos ition seems to be more defensible than Protagoras'. Indeed, to recognize, with Protagoras, that virtue is not knowledge, and to assert that virtue is teachab le, amounts to saying that we can teach something that we do not know! This absurdity should inspire us to search a little fo r the authentic Protagoras, who was no absurdist. We must attempt to reconstruct his philosophical position.

In any case, I think that we can begin to discem the unity orthe dia­logue i f we look at the subject matter from the point of view of the ph ilo­sophical assumptions of the two thinkers. In this light, what once ap­peared to be irrelevant may no longer seem so . I refer specially to the tale of Protagoras and his discourse about the teaching of virtue. If we regard Protagoras' tale and discourse as somehow irrelevant to the rest of the dia logue, we have probably fallen into the trap of Socrates' irony.

The irony is this. After pat iently bearing out Protagoras' large dis­course, Socrates says he has a small and tangentia l question . Th is "small" question is taken up for the rest of the clialogue, thus leaving the reader with the impress ion that the discourse and the tale are somehow unimportant. But Socrates' question is misleading. It is only an expres­sion of his own point of view. In fact, nothing proves that he really un­derstands the meaning and occasion of Protagoras' lengthy response. In­deed, as far as Socrates is concemed, Protagoras' response is irrelevant to the question. However, Protagoras did answer the question as he un­derstood it. We can at any rate tl)' to show its relevance to the rest of the dialogue.

The question now is, thus, how does the tale and the discourse on education re late to the rest of the dialogue? Most commentators avoid this question entirely.

We may also ask why Protagoras argues in two steps, first by means of a tale, and then through a discourse (logos). Apparently, they are the same in meaning. However, Protagoras himself asserts, at the end of the discourse, that there were two discourses, not only a discourse and a mythical substitute: t-' ~e ov !(o.~ )..~yo v.29

I will try to show that the myth and the discourse constitute Pro­tagoras' credo against Socrates. The tale, considered in the context of the whole dialogue, is Protagoras' answer to Plato's theory of measurement, or, if you prefer, the theory of measurement is the response to the tale. Be that as it may-this is the frame of reference for the whole dialogue. Gomperz sees in Proragoras' discourse, on the contrary, "a framework of confused and contradictory thought wrapped up in a covering of bril liant

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rhetoric , full of sp irit and life," and that " the exact amount of resem­blance between the original and the caricature is impossible to de­termine. ".lO A: I tried to explain in my introduction on interpretation, any e.asy assumption that the text itself is confused or contradictory effec­tively prevents us from thinking further about it. On the other hand, I agree with Vlastos' observation that the theory of measurement is the counterweight in length and substance to Protagoras' "Great Speech.,,31

We can understand the tale of Protagoras as a reflection on values whose value is decisive for the whole discussion. In the dialogue, indeed, what is under discussion is whether the difference suggested in the tale between pleasure (represented by the image of the Titan Epimetheus), efficiency, or technical skill (represented by the Titan Prometheus) and the moral good (represented by Zeus) is a qualitative difference, o r al l values are reducible to one--<;alled Virtue, Good, or Truth. Protagoras' homo mensura proposes a qualitative distinction between values. Plato's theory of measurement proposes to reduce all o f them to one. But we must now pass directly to an analysis of the tale and after that to an analysi s of Protagoras ' discourse.

Notes

I. Alexandre KOYTe, Discovering Plmo (New York: Columbia University Press, 1945), 18.

2. Malcolm Schofield, "Socrates versus Protagoras," in Socratic Ques-tions: New Essays on the Philosophy of Socrales alld liS Significance, ed. Barry Gower and Michael Stokes, (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University r"ress, 1986), 132.

3. See for a similar view, Scott R. Hemmenway "Sophistry Exposed: Soc-rates on the Unity of Virtue in the Prolagoras." Ancient Philosophy 16 (1996): \-23.

4. This distinction between values is thoroughly analyzed and developed in Michael Strauss, Voh/ion and Valualion, (Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 1999).

S. John S. Morrison, "The Place of Protagoras in Athenian Public Life," CQ 35 ( 1941): 2-3. For the discussion on the exact date of its written, see Char­les H. Kahn, "On the Relative Date of the Gorgias and the Pro/agoras," 69-102. For the chronology of Protagoras life, see John S. Morrison, "The Place of Pro­tagoras in Athenian Public Life": 1-16; Guthrie, HGP. 111,262-9; and the good resume of Edward Schiappa, Prolagoras and Logos: A S/lidy in Greek Phi/oso~ phy and Rhetoric (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1991), appendix A, 205-6. About the dramatic date, see Patrick Coby, Socrates and Ihe Sophistic Enlightenment: A Commentary on Plato's Protagoras (London and Toronto: Associated University Presses, 1987). 23-4; Friedrich Schleiermacher, Introductions 10 the Dialogues of Plalo (New York: Amo Press, 1973),81-6;

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and John Walsh, “The Dramatic Dates of Plato’s Protagoras and the Lesson of Areté,” CQ 34 (1984): 101-6.

6. One problem with the interpretation of irony is to ascribe it to Socrates also when he did not intend to be ironic; turn to the use of irony as an explana-tory device. This is the case, I believe, with Vlastos’ assertion that Socrates dis-avowal of knowledge and teaching (education) includes irony. See Gregory Vlastos, Socrates: Ironist and Moral Philosopher (Cambridge [England]: Cam-bridge University Press, 1991), 31 ff., 83 ff. Vlastos however, asserts that So-cratic has a moderate, “complex irony,” namely, “a figure of speech in which what is said both is and isn’t what is meant” (Vlastos, Socrates: Ironist and Moral Philosopher, 13-4).

7. Paul Friedländer, Plato I: An Introduction (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1964), 7.

8. Koyré, Discovering Plato, 20. 9. Robinson refers to a method of inference, missing, in my opinion, the

point, namely, Plato’s attempt to reduce the form of knowledge to its content. See Richard Robinson, Plato’s Early Dialectic (London: Oxford University Press, 1953), 33-7.

10. This idea comes to them from Aristotle, who said that Socrates used in-ductive arguments (see Met. 1078).

11. Christopher C. W. Taylor, ed., Plato: Protagoras (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1976), 67.

12. See Diogenes Laertius, LEP, bk. IX, 54. 13. About the comic aspect of the dialogue, see Philip Ambrose, “Socrates

and Prodicus in the Clouds,” in Essays in Ancient Greek Philosophy, ed. John P. Anton (Albany: SUNY, 1983), 132-4.

14. See O’Brien on ambulatory and sedentary sophists. In contrast to natu-ral philosophers the sophists are but a reaction to them, they are sedentary since they wandered only among cities, not in order to investigate but to spread the results of science, in a formalistic mood, as I tried to show. Michael O’Brien, The Socratic Paradoxes and the Greek Mind (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 1967), 127. See Gomperz on the sedentary character of the new sci-ence contrasting with the former natural philosophy. Heinrich Gomperz, GT I, 297.

15. About the sedentary character of Hippias, see Patrick Coby, Socrates and the Sophistic Enlightenment, 44.

16. Socrates, in his analysis of Simonides’ poem, actually supports the the-sis of Protagoras, though taking it to extremes, showing indeed that the poem is merely a façade for hidden purposes . . . just the purpose to demonstrate some Socratic theses!

17. I agree with O’Brien, in that Socrates understands “teaching” as in-struction in opposite to education. See O’Brien, The Socratic Paradoxes, 141. An opposite view is that of Adkins, who asserts that “the areté of the agathos polites of the fifth century is a skill, a Techné,” Arthur W. H. Adkins, Merit and Responsibility: A Study in Greek Values (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1960), 244. See also Schiappa, Protagoras and Logos, 169.

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18. Woodruf takes seriously the distinction made by Socrates between edu-cation and technical training in Prt. 312b, concluding that he holds similar views to Protagoras in 317c. Socrates distinction is made only for the sake of the dis-cussion, not as his final point of view. Paul Woodruf, “Plato’s Early Theory of Knowledge,” in Essays on the Philosophy of Socrates, Hugh H. Benson, ed., (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 94. However, he asserts in the same page (and note 14) that “Protagorean teaching includes the nurture (eutrophia) of the soul, and Socrates takes the narrower view that teaching is imparting a techné, and leads to professional confidence.”

19. In Plato’s philosophy, the very turn to facts as a device for demonstra-tions is a proof of his irony.

20. Socrates’ irony in this passage is a clear proof that he thinks that virtue is teachable. See Kraut, who sustains the same opinion. Richard Kraut, “Reply to Clifford Orwin,” in Platonic Writings, Platonic Readings, Charles Griswold Jr., ed., (London: Routledge, 1988), 178. Accordingly, he also contends, rightly, that “when Socrates disclaims knowledge, he is merely being ironic” (“Reply to Clifford Orwin,” 179).

21. Taylor, Plato: Protagoras, 73. 22. Taylor, Plato: Protagoras, 73. 23. Christopher C. W. Taylor is right in asserting that Socrates “assumes

that the only subjects which ‘can be learned and taught’ are technical subjects.” Plato: Protagoras, 74.

24. See Meno 93a-94d; Alc. I, 118c-119b; Lach. 179a-d. 25. George Grote, Plato and the Other Companions of Sokrates, volume II

(London: John Murray, 1865, rep. Bristol, England: Thoemmes Press, 1992), 47. Schleiermacher, Introductions to the Dialogues, 87.

26. John A. Stewart, Myths of Plato (London: Macmillan, 1905), 220. 27. O’Brien, The Socratic Paradoxes, 18. 28. See Cropsey, who resumes the positions of Plato and Protagoras at the

end of the dialogue in a similar way: “Socrates notes the confusion of their posi-tions, he denying that virtue is teachable but proving that it is knowledge, Pro-tagoras insisting that it is teachable but denying that it is knowledge.” Joseph Cropsey, Plato’s World: Man’s Place in the Cosmos (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 26. Note however, that Cropsey agrees with the stand taken by Plato when resuming the discussion and valuates it as a confusion. I agree with Cropsey’s description, but take a stand neither for Plato nor for Pro-tagoras.

29. See also when Protagoras says to Socrates that he is going “to dispense with myths” and “give you a discourse” (Prt. 324d).

30. Heinrich Gomperz, GT, II, 310. 31. Vlastos, Protagoras, xxxviii, n. 46. Vlastos, however, does not go into

the main issue under discussion: the relationships between virtue, pleasure, and efficiency.

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Chapter 7

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The Tale of Protagoras and Its Interpretation

I would like to defend the thesis that the tale and the speech express the authentic views of Protagoras. In this matter, I concur with Guthrie, Ker-ferd, and Romilly.1 My main reason for this contention is that the tale is strange enough to Plato’s thought. Moreover, all the dialogue, so I will try to show, is a discussion of Plato against the ideas exposed by means of the tale.

Let me begin by summarizing the tale, so that I can give some em-phasis to the points that we will need to refer to when we undertake the interpretation proper.

The tale tells us of a time when the gods existed, but the species had not yet been created. When the time determined by Destiny for their birth came, the gods modeled the species with a mixture of earth, fire, and all the rest of the substances made from earth and fire. The gods then charged the Titans Epimetheus and Prometheus with distributing quali-ties among the mortal creatures who were soon going to be born. Epi-metheus implored Prometheus to let him do the work of distributing the qualities, telling Prometheus that he needed do nothing but judge the re-sult of Epimetheus’ work when it was done. Prometheus agreed.

So Epimetheus distributed powers and qualities among mortal crea-tures. He furnished some with strength and others with speed. He sup-plied the species with natural weapons and other qualities designed to ensure their survival. In his distribution, he balanced each species against the other, and provided all of them with such qualities that would prevent their mutual destruction.

After the distribution of the qualities of defense, he bestowed them with protection against inclement weather. To some, he gave thick hair

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and thick skin that might shield them from the heat and the cold, so that they could sleep without coats. He gave hard hooves to some and tough bloodless sk in to others.

Once Epimetheus had assured their defense against other species and the inclemency of the weather, he gave each species a different kind of food. He provided some with herbs, others with fruits, still others with roots, and some with flesh. He made predators scant in number and gave their victims the gift of fertility as a way to maintain their species.

Epimetheus, notw ithstanding his name (afterthinker), was not very wise (sophos). In fact, he was a squanderer of resources. He did not keep his eye on the well-being of all the species. When it finally became time to give some quality to human beings, he had nothing left to give them. He had not set out to do them harm; he was unable to plan.

When Ep imetheus realized his mistake, it was too late to rectify it. Then Prometheus (forethinker) returned to inspect Epimetheus' work. I use the tenn "work," but it was not really work; it was an act of distribu­tion of qualities according to the command of the gods. He undertook the activity with pleasure and enthusiasm.

Prometheus saw that all the species were harmoniously equipped to cope with life, except human beings. They had no claws, nor clothes, nor weapons, nor food. Human beings were naked and helpless on all fronts-against the other species, against the weather's harshness, and against the threat of starvation.

But the day of destiny was at hand, the day that all the mortal crea­tures must go forth into daylight. This grave and critical situation re­qui red quickness of decision, practical thinking, and successful action under pressure. Prometheus was able 10 rise to the occasion; he accom­plished what Epimetheus could not. Since no other qualities were avail­able, he stole technica l skill (~VHXVOV (TO~~a.I.I) from Athena and the fire from Hephaestus, since technical skill, as a means, has no value without fire. He gave these gifts to humankind, and incurred the wrath of Zeus, whose punishment of Prometheus is well known.

Thus, human beings were now in possession of practical skill or practical wisdom U~~ QI.I q"O ~: a 1.1) as a means for their life. However, po­litical wisdom, which al lows people to live together, is not a technical skill. According to the tale, it does not come from Prometheus. Political wisdom has a thoroughly different character; it is in the hands of Zeus in his citadel, a stronghold that even Prometheus could not enter. Bes ides, there was not enough lime to plan a way into Zeus ' stately home. How­ever, il was relatively easy to sneak into the dwelling shared by Hephaestus and Athena and steal their arts.

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It so happens that human beings have the capacity of means. It is the capacity to emit articulated words, to invent living rooms, to make clothes and shoes, to rouse cattle, and perfonn agriculture. The capacity of means is a Promethean substitute for the natural qua lities provided to the other c reatures by Epimetheus.

Once prov ided with their Promethean equipment, human beings lived dispersed, in small groups on ly, because they were incapable of politics, that is, of leading a li fe of cooperation. Under such circumstances, they were often eaten by stronger animals. They could not make war on these animals, because war requires cooperation; it thus requires the art of politics ( 1T 0 X ~ H K T)'v ya'p T; X liT) v), that inc I udes the art of war. 2

In their need for self-preservation, they gathered in to cities. But since they were not in possession of pOlitical wisdom, they hurt each other and killed each other. Again they dispersed and again they tried to gather into cities, but always without success.

Zeus, concerned with the human species as a whole, commanded Hermes to. bring two additional qualities: the sense of shame and the sense of justice (a'~ S ~ TE Ko.;~ S ~"'l v ) to create hannony and friendsh ip in the cities.}

Hermes asked Zeus how to distribute the sense of shame and th e sense of justice. Should he do it like Prometheus, who distributed techni­cal skills in a non-egalitarian way? Should he bri ng justice and shame only to an el ite? Or should he distribute these qualities to all of human­kind in equal measure?~

Zeus ' response was that ju.stice must be just; it must be distributed justly, which meant equally to all. Moreover, Zeus declared that anybody who is not able to acquire th,ese qualities , justice and shame, must be co ndemned to death. In affai rs of justice, to put it in Promethean terms, everybody is alike, which amounts to saying that nobody is a specialist.

The Interpretation of the Tale

[ have summarized the tale, not interpreted il.s However, my descrip­tive rendering has been purposefully slanted to fit my interpretat ive ex­amination. A description is not. yet an elaboration of the content-it does not go beyond it. I only confined myself to stressing the difference be­tween the characters acting in the sto ry , looking at their deeds and at the way they do what they do. Now the interpretation proper must begin.

Let me enter my interpretation sideways, as it were, with a cr iticism of Guthrie. He thinks that " the introduction of the gods is not to be taken

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seriously, but can be stripped away as adornment to the tale,”6 since Plato knew that Protagoras was an agnostic. I believe conclusions of this sort are hasty and facile. Only at the end of an interpretation can we be-gin to say which parts of a text are essential and which parts are “adorn-ments.” We may well discover that an “adornment” also has its role and a function, and helps us understand the purpose of the text, just as an in-strumental adornment in a Bach cantata, though not essential to the theme, contributes something to the overall effect of the piece. There-fore, I do not believe an interpreter should automatically remove any part of the text from at least the possibility of interpretive consideration.

Guthrie takes the tale on its face value, without grasping the differ-ence between the tale in the mouth of Protagoras and its former, mythological form. Protagoras, in my opinion, tells a tale, not a myth. There is a difference. This particular tale is a reflective account of the myth and is not in itself mythic, that is, does not articulate a mythic un-derstanding of the world. It is an allegory.

Myths are phenomena of consciousness. As such, they have two as-pects: a content and a form. The content of a myth is its ideatum or ideal aspect, that is, the ideas transmitted to us in its tale, it is the tale itself as it is told to us. It is what is in the mind of whoever relates and hears it. The content is what we pay attention to. The events, images, and charac-ters of the myth are its ideatum and, as such, they have an intentional existence, not necessarily an ontological one. They are the inended content.

The content of the myth cannot be an object of interpretation, since it already has its meaning, wholly stated and finished. Indeed, mythical stories have, generally, a very simple character, and we do not have to make a special effort to understand them. At least, they can be eluci-dated. To elucidate means to clarify something that was unclear in its original intentional meaning, as in the case of an unfamiliar word or phrase that breaks the flow of our comprehension.

Besides content, the myth has another aspect: its form. It is thanks to this form that there is place for offering an interpretation. Interpretation is oriented to the form. Interpretation is a phenomenon of reflective con-sciousness, whose object, or subject matter, is not the original content of the myth, not its ideatum.

An explanation must be preceded by a meaningful and original con-tent. Interpretation is based in something that is not part of the original content, not present in the tale itself. It is, from the point of view of con-tent, an absent structure.7 The absent structure is given only for reflec-tion. It is not what the tale posed, but what it “presup-posed.” It is the form of the myth.

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This absence, the form, is not thoroughly absent. The form is absent only in the sense that it does not take part in the content. Namely, it is not in the focal point of attention, of the intentio recta. It is visible only to oblique attention. What is it that does not take part in the content? What is absent from the original intentional consciousness but present for the reflective intentional consciousness? It is the opposite of the ideatum. It is what Descartes called formal reality or actual reality. It is not the text, but the context. Indeed, there is no text without a context. This context does not appear in the original consciousness, but only in reflective con-sciousness.

Context is the subject matter of reflection. The context is not the content for the mind that relates the tale. The context is the mind itself, the telling consciousness. It is not the object but the subject. Now, in re-flection, the subject matter is not the myth of Protagoras, but Protagoras the myth-teller. From this perspective, the myth is an expression of the thought of the person who tells it.

The subject, which is the issue under reflection, is real, close to us, here and now; the subject is distant from the mythic content. It is the myth’s real and not ideal aspect. Reflection attends to the real grounds of the tale. It does not refer to the characters personified by the myth, but to those who tell it and those who hear it. In reflection, the state of mind of the hearer and of the teller is directly oriented to the subject and indi-rectly oriented to the characters.

Interpretation is therefore a reflection upon the subjects of mythical thought, not about the myth itself. Interpretation does not concern itself with the object of thought but with the actual qualities of the subject as an object of analysis. It is noteworthy that by actual subject I mean those who are interested in the myth, who find it meaningful and who are ready, consequently, to pay attention to it.

Thus, it is not our concern whether the characters of the myth, Zeus, Prometheus and Epimetheus, have an existence beyond the mythic con-sciousness. They concern us insofar as they are objectivations of mythi-cal consciousness, namely the mind of Protagoras and his listeners. Inso-far as they are objectivations, we direct our interest to those who objec-tify rather than on what is being objectified. For this reason, the myth can be called, as Eric Havelock calls it, “the story of man,” even if Epime-theus is reported, apparently, as unrelated to human capacities.8

Now we can ask whether Protagoras himself has a mythic conscious-ness, or whether he himself, like us—though at another level—is beyond the mythic mind. If this is the case, as I believe it is, then for Protagoras, the myth has only an allegoric meaning. I mean, that for Protagoras the myth is already not a myth. Allegory implies keeping a distance from the

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original meaning. Allegory implies using the explicit meaning as a vehi-cle for conveying (and organizing) another meaning. For the mythical consciousness, per contra, the myth is not a vehicle of meaning but the meaning itself.

The tale is Protagoras’ literary way of expounding his philosophy. This allegoric relation to mythology is clearly stated already by Pro-tagoras, who asks how Socrates wants to have his explanation delivered, by means of a myth or by means of a logos. For Protagoras, the differ-ence is only a question of exposition; these are two roads going to the same place. For him, muthos is already a logos.9 But logos concerns hu-man life and perception, does not have the function of an abstract princi-ple beyond knowledge and perception.

Thus, the myth embodies the philosophy of Protagoras. The myth is, for Protagoras, a conscious elaboration. What is being objectified in the myth, for Protagoras, is his own philosophy. The characters in the myth he tells are concretized manifestations of his own thought. Since the mythical form of the tale is consciously adopted, the myth of Protagoras constitutes the way Protagoras knows himself. When Protagoras dresses his philosophical approach in mythological clothing, he reveals a great deal about the way he thinks. In short, the myth is an expression of Pro-tagoras’ self-consciousness.10

I find a justification for my interpretation in the fact that Protagoras was regarded as a rationalist who refrained from either affirming or de-nying the existence of gods in general and, a fortiori, of Zeus, Prome-theus, Epimetheus, Hermes, Athens, and Hephaestus in particular. Our interpretative task will be, therefore, to find the rational logos behind the myth. This logos means the sensible and practical translation of what is stated in a transcendent way in the myth. The question is what Zeus, Prometheus, and Epimetheus represent in terms of human behavior.

I share my approach to Protagoras’ myth with that of Untersteiner, who recognizes that Protagoras, purposive and consciously, used the myth to express his own thought. Untersteiner contends that the myth is an “externalized form of thought.”11 Moreover, this is what is novel in this philosopher—the reflective use of myths, the transformation of myths into logoi.

Mythology as an expression of logos presupposes a rupture between the myth and the historical milieu to which it pertained. Protagoras lived at the beginnings of a philosophy that thematizes human consciousness, an anthropological philosophy, in which human beings are the object of analysis. It is neither mythology nor natural science, neither muthos nor phusis. Protagoras is placed beyond both consciousness—he tries to be-come their self-consciousness.

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To understand to what extent the tale of Protagoras is not just a myth, we should compare it with the relevant mythical tradition. We should not, however, be content simply to draw comparisons between different versions, as is frequently done. Such a comparison would put Protagoras’ myth on the same footing as a “real” myth, and perhaps end up imposing correspondences where none in fact exist. This is the attitude of Unter-steiner, who asserts that the myth of Protagoras “if it does not derive from Aeschylus, is nevertheless . . . in perfect agreement with the thought of the tragic poet.”12 I maintain just the opposite: the value of the myth of Protagoras lies precisely in its difference from earlier, more clas-sical versions. To grasp the myth rationally is not the same thing as ra-tionalizing it. A rational analysis of the myth requires a grasp of what is singular in Protagoras’ tale, that is, where it departs from the mythical tradition.

Different aspects of the story of Prometheus appear in the two major poems of Hesiod: the Theogony and Works and Days. According to the Hesiodic version, Prometheus created the first human beings. He scooped up some clay, moistened it with water from a river, kneaded it this way and that, and shaped it to the image of the gods, the lords of the world. To give life to his earth-formed figure he took both good and evil from the core of many animals and locked them in man’s breast.

Protagoras rejects this version. In his version, the creation of human beings is closer to what is attributed to Epimetheus. He also rejects the tradition of the Theogony, according to which Prometheus, though is not the creator, is the benefactor of humanity. It is Zeus, however, who be-stows upon mortal men the sense of good and evil (which in Protagoras’ retelling becomes the sense of shame and justice).

According to yet another tradition, Prometheus created a first man of marvelous beauty and kept him hidden.13 Moreover, there is another tra-dition that holds that he also created the beasts. In Protagoras’ version, neither Prometheus nor Epimetheus created animals. Epimetheus only distributed their qualities among them.14 In some versions, Prometheus brings men the gifts of fire and women, and there is no mention of tech-nical wisdom.

According to tradition, Prometheus taught human beings the art of counting and of communicating by means of symbols. He showed them how to yoke animals and make them labor for men. He broke horses to the rein and wagon and invented ships and sails. Formerly, a man who fell ill knew nothing of herbs, of what to eat or not to eat, what to drink or not to drink, nor did he have salves to ease his pain. Prometheus showed them how to compound mild remedies that would dispel every kind of disease. Then he taught them to forecast the future. He showed

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them where to dig for ore, iron, silver, and gold. In short, he introduced them to all the arts and comforts of living.

Now, this last description of Prometheus’ technical gifts is not very far away from Protagoras’ tale, but there is one important difference. Protagoras’ version does not contain such vivid images. It is not just a matter of brevity, but a shift of interest. Protagoras does not go into de-tails because he is interested in the principle of Prometheus’ activity, just as he is interested in the principles underlying the activity of the rest of the gods. The traditional myth, in its many versions, emphasizes concrete results and attempts to explain the origin of many different and specific human activities. Protagoras looks at Prometheus only as one who brought only basic principles: fire and technical wisdom. The rest is hu-man labor, not the labor of a god.

Protagoras accepts the tradition that Zeus punished Prometheus by causing eagles to devour his perpetually regenerating liver. However, he does not say that Zeus also punished humans. Also, in Protagoras’ re-telling of the myth, Zeus punished Prometheus because he stole fire from Hephaestus and technical skill from Athena, not because he gave fire to human beings. The difference is subtle but important.15

Now let us turn to Epimetheus. According to legend, Epimetheus was the brother of Prometheus. They are a pair that forms an exact antithesis. In this point, Protagoras follows tradition. However, Protagoras’ version departs from tradition on one essential point: tradition holds that Epime-theus was Zeus’ stratagem for deceiving the industrious and crafty Pro-metheus. According to Protagoras, Epimetheus could never be used as a tool of deception. Epimetheus simply cannot be manipulated or recruited for any cause, as we will see presently. Furthermore—according to Pro-tagoras—Zeus does not have a deceitful or manipulative character.

According to tradition, Pandora was offered to Epimetheus by Zeus. Because Epimetheus could not resist her, he became responsible for the misfortunes of humanity. There is hardly any trace of this in Protagoras’ version, except that Epimetheus remains open to temptation. However, as we will see in the interpretation of the tale, the Epimethean principle of pleasure is not a misfortune for humanity.16

Finally, regarding Zeus, his importance in Greek mythology is so great that innumerable versions of his character can be found. The per-sonality of Zeus was created in the Homeric poems (or rather, in the oral tradition that Homer eventually committed to writing). Zeus was the sov-ereign of humans and gods and reigned in the luminescent heights of the sky. He resided, often, at the summit of Mount Olympus, but he also traveled. Gradually, Zeus’ home was detached from any specific moun-

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tain and the word “Olympus” designated only an ethereal region defined as the dwelling of the gods. The place became a function of the gods.

Zeus not only presided over celestial manifestations, but also pro-voked rainfalls and hurled lightning bolts—a power symbolized by his aegis. Later, in a more advanced mythical period, he became a more ab-stract god, the embodiment of order and the justice in the world. In the Hellenic thought, the gods passed through an evolutionary process that began with the attribution to them of a cosmic value; then they became the heroes of legends and finally mere allegories. Protagoras stands at the end of this process, as does Plato himself.

Even the Zeus of cosmic justice and order is not the Zeus thematized by Protagoras. Some time later the Stoics returned to precisely this cos-mic, non-anthropocentric tradition of the Olympian gods. Crisipus, who dedicated a poem to Zeus, regards him as the symbol of the unique God who incarnates the cosmos. The laws governing the world are but Zeus’ thoughts. This is the extreme border of the evolution of god, and it brings us out of the bounds of mythology and into the field of theology and the history of philosophy.

Closer to Protagoras is the Zeus who was responsible for the purifica-tion of the murderers, the one who cleansed their stain of blood; this is the same Zeus who watched over the making of oaths and the perform-ance of duties toward guests. This Zeus is the guarantor of political rule and, in general, for the social hierarchy.

Zeus exercises these prerogatives not only concerning human beings but also within the society of gods. He himself is subject to the Hades whom he interprets and whom he defends against the fancies of the rest of the gods. For instance, when he weighs the destinies of Achilles and Hector and the saucer of the balance that contains them descends to the Hades, he forbids Apollo to intervene; he abandons the hero to the hands of his enemy. It is very important to stress that Zeus is the only provi-dential god. Being conscious of his responsibility, Zeus is the only one who is not ruled by his capricious loves. His whims are not exempt from certain limits.

Zeus is the dispenser of good and evil. By the door of his palace, there were two vessels, one containing goodness, and the other evil. Zeus takes out a little bit of each for each mortal. However, sometimes he takes out the content of only one jar; this destiny will be completely good or completely evil.

Protagoras’ Zeus is not a god of evil, though he is a god of morality, of responsibility, and of repression of instincts. Finally Protagoras’ Zeus is not a god but a principle; specifically, the principle of morality.

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Zeus indeed can be understood in very different ways. He can be un-derstood in the style of the Christian exegetes, who saw in Greek myth the unchaste ignorance of a people deprived of the light of the Gospels. Zeus can also be interpreted still in another way, which lies closer to Protagoras’ intention: he represents the attempt to introduce moral val-ues. The birth of Helena can be interpreted as an attempt to diminish the excessive population of Greece and Asia by provoking a bloody conflict. Likewise, the birth of Heracles gave the world a heroic dimension. In summary, procreation appears in Zeus as the manifestation of a good ac-tion. The ancient thinkers already note that in many of these unions Zeus appeared under animal or other forms. He appeared to Europa as a bull, to Leda as a swan, to Danae as a golden rain, and so on. These oddities are difficult to explain, unless we conclude that worship of Zeus replaced more local and ancient cults, and that Zeus himself took the place of a variety of earlier fetishistic gods. Protagoras lies at the end of this proc-ess. In contrast to former descriptions, he does not offer us a vivid image of Zeus. Zeus is for him a symbol or a principle alone.17

This very sketchy and partial account of former versions serves to in-dicate the sources for the materials of Protagoras’ own tale. However, they do not constitute an explanation. Protagoras used these traditional sources for his own ends; he put his new wine in old bottles. We come again, then, to the question about the logos of Protagoras’ muthos. The issue is not to discover the content of the myth (since it was already pre-sent in the original narration) but its form. The question is to reveal the reality that the content represented metaphorically.

In this kind of analysis of the myth, we need to take two steps, since we have, in the case of Protagoras, two levels of reflection, with a differ-ent metaphor for each level: (1) the level of reflection of the myth itself, namely, the metaphorical meaning of the mythic character itself; (2) the philosophical level of reflection to which the myth serves, namely, the philosophic message of Protagoras.

Let me begin with the first level. In the myth, we have three main characters who behave and think in certain way. They have in common their concern with the distribution of qualities. They differ, however, in two aspects: in what each one distributes, and in how each one distrib-utes. Each character offers to the creatures what best defines him. Each one bestows what most properly characterizes him. I mean, that Epime-theus’ thoroughly ingenious distribution is Epimetheic, Prometheus’ effi-cient measures are Prometheic and Zeus’ moral commands are Zeusian. Each one fulfills a certain vital function. Behind this function lies, at the second level of reflection, a certain principle. Let me begin with the functions.18

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The Epimethean Function

First, let me stress that Epimetheus begs to be allowed to distribute the qualities, and the myth does not ascribe any secret motive to him, other than a simple desire to undertake this project. Epimetheus is not goal-oriented. He undertakes any action for its own sake, this being the source of his creative and ingenious distribution. He is unable to sacrifice his pleasure for the sake of future results.19

Thus, Epimetheus is the representative of pleasurable actions under-taken out of a direct inclination, as well as those motivated by instincts, which are undertaken for pleasure. We satisfy or fulfill our needs in an Epimethean way. When we act in an Epimethean way we are seeking pleasure and not just avoiding pain. Let me remark that not any satisfac-tion of a need is Epimethean, but only the satisfaction of needs that in-volve pleasure. The satisfaction of hunger is not Epimethean if it is un-dertaken hastily, efficiently, and absent mindedly, in the manner of a quick lunch under the pressure of work-time. However, satisfaction of hunger is indeed Epimethean if it involves good food, a pleasant setting, and so forth. In addition, the mere avoidance of pain is not properly Epimethean, unless you understand avoiding pain as synonymous with pleasure.20

When we act out of pleasure and enjoyment, we do not want our ac-tivity to end. We indulge in the activity for its own sake, not for the sake of something else. If we consider time, we want to extend it as much as possible. Indeed, since the end of the activity lies in the activity itself, the question about how much time it takes to “perform” is totally irrelevant. A pleasant activity tends to continue indefinitely either until it ceases to be pleasant, or until some outside force curtails it.

Though he is the god of pleasure, Epimetheus is not the god of the body against the soul. Nor is he, as Stewart understood him, the god of mechanism against Promethean teleology.21 Pleasures may be also intel-lectual in particular and spiritual in general. Someone may philosophize with pleasure. I say “with” pleasure, not “for” pleasure, since “for” hints to an action taken to achieve some pleasure as a goal or as a result. A pleasurable activity is not undertaken with a goal in mind, but for the sake of the activity itself. Outstanding cases of Epimethean values are friendship, love, hate, taste, fear, and other emotions. Epimetheus is the god of emotions, of the satisfaction of needs, of instincts—he is the god of actions taken for their own sake. Is the god of phusis (Prometheus is the god of techné and Zeus the god of nomos).22

Let me look at the way Epimetheus distributes the properties to the living species. He does not plan how to distribute them. Planning lies

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beyond his horizon of consciousness. When he is with his elephant, for instance, he is only concerned with it, as follows: he saw that the gods had made the elephant out of heavy materials, so he furnished the beast with a hard skin. Only after that did it occur to Epimetheus that such a heavy, hard-skinned beast might have trouble bending over to feed him-self, so he provided him with an enlonged tube, which we call a trunk, so that he might eat more comfortably. Finally, he whimsically added a tiny, ridiculous tail, which serves for nothing. According to the myth, there-fore, nature is neither mechanical nor efficient. From a Promethean point of view, there is a great waste of resources in the way nature functions. It could be argued (and no doubt has, somewhere) that there are too many species and too many genera of each species. For example, there are hundreds of kinds of parrots. A goal-oriented efficiency expert might say that we only need one really good species of parrot that contains all the best parrot-qualities, such as colorful feathers, clever vocal mimicking, friendliness, and a taste for inexpensive food.

However, what looks like waste from the point of view of one kind of thought—Promethean thought—is not so for another kind of thought: Epimethean thought. Epimetheus enjoys distributing the qualities and helping the species. He is neither altruist nor egoist; he is beyond this kind of valuation. If he is altruist, he is engaged in a beneficial activity for his own selfish pleasure, and if he is egoist, he realizes his egoism by helping others.

If Epimetheus were a philosopher, he would adopt a hedonistic phi-losophy, in the sense of reducing the rest of the values, such as morality and efficiency, to pleasure. Later we will have the opportunity to see that this issue is thematized in the utterly misnamed Platonic hedonism, which is just the opposite of any possible kind of hedonism. Plato indeed did not argue in favor of an Epimethean pleasure-principle. Epimethean hedonism reduces the moral good and the ends of an action to pleasure. Contrariwise, the story of Epimetheus is a way of describing the meaning and function of the value of pleasure.23

Epimetheus is the god (rather, the principle) of consumption (whereas Prometheus is the principle of production, and Zeus is the moral princi-ple). A pleasant act is indeed an act of consumption and its object is a consumed good.

Pleasure, let me note, does not imply rest or lack of action. By con-trast, Epimetheus is very active and extremely creative. The point is that his activity is not a means taken to achieve an end different from the ac-tivity itself. It is an activity oriented toward a specific object on which Epimetheus has a direct engagement and concern. Therefore, the princi-ple that guides him is not identical with Freud’s pleasure principle.

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Freud’s pleasure principle is economical. Freud thinks that the augmen-tation of pleasure provokes displeasure and pleasure means a diminishing of excitement. However, Freudian pleasure is rather identical with the avoidance of pain—whereas in the Epimethean principle both are in-cluded, pleasure and enjoyment, and avoidance of pain or displeasure.

Strictly speaking, Epimetheus does not work. At least, Epimetheus does not work insofar as working means to act efficiently and according to a plan, or insofar as it means to achieve an end in the minimum amount of time, or insofar as the activity itself entails a waste of re-sources. Indeed, he is unconcerned with the question of how many quali-ties he has to distribute. He is also unconcerned with the question of how many species are waiting for their appointment with him.

His lack of planning is expressed in the fact that he bestows lions with sharp teeth and then gives deer fast legs and fertility, so that they won’t be wiped out by the lions. His afterthought is expressed just in this. He suddenly realizes that sharp teeth give the lion an inordinate advantage, so he has to find some way to compensate for his previous thoughtless-ness. Thus it is said about him that he “was not exceeding wise,” because “he exhausted all the powers upon the brute beasts and noticed it not” (Prt. 321c). We must note here that the judgment that Epimetheus is un-wise is not an intrinsic Epimethean valuation, but a judgment made from an external, specifically Promethean perspective. It is in the valuation of Prometheus that Epimetheus is a failure.24 Epimetheus however, did not begin his work with any goal in mind; therefore, such valuations as “suc-cess” and “failure” are irrelevant to him. He only works as long as he enjoys it, and as long as he enjoys it, he’s “successful.”

When Epimetheus is with the lion, he is only interested in the com-pany of the lion; he does not think about what his favor for the lion may mean for the deer. There is no contradiction in this. I mean, that this is not irrational. It is only a different kind of rationality than the goal-oriented kind. Another aspect of Epimethean rationality is that the pleas-ure of the moment is always of primary importance and cannot be aban-doned, even for the sake of greater pleasure at some future time. Plato’s theory of measurement is thus incomprehensible and irrelevant to Epi-metheus. To use pleasure-units, as Plato attempts to do, means to use a non-Epimethean criterion to valuate an Epimethean activity. To curtail a pleasant act in the present for the sake of a pleasant act in the future, even a more pleasant act, means, first, to trade pleasure for suffering. Epimetheus will simply not trade the pleasure of the moment for any-thing else. He will be ready to “spend” his energies if he enjoys what he is doing.

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It should be noted, however, that in the Epimethean attitude toward need there is a place for something like a calculation of pleasures, at least in a restricted sense. It is not a calculation between a present pleasure and a future one, since that implies present sorrow. However, if two pleasures present themselves at the same moment, Epimetheus must certainly stop and decide which one he prefers.

According to the tale of Protagoras, in summary, the whole of nature, which is outstandingly Epimethean, was not created according to a cer-tain plan; nor is there any pre-established harmony between the species. Only from an external point of view can we say that Nature is in har-mony.

Needs are not willingly and consciously created. We can establish our ends, but not our needs. Rather we find them within ourselves. We can decide not to eat, but we cannot decide not to feel hunger. We can re-spond to an Epimethean need, but not create it. We can repress it or sat-isfy it. In both cases, in repression as well as in satisfaction, the need is confirmed rather than annulled.

Protagoras, in presenting the Epimethean principle, is not hedonistic, because it is not his intention to propose a philosophy in which pleasure appears as the supreme value. It is only one among the three basic values that constitute the motivation for human activity.

The Epimethean principle, like the two others, since it motivates to action, can be also applied, and actually it is, as a standard for the valua-tion of the others. An Epimethean-minded person would reject goal-oriented values, for instance.

The Promethean Function

Prometheus adopts the point of view of the ends of action. He is mo-tivated by the requested ends of an action and valuates Epimethean and Zeusian activities according to their results.25

The goal is the only concern of an activity, namely, his image of the results of the activity. In a goal-oriented activity, the image, the goal, precedes its realization. It is ready and completed in mind before it is made. The activity that makes the goal is the activity of the means.

If Epimetheus is the god of afterthought or of retrospectiveness, Pro-metheus is the god of forethought or prospectiveness. He is the repre-sentative of the goal or of the goal-oriented activity.

The end does not simply function as a value that stimulates people to act. It also functions as a standard by which we may judge whether the

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achieved results of an action are good or bad. In fact, the goal-oriented mind seeks, in the end, to judge the activity itself; it valuates the activity itself; it asks whether the activity has achieved its end; it asks, in other words, whether the means are efficient or not. The agent of the activity is also judged as efficient or inefficient. All other aspects are, for this goal-oriented mind, irrelevant.

Epimetheus is the god of consumption, Prometheus the god of pro-duction. The body of the action is taken not as mere consumption but actually as waste or, rather, consumption is regarded as a calculated waste of the resources needed in order to achieve the end. That is, the present action is judged negatively, since it is undertaken for the sake of something else and not for its own sake. The activity itself, the activity of the means, is subordinated to the goal. The goal justifies the activity and assigns it a meaning.

Labor is the outstanding example of a goal-oriented activity. Prome-theus indeed brings technical wisdom and fire to the human race, which means, the skill to achieve goals, and a device to do so. The outstanding values of Prometheus, efficiency, benefit, and utility, are the values that guide him in his activity. All these values concern the result of an activ-ity, not the activity in itself. The act in itself has no intrinsic positive value. If the end can be achieved by other, more efficient means, then present means are given up for the new means. Promethean activities in-clude hunting and fishing, agriculture, the domestication of animals, building, cookery, mining and metalwork, shipbuilding and navigation, spinning and weaving, pharmacy and medicine, calculation, astronomy, and the like.

Since Promethean activity focuses on its consequences, and since its end is not really present in the activity itself but as an idea in mind tran-scends it, the duration of the activity has only a negative meaning. The duration of the activity must be kept to a minimum, even if it is pleasant. The Promethean ambition is to annul the time invested in production. Productive work always entails a sacrifice for the sake of the end. Indeed the capacity for self-sacrifice is a preeminent Promethean faculty; with-out it, there could be neither technology nor production. Strictly speak-ing, Prometheus is never interested in what he does; he is only interested in the future, in the result. In the ethical field, he symbolizes a morality of ends and results. An activity is good insofar as it contributes to the achieving and production of the end. For Prometheus, strictly speaking, the end justifies the means, since the only meaning of the means is to bring about the end. Success or failure in achieving the end is the stan-dard by which a Promethean activity is measured. The goal serves as a

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value to estimate the result. The requested goal is the measure of the re-sult.

Prometheus, as the god of foresight and planning, sacrifices the pre-sent on behalf of the future. Every quality becomes in his eyes something measurable and quantitatively comparable to every other thing; quality is reduced by him to quantitative units. So as Epimetheus was the symbol of creative thinking, Prometheus is the symbol of productive thinking. For this kind of thinking, products and merchandise have value only in-sofar as they can be translated into numerical units. This translation con-stitutes the principle of money. A typical Promethean question is, “How much of this must I give up to obtain so much of that?”

The term “useful” in this regard is very ambiguous.26 It may suggest an Epimethean as well as a Promethean meaning. Epimetheus is the god of consumption. In this sense utility or usefulness means consumption of a source of enjoyment or, if you prefer to put this in Promethean terms, destruction and waste. For Prometheus, the god of production, usefulness or utility are values attributable to the means of consumption, to produc-tive means.27 A breakfast, for example, may be regarded as either Epi-methean or Promethean. But then, we are talking about two very differ-ent kinds of breakfast. An Epimethean spends the morning relaxing around the table with his family, enjoying the food and the company. A Promethean swallows a cup of coffee and a piece of toast while keeping one eye on the clock.

Now some would argue that one’s breakfast need not go to either ex-treme. Instead of lounging around in Epimethean style or gobbling hast-ily like Prometheus, one could have one’s breakfast at a reasonable pace and still get to work on time. We can obviously reconcile these opposing tendencies. But reconciliation is nothing but the expression of a conflict between opposite tendencies. The conflict may be solved, but it is not abolished. It is held in abeyance.

Let me offer another example of the difference between Epimethean and Promethean values. A piece of merchandise has a different value for the seller and the buyer; it is useful in two very different and even oppo-site meanings. For the seller it has a Promethean value, and for the buyer an Epimethean value (unless of course he buys for selling). For the seller, quality is a means for achieving quantitative value. For the buyer, the translation into quantitative units is a means for establishing the quality of the object, or its capacity to bring about pleasure, in the sense of being in itself pleasant. For the seller, a commodity has an economic value, namely, an exchange-value. He is concerned with its transfer for achiev-ing some plus-value. For the buyer a commodity has a use-value rather than an economic value. Spending and transferring commodities is not an

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act of consumption or of satisfaction of a need.28 Strictly speaking, the term “merchandise” implies Promethean values, whereas “goods” im-plies Epimethean values.

As we will see, Plato’s theory of measurement is compatible with the quantitative logic of Prometheus. As a theory of exchange of values, it must be based in what Adam Smith will later call “value in exchange,” something different from pleasure. Pleasant goods, insofar as they are regarded as actually pleasant, have no exchange value. Promethean val-ues concern questions like how much you pay for the achieving of an end; this question implies sacrifice. Waiting, planning, and abstinence become the substitutes for pleasure.

Adam Smith offers us an approximation to the distinction between Epimethean and Promethean values in his distinction between “value in use” and “value in exchange”:

The word value, it is to be observed, has two different meanings, and sometimes expresses the utility of some particular object, and sometimes the power of purchasing other goods which the posses-sion of that object conveys. The one may be called “value in use”; the other, “value in exchange.” The things which have the greatest value in use have frequently little or no value in exchange; and, on the contrary, those which have the greatest value in exchange have frequently little or no value in use. Nothing is more useful than water: but it will purchase scarce anything; scarce anything can be had in exchange for it. A diamond, on the contrary, has scarce any value in use; but a very great quantity of other goods may fre-quently be had in exchange for it.29

John Laird points out that Adam Smith’s distinction is imprecise.30 Indeed, the possession of a diamond may bring more satisfaction than possession of a cup of water.31 Moreover, the use-value of a diamond may be a direct result of its exchange-value. I mean, people who show off a big diamond are showing off its exchange-value as much as its aesthetic allure. A beautiful piece of glass will not fetch as much as an ugly diamond. Perhaps we can conclude that the difference between Epimethean and Promethean values is clearer in principle than in actual circumstances, when many different factors can come into play.

We may ask why Prometheus should have given to humankind the particular gifts of skill in the crafts and of fire. This was not a casual choice. Technical activity is measured by the criterion of specialization. Techné is a kind of poesis; and poesis, as defined by Aristotle, is an ac-tivity undertaken for the sake of the end (Et. Nic. 1140b) and is therefore without intrinsic value. For this reason, Aristotle called it “ignoble” (Pol.

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1328b).32 Prometheus is ignoble to the point of being prepared to steal for the sake of his goals (Prt. 321e). From his standpoint, all kinds of means are morally valid. The need for specialization in technical activity has to do with the means. An expert knows which means are necessary to achieve a particular end. The crafts and arts are the means of existence but never its ends. Techné is a teleological activity whose end always becomes a means for another end, and so on ad infinitum. The activity of Prometheus is therefore teleological but without a telos, for which there can be no more fitting punishment than that meted out to him by Zeus, who sets a vulture to devour his liver, which is perpetually regenerated so that his torment should be without end.

Goal-oriented activity requires the knowledge of reality as it is, not as one would like it to be. One cannot change reality into what one would like it to be without first knowing what it is. This knowledge is not theo-retical but practical. The knowledge required for practical goal-oriented knowledge is different from the knowledge required for non-practical but theoretical purposes. Practical knowledge is the knowledge of those as-pects of reality that are relevant to the achievement of the end. Theoreti-cal knowledge is knowledge motivated by the interest and the curiosity of the seeker.

Aristotle probably bears these distinctions in mind when he asserts that practical knowledge is knowledge of things that can be different than they are, and theoretical knowledge means knowledge of things that can-not be different than they are. Indeed, we can translate his statements thus: theoretical knowledge knows things as they are without our inter-vention, and practical knowledge knows things as they are to change them according to our ends. On this basis, let me say that Plato tries to reduce theoretical knowledge to practical knowledge, while Protagoras regards knowledge in a wider sense, close to Aristotle’s approach.

In any case, Promethean knowledge, practical wisdom, needs a previ-ous knowledge of the results, needs well-founded hypotheses about the probability of achieving an end, a hypothesis that can only be derived from a knowledge both of reality and of the means necessary to change it.

Efficiency is measurable. Given the same end-products, the fewer the resources invested, the greater the efficiency achieved. The action is re-garded as an act of exchange: the acquisition of products in exchange for resources.33

This is the reason for the happiness of Prometheus, expressed in his readiness to accept Epimetheus’ offer to make the job. Prometheus is very lazy at heart. He declines to work precisely because he has a goal-oriented mind. It is just because he regards the distribution of qualities as

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a means that he is not ready to undertake it if his “fool” brother is ready to do the job. Indeed, for him, activity has a negative meaning.

In a Platonic spirit, Christopher C. W. Taylor believes that the differ-ence between Epimetheus and Prometheus is between attributes that re-quire the exercise of intelligence and those that do not.34 If there is any concern at all for intelligence in the myth, then both brothers have it, though the one has a technical, instrumental intelligence, whereas the other has a non-instrumental one. However, I doubt that this myth con-cerns intelligence. For Plato, indeed, intelligence takes a central part in behavior, but for Protagoras it does not. At least, Protagoras considers that different kinds of intelligence exist.

The Zeusian Function

According to the tale, people who are furnished merely with technical skill and Epimethean impulses cannot survive. In other words, the human condition cannot be explained as originating solely in man’s instincts and technology or technical knowledge, phusis and techné. We cannot ex-plain human beings on the sole basis of pleasure and efficiency (techni-cal knowledge). These qualities alone cannot account for the social con-nections that bind human beings to one another.

Epimethean impulses are incapable of creating an ordered, political society, since they do not provide the basis for respecting the needs of one’s neighbor. Desires recognize no limits. We may say the same of Promethean reasoning. From a Promethean standpoint, other people are always a means to be exploited for the sake of an end. Thomas Hobbes bases his view that force and mutual fear are the grounds of political ex-istence on the Promethean principle. According to the myth, however, politics is not—indeed cannot be—an issue for Promethean specialists, as Plato would like; a society grounded solely on fear, coercion, and mu-tual exploitation—is almost inconceivable. Humans require, therefore, some qualities that Epimetheus and Prometheus cannot provide.35 Thus Zeus, through Hermes, gave humankind shame and justice.36 Zeus’s choice of these particular powers was not fortuitous: shame and justice are limits, restraints. Shame is anti-Epimethean in the sense that it func-tions to restrain Epimethean urges; and justice is anti-Promethean. Jus-tice modifies and controls the Promethean avidity for the end, as ex-pressed in the idea that the end justifies the means.

Political virtue, then, consists of the ability to repress both Prome-thean avidity and Epimethean instincts. Virtue is a kind of (let me put it

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in this way) “positive repression.”37 Most English translators take aidos as meaning conscience or respect. Taylor takes it as a prosaic equivalent to sophrosune.38 According to my interpretation, this translation is too in-tellectualist and misses the meaning of Zeus’ gift in the context of the myth.

Shame and justice represent the concern of Zeus for the human race as a whole, rather than for each member of the species individually. To Hermes’ question about how to distribute these faculties, Zeus answers that they must be allotted to be shared equally by all men: in other words, there can be no specialists in political matters. Hence, politics is not to be regarded as an art or technical skill, but as an end in itself. The value that best characterizes the sort of activity associated with Zeus is that of the moral good or duty. This is an intrinsic and not a transcendent value. In the tale, Zeus is the symbol of morality and, being the supreme god and king of the world, he is concerned with the activity itself as well as its end.

Good and evil, according to the tale, are neither similar to pleasure and pain, nor to benefit and damage (in the purposive, goal-oriented sense). A moral sense, if we have one at all, may mean some external sense, something imposed as it were from without, not identical with our motivations but, for instance, by a general law. It will be something not determined by our individual nature.

Let me now introduce a second level of interpretative reflection. At

this level, the question is the relationship between the first level of re-flection (the allegoric meaning of the myth) with the philosophy of Pro-tagoras as a whole. The subject matter at this level is, therefore, the phi-losophical assumptions of the sophists.

The tale assumes the awareness of the source of the distinction among the three main figures. The source is the basic aspects in which human activity is basically divided and the relation of each aspect of this divi-sion to each one of the characters active in the tale.

Every human action has three aspects: (1) the act itself, (2) the result of the act, and (3) the agent of the act.39 That means, in other words, that there is no action without something actually being done, some results appearing after it, and something that undertakes it.

Referring to these aspects of human activity means to refer to certain facts, not to values. However, values (in this case, pleasure, efficiency, and moral goodness) may be applied to facts. To apply a value means to valuate a fact, to take a stand about it. Human action, including its three aspects as its facts, can be valued according to each one of these aspects of human activity. Each one of the characters of the tale has a direct re-

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lation with one of the three aspects of human activity and an indirect re-lation with the rest. Namely, each character valuates the rest starting with, or out of, his own value-standpoint.

Now, Protagoras’ task in relating the tale is to determine different kinds of human activity by assigning to each kind its peculiar value. Human activity as a whole, in all three aspects, is the philosopher’s cen-tral interest.

The sophistic period in the history of philosophy is correctly called “the anthropological period.” Even sophists who deal with non-human things like Hippias, whose specialty was astronomy, sustained humanist philosophies. Hippias was not interested in astronomy itself, but in the way that human beings understand the order of the universe. Nor was Protagoras interested in the way human beings understand things in gen-eral, but rather in how human beings understand themselves, their own activity, their own attitude toward things. Since Protagoras did not be-lieve in myths, these conclusions may be the best way for us to under-stand his philosophy. His concern was not with Epimetheus, Prometheus, and Zeus, but with human values.

The tale of Protagoras does not present the structure of the human soul as a harmonic totality with a well-defined hierarchy of values. He describes humans as beings in conflict with both themselves and each other.40 Personifying each aspect or value-standpoint, we can say that it acts according to its own point of view and in disagreement with the point of view of the two others. Values are in struggle each with the other. Human beings have a conflictive soul.

According to the tale, there are at least three kinds of reasoning based on three kinds of values: pleasure, efficiency, and morality.41 The theo-retical singularity of this model is that, although an activity undertaken on the basis of one type of reasoning can be in harmony with the values associated with the other two types of reasoning, it can also be in contra-diction with them, so that the different principles may be clearly distin-guished. Thus an act may give pleasure but be both wasteful and im-moral; or it may be useful in regard to the end but immoral and painful; or, finally, it may be moral but inefficient and unpleasant. What this means is that there is no harmony between goodness, pleasure, and profit. None of these values is reducible to any of the others.

Hence, if men are considered to be means, they cannot be considered, at the same time and from the same standpoint, as ends. Prometheus acts adequately according to his own point of view, namely, efficiency, but he must pay the price of his values: his acts are neither moral nor are they pleasurable in themselves. Morality may be, from this standpoint, an ef-ficient or inefficient means for a different thing, for an end.

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If an act is pleasant, it cannot be regarded, at the same time and from the same point of view, as advantageous, because time means something different in each case. One does not voluntarily delay an advantage, whereas one does not make haste when involved in a pleasant activity; the longer it lasts, the better.42 Epimetheus thus acts adequately, from the standpoint of pleasure. Then, because of the disharmony between values, he has to pay a price: the results of his activity will be displeasing. Namely, if the decision is Epimethean, it sacrifices the future for the sake of the present. Present and future are at odds with one another.

It could be argued that these conflicts need not arise. It is quite possi-ble that moral acts may also be profitable and pleasant, but not necessar-ily.43 Moral acts often imply sacrifice on the part of the actor. They may involve renunciation of immediate gratification, or loss of profit and ad-vantage.44 That is, the moral act may not benefit one in either the Epi-methean short run or the Promethean long run. One does not perform a moral act for oneself, but for others.

In Protagoras’ conflictive theory of the soul, the tale exposes the dis-harmony between an Epimethean phusis, a Zeusian nomos, and a Prome-thean techné.

Accordingly, society does not appear as a purposive efficient Prome-thean system. Protagoras believes that human interaction is not a matter of means and ends, but of morality. It has a Zeusian character.

On the other hand, the Promethean principle of utility accords well with Hobbes’ theory of the homo lupus, a theory that is far from Pro-tagoras’ theory of society. Protagoras articulates his Zeusian approach in the following passage, addressed to Socrates:

take whomsoever you consider to be the most unjust of those who are brought up in the society of men with laws (nomoi) and you would find him just and expert in this matter, if you had to judge him by comparison with men who have neither education nor law-courts nor laws nor any compulsion of any kind to make them care consistently for virtue—men like the savages which the poet Pherecrates presented last year at the Lenaea. If you found yourself among such men as the man-haters in that chorus, then you would be delighted to fall in with Eurybatus or Phrynondas, and would moan with misery and long for the viciousness of your fellow men here (Prt. 327d-328a).

Protagoras is not asserting that man is bad by nature, but because of his Promethean tendency, which existed before the coming of Zeus with his justice and shame, namely, before society in a savage state. The Pro-methean quality means the readiness to use others as means.

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The tale of Protagoras helps us understand his philosophy in general. It also has a clear and specific purpose in the dialogue: to provide the basis for Protagoras’ argument against the idea of unity and harmony among values, as we will see presently.45

Notes

1. William K. C. Guthrie, The Sophists (Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-

sity Press, 1972), 63-8. George B. Kerferd, The Sophistic Movement (Cam-bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 125-6. Jacqueline de Romilly, The Great Sophists in Periclean Athens (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 196-203. On the other hand, Havelock contends that Plato was not a reporter. Plato “could have had only one purpose—to replace the original by his own version and to destroy so far as possible the effect of the original by dramatizing his own as though it were the original.” Eric A. Havelock, The Liberal Temper in Greek Politics (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1957), 88. When, however, he fails to relate some passages to Plato, changes his mind and asserts that Plato allows “some grudging exposition of a theory he disliked” (170). Stalley has recently wrote a paper where he doubts the authenticity of the myth and attributes it to Plato, though influenced perhaps by Protagoras. See R. F. Stalley, “Punishment in Plato’s Protagoras,” Phronesis 40 (1995): 1-6. In my opinion, he shows per-haps the influence of Protagoras on the non-Socratic Plato. Kahn asserts that it is a fruit of Plato’s literary imagination. See Charles H. Kahn, “Greek Religion and Philosophy in the Sisyphus Fragment,” Phronesis 42/3 (1997): 256.

2. Interesting to stress, that according to the myth, the art of war is not a technical skill but a moral issue, which means that efficiency is not a kernel point in ancient military affairs.

3. The word aiådwƒv, sense of shame, is also sense of honor, regard for others, respect, and so forth. English translations, excepting Grote, Stanley and Bell, and Hubbard and Karnofsky’s translations, avoid translating “sense of shame.” As will be seen later, that amounts to a misconception of the myth, or the introduction of the translator’s own values into the text.

4. Here it is hinted that technical skills have nothing in common with jus-tice matters, and that justice matters are concerned with distribution of re-sources.

5. I am in debt in my interpretation to Michael Strauss, my teacher, from whom I heard for the first time of such an interpretation of the myth, as part of his lectures on the nature of human values and human behavior. I have at-tempted a first draft of the interpretation of the myth of Protagoras as an answer to Plato’s Theory of Measurement in my “The Myth of Protagoras and Plato’s Theory of Measurement.”

6. William K. C. Guthrie, HGP, vol. III, 64. 7. See Umberto Eco, La struttura assente (Milano: T. Bompiani, 1989),

especially his critical analysis of the concept of structure in “Section D” on the foundations of the semiotic investigation.

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8. Havelock, The Liberal Temper in Greek Politics, 88. 9. Wilhelm Nestle, in Vom Mythos zum Logos (Aalen: Scientia, 1966),

286, adopts a reflective point of view, and asserts that Prometheus’ gift is a po-etic version of the technical progress of humankind. The myth refers to humans, not to gods. This is, thus, not yet myth but myth that became conscious, de-salienated myth. The myth has, in this new meaning, a symbolic value. Myths, in their origins, are not symbolic but tell true histories. Protagoras, indeed, adapts an ancient legend translating it into sophistic philosophical ideas. Not-withstanding, the content of the mythos and that of the logos in Protagoras’ dis-course, is different in each case, as we will see later.

According to Gomperz, GT, vol. II, 309-10, both the myth and the logos are but caricatures brought with a satiric intention. “[W]e have here a framework of confused and contradictory thought” (p. 310). Kerferd opposes Gomperz’s opinion in his “Protagoras Doctrine of Justice and Virtue in the Protagoras of Plato,” JP, 73 (1953): 42-5. Kerferd also explains the Protagoras’ discourse (lo-gos) as a rationalization of the myth. I sustain, on the contrary, that this is not the case. The logos comes in order to answer another question.

10. The pass from mythos to logos fits Havelock’s contention about the emancipation of language from the oral-poetic tradition. See Eric A. Havelock, “The Linguistic Task of the Presocratics,” in Language and Thought in Early Greek Philosophy, Kevin Robb, ed., (La Salle, Ill.: Hegeler Institute, 1983), 7-82. It may be that there is an inner relationship between the pass from oral po-etry to written prose and between the pass from mythos to philosophy, or from consciousness to self-consciousness. Havelock at least, asserts that the technol-ogy of the written word facilitates the pass from “thinking with” to “thinking about.” See Eric A. Havelock, Preface to Plato (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1963), 209. See also, in the same spirit: Wilhelm Luther, “Die Schäche des geschriebenen Logos. Ein Beispiel humanistischer Interpretation, versucht am sogenannten Schriftmythos in Platons Phadros,” Gymnasium 68 (1961): 526-48. Charles W. Greene, “The Spoken and the Written Word,” Har-vard Studies in Classical Philology 60 (1951): 23-59. Wilhelm Luther, Wahrheit und Lüge im ältesten Griechentum (Göttingen, dissertation, 1935).

11. Mario Untersteiner, The Sophists (Oxford: Blackwell, 1954), 58. 12. Untersteiner, The Sophists, 25. 13. Karl Kerényi, The Gods of the Greeks (London: Thames and Hudson,

1951), 213 n. 716. 14. Kerényi, The Gods of the Greeks, n. 719. 15. Works consulted for Prometheus’ original tale: Gustav Schwab, Gods

& Heroes (New York: Pantheon Books, 1946), 31-6. Robert Graves, The Greek Myths (Harmondsworth [Middx.]: Penguin Books, 1966), 143-9. Hesiod, Theogony, 510, 520, 534, 535, 545, 614, and Works and Days, 49, 85, 89. Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound. Aristophanes, The Birds. Gaius J. Hyginus, Fabularum Liber (New York: Garland, 1976), 142, 144. Gaius J. Hyginus, Po-etica astronomica (Greenbrae: Allen Press, 1985), II, 15. Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), III, 845, 1984s, 1086. Apollodorus, Biblioteca (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press,

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1976), I, 2, 2ss, 7, 1s.; II. 5, 11. Valerius Flaccus, Argonauts (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1934), VII, 355s. Stobaeus, Florilegium (Leipzig: Meinecke, 1855), 11, 27. Pausanias, Description of Greece (New York: Biblo and Tannen, 1965), IX, 25, 6; X, 4, 4. Diodoros of Sicily, Bibliotheque histori-que (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1993), V, 67. Ovid, Metamorphosen (Heidelberg: C. Winter Universitaetverlag, 1982), 1, 82s. Seneca, Medea, 709. Juvenal, The Satires, XIV, 35. Salomon Reinach, Cultes, Mythes et Religions (Paris: E. Leroux, 1905), III, 68-91. Karl Kerényi, Prometheus, Zurich: Rhein-Verlag, 1946). Louis Sechan, Le Mythe de Promethée (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1951). Jacqueline Duchemin, Promethee: histoire du mythe, de ses origines orientales a ses incarnations modernes (Paris: Belles-Lettres, 1974). Gustav Schwab, Gods & Heroes (New York: Pantheon Books, 1946), 31-5. Menachem Luz, “Antisthenes’ Prometheus Myth,” in Jacob Bernays: Un phi-lologue juif, John Glucker, John, and André Laks, eds. (Villeneuve d’Ascq: Presses Universitaires du Septentrion, 1996). Karl Kerényi, The Gods of the Greeks, 207-39. Michael Grant, Myths of the Greeks and Romans (London: Wiedenfeld and Nicolson, 1962), 200-14.

16. About Epimetheus, see: Hesiod, Theogony, 511s, and Works and Days, 83s. Apollodorus, Biblioteca, I. 2, 3; 7, 2. Hyginus, Fabularum Liber, 142. See also last note on Prometheus.

17. The texts referring to Zeus are too numerous to be quoted here. This is a much reduced list: Homer, Iliad, 1, 396s., VIII, 13s.; XXIV, 527s., 229, XXIV, 615. Hesiod, Theogony. Pausanias, Description of Greece, VIII. 38, 2, IV, 33, I. Lydus, Liber de mensibus (Stutgart, B. G. Teubneri, 1967), IV, 48. Apollodorus, Biblioteca, I, 1, 6; 2, 1s. Diodoros of Sicily, Bibliotheque histori-que (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1993), v. 70s. Ovid, Metamorphosen, Vl, 103s. Virgil, Georgics, IV, 153. Hyginus, Fabularum Liber (New York: Garland, 1976), pref., 19s., 23s., 31s. A. B. Cook, Zeus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1925).

18. There are interpreters who believe that it is a Platonic myth (see Grote, Einleitung zum Protagoras, 422-3.) John A. Stewart agrees with him (The Myths of Plato, 220-2). Stewart’s textual evidence is that Plato expresses his deep ad-miration for the speech and due to Plato’s conclusion, namely, that virtue is teachable, namely, because it is his own opinion. Let me say against his inter-pretation that: (1) Plato’s admiration is only ironical. Indeed, immediately he discusses against the distinctions arising from the myth between the different values. (2) The very discussion is not whether virtue is teachable, but about the meaning of its being teachable. Indeed, that virtue is teachable is not under dis-cussion, though it seems, at first glance, that this is the subject matter of the discussion in the Protagoras.

19. Karl Abraham offers an interpretation of Prometheus very different from mine. Prometheus is the life-giving god, and connects him with sexual im-pulses. Though he does not refer to the Protagoras version at all, the distinction between Epimetheus and Prometheus, in his versions, remains without an ex-planation. See Karl Abraham, “The Analysis of the Prometheus Myth,” Clinical Papers and Essays on Psycho-Analysis (London: The Hogarth Press and the

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Institute of Psycho-Analysis, 1955), 173ff. 20. For a distinction between full and empty values, see Michael Strauss,

Volition and Valuation: A Phenomenology of Sensational, Emotional and Con-ceptual Values (Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 1999), part I, chapter 1.

21. Stewart, Myths of Plato, 224ss. 22. Contrary to my opinion, Untersteiner believes that there is not a

conflict between phusis and nomos. Mario Untersteiner, The Sophists (Oxford: Blackwell, 1954), 63. He asserts that Protagoras makes a synthesis between theocentrism and anthropocentrism (n. 43). Nomos, he asserts, puts limits to phusis but thereby preserves it: they help each the other in turn. See n. 44.

23. Irwin asserts that Plato is seriously committed to hedonism. See Terence Irwin, “Socrates the Epicurean,” Illinois Classical Studies, 11 (1986): 85-112 and Plato’s Moral Theory: The Early and Middle Dialogues (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977), 102-14.

24. According to Stokes, Epimetheus’ lack of a goal-oriented mind is the only reason to call him a fool or not altogether wise. See Michael C. Stokes, Plato’s Socratic Conversations, Drama and Dialectic in Three Dialogues (Bal-timore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986), 292.

25. With Protagoras, or with what Stewart regards as the teleological prin-ciple, we go into another order of things, Stewart, The Myths of Plato, 225. But Stewart believes here that the issue is “a teleological explanation of man’s place in the cosmos” (225). This was the case in the earlier versions of the myth. The issue for Protagoras is not myth but mythical mind, namely, again, the way in which Prometheus acts, and not the products of his action. I agree that there is a place for recalling here the philosophy of Immanuel Kant. However, not just the Critique of Judgment, not just how humans grasp nature, but the Critique of Practical Reason, in which there appear clearly distinguished three kinds of ori-entations: the direct tendency (Epimetheus), duty (Zeus), and teleology (Pro-metheus).

26. For a discussion of the concept of utility, see John Laird, The Idea of Value (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1929), 1-66.

27. To be more precise, useful and efficiency are not synonyms. Efficiency is a value applied to the activity, and useful a value applied to the results of the goal-oriented activity. An activity is said to be efficient, and its product is said to be useful. So, a hammer may be said to be useful if it is proven efficient.

28. For the impact of the awareness of the concept of exchange-value in ancient Greek democracy, see Stanley Moore, “Democracy and Commodity Ex-change: Protagoras versus Plato,” HPQ 5 (1988): 357-68.

29. Adam Smith, An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations (Homewood, Ill.: R. D. Irwin, 1963), book I, chapter IV, 3, 4.

30. See Laird, The Idea of Value, 5. 31. See Laird, The Idea of Value, 7. 32. For a more detailed explanation about the distinction between praxis

and poesis, see my “Aristotle’s Theory of Praxis,” Hermes 114 (1986): 163-72. 33. For more details on the principles of goal-oriented activities, see

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Strauss, Volition and Valuation, 109-18. 34. Christopher C. W. Taylor, ed., Plato: Protagoras (Oxford: Clarendon

Press, 1976), 79. 35. Christopher C. W. Taylor believes, on the contrary, that Zeus brings to

humans the knowledge of how to run a community (see Plato: Protagoras, 77). This is a platonistic interpretation.

36. “Shame” is generally translated as “conscience” (Christopher C. W. Taylor) “reverence” (Jewett and Ostwald), “good sense” (Lamb), which is just the derived meaning of the word. If this were the case, it is not clear how these words serve as a brake for the Epimethean instincts. Shame, on the contrary, may be understood as an instinct with opposite value, as an anti-instinct, as a brake. Grote, Hubbard and Karnofsky, and Stanley and Bell translated it cor-rectly as “shame.”

37. Gomperz thinks that the command of Zeus implies a contradiction in Protagoras’ theory. He asserts that it “can only be a mythological expression of the assumption that men possess an instinctive or innate moral sense, from which fact it follows that the Athenians ‘rightly’ believe every man to possess his share of virtue. And yet Protagoras Immediately undertakes to ‘prove’ that the Athenians do not regard political virtue as a spontaneous gift of Nature, but as something to be acquired by practice and instruction” (Gomperz, GT, II, 310-1). This interpretation is the obvious result of Gomperz’s lack of distinction between natural gifts and moral capacity, which is just the opposite of Epime-thean natural gifts.

38. Christopher C. W. Taylor, Plato: Protagoras, 81. 39. I take this distinction between three main aspects of human activity

from Strauss, Volition and Valuation, part III. 40. Miller has an interesting remark concerning the inner logic of the myth.

He asserts that from the logical point of view, we may expect that Prometheus, who represents forethought, is that who may be in charge of the distribution of qualities, not Epimetheus. And from Epimetheus it is expected to be the one that comes when the distribution is already finished. Clydee Lee Miller, “The Pro-metheus story in Plato’s Protagoras,” Interpretation 7 (1978): 23-4. It is just this logical alternative that shows, negatively, the intention of the myth. Indeed, the change of roles (according to what we would expect, obviously) impedes our consideration of some kind of harmony between the pleasure principle and the principle of efficiency. It is just by the change of roles that the disharmony be-comes clear.

41. According to Friedländer, there is here a hierarchy of natural powers bestowed by Epimetheus, or art and techné bestowed by Prometheus, and of virtues bestowed by Zeus. See Friedländer, Plato I, 177. I agree, in principle with this distinction, which is by no means Plato’s, though Friedländer thinks that Plato was influenced by it.

42. There is a contradiction between, say, learning for an examination or diploma and learning in the Epimethean sense, out of an interest in the subject matter. Indeed anyone wishing to pass an examination has to be careful not to be too interested in the subject, lest his enthusiasm deflect him from studying for

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the test. In situations of this kind, a decision must be made between one’s inter-est in the subject for its own sake and one’s need to study it in order to pass an examination.

43. Stewart takes, as a model for the analysis of the myth, the Kantian dis-tinction between the mechanical and teleological explanation of the world. Stewart, The Myths of Plato, 222-5. The Epimethean qualities, though they serve for the survival of the species, were bestowed without a plan. There is not in this any forethought. I agree with Stewart in that there is no pretension for teleology in Epimetheus’ activity. However, I think, contrary to Stewart, that the myth is not about natural reality. It is about the value-meaning of human values and ac-tivity. Even in this point there is a difference between the Protagorean version and the original myth. The emphasis in the original myth is upon the nature of the species. Protagoras thematizes the way Epimetheus behaves, not the results of his activity. Epimetheus, indeed, is guided, to put it in Freudian terms, by the principle of pleasure and by pleasure as the motive for his activity.

44. According to Stewart, Epimetheus bestows the phusis, Prometheus brings techné, which comes, following Aristotle (Phys. II, 8, 199a15) as a com-plement to phusis, and Hermes offers areté, as distinct from both phusis and techné. Stewart, The Myths of Plato, 226. Virtue, he adds, is teachable in the same sense as language is learned, without special instruction (226). However, the myth of Protagoras does not explain, in his opinion, that virtue is teachable though not a matter of instruction, but the myth explains only the difference between values. It is the discourse about education that tells us how virtue is taught, namely, explains how humans educate. Nill thinks that Prometheus be-stows the demiourgike techné, whereas Zeus brings the politike techné. Michael Nill, Morality and Self-Interest in Protagoras Antiphon and Democritus (Lei-den: E. J. Brill, 1985), 6. The passage leading to this interpretation is Prt. 322a-b. According to my interpretation, though Zeus brings the political value of common life, this value is not technical. Actually, this runs against the explicit expression in the text. But since Plato himself did not, in his philosophy, make such a difference, it may be that it is a purposeful misinterpretation of Pro-tagoras. I prefer to leave the point undecided.

45. For another view, see Nill, Morality and Self-Interest, 14. He asserts that Protagoras’ thesis is that there is no conflict between virtues.

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Protagoras’ Speech: Education or Instruction?

After showing, by means of his tale, that there is no unity among virtues, in his speech (logos) Protagoras will lay the ground for his position in the discussion of whether virtue is teachable or not.

The division of Protagoras speech into two parts, muthos and logos, is the exposition of his credo in the discussion along the whole dialogue. The dialogue itself is divided into two main sections according to the parts of Protagoras’ speech. One section is the discussion around the tale, specifically, how the values in the tale relate to one another. Is the rela-tionship among different values analogous to the relationship of the parts of the face to each other (as Protagoras maintains), or is it analogous to the relationship among different parts of gold to each other (as Plato claims)?

The second section is the discussion around the discourse, that is, whether virtue can be taught. If it is knowledge, it is teachable, according to Plato. Plato tries to support his point by his theory of measurement. Protagoras, for his part, asserts that there is a place for education (though not instruction) precisely because virtue is not knowledge. This last point is the subject matter of his reasoned discourse.

Protagoras’ discourse is a direct continuation of his tale, though it does not answer the same question. There is something in the text that prevents us from easily grasping the course of his argumentation. Pro-tagoras asks his audience if they would like to hear his argumentation by means of a tale or by means of a logos (Prt. 320b). This question creates the impression that the only difference between the two approaches lies in the presentation. The content remains the same either way.

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In fact, such an im pression is not supported by the text itself. Rather, Protagora s takes \WO steps, each one referrin g 10 eac h of Socrates' argu­ments. Step one, the tale, is the response to the first question; it makes the point that all the c itizens possess virtue, so that it is nOI teachable. Step two, the discourse, responds 10 Socrates' second question, explain ­ing how it happens that virtue is nOt a maner of instructi on but of educa­lion (paideia). Virtue is leacha ble (Tlo.di(\lT'l'v (-:va.~ ~p€'f~v). He distinguishes between instruction and educat ion. Plato even recopnizes that thi s is Protagoras' profession, namely, to educate ('lTIUO(l,' O'"EW')

K0.2 ~PET~'> S~S~c,",,:a).olJ-349a3). According to Protagoras, there is no general demand to learn how to playa musical instrument. However, there is indeed a genera l demand to be virtuous . Everyone possesses the capacity to be virtuous. The ideal is that this capacity, not onl y as a ca­pacity, should actually belong to all citizens. To learn how to play the flute , one needs instruction. But if we regard flute-playing as a moral ac­tivity, as a necessary part of being a good citizen, then learnin g to play the flute is part of education, not instruction.

Why is there a need for education? The tal e hints at the answer: be­cause there is a conflict among val ues . Soc iety, and the State, cannot ex­ist without making co mpromises among the competing c laims of differ­ent values.

Let me go into an analysis of the discourse .1 It begins with "the mad" argument. The argument appears in the frame of political rhetoric. Based on the tal e, Protagoras tries 10 show, first, that political rhetoric is not teleol ogical. It is not a matter of technique. It is not Promethean but Zeusian-il is a moral question. Protagoras clearly states that a c iti ze n must assert that he is just, "whether he is o r not, and that the man who doesn' t put up some show of being j ust is out of his mind .,,2 He presents his opinion not as a recommendation, but as a description offacts. Thi s is the difference between Zeus ian political virtue and Promethean crafts and skill s, like shoe making. People eas il y censure somebody who pre­varicates in technical matters; for example, the person who claims to be a shoe maker but does not know how to make shoes. However, peop le do not automatica ll y censure the person who prevaricates in political mat­ters. If somebody confesses that he has been unju st or unfair, the doxa criticize mm even though he has to ld the truth.

It is for th is reason that the well-being of the State depends on justice and on political virtue. Thus, whoever is unable to control hi s public dis­course is at ri sk of punishment and admonition. That amounts to say ing that those who are prud ent will claim to be just and fair whether they actually are o r not. In political affairs, therefore, those who do not know

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how to deceive are mad, whereas in arts and crafts (techmi), those who do decei ve are mad.

In craft, skill, or art, onl y a knowledgeable few have the right to give adv ice. In matters of justice, by contrast, everybody may speak. This does not mean that agreement will necessarily follow; it only means that everybody has the right to contribute his opinion. Protagoras therefore defends democracy from Socrates ' elitism. Protagoras 323a is a re­sponse against the Promethean detractors of democf"3cy who speak in the name of tech/7(!.3

After this introduction, Protagoras proceeds to explain why virtue is teachable. What Zeus has to offer is not of the same character as what Epimetheus has to offer. Epimetheus provides innate and natural qua li­ties. Justice and virtue howeve r are not given automatica lly to human beings. They are the fruit of education,

It is noteworthy that these two demonstrations (the principle of mad­ness and the argument that virtue is teachable) are not logical demon­strations that try to impose, as it were, certain thought to facts. At any moment in his analysis, Protagoras does not attempt to impose his own criterion. He does not have one. In stead, Protagoras tries to distill the inner logic of the democratic spirit. He pulls his conclusions out of the facts thai he perceives. The facts that he perceives in his discourse are the opinions of the people- the way they valuate each other's behavior and values. Protagoras takes, at least partially, an epistemic approach to val­ues . This approach tries to account for what people really think and believe. It is not about what Protago ras thinks that they ought 10 think. He does not judge them but analyzes their judgments. And, since, in his opinion, the dialogue with Socrates is mostly taking place at an epistemic leve l-he regards the facts as proofs for his theory.

With this attitude in mind, Protagoras goes into an analysis of what education can correct and what it cannot. Defects and Epimethean natu­ral qualities in general, are not amenable to improvement, advice, in­st ruction, or punishment. They can only be objects of our compassion, since nothing can be done with them . But we can indeed do something when it comes to those qualities that are acquired though application, exercise, and education. Though it is not natural to be virtuous and just, it is natura l to have the capacity for virt'ue and justice, that is to say, the capacity for learning these qualities. We attempt to reform and educate the unjust and the impious, because they could be just and pious.

In this context, the notion of punishment becomes corrective and pre­ventive, not retributive. Punishment is a means, a Promethean tool for the sake of achieving Zeusian ends . Retributive punishment is more com­patib le with the Epimethean idea of revenge prevalerlt in ancien t times; it

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is not goal-oriented. In this sense, the penal system here suggested is quite advanced. Protagoras has harsh words for the old, traditional sys-tem, which means “inflicting unreasoned punishment as one might upon a brute beast” (Prt. 324b). The justification for punishment does not lie entirely in the crime or offense, since that is part of the past, and what was done cannot be changed, erased, or restituted. The justification for punishment lies in the future—it is preventive. Punishment in this sense comes in order to intimidate Epimethean inclinations or Promethean cal-culations. Punishment is a restraint.4

Protagoras’ theory of punishment may help us locate some of the sources of his philosophy, and these sources, in turn, may help us under-stand his philosophy. We know that he was skeptical regarding the in-quiry for natural causes. Moreover, natural causes were subordinated to their human counterpart, moral responsibility. Plutarch relates that Pro-tagoras and Pericles spent a whole day discussing whether the death of Epitimus of Pharsalus, caused by an involuntary javelin-throw, ought to be imputed to the javelin, to the man who threw it, or to the masters of the games who appointed these sports.5 About Protagoras’ indecision, Rensi says:

in fact the answer to the problem could be any one of the three and be always right according to the standpoint and so according to the person to whom the problem has been submitted. If it is put to a doctor, that is, from the standpoint of the medico-legal report on the cause of death, the answer will be “the javelin.” If it is put to the judge, that is, from the point of view of criminal responsibility, the answer will be “the man who threw it.” If it is put to the ad-ministrative head, that is, from the standpoint of the duty of vigi-lance incumbent on his subordinate official, the right answer will be “the supervisor.”6

The distinction in this case, therefore, is not between natural causes and imputative rules, but kinds of imputation. The whole sphere is that of human activity. If the javelin itself is the culprit, the humans involved, the javelin-thrower and the master of the games, are innocent.

Virtue is teachable, and if it were not, it would not be virtue. Moreo-ver, it is “possessed in every case as a result rather of teaching and prac-tice [a Zeusian quality] than of chance or birth [an Epimethean quality]” (Prt. 323c). It is not a mythical amendment of the past—the past cannot be undone—but for the sake of the future: to deter him, or another who sees him punished, from perpetrating a further injustice.

Virtue is neither Epimethean nor Promethean—it is neither a natural nor a technical matter. Prometheus is excluded. His distribution of skills

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is quite different from Zeus’ distribution of justice. Promethean distribu-tion is not unjust, however; rather, it has nothing to do with justice. Nor has justice anything to do with professionalism. We can draw the conclu-sion that instruction, the teaching of technique, is quite a different matter from the education of a virtuous citizen. This is the distinction between instruction and education.

As Protagoras explicitly stated, until now in his discourse, he has only been dealing with the issues raised by the tale. From this point on, he will go beyond the tale. The question is why people who have mastered a technique or a profession are capable of showing others how to do so, but are unable to teach the others to be virtuous, even if they are themselves virtuous.

Here we run into an apparent contradiction. Protagoras began by as-serting that there is a place for education, but his conclusion seems to be that education is impossible. However, the contradiction disappears if we realize that Protagoras is attempting to show that Plato was wrong in as-serting that virtuous people are unable to teach virtue. To a certain ex-tent, virtue is indeed teachable, but that extent is defined by the pupil rather than by the teacher. The imputation does not fall (and not the pun-ishment, if that is the case) onto the teacher of virtue, but on the pupil. The custom of punishing the unjust is in itself the proof. Moreover, who-ever does not teach virtue is not virtuous. If it is true that virtuous people do not teach virtue, we may conclude, according to Protagoras, that they are not virtuous. “[T]hink what strange creatures good men must be” (Prt. 325b) says Protagoras, critically, about people who are virtuous but find themselves unable or unready to teach it.

The discussion with Plato concerns facts. Plato asserts that virtuous citizens fail to teach virtue, whereas Protagoras believes that they teach it—and if they do not, they are not virtuous. Here we can see clearly the difference between Plato and Protagoras on this matter. For Plato who adopts the point of view of the results of teaching, citizens fail to teach virtue. For Protagoras, citizens do teach virtue. Protagoras disregards the results, adopting instead the point of view of the teacher, the act of teaching itself.

Protagoras bases his response, in summary, on the distinction between instruction and education. Plato rejects this distinction, trying to reduce education to instruction. Protagoras tries to explain to him that the teaching of virtue has another character. Virtue cannot be instructed but can be achieved by means of education. It cannot be instructed since it is not knowledge, it is not the result of knowledge.

The basic difference between instruction of technical skills and edu-cation of virtue is that technical skill lacks intrinsic value. The shoe

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maker does not do what he does for its own sake, but for the sake of a goal or a product. By contrast, the teac hing of virtue has an intrinsic value. [t is valuable in itself, not as a means for something else. Thus education takes place throughout a life time- it is a way of life. The schoo l does not teach chi ldren to play the flute in order to make musical prodigies out of them. Nor does the schoo l teach poetry to children in order to turn them all into poets or literary spec iali sts. No, the important thing is that " rh ythm and harmony are essential to every aspect of a man's life" (Prr. 326b). Whereas inst ruction is ori ented toward the ob­ject, o r the content o f study, education is oriented toward the subject. Education concerns the fonn; it is an attempt to change the subject, and not just to enlarge knowledge.

Education consists in provoking a change in the subject, in bringing a subject's Epimethean and Promethean impulses into harmony with Zeusian moral motivations. This is the ideal of education, which is nei­ther a task nor a goal but a means both in schoo l, where language and music are taught, and in the State, where those who do not respect the law are condemned and puni shed.

If Socrates does not understand this, says Protagoras, it is because he ignores his own perspective. He does not grasp that even the most unjust people in the civilized State are still more virtuous than any barbarian, since they are at least aware of being unjust. The problem is not the ab­sence of leachers of vi rtu e. Quite the contrary. It is precisely because everybody is engaged in teaching virtue that it seems to Socrates that no­body is do ing so . It is like looking for the teacher of Greek. Since all speak this language, all teach il. If Socrates were to live in an evil soci­ety, he would pray to be returned to Greece to live among those whom he now considers un virtuous, or at least as unable to teach virtue.

Protagoras, in summary, presents his credentials as educator, not as an instructor. To educate implies, according to thi s standpo int, to repress, to restrain certain values, and to encourage others. The aim of education is the actualization of Zeusian values. Zeus, the god of justice and shame, restrains both Epimethean impulsiveness and Promethean ambition, which, left alone, wou ld be both ruth less and limitless. Protagoras thus anticipates, by some 2,400 years, Freud 's theory that repression is the price of civilization.

Protagoras' discourse concerns the repressive methods of education (didakloll). Justi ce, though human in kind, is neither innate nor fortui­tous, but rather must be deliberately cu ltivated by education. Human be­ings are born with a capacity, with a fonn to which the socia l ideal ful­fills with a content and education develops it. Education means the

EducaTion or Ins/rllcliOIl? 185

change of characte r according to certain positive values. It is not con­cerned with tran smitti ng infonnat ion or honing a ski ll.

Plato 's error regard ing teach ers of virtue consists in believing 1hat, since everyone teaches virtue, nobody teaches it si nce you cannot point at someone in particular. If he assumes that Pericles' sons lack virtue, it is because he does not compare them with barbarians. Protagoras attenu­ates Socrates' attitude by saying that there are virtuous men who are "less good," namely, still good ( ,*, 0. ~),w V ~ yo.eo ~S") rather than wicked. For Plato there are no degrees of good. If so mething is not good, it is bad, if it is not beau t iful , it is ugly, and so on. By contrast, Protagoras ' logic a[ lows for greater and lesser good, more and less beauty, and so forth. About Pericles' sons, according to Protagoras, we must be patient: " there is still hope for them: for they are young" (Prl. 328c). We will re­turn to this point later.

Notes

I. Protagoras ' discourse is today almost the only source to have a vivid picture of education and its methods at the times of Socrates and Protagoras. See Kevin Robb, Literacy and Paideia in Ancient Greece (Ox ford: Oxford Univer­sity Press, 1994), 128ss and 184ss.

2. It may be asserted, as Gompcrz does (GT. 11 ,31 0), that Protagoras con-tradicts himself when asserts, in the myth, that anyone has part on justice, and in the discourse implies that there are those who are unjust though they need to declare that they are just. I think, on the contrary, not only that there is no con­tradiction. Moreover, the very need to hide being unjust, implies the acknowl ­edgment of justice. Zeus brought to human beings, therefore, the knowledge of justice as a quality, namely, he brought the capacity of being just, and not its implementation.

3. See Michae l O'Brien, The Socratic Paradoxes and rhe Greek Mind (Chapel Hill: University ofNonh Carolina, 1967), 75.

4. I follow in this Gregory Vlastos' Socrates: lroniSl and Moral Philoso-pher (Cambridge [England]: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 187; Trevor J. Saunders' Plato's Penal Code (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), 133-62; Trevor J. Saunders "The Sophists and Th eir Legacy," in The Sophistic Movement. George B. Kerferd, ed., (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 129-141 ; and Eric A. Havelock, The Liberal Tempel' in Greek Politics (New Haven: Yale University Press, !957), 173-5. For the opi nion that the idea of punishment advanced by Protagoras is actually Platonic, see R. F. StaIley, "Puni shm ent in Plato's Proragoras. ,. Phronesis 40 (1995): 1- 19.

5. Plutarch, Pericles, 36 (OK, 80 A 10). 6. Quoted by Untersteiner, from Giuseppe Rensi , Introdllzione alia scepsi

efica, 181; Mario Untersteiner, The Sophists (Oxford: Blackwell , 1954), 31.

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The Logical Grounds of the Protagoras-Socrates Disagreement

At this stage of the discussion, we can attempt to determine the implicit logical differences for the explicit disagreement between Protagoras and Socrates. For this purpose, we have to take into account that the author of the dialogue is not neutral regarding the issue under discussion, a point that makes accurate interpretation difficult. In my opinion, we must at least try to restore consistency to both sides of the argument. Let me go into an analysis of what each one assumes here.

Protagoras assumes that the question about political virtue is to be treated in relation with other values that it contradicts and in fact must repress: Epimethean pleasure and Promethean efficiency. Protagoras as-sumes that education presupposes keeping a de facto distance between people as they actually are, and people as they ought to be, according to the virtues they want to acquire in order to live in a democratic polis. This implies that political virtue is, for him, an ideal of democratic soci-ety. Protagoras was an educator of what might today be called political correctness—the need to approach other points of view with full respect and attention. The search for a unity among virtues is for him, thus, un-necessary and irrelevant.

Protagoras attempts to explain that actually there is moral education and not merely instruction. Then he goes further and explains the peda-gogical methods of the Greeks (paideia). However, Socrates understands education to be only instruction (didakticos), and that instruction has no methodology, only a content. I conclude this from my analysis of their views. However, in the discourse, Protagoras does not use these terms consistently. I have decided, therefore, to interpret the dialogue in light of content rather than terminology. I feel justified in doing so because the writer, Plato, does not distinguish, neither in general nor in this dialogue

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in particular, between education and instruction, which are clearly two thoroughly different axes oriented to two different issues.

For Protagoras, education is not knowledge, but it aims to change the form of thinking, whereas for Socrates education (or rather instruction) is knowledge of the object being studied. This disparity and mutual misun-derstanding between the two philosophers propels the dialogue.

According to Socrates, virtue is teachable only if it is knowledge. And virtue is knowledge if there is a unity among the different parts of the virtue or among the different virtues. “Unity” means, in this context, that all the virtues can be reduced to knowledge.1 For Protagoras virtue (spe-cifically political virtue) is teachable not because it is knowledge, but because it is an ideal of the democratic society.

Seemingly Socrates assumes that everything is a question of what “is.” Protagoras believes that everything is a question of what “ought” to be, for the ideal serves as a guide for education. So far, so good, we could say, if the matter were that neat; but it is not. In Socrates’ philoso-phy, knowledge of the “is” already comes mixed with the “ought,” while for Protagoras the realization of an ideal is an activity that actually takes place in society. Thus, in both philosophies the “is” and “ought” are so intermingled that it becomes impossible to disentangle them. This state of affairs further problematizes our attempt to make the distinctions that will enable us to understand the dialogue, and to figure out whether the two thinkers are disagreeing about value-questions or about facts. It is impossible to offer a satisfactory answer to this question in the frames of their philosophies. However, in spite of this apparent accord between them, their tendencies are quite different.

For Protagoras there is one more difference that Plato does not recog-nize. Indeed, there are not only differences among virtues (rather, moral virtues), but also differences between virtues and other values. Pro-tagoras distinguishes between moral and political values, like shame and justice, and non-moral values, like efficiency and pleasure.

For Socrates, however, knowledge is the only criterion for virtue; thus there are no differences among virtues and there are no differences be-tween those presumed virtues and the rest of human values. All values are knowledge. Therefore, the difference between values is only one of degrees of knowledge, in a scale that runs from abysmal ignorance to a total knowledge.

Protagoras believes that values can be objects of knowledge without being knowledge in themselves. Socrates regards values as an object of knowledge; thus, they are, in themselves, knowledge. For this reason, Socrates believes that the only motive of human activity is knowledge. People behave according to their degree of knowledge.2

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For Protagoras, to assume degrees of knowledge is tantamount to as-suming that there is an absolute truth in questions of value. Protagoras does not deny the possibility of truth, but the truth is different for each one. However, he rejects the idea that this truth constitutes the ground of values and valuation. His value-theory refers to values that are constitu-ents of the subject who sustains them, like in perception, where the per-ceived, qua perceived, is neither true nor false.

As a philosopher, Protagoras supports a cognitivistic approach, with-out taking a stand, either in knowledge or in valuation. As an educator, he supports a valuative theory of values, one in which he takes a stand.

In Protagoras’ both cognitivist and valuative approaches, the object of knowledge is the human subject. His kind of knowledge is theoretical at the epistemic level, and practical at the valuative level, namely, a knowl-edge that knows, at the epistemic level, values that are to be molded by education toward a democratic life, and at the practical level takes a stand for certain values in the light of which the educator changes the dispositions of the soul.

What we may find strange in Plato’s philosophy are his intercon-nected assertions, namely, that nobody does evil willingly, that virtue is teachable, and that virtue is an art like medicine or carpentry according to his techné-analogy. These three assertions share a common assump-tion—that virtue is knowledge. That is, whoever knows the nature of things, knows what to do, namely the “ought” question is, ultimately, an “is” question. But then, the “ought” is reduced to the knowledge of the “is.” He reduces “is” to “ought,” and not “ought” to “is,” contrary to what seems at a first glance. He reduces “is” to “ought” but dresses the “ought” with the clothes of Being.

We can summarize Protagoras’ argument as follows: a. It is impossible to reduce values to Promethean knowledge, duty

and virtue to techné, and the two to nature or instinct. The three basic tendencies of the soul oppose each other in social life. The tale of Pro-tagoras explains this disharmony and explains the attempt to harmonize between them.

b. There is an innate capability for morality, as the tale explains. In his logos, Protagoras elaborates his notion of education: (1) the execution of the innate-capacity, and (2) the ideal that guides this execution. The ideal fulfills the innate capacity with content. Therefore, education is the mediator between the capacity and the ideal. Education is the capacity for the realization of the ideal.

When Socrates and Protagoras refer to teaching they are referring to thoroughly different and even antagonistic things. We will go into this difference in detail later. But for the moment, let me state that Pro-

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tagoras’ belief that every Athenian should be allowed to express his po-litical opinions is a notion that assumes that virtue is teachable. This very allowance for plurality of opinions is in itself already a value. Protagoras intends to say that political virtue is teachable only to human beings, be-cause they are capable of learning it. Teaching cannot take place unless there is a subject that learns, someone who has the capacity to be edu-cated. The meaning of Protagoras’ position is that the boundaries of edu-cation and of the capacity to educate already exists in human nature.

The subject matter of Protagoras’ philosophy is the subject. The sub-ject matter of Socrates’ thought is the object. Now let me add that Pro-tagoras understands the Socrates’ question in a sui generis way. When Socrates asks whether one can find such a thing as an instructor of virtue, Protagoras turns the question around and asks whether people are educa-ble, whether one can find students capable of being virtuous.

To offer an accurate description of the nature of the student, of the subject, of human nature, Protagoras tells his version of the tale about human nature. This tale raises all the value issues that will figure in the course of the dialogue: pleasure, efficiency, and moral good or virtue. In the tale, they appear already as thoroughly opposed to each other. In this regard, Protagoras will remain consistent throughout the dialogue.

Let us look a little more deeply at Protagoras’ theory of values and knowledge, the homo mensura theory, which holds that things are in themselves what they are for me and are in themselves what they are for you (in other words, that they are different for me and for you). “homo mensura” is not a theory about nature or about things. It is a theory about knowledge. Rather, it is an attempt to build an epistemic analysis of val-ues and knowledge. It is knowledge of values that are not knowledge in themselves, and it is knowledge of the form of knowledge.

For Protagoras, things have no intrinsic value. Or, to state the matter more gently, we cannot know anything about such presumed value. But on the other hand, our experience with valuable things is valuable in it-self. Something is good, pleasant, or efficient for someone. In this sense, the valuable or valued things can be relatively valuable, though the very valuation of them is not itself relatively valuable. An action is not good in itself, but in relation to the intention of the subject. A pleasant act is not pleasant in itself but it is so because a subject experiences it this way. An object is not useful but for someone that takes it as a means for an end. There is, therefore, something non-relative—the subject, and there is something relative—the object. If this is the case, his theory of value is not relative but relational. Protagoras arrives at this attitude because his main concern is with the human subject, and not with what is the object of human subjects, that is, the object of knowledge or the object of

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valuation. Values have a firm terrain: the human subject as the object of philosophical, reflective knowledge. For this very reason, formalism ig-nores the main feature of the subject—its subjectivity. If somebody wants to call this theory “subjectivist,” the term must be understood in this way, since the subject is not related to an object. The object is mere illusion. The form is not the form of a content, but the last is reduced to the first. Subjectivism is a kind of inverted realism that asserts the reality of the subject.

An attitude that reduces the ideal content of thought to the real think-ing-subject, diametrically contradicts Plato’s attitude. Plato is an anti-formalist. Protagoras rejects the anti-formalism based on the objectifying character of the intentionality of mind without being aware, in his reflec-tion, of this process. Plato bases his philosophy in this objectifying char-acter of consciousness without self-consciousness. If the term “objectiv-ist” is to be understood as the definition of the attitude that denies the objective character of the object, namely, if the term is understood as re-ferring to the counter-side of a subject, then the content of the term be-comes an absolute reality, since it lacks a transcendent reality to the con-cept, and recognizes only the content of the concept as such, as the con-tent of a concept alone. The common ground for the Plato-Protagoras dialogue is, therefore, a lack of awareness of the objectifying phenome-non. For this reason, the one is placed before experience (Protagoras) and the other beyond it (Plato).

Both have also in common that they criticize common sense’s experi-ence. In his anti-formalism, Plato takes to extremes the popular moderate anti-formalism. Protagoras, in his formalism, annuls it. Both, then, adopt a perspective that distorts what it analyzes. Both support reflective atti-tudes about the original intentional act. Plato’s attitude consists of thinking about the intentional content; he thinks about the content of the original act. Protagoras thinks about the form of the intention; he reflects on the subject.3

Notes

1. See Prt. 334c-339c and 349b-350c. 2. Interpreters of Plato’s unity of virtues usually try to inquire whether the

relationship between virtues is one of identity, or of similarity or of bicondition-ality (Identity Thesis: Virtues are identical. The names of the virtues are proper names for a single thing. The virtues are not parts of virtue. Similarity Thesis: Virtues are similar, but not identical. The virtues are parts of virtue in the way that parts of a piece of gold are parts, namely, with no qualitative difference between part and whole or between one part and another. Biconditionality The-

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sis: The instance-classes of virtues are necessarily coextensive (in the sense that moral agents will have any one virtue iff they have all the five). Though legiti-mate, this kind of inquiry is irrelevant to the Protagoras-Plato discussion. Indeed, if we enter into such discussion, we fail totally on the field of Socrates. This was indeed Socrates intention, namely, to fill the scene with these kind of questions, without questioning what identity, similarity, and biconditionality have in common—that virtue is knowledge. See, in this regard, two authors who are victims of Socrates: Gregory Vlastos, “The Unity of the Virtues in the Pro-tagoras,” in Platonic Studies (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1973), 221-65; and Terry Penner, “The Unity of Virtue,” Philosophical Review LXXXII (1973): 35-68.

3. About Plato’s disavowal of the intentional form of consciousness, see John D. G. Evans, “Platonic Arguments: I,” Aristotelian Society, Supplement 70 (1996): 177-93.

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The Unity of Virtues

Protagoras’ philosophy implies two opposing tendencies. On the one side, he is attempting to build up an impartial meta-ethical investigation. His attitude has an epistemic aspect at least. He wants to understand what people think and what values they hold. From this point of view, Pro-tagoras is not a moral educator or reformer. But this investigative side clashes with his desire to educate and to teach virtue. The philosopher is thus at odds with the committed democrat. In one capacity, he does not recommend some values over others, but rather describes human recom-mendations; he does not impose values but describes and explains the values that people live by. Protagoras, as a matter of principle rather than conformity, does not want to contest other people’s opinions. When he does decide to put his values into action, his epistemic and scientific bent makes him the kind of educator who preaches moderation and tolerance.

Protagoras resolves the contradiction, of which he is fully aware, by regarding Zeusian values as the moral restraints on Epimethean and Promethean values. From the point of view of Zeus, he tries to influence and change Epimethean and Promethean values. In this second sense, he is an educator and thus not relativist. There are, in this regard, wise men, those who know better on these matters. Among those educators, Pro-tagoras is the best, since he knows best about moral issues. He is devoted to Zeus, whose moderating influence makes democracy possible.

The discussion in the dialogue takes place on these grounds. After the discourse of Protagoras, Socrates politely expresses his dislike of being lectured to and his preference for dialogue. Socrates asks:

You were saying that Zeus sent justice (dikaiosune) and a sense of shame to man, and again at several points in your speech you were speaking of justice and moderation (sophrosune) and piety (hosio-tes) and so on, as though they amounted to a single thing: excel-

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lence (arete). This is the point on which I need a precise explana-tion. Is it the case that excellence is some single thing, while jus-tice, moderation and piety are parts of it, or is it that all these things which I mentioned just now are names for one and the same single thing? (Prt. 329c-d).

Socrates asks, more specifically, whether the relation of virtue with virtues is analogous to the relation between the face and its parts (nose, eyes, mouth, and so on) or to the relation of the parts of gold with the entire piece of gold? The parts of a face differ from each other in kind or quality. The parts of the gold differ only in quantity.1

Protagoras’ answer leaves no doubt that he believes that virtue is made up of distinct qualities. That is, the relationship between virtue and its virtues is analogous to the relationships between the face and its parts. Virtues are not one in concept and many in number, but are qualitatively different from one another. Besides, there are values that are even op-posed to virtue (Epimethean and Promethean values). For example, one may be courageous (an Epimethean value) without being just (a Zeusian quality); one can be just without being wise or prudent (two Zeusian qualities), and so on (see Prt. 329, 349d.) Thus, virtues differ qualita-tively. This is Protagoras’ position throughout the dialogue. Plato, by contrast, will defend the stand that the differences between virtues in particular and values in general are only quantitative, which is the same as saying there are no differences.

According to Protagoras, therefore, contrary to Plato, it is not a com-mon definition of values. For Plato, the common definition of virtues is knowledge and, once virtues (or values in general) are recognized as knowledge, to know them means to know their unity. Protagoras does not reject knowledge, but knowledge may imply the awareness of the differences among virtues.

Protagoras’ alternative position, at least partially, regards knowledge having no independent existence in itself. Accordingly, there are differ-ent forms of knowledge, such as those deriving from the will, from in-stinct, or from interest. These are rather forms of valuation, claims that are not grounded on the knowledge of being (in the strict sense in which such knowledge is defined in anti-formalist or essentialist philosophy). From the formalist perspective, we can accept even the existence of an a priori that departs from the a priori of conceptual truth. Some actions can be motivated by pleasure, utility, beauty, or the good—each one has its own “truth.” According to Protagoras (as I interpret him) internal con-flicts can exist in the soul, and we should not be surprised if a person knows what ought to be done, from a moral point of view, but is tempted

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by his natural Epimethean desires to do otherwise. Action may even be conceived of as being a result of inner conflict—say, between pleasure and the good.

However, for Plato this is a misconception. An impulse may contra-dict rational knowledge, but only in so far as it is identical with igno-rance. Evil is countered by a revelation of the truth. An alcoholic drinks because he is not aware that strong drink is ruining his health. Were this fact known to him, he would not be overcome by the compulsion to drink. A drunk who understands the significance of his drinking would be, in Plato’s view, a sheer impossibility.

Knowledge then, is for Plato something quite different than for Pro-tagoras. Knowledge encompasses values, while for Protagoras values encompass knowledge.

Next, Socrates goes into a detailed analysis of each one of the virtues indicated by Protagoras, namely, justice (dikaiosune), courage (andreia), wisdom (sophrosune, moderation) and piety (hosiotes)—to ask, ulti-mately, if they are reducible or not to knowledge (episteme).

The Method of Analysis of the Difference between Virtues

Socrates goes into an analysis of virtue in particular and values in general dividing them into pairs of values at their turn, as follows:

1. Justice and piety (330b6-331e6). 2. Wisdom and temperance (self-control) (sophia and sophrosune)

(332a4-333b6). 3. Justice and temperance (333b8-334-c6). 4. Courage and wisdom (349d2-350c5). Let us pay attention to this detail: the virtues are treated in pairs.

However, let us leave the question about this treatment open for the mo-ment and go directly into the content of the distinction.

Justice and Piety

Socrates begins by asking if there is something called “justice” and if justice is just, and if there is something called “piety” and if piety is pi-ous.2 Socrates’ claim has been interpreted in three major ways.

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1. According to Grote the assertion that justice is just and piety pious is “either tautological, or unmeaning” and “cannot serve as a real proof of any thing,” so that “if it were found in the mouth of Protagoras and not in that of Socrates, commentators would probably have cited it as an il-lustration of the futilities of the sophists.”3 As a matter of principle, I cannot accept this kind of interpretation. It is a poor sort of methodology that hides behind such dismissive labels as “ununderstandable,” “mean-ingless,” and so forth.4 This interpretative tactic rejects out of hand the very parts of the text that stand in greatest need of being interpreted. In this spirit, Grote blames Socrates for using “an exaggerated form of unity, unity as strict identity, and, to make matters worse, his proof em-ploys egregious fallacies.”5

2. Another interpretation is to assert that Plato cheats intentionally and willingly, using a logic that is not his own. George Klosko asserts that Plato indulges, in the Protagoras in general and in this case in par-ticular, intentional fallacies.6 This interpretation tries to avoid the diffi-culties involved in the first case. It may be a legitimate interpretation, and is certainly far better than asserting that Plato errs. At least it does not suggest that we should cease all attempts to analyze the text.

Paul Friedländer asserts that this Platonic logic is an “artificially con-structed piece of nonsense.”7 See also Vlastos in his Platonic Studies, who critically quotes J. Moreau’s belief that there is no error here. Ac-cording to Vlastos, Plato’s fallacy occurs when he passes from saying “is not F” to saying “is the opposite of F.”8 In my opinion, Vlastos is not ex-plaining Platonic logic, but rather avoiding explanation. Interpreters are right in asserting that Plato does not distinguish between contrary and contradictory, but they are not right in assuming that this is an error on his behalf. In general, some interpreters seem quicker to disagree or agree than to understand.

We need instead to decide whether the interpreter who asserts that Plato’s argument is invalid really understands Plato, or is simply pro-jecting his own assumptions on Plato’s thought. Now, if we believe that Plato intends to bring us to the truth, as he sees it, then it is not plausible to claim that he is lying, for such an approach runs counter to his whole way of thinking. Moreover, for Plato, nobody errs deliberately. There-fore we need not seek any fallacy or error in Plato’s thinking; however, if the Platonic method of argumentation does not seem to lead us to any kind of truth, perhaps the problem lies in our understanding rather than in the argument itself. My conclusion is, therefore, that it is pointless to as-sert that Plato “errs” intentionally. We must make an effort to understand the inner logic of the argument alone. When Klosko asserts that Plato’s thinking “must be interpreted as intentional fallacies used in an eristic

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context,”9 he (Klosko) is not explaining anything, but rather calling for an explanation.

3. Another interpretation consists of going to other dialogues where similar assertions are made more clearly in order to extrapolate and ex-plain the problematic text. The Euthyphro offers, in this specific case, such “help.” In the Euthyphro Socrates states that piety in every action is always the same, and this sameness is “the general idea which makes all pious things to be pious” (Euthyp. 6d-e). Therefore, if I know “what is the nature of this idea” . . . “I shall have a standard to which I may look, and by which I may measure actions, whether yours or those of any one else, and then I shall be able to say that such and such an action is pious, such another impious” (Euthyp. 6-e). Such an argument poses no special problem to understanding. But if the Protagoras has the same meaning, why then did Plato express himself so obscurely? At least, this very dif-ference needs an explanation. So at least in this aspect, we cannot reduce the argument in the Protagoras to the one we find in the Euthyphro,10 and perhaps in other aspects, too.

In my opinion, Plato is not simply proffering an empty tautology or lack of meaning. “Justice is just,” regarded with its context (as any judg-ment must be)—is an answer to the question (as any sentence is, ulti-mately, an answer to some question) of whether justice is unjust.11

The answer to the question of whether justice is unjust is, therefore, negative. Justice is not unjust but it is (precisely to the contrary) just. Justice does not oppose itself but opposes its opposite. The same is said about piety—piety is not impious but precisely pious. With these asser-tions, Socrates opens up the logical road within which he will move im-mediately after. I have pointed out that Protagoras recognizes differences and similarities between the virtues. Plato, while taking this into account, is preparing an argument that difference can be reduced to opposition and similarity can be reduced to identity.12

This reduction is achieved by defining the values under discussion using as definiens the negation of their respective opposites. That is, Plato presupposes that each value is what it is by the mediation of its op-posite, or that each value is what it is by not being its opposite—by not being what it is not. Provided that we are aware of this logic, let me fol-low him in his argument. How can this logic—this insistence on what, perhaps, we should simply take for granted—help the Socratic argument?

Let me first analyze another aspect of Platonic logic. Plato asks whether justice is something. This is a reflective question. Generally people do not ask what justice is but it is asked whether a certain act is just. Justice, in its common use, is a quality of something and not some-thing in itself. In reflection, however, at least in the Platonic reflection,

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the quality becomes the subject maner of analysis and so it becomes a substance.

Such an approach is characteristic of Plato. As Aristotle noted, he a l­ways transforms qualities into substances. At first glance, it seems that "justice" is a substance and "just" is a quality. But "justice" is already a quality, at least for a form of thought that assumes the distinction be­tween substance and qualities.

By asserting that justice is a fhing. Plato prevents it from becoming a qualify. Substantiation takes place already when we put it as a subject of a sentence in the form: "Justice is .. ," After then, when we say that it is just, namely , justice as a predicate, we transfonn it again into a quality. This is akin to saying that a table is "tablely" or "tab[e like" or "tablistic" and then asking if "tab le like" is something .

Now, since substances are defined by their qualities or properties, or, rather, by their essential qualities, it is essential that the substance "jus­tice" has, as its main quality or property, "to be just." Thus, by the attri­bution of "just" to ' 'justice,'' justice becomes just, since the substance is defined by its essential qualities.

We might ask why Plato is in such haste to tum a quality into a sub­stance. The answer is that a quality can inhere in a substance, but a sub­stance cannot inhere in either a quality or another s ubstance.

Th is is very important for his further analysis. Indeed, we cannot say about a substance that it is another substance, a.nd it cannot " li ve to­gether" with another substance. Qualities, however, can be said to live together in the same substance. For example, if justice were only a qual­ity of a substance, it could live together with other qualities in the same house, as it were-in the same substance. [n Ihis case, something (a sub­stance) can be simultaneously just and pious. However, piety as a sub­stance cannot be justice, just as a table cannot be a chair. Yet a table can possess, at the same time a number of qualities such as color, form , weight, and so forth. Of course, these qualities may not contradict each other; a table cannot be both brown and black from the same aspect and at the same time.

In summary, Plato tends to the substantiation of qualities, so that it is perfectly possible to predicate "just" (a qua li ty) from the "substance" (a quality that became, in his mind, a substance) "justice." Now, if ;~ustice" is a substance and "just" a quality, this is not a case of self-predication, at least in the sense of being a tautol ogy. We still need to answer another question: If "justice" is not-pious, why does it become finally "unjust"?

Now we can finally see the reason for al l thes<e tactics- returning to quality and dealing with substance as if it were a quality without first stopping at the su bstance stage. It is so because quality is typically de-

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fined as the opposite of its opposite. Justice is the opposite of its oppo­site-injust ice. Not all qualities have this binary character. But for the sake of our discussion , it is enough that justice and piety have it. Plato ' s play consists of, therefore, in passing from the treatment of values as substances to their treatment as qualities and then returning to treat them as substances.

Plato exploits the idea that each va lue opposes its opposite. Now then, if through ou r analysis we could reveal that two values that we consider different from each other have the same opposite value (like ugly for nice and pretty), we will have no choice but to conclude that they are identical and not different. Socrates will show just this later on. lfwe are still not conv inced and continue capriciously to assert that these two values are different and at the same time that they are mutually exclusive (since we asserted that they are substances), and since, in principle, the opposite is the opposite of its opposite, then, from these two assumptions, we cannot but realize and assert, in Plato's opi nion, that they themselves are oppo­sites.

Look at the underlying logic here. The playing here, the passing from substance over quality and from quality over substance, in accord with the convenience of the argumentat ion , assumes that there is only opposi­tion and identity and that each val ue is defined by- and only by-means of the negation of its opposite.

Let me return to our specific case. What is under analysis is Pro­tagoras' thesis that the virtues differ from one MOTher_ AI;, a first step, it remains assured that justice is something, and that it is just rather than unjust, and that piety is something, and that it is pious rather than impi­ous. At this point Socrates proposes a hypothetical interlocutor who sug­gests that, even at this stage, there is somethin~ not well stated . The hy­pothetical interlocutor says: "So pie ty (~O'tOT1"),» is not like a just (S~lCatol.l ) kind of thing, nor justice (St lCa toO'~I.I'l) like piety (~r:nol.l), but rather like somethin~ not pious (Iol'l' ;; 0"~01.l); whi le piety (~O"~~ T'lS' ) is not like justice (1-'1") S~IC':HOI.I ) but, in co nsequence, unjust(~StlCol.I).

1 ·· " ) ." name y ImpiOUS (QI.IOO'~OI.l .'-If piety is not identical wit h justice, and justice is not identical with

piety~so Pl ato understands Prot agoras- it amounts to say ing that piety is not justice ("'l")' S~ICQcol.l-notjust) and therefore unjust (';:SC ICOI.I ), and that justice is not pious (1-''l' ~O'COI.I) and therefore impious (;'v;O'cov) . And since Plato presupposes (without demonstrating, as something self­understandable) that impious is the same as unjust, then neither justice is just nor piety pious.

As I tried to show, Plato defines each value by the mediation of its opposite. Therefore, he could also prove , if he wou ld take the opposite

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way, something else. Indeed, then he would be able to demonstrate that if unpiety and injustice are different, then impious is pious and unjust is just.14

This is what negation means in Plato. Plato’s logical assumption is that every “no” is an “anti.”15 Therefore, every negation is thoroughly negative and does not include affirmation. To say that something is not another is not to say that it is something. For the sake of comparison, let us try another kind of logic. If we say that the king of France does not live in Paris, that means he lives elsewhere, but does not rule out the pos-sibility that he stays in Paris sometimes. Thus contrary to Plato’s as-sumptions, negation sometimes includes affirmation.

In Plato, however, negation never includes affirmation. This is gener-ally regarded as an error in Plato’s logic. I shall insist however, that Plato is consistent within the narrow frame in which he poses the problem of the relation among virtues. The parts of a piece of gold, according to our text, are similar (oi(=on) to each other, whereas mouth and nose, as parts of the face, are totally different. This being the case, there is no differ-ence between similarity and identity but there is only identity. That is, difference is annulled and similarity is reduced to identity. The same process occurs with the parts of the face, though it goes in the opposite direction. If the parts are different, then they are not identical but totally opposed to each the other, since opposition is the opposite of identity. Unlike identity and opposition, similarity and difference include, each one in itself, its opposite.

I have been trying to describe Plato’s logic, the very logic that com-mentators so frequently deplore.16 Plato, however, is not asserting that justice and piety have no meaningful characteristics in common. If he were arguing this way, he would need to distinguish between substance and its properties. The distinction between contrary and contradictory is valid in the frame of a substantive logic, the only one that is able to make such a distinction. Substantiative logic presupposes that there are sub-stances and properties or qualities belonging to them. Now, in Plato’s self-consciousness, that which is, from the perspective of non-reflective consciousness, a thing or quality, either acquires the character of a sub-stance, or remains unknown. It is either a form (a substance, an idea) or a moving residual, something that would remain unknown. It is either a knowable universal or an unknowable particular. In addition, since there is not a thing-property relationship, since properties are reduced to things, there is also no relationship between genera and species. Indeed, genera and species are distinguished by means of some of their proper-ties, and, in Plato’s logic, properties became reduced to substances. So also justice and piety, or any other virtues, are only able to “participate”

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in the idea of virtue; they may be inexplicable particulars or particulars that may be explicable only insofar as they are the same with the general virtue. Only in this sense, is there a unity among virtues.

When interpreters criticize Plato, they are questioning his whole logic, namely, the face-gold alternative itself. If they wish to be consis-tent, they should criticize Plato from the very beginning, that is, at the moment he proposes his face-gold dichotomy. However, since they do not do so, since they do not put this logic into question, into basic ques-tion, they fall right into Plato’s trap, as Protagoras did. It was only when Plato arrives at the far-reaching consequences of his logic that the critics wake up and begin to grumble about Plato’s logic. But whoever accepts Plato’s premises must accept his consequences.17

To convince us that they are right and Plato is wrong, the critics and scholars are ready to quote Prt. 346b and Eros in the Symposium as in-termediate cases between “either…or.” Prt. 346b refers to something between black and white. Guthrie asserts that here “the mistake lies not in ignoring the possibility of a means between two extremes, but in as-suming that things not on the same scale at all are mutually exclusive.”18 Playing billiards is neither just nor unjust; “they simply belong to a dif-ferent category.”19 In Plato, he asserts, there is a tendency to reify con-cepts, a tendency that leads him to the theory of Ideas.20 Plato equates non-just with unjust.21 We will never be able to know if Plato does it in-tentionally.22 I think, on the contrary, that Plato is fully aware of what he is doing here. “Non-just” cannot be the equivalent of “unjust.” It does not make sense to ask whether wood is just or unjust. Justice or injustice can only be attributed to things able to have this quality. Accordingly, if we say of an Athenian that he is not just, or that he is non-just, we are as-serting that he is unjust. Obviously, this is not the logic that Protagoras is going to defend. But for the moment, we are still not concerned with his logic.23

I argue, in summary, that Plato is unwilling to distinguish between contrary and contradictory statements because this distinction clashes with his own logical presuppositions. To understand Plato’s logic, there-fore, we must ask on what he bases his conflation of the contrary and the contradictory.

First, Plato’s logic contains a typical characteristic of values in gen-eral: their binarism. Values behave like a light switch: they are either good or bad, they allow or forbid, they are either positive or negative. Each positive has only one negative, and not a plethora of negatives. Values have this binary quality because we use them to take a stand to-ward objects and situations. By “taking a stand” I mean to declare one-self for or against something.

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Plato pushes the binary character of values to its extreme. Thus, he concludes that, if two unknown positives have only one and the same negative, they (the positives) must be identical. And if we insist that the positives are different, we will need to assert, in the end, that they oppose each other. In such cases, there is no difference but opposition, and there is no similarity but identity.

The next question is at what stage the imaginary interlocutor (the “someone” hypothesized by Socrates) discovers that Protagoras is con-tradicting himself. For him, namely, for Plato (since this hypothetical interlocutor is the representative of the Platonic logic) it is clear that Protagoras contradicts himself when he merely asserts that justice is not piety and that the opposite of justice is injustice while the opposite of piety is impiousness. The logic of the hypothetical interlocutor goes like this: If justice is not unjust, and if piety is not impious, and if piety is not just nor justice pious, then justice is unjust and piety impious. If the only opposite (negative) of justice is injustice, it cannot be that piety opposes justice. That is, if some specific difference between justice and piety is discovered, the different terms are opposed if they are different. Thus, if we assert that justice and piety are different, we are asserting that justice is not just and piety not pious; we have become enmeshed in a contra-diction, since difference is the opposite of similarity.24

To put the matter in another way: if two values have the same oppo-site, they cannot differ from each other, since difference means opposi-tion in Plato. If justice and piety oppose injustice, they cannot oppose each other.

Armed with these insights about Platonic logic, let us return to the controversial question of whether justice is just.

When asking this question, Plato puts reflective thought into play. In-deed, non-reflective thinking does not think about justice, but only about just or unjust actions. Usually, in non-reflective thought, justice is a quality of something else. It is a parasite, not something in itself. Only in reflection does it become a being-in-itself, a substance.

Let me follow this kind of Platonic reflection. When Plato states that justice is just, he asserts that A = A, namely,

that everything is identical with itself, or, in negative terms, in the style of the so-called principle of non-contradiction, that A cannot be at the same time and from the same point of view both A and not-A. So pious is the opposite of impious and justice is the opposite of injustice. Why is this the case? Because justice is identical to justice, and piety is identical to piety. If A were not identical with itself, it would not be opposed to not-A. In the explicit text, the total negation, the logical negation, is ex-pressed but not explained. To express the identity already means ex-

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pressing the negation of the opposite. Not-A is not an undetermined, whichever, negation of A. Not-A does not mean anything in itself. Nevertheless, it is something determined: it is A’s negation of itself.

After the binary principle of identity/negation is applied, on the one hand to justice and on the other to piety, Plato goes into a comparison of the one with the other, of justice with piety.

Plato’s underlying logic here holds that the identity is not the differ-ence, or that justice, since it is identical with itself, is not different from itself. But Plato posits identity and difference under the sensible form of the gold model as the principle of identity and the face model as the prin-ciple of diversity. The principle of identity says that identity is not differ-ence; the principle of diversity says that difference is not identity. Now then, Plato attempts to use the principle of the gold to refute the principle of the face. Indeed, it is enough for the hypothetical interlocutor to assert the identity to turn what has been posited as diversity into a plain contra-diction.

Plato attacks the principle of similarity with the principle of identity. Similarity implies a difference between the similar things, whereas iden-tity excludes difference to put opposition instead.

Let me continue with the main argument. With gold in his mind as a model—gold being the metaphor for identity—Socrates starts to analyze the presumed difference between those regarded as equals to themselves and opposed to their respective opposites. Now, all these constitute a unity—they are virtue or virtues. Protagoras and Socrates agree on this point. Generalizing what was said about justice and piety—virtue is ei-ther virtuous or vicious. And, according to the logic of identity and oppo-sition, it is virtuous and not vicious, it is identical to itself and opposed to its opposite. The whole (virtue) and its parts (justice and piety) share the same logic, and their relation is one of symmetry: What is said of the whole is said of the parts, and what is said of the parts is said of the whole, and vice versa, what is denied of the whole is denied of the parts, and what is denied of the parts is denied of the whole.

For this reason, instead of referring to the whole (virtue) Plato can re-fer to its parts in order to draw conclusions about the whole. The whole and its parts, each one or all together, namely, virtue or justice, piety, and so forth, are either what they are or their opposites. They are not their opposites, however; they are what they are. No third option can be intro-duced. There is nothing that would be, as it were, at the same time and from the same standpoint virtuous and vicious, and nothing just and un-just. There is no room for indifference or neutrality in the binary abso-lutism of opposition.

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Thus, when Plato refers to the relationship between the parts of a whole with themselves, he does not distinguish between contrary and contradictory, namely between mere diversity and opposition. His logic allows no place for diversity. If justice is virtue, and if piety is virtue, what is said about justice is said about piety, and what is denied to one, is denied to the other.

Now then, to assume that the parts of the virtue are not identical means to assume that they are different. This is the case if we assume the principle of diversity, the principle of the face. What could we say about piety in relation to justice if we assume that these two qualities are both parts of virtue but different from each other? We could say that they are similar but not identical. This is indeed what Protagoras contends. In this case, to say that they are similar is to assume that they are, in some as-pect, identical and in some other not-identical. But what is relevant for the discussion is to determine in what they are identical, and not in what they differ. Namely, the very question consciously ignores the difference and concentrates upon the similarity of similarity.

Similarity of similarity is identity. The question is what justice and piety have in common, or what they are insofar as they are identical each to the other. This is what Plato’s hypothetical interlocutor assumes. If the one, justice, is not similar (oino) to the other, that is, if it is not identical with the other—it is identical with its opposite. So, justice is dissimilar to piety, and thus is similar to its opposite—impiousness, namely, injustice.

This result is another consequence of Plato’s intellectualism.25 Indeed, when the intellect dwells on likeness and similarity, it always arrives at identity. We are intellectually unable to grasp similarity. Our senses, contrariwise, grasp it, but cannot explain it. Indeed, to explain means to make distinctions concerning what is similar and concerning what is dis-similar. When we try to make these distinctions—when we attempt to describe exactly how similar things are similar—we think thus: “In this way and that, these things are identical.” And when we attempt to de-scribe the dissimilarities among otherwise similar things, we think thus: “In this way and that, these things are opposed.” Plato, in his reflection, takes into account only the intellect and disregards the senses. The result is a rigorous but bizarre sort of logic.

Let me compare this Platonic logic with a logic that recognizes a dif-ference between contrary and contradictory.26 This alternative is, of course, Protagoras’ thought. For Protagoras there is a third side, some-thing that is neither A nor not-A, just that A to which the positive A and the negative A refer.

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Protagoras’ Responses

The logic underlying Protagoras’ response to Socrates is neither sim-pler nor less interesting than Socrates’ logic.

Protagoras appears to recognize that there are various kinds of values. His approach is an attempt to found the grounds for a further systemati-zation of values. He is not trying to substantialize values. If it is true that there is something called “justice,” he does not believe that justice is a just “thing.” That is to say, when Socrates asks him if justice is just, he answers affirmatively but on different grounds: In order not to contradict what he has said before and will say again later. For example, if some argument pushed him to agree that utility is useful or efficiency efficient, he would only be asserting that it depends on the nature of the object and the subject, and not on the nature of a supposed absolute and indepen-dent, substantialized, utility or efficiency. Some objects are beneficial for certain kinds of objects, but harmful for others. In consequence, he may be ready to assert that there are societies that regard certain laws as just and others that regard the very same laws as unjust; in Platonic terms, that would be the same as saying that justice can be unjust.

Regarding the specific question of Socrates, Protagoras is indifferent to the question of whether justice is similar or dissimilar to piety. If Soc-rates wants, he, Protagoras, is ready to regard piety and justice as similar. He adopts this attitude because he does not consider identity and contra-diction as being mutually exclusive. With identity and contradiction we have gone far beyond the level of relationships among virtues. In fact, we have annulled the very relationships. If we want to maintain these rela-tionships, we have no choice but to regard the related virtues both as similar and as dissimilar.

For differences, indeed, to remain what they are as they are, they must enclose in themselves some similarity; by the same token, similar things, to remain similar, must include in themselves some difference from each other. If not, they would be, in the first case absolutely different, and therefore totally incomparable, and in the second case absolutely identi-cal, indistinguishable, and therefore not two but one. For this reason, Protagoras prefers the face-metaphor to the gold-metaphor.

By accepting the possibility of similarity (as against identity), Pro-tagoras dwells at the level of reflection that allows comparisons. Indeed, comparisons can take place, to state it sharply, only between different things that are similar; that is, between different things having something in common that renders them, therefore, comparable.

It appears that Protagoras is asserting that everything depends on the point of view of the subject, which amounts to saying that everything

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depends on that aspect of the question in which the subject is interested. The inquiry is sometimes about the similarity between two virtues, and sometimes about their difference. Sometimes we are looking for the points of contact and sometimes for disjunctions. According to the case, our method of analysis and the object of analysis will be different. This is what implies his “if you prefer” (Prt. 331c). If Protagoras is not more ex-plicit, I think it is because Plato wrote the dialogue, not Protagoras, nor somebody more sensitive to Protagoras’ thought.

For Protagoras even opposites are opposites due to the common ground of similarity. Protagoras says that in a certain way, white is simi-lar to black, soft is similar to hard, and justice is similar to piety. This does not amount to asserting that white is black and justice is unjust, a conclusion that Socrates would like to pull out of him.

It is noteworthy that Protagoras offers, as examples, cases of opposi-tions (white-black, hard-soft); not surprisingly, these examples lead him to admit that between justice and piety there is a certain similarity. Note that Protagoras in no way implies that justice and piety are related to each other in the same way as white is to black. Rather, he is arguing the extreme cases. If one can find some similarity between white and black, between soft and hard, then one can certainly find some kind of similar-ity between virtually anything and anything else.

Protagoras selects his examples carefully; this deviation is not casual. He deviates from his line of thought to avoid the assertion that justice is similar, insofar as it is its opposite, to the unjust. This is because public discourse forbids the turn to the coincidentia oppositorum. According to his philosophy, there are things that only a madman says: “everyone should claim to be just, whether he is or not, and that the man who doesn’t put up some show of being just is out of his mind, in the belief that no one can fail to have at least some share of justice, or he would not be human” (Prt. 323b).

In any case, Protagoras does not think that justice is actually unjust, but that it relates in some way to injustice. Plato himself confirms this idea of Protagoras even when defining justice as opposed to injustice, namely, when he defines it by means of its opposite. Plato indeed does not define justice as the opposite of, say, sculpture. Sculpture is not the opposite of justice just because it is not similar to it; this being the case, sculpture is totally incompatible with justice.

Let me return to the dialogue. Protagoras’ response makes Socrates indignant (and we can almost sense the clash of pure temperament here):

“I don’t think it is just a simple matter of agreeing that justice is pi-ous and piety just. I think there is a difference there. Still, what

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does it matter?” Protagoras said. “If you like, we can take it that justice is pious and piety just.” “Excuse me,” I said. “It isn’t this “if you like” and “if that’s what you think” that I want to examine, but you and me ourselves” (Prt. 331c-d).

Socrates believes that Protagoras is shrugging because he has no bet-ter response. When Protagoras says “if you like” (Prt. 331c), Socrates takes it to mean that Protagoras is renouncing his own thought. In fact, the opposite is true. Protagoras is indeed explaining himself to Socrates, but Socrates either does not understand his explanation or simply does not accept it. In any case, Socrates characteristically wants to bring the dialogue out of what he perceives as the realm of hypothesis and back into the realm of real knowledge, and from there to answers that can be reduced to either “yes” or “no.” In the binary logic of the Socratic Plato, the “yes” and the “no” can bring us close to truth.27

The binary logic is also a clue for understanding the difference in philosophical content between the styles of Protagoras and Socrates, between discourse and dialogue. The Socratic dialogue is suitable for the Yes and the No, for the positive and negative answer. It is a method of thinking that slowly squeezes ambiguities and variations out of the ar-gument, a peeling process that leaves only an irreducible kernel of abso-lute truth in the end.

Protagoras’ philosophy, per contra, is not particularly oriented toward this kind of dialogic method. From his point of view, a series of progres-sively focused questions that elicit either Yes or No does not constitute an adequate response to the complexity of the problems under analysis. Philosophy is discursive by its very nature. But for Socrates, it is binary, as classical formal logic generally assumes. Thus, the Protagoras stages an inner struggle between a dialogical philosophy and a discursive one.

Protagoras’ logic is not merely discursive. It is a logic that leads to the acceptance of contradiction. This acceptance of contradiction sug-gests that he aligns himself with the theoretical sophists as opposed to the practical sophists. I mean that the rivalry between theory and practice helps us understand Protagoras’ acceptance of contradiction.

Socrates ascribes to Protagoras the thesis that contradiction is impos-sible, with the implication that it is impossible to speak falsely.28

First, let me state that the impossibility of contradiction means, some-how paradoxically in terms, the acceptance of contradiction, namely, the validity of two contradictory statements put together.

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Second, we need to distinguish between Plato’s interpretation of Pro-tagoras and Protagoras’ actual views (to the extent we can reconstruct them, of course). Let me begin with Plato.

Plato refutes the thesis of Protagoras, in the Euthydemus, asserting that whoever speaks the truth refers to something, and whoever speaks falsely refers to nothing, namely, talks about nothing, his words refer to nothing. The thing about which you speak is as you say it is, or it is not; in either case, there is no place for contradiction. Contradiction, for Plato, takes place when two statements, A and not-A, refer to the same thing.29 Plato’s criticism assumes that Protagoras is an ontologist like himself. For the ontologist, consciousness is focused upon the things re-ferred to, and these things are the criterion for truth and falsehood. But Protagoras asserts that things are just what they seem to be. He is focused on consciousness itself, not on the content of consciousness.

What do Plato and Protagoras not do in their discussion? They do not analyze each other’s assumptions. Their attitude is the result of two facts that they state at the level of reflection, but instead discussing what the object of their analysis really consists of, they distort it in accordance to their own forms of thinking. Protagoras, with his relativist conclusions, deviates from the original, unreflective, level of thought and even is at odds with it. Indeed, he is not aware that the unreflective consciousness sees the original object (the content of the mind) being independent of the intentional act of mind.

Plato also contradicts the original level of consciousness, since he re-gards only the independence of the object that for him becomes an Idea, without taking into account the intentional act of the subject. The one locates the content of consciousness in its form, the other—the form into the content.

Plato, then, makes things the standard for logos. Things are the refer-ents that bestow validity and meaning to the speech that refers to them.30 Protagoras, on the other hand, has a non-referential theory of meaning, since the object cannot be a criterion for thinking. We do not know any-thing with certainty. In the Cratylus, Plato says that Protagoras maintains that “things differ as the names differ” (Crt. 386a).

For Plato (Tht. 152b2) “when the same wind is blowing it feels cold to one person and to another not” but it is always clear that the wind is one thing and not two things. For Protagoras, we have only our judg-ments, feelings, values, opinions about things, not things. If he accepts that the selfsame wind is both hot and not hot, this does not imply con-tradiction, but a fact of consciousness. Indeed, people believe that it is the same wind, and this is just the basis for their discussion. They are indeed discussing a property of the wind, but of the wind insofar as it is

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related to consciousness, not the wind in itself. To put it another way, you cannot contradict someone else’s opinion precisely because it is his opinion, just as you cannot contradict another person’s feelings, or con-tradict sense-data in general. Just as you cannot dispute feelings, you cannot dispute opinions. Plato however can do so, because he has an extra-conscious standard of measure.31

Protagoras’ probable acceptance of contradiction comes directly out of the frame of his theory. We do not know things; we only know argu-ments about them, or, if we know them, we know them in the frame of our arguments about them, as part of the field of consciousness. Nothing exists for us except insofar as we perceive it, while human mind func-tions either as an affirmer or as a negator of what is perceived.

Protagoras is not skeptical about things. He is skeptical about the gods, since they cannot be perceived. We can perceive things, but we cannot know anything about them except what we perceive, and their only nature is the nature that we perceive in them.

Contradiction appears only when decisions are to be taken that go be-yond mere asserting and negating. In theory alone, things may be or may be not what they are, and they are only what they may be or may be not, that is, for our understanding. What things are in themselves is unde-cidable and irrelevant. In a meta-theory of knowledge, Protagoras may accept contradiction. On a practical level, at the level of human interest and valuation, people cannot assert and negate the same thing at the same time and from the same standpoint. If they do so, they would be unable to make decisions and unable to act. Though it is possible to entertain contradictory thoughts, it is impossible to make a contradictory decision. You cannot, for example, decide to engage in a pleasant activity that saves you time, since pleasure implies the desire to prolong an activity, and prolonging any activity is, from the point of view of efficiency, a waste of time.

Thus, Plato cannot accept contradiction because his philosophy, at least insofar as it concerns the theory of measurement, tends to be practi-cal—it is an art. Plato’s is a theory of decision-making.

Besides, Plato’s conclusion that if we accept contradiction it is impos-sible to say what is false—is only partially true. Because it is impossible, in this case, to say also what is true. The only solution, I think, is to as-sume that Protagoras’ theory on contradiction is a meta-theory, one made from the standpoint of the model of democracy as an overlook on democ-rats. Democrats indeed contradict each other, this being its deeper meaning; but in so contradicting each other, they do not contradict de-mocracy itself.

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For Protagoras, we may assume, the difference between different philosophies is not a difference between truth and falsehood. Not be-cause they are, as it were, true expressions of their times (partial truths, as Hegel would have it) but because each one has the right to be heard. The question of whether a thought is true does not bother him very much. He is instead concerned with the legitimatization of free expression, rec-ognizing the inner conflict between truth and legitimacy. This is the re-sult of his intensely democratic standpoint. Protagoras takes the idea of democracy and makes it the basis of his philosophy. If his philosophy fails at certain points for strictly logical reasons, what is at stake is demo-cracy itself. All his argumentation in every field relates in some way to his defense of this kind of sociopolitical organization. Protagoras would never endorse any argument whose logic might threaten his democratic values. Democracy is at risk, for instance, when instruction is valued over education, since instruction would create a meritocracy of ruling experts. Democracy is even threatened, in Protagoras’ eyes, by the sug-gestion that man may not be the measure of all things; theoretical and apolitical as such a notion may appear, he will not yield to it.

Wisdom and Self-Control or Temperance (332a4-333b6)

Let me go into the analysis of the second pair of virtues. Here Socra-tes tries to show what he did not say explicitly in his former argumenta-tion. The subject matter are the presuppositions of the former discussion, namely, the common opposition as a proof that the opposites of the op-posites are identical. Now he says this explicitly. It is indeed his answer to the thesis of Protagoras, namely, that the opposites are, to a certain ex-tent, similar things and that similar things are, to a certain extent, differ-ent.

In a first step, Socrates determines, with the same style as in the case of justice and piety, that there is something called folly (aphrosune), and the opposite to folly is wisdom (sophia). After he adds that people when doing something correctly (orthos) and efficiently (ophelimos), do it with self-control (sophronein), meaning that they control their acts under the influence of self-control. On the other hand, when they act with folly they act in opposition to self-control.32 From this, it is deduced that folly is opposed to both sophrosune and to sophia. That means, sophia and sophrosune have the same opposing term (aphrosune—folly). This is what he tried, for the moment, to demonstrate.

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In a second step, Socrates asserts that if something is done out of strength, it is done strongly, and if something is done out of weakness, it is done weakly. If something is done out of quickness, done quickly, if out of slowness, done slowly. If two actions are done in the same way, then they are done out of the same property, and if they are done in op-posite ways, they are done out of opposite properties. Again, we see that he opposes opposition to identity without leaving any room for interme-diate degrees.

He continues as follows: Beauty (kalon) has only one opposite, the base (aischron). The good has only one opposite, the bad. High pitch has one opposite, low pitch. In general, therefore, anything opposed to any-thing else has only one opposite. Yet in a higher generalization, anything opposed to its opposite has only one opposite.

In summary, (1) A thing has only one opposite. (2) Two things done or made in opposite ways are made or done by opposite qualities. (3) A foolishly (aphronos) and a self-controlled (sophronos) act are done in opposite ways. (4) What is done in a self-controlled manner is done un-der the influence of self-control (sophrosune), while what is done fool-ishly is done under the influence of folly (aphrosune). (5) If a deed is done in an opposite way, it is done out of an opposite quality. (6) A deed is performed under the influence of self-control while the other is done under the influence of folly, that is to say, in an opposite way, out of op-posite qualities.

To conclude, folly is the opposite of self-control. But it was said that folly is also the opposite of wisdom, and that each thing has only one opposite. The final conclusion, we need to reject one of the sentences, since they contradict each the other, namely

1. One thing is the opposite of only one thing. 2. Wisdom is a thing distinct from self-control, and both are part of

virtue, and are dissimilar to each other both by essence and by function, like the parts of the face.

3. But self-control and wisdom have the same opposite—folly. The conclusion is that self-control and wisdom are the same. Socrates

already stated, and Protagoras agreed, that piety and justice are “more or less” the same.

Self-Control and Justice (333b8-334-c6)

The next step consists in mediating both pairs of virtues in an attempt to demonstrate that justice (one of the pairs in the first case) is identical

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with temperance (sophrosune) (one of the pairs in the second case). Plato’s reasoning is as follows:

He showed that justice and piety are opposite to injustice and there-fore are “more or less” identical. After that, he showed that wisdom and self-control are opposed to folly and therefore are “more or less” identi-cal.

Now Socrates tries to show that if justice and piety are identical—self-control is opposite to justice. And, since self-control and injustice are not the same, they must be opposites. Thus, self-control, wisdom, justice, and piety are all the same thing.

Since Protagoras is not ready to accept either the method or the con-clusions, Socrates tries another kind of demonstration. He asks whether whoever perpetrates injustice with self-control (soundly) succeeds in perpetrating injustice.

Before continuing with Socrates’ argument, let me go into a subtle distinction not explicitly made here. Socrates is paving the way to re-ducing moral or Zeusian questions to Promethean or goal-oriented ques-tions. Socrates’ question, whether one can call unjust acts “successful,” is alien to both his thinking and Protagoras’, but for very different rea-sons. For Protagoras the question does not refer to any kind of recogniz-able human deed. From a Protagorean standpoint, nobody perpetrates injustice willingly since injustice is never perpetrated for its own sake and is never an end of a purposefully Promethean activity. In goal-ori-ented terms, perpetrating injustice would mean positing injustice as an end for which some means are to be undertaken. If this were the case, efficiency in perpetrating injustice would mean doing something that would bring about the greatest amount of injustice possible. This would make sense if indeed injustice were a goal in itself. But (to extrapolate from Protagoras) injustice may well be the unintended by-product of certain acts undertaken for their own sake—say with an Epimethean or a Zeusian attitude. Injustice may also be a means for the achieving of some Promethean goal.

If this were the case, the question for the agent of the “unjust” act would be the benefit obtained from selecting certain means. In that case, injustice would be the price one paid to accomplish some goal. The act would not be unjust for its own sake, but for the sake of some other end.

So injustice is never perpetrated, either as an end or for its own sake. As far as Protagoras is concerned, the very question is based then on a great confusion that Socrates’ dialogical method, his way of trying to restrict answers to “yes” and “no,” cannot resolve. We are near a crisis. Instead of opening with a discourse, Protagoras confines himself to re-marking that it is an intricate problem.

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Thus, when Socrates asks if someone succeeds in perpetrating injus-tice, from the point of view of Protagoras, he contradicts himself, since he treats injustice as the end of a goal-oriented act. To be efficient in perpetrating injustice sounds odd. It sounds quite normal, even banal, however, that somebody motivated by spite, envy, or malice might want to commit an unjust act. Then injustice is not the end but again either a means or a by-product. Injustice is not requested either as an end, or for its own sake. It is only a means.

Indeed, perpetrating injustice for its own sake, or doing something only for the sake of injustice, would require a radically evil mind, one that we must regard as unreal and hypothetical, even almost incredible. Dostoievsky comes very close to imagining what such minds must be like—to some extent Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment, and even more so, Peter Verkhovensky in The Possessed (also known as The Dev-ils).

Socrates, however, is not dissuaded from pursuing his own logic, which is an expression of his extreme intellectualism, against the char-acter of real human behavior. Socrates tries to connect benefit with in-justice, so that he can define the good by reducing it to benefit. Ulti-mately, he will reduce benefit to the good, or, rather, to identify benefit with good.

Socrates’ line of argumentation runs in two steps and a conclusion. The first step is completed and demonstrated, the second step stopped halfway, and the conclusion never appears. I will try to reconstruct these steps, as follows

First step Let us assume that a man who commits an injustice (adikein) acts soundly (sophronein) in committing that injustice. To act soundly means to exercise good sense (eu phronein). To say good sense means that they plan well (eubouleuesthai) by committing those injustices. This is the case if they do well (eu prattein) in committing it, and not if they do badly.

Second step There are good (agatha) things. Good things are things which are beneficial (ophelima) to men.

At this point the line of thought is stopped. However, let me continue according to what I understand of the Socratic spirit:

Self-control is not injustice but something good. Good things are beneficial. Thus, self-control is also beneficial.

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Thus, Socrates would succeed in connecting Zeus with Prometheus. If good, benefit, and self-control are the same, injustice cannot be perpe-trated with the collaboration of self-control.

Conclusion If injustice is opposed to self-control, then self-control, wisdom, justice and piety are the same. On the other side, folly and injustice are the same. Now, everything is ready, if Protagoras would have allowed him to continue, for Socrates to assert that the good, the beneficial and self-control are one and the same since they are all opposed to injustice.

Similarly, by the method of opposites, Socrates would be able to show that all the virtues are all the same and all the vices are the same.

The discussion does not and cannot continue. If Protagoras accepted

the rules of Socrates’ binary-logic game, he would be unable to find an opportunity to express his own point of view. The same may be said about Socrates. If he agreed to a discursive symposium, he could not pur-sue the ramifications of his logical premises. We enter an explicit crisis of method. Before going on with an analysis of the crisis, let me try to explain Protagoras’ response.

Protagoras’ Response: The Promethean Discourse

For Protagoras, benefit is not a moral value, though it is not necessar-ily immoral, either. He may disagree with Socrates’ opinion that whoever perpetrates injustice may not do it with wisdom, since wisdom itself is also not a moral value. There are indeed immoral acts that may bring benefit to the agent if they are undertaken wisely.

The reason for Protagoras’ exoteric attitude is that the discussion is not about facts alone. It is not a descriptive discussion but neither is it an attempt to prescribe and recommend for certain values and against oth-ers.

Thus, since the discussion is not a discussion about facts alone, it is difficult for Protagoras to express his opinion, since the public might well misconstrue his attitude toward immoral deeds. His answer is then: “For my part, Socrates . . . I should be ashamed to make such an admis-sion. But many people say so” (Prt. 332c). We should remember, in this regard, what Protagoras said at the beginning of the dialogue: “[E]veryone should claim to be just (dikaios), whether he is or not, and

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that the man who doesn’t put up some show of being just is out of his mind” (Prt. 323b-c).

When Socrates presses him to state clearly whether they should dis-cuss the opinion of the masses or Protagoras’ opinion in particular, Pro-tagoras decides that he would rather discuss the opinion of the masses. This way, Protagoras will be better able to argue that it is possible to be wise and unjust, without seeming to recommend any particular set of moral values, because the discussion will take, so he hopes, a descriptive turn.33

Faithful to his notion that values are distinct from one another, Pro-tagoras believes that it is possible to be wise and perpetrate injustice. When he thinks in this way, Protagoras is describing in effect the instru-mental rationality of Prometheus. His discourse here is a Promethean discourse. He explains the idea of usefulness or benefit as something that is not and cannot be related to the Zeusian values that Socrates wants to connect it to.

Protagoras argues, in effect, that something useful is something un-dertaken as a means for an end, not for its own sake. It is something serviceable. Things or actions are said to be beneficial when they serve as means for achieving of an end, whereas the end itself cannot be re-ferred to as beneficial, since it is the very thing requested—not as a means for something else but for its own sake. Thus, we cannot say that things are beneficial (or prejudicial) in and of themselves. Even dung may be beneficial, for instance, when it is applied to the roots of plants. However, it is destructive when applied to young branches. When some-one takes medicines or food for the sake of his health, his ultimate value is health and not benefit. The concepts of taking advantage, success, earning, producing, benefit, profit, or usefulness can be ascribed, when taken in their rigorous and strict meaning, only to the means adopted to achieve ends.

Moreover, usefulness may be in plain opposition to other values, such as Epimethean pleasure or Zeusian moral duty. Thus, doing something out of pleasure is not necessarily beneficial, nor is fulfilling a moral duty said to be useful. To think in this way is to undermine the very means-ends distinction.

In general, according to this line of argumentation, an object may be valued in diverse ways: in an Epimethean, Zeusian, or Promethean way. Certain food may be regarded as the source of pleasure or as a means for achieving health, and these are very different attitudes. The very need for choice between pleasure, benefit, and moral duty is the proof that it is impossible to reduce all values to one. If this were the case, the very idea of choice and decisions implying sacrifice would remain meaningless. As

216 Chapter 10 \ we wilt sec later, what is meaningless from this standpoint is mean ingful for Socrates, and fonns the basis for hi s theory of measurement.

No tes

I. Taylor tells, about this, that Plato is confused. It seems that this is an expression of Taylor's disagreement with Plato. The parts of gold have the same magnitude. However, what is relevant for Plato is their quantity, which is the main point in gold in its capacity as a coin. What is relevant for Taylor, there­fore, is not relevant for Plato. See Christopher C. W. Taylor,Plato: Proragoras (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1976), \08.

2. Lei me nOle that by answering in the positive, Protagoras rejects the so-phistic idea of justice maintained, for in stance, by Trasymachus. Protagoras is not a value-relativist.

3. George Grote, PJato and the Other Companions ofSokrates, volume 11 (Bristol, England: Thoemmes Press, 1992), 51.

4. See also Paul Friedlander, PlolO f1: The Dialogues, First Period (New York: Pantheon Books, 1964). 19.

5. Ballard has the same attitude, though more moderate. For him, Plato is not consistent as a result, not of his own misunderstanding, but out of Plato's indecision to regard ideas as causes or standards of instances. See Edward G. Ballard, Socratic Ignorance: An Essay on Platonic Self-Knowledge (The Hague, Netherlands: MaJ1inus Nijhoff, 1965), 43.

6. George Klosko, "Toward a Consis tent Interpretation of the Pro-tagoras," in Socrates, Critical Assessments, vol. II, William J. Prior, ed ., " Issues Arising from the Trial of Socrates" (London: Routledge, 1996),245 ff.

7. 11 is Aristotle and not Plato who distinguishes between contrary and contradictory. See Aristotle, De Interp. 19a23-19a39, 22a38-22b9; An. Prio. 24a 16-24b 16, 36bJ5-37a8; Topics IOSa34-1 OSb 18; Phys. 224b 11-224b3S, 22Sa 1-225all, 227a7-226b33 , 237a28-237b9, 241 a26-24I b II; Mel. 10 II b 13-1011b22, 1018a20-1O[8a24, I067bl-I067bI4, 1067bIS-1068a7, 1068b26-1069a17.

8. Gregory Vlastos, PJafonic Studies (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1973),349.

9. Klosko, "Toward a Consistent Interpretation." 241. 10. Malcolm also believes that there is here a relationship between a uni­

versal and an instance of it, but tries to explain it not by turning to other, more easily interpretable dialogues, but asserting that "justice is just" is a case of "sel f-exemplification, a situation where the universal nature is to be regarded as an instance of itself," John Malcolm, Plaro on the Self-Predicalion of Forms (New York: Clarendon/Oxford Press, 1991), 10. See also Richard D. McKirahan Jr., "Socrates and Protagoras on Holiness and Justice," Phoenix 39 (1985): 342· 54.

I I. I agree with Gomperz, that Plato has this kind of arguing in mind. Gomperz indeed asserts: "Protagoras does not say No, lest he should be obliged

The UllilY of Virllles 217

to say it is [= justice} unjust" (Gomperz, GT. 11,31 3). 12. In order to understand fully Plato's logic, we may also keep in mind

Guthrie's argument that Plato tends to the reification of concepts (see Guthrie, HGP. IV, 225) . . ".,,' ... , .. ~

\3, OVI( o.po. €crT~V Ocr~O T T')') 0~01l 8~1(0.~ov HVo.~ 1'Tpo.y .... o.., ., , .. " .... ," ."1'

?v8~ 8~1(c:t ... ~ocrvV,T') ,o~ov ocr~'il-v"O')..).. o,;ov .... !:'l ~r~~v' T') s Ocr~OTT')') o~ov f-l'l S~I(c:t~ov, 0.)..).. aS ~I(OV c:tpo., TO 8[ avocnolJ.

\4. About this issue, see David Gallop, " Justice and Holiness in Proragoras 330-331," Phronesis 6 (1961): 86-93, David Savan, "Self Predication in Pro­/agoras 330-331," Phronesis 9 (1964): 130-35, See also John P. Sullivan, "The Hedonism in Plato's Pro/agoras," Phronesis 6 (1961): 15.

IS. See Michael O'Brien, The Socralic Paradoxes and the Greek Mind (Chapel Hill: University ofNonh Carolina, 1967), 132.

16, See Christopher C. W. Taylor, who assens that Plato confounds be­tween contrary and contradictory when he asserts that justice and injustice are contradictory, while they are merely contraries (see Plalo: Pro/agoras, Iliff). See also Gallop, " Justice and Holiness in Pro/agoras 330-331," 91 -2; Gomperz, GT 11.313-4; Paul Friedlll.nder, Pla/o II. 19.

17. Lloyd is an exception: see Geoffrey Emest Richard Lloyd, Polarity and Analogy: Two Types of Argumentation ill £arly Greek Thought (Bristol: Bristol Classical Press, 1992), 128-30.

18 . Guthrie, HGP, IV, 224. 19. Guthrie, HGP, IV, 224. 20. Guthrie, HGP, IV, 225. 21. Guthrie, HGP, IV, 226. 22. Guthrie, HGP, IV, 226. 23. I cannot, at the same time, interpret Plato's logic and engage in a dis­

cussion with him. To debate Plato and to try to understand him are, to use the tems under discussion among interpreters, contradictory attitudes. Arguing or discussing matters Willi the object of analysis is a confusion between reflective levels. Of course, two theories or argumentS can debate each other over a com­mon object of analysis. However, when a theory becomes itself the object of analysis, it cannot be debated, only understood. To argue against it means to reject it. Such a rejection does not imply understanding because our rejection is based on presuppositions that are not, ex-hipothesi, the presuppositions of what is being rejected. For this reason, Taylor's rejection of Socrates' logic (which he calls erroneous) is a case of giving the cold shou lder to the very object that one purports to analyze. This attitude, probably, comes out ofa widespread habit in philosophy of disregarding the difference between understanding and debating. That is, the habit of debating the object of analysis. But here, it is noteworthy that the rejection is based on the presuppositions of the critic, and not the pre­suppositions of the object of criticism. In other words, the subject is illuminated, rather than the object. I leam something about the interpreter, but that's it. To assert that Plato gets things wrong does not help me understand Plato at all. This style of interpretation also tends to lead to dogmatism. Indeed. let me assume I have a theory about Plato and. when going to the text 10 lind evidences for my

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theory, I discover, to my astonishment, that the text fits my theory. In this case, it will be said that my theory is right. But now, let me imagine another case, the case in which I have a theory about Plato and, when going to the text, it does not fit with my theory. I do not find what I expect to find. Faced with this uneasy situation, I decide to turn to the tactic of asserting that Plato, not me, is wrong about the issue in question. What does this mean? Whether the textual evidence support my theory or not, I will always be right. One can scarcely find a better definition for dogmatism than this. Thus the category of error, that is, the tactic, ascribing error to the object, is a perfect cover for dogmatic thinking. This does not imply that we must do the opposite and attempt to justify what we are ana-lyzing. I am not suggesting that theory must adopt for itself the same presuppo-sitions of its object. In interpretation, the question is the attempt to reveal the presuppositions of the object of analysis. In our case, the question is to examine the presuppositions of Plato’s implicit logic. We must ask what prevents him from grasping what we, as interpreters, have no trouble grasping, namely, the difference between contrary and contradictory statements.

24. At this point, we can ask yet another question about Plato’s logic: do negative values exist? Or are there only values and their respective absences? The question is whether the opposite of justice is injustice, in the sense that we can speak about positively unjust actions. As I will try to show, the answer is, there is no such thing as positive injustice. There is, for Plato, only justice and its absence, what people usually call “injustice.” In fact, there is only ignorance of justice. When people use the term “injustice,” they are mistakenly reifying the absence of the knowledge of justice.

25. On Plato’s intellectualism, see Patrick Coby, Socrates and the Sophistic Enlightenment: A Commentary on Plato’s Protagoras (London and Toronto: Associated University Presses, 1987), 141; Norman Gulley, Plato’s Theory of Knowledge (Bristol, England: Methuen, 1962), 3; Norman Gulley, The Philoso-phy of Socrates (New York: Macmillan, 1968), 161.

26. Scholasticism has developed this logic on the basis of the Aristotelian logic, as follows:

Square of Opposition:

About Contradictory’s opposition: If A is true, O is false If A is false, O is true If E is true, I is false If E is false, I is true About contrary’s opposition: If A is true, E is false If A is false, E may be false If E is true, A is false If E is false, A may be false

However, this is neither the logic of Plato nor of Socrates. I only recall it as background for the discussion.

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27. See also Schiappa, who asserts that “Both Plato and Aristotle argue from an either/or logic, whereas Protagoras used a both/and logic,” Edward Schiappa, Protagoras and Logos: A Study in Greek Philosophy and Rhetoric (Columbia:: University of South Carolina Press, 1991), 192ff.

28. See Euth. 286b-c. See Cratylus 429c-d. Protagoras acceptance of con-tradiction has evidence also in the fragment of Didymus the Blind in Die Sophistik, Carl Joachim Classen, ed., (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchge-sellschaft [Wege der Forschung vol. 187], 1976), 452-62.

29. See Aristotle Met. 1062. 30. Kerferd accepts Plato’s assumptions uncritically, though in a very lucid

analysis takes it to its extreme consequences. See Kerferd, The Sophistic Move-ment, 88-92.

31. Against Protagoras see Aristotle Met. 1007b18, 1009a6, 1024b32; Top. 104b21.

32. We can here appreciate again, by the way, the substantiative process typical of Plato, namely, the transformation of a property into a substance and the predication of a property of it so that it becomes again a property though remaining a substance.

33. Rutherford asserts that it remains ambiguous if Protagoras accepts or rejects the popular opinion. I think that this is because his own view is, in any case, closer than Plato’s view to the popular opinion. See Richard B. Rutherford, The Art of Plato: Ten Essays in Platonic Interpretation (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1996), 137.

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The Humorous Interlude—The Discussion about the Method of Discussion

At this point in the dialogue, Socrates believes that Protagoras has lost his patience. This may be true, but the opposite is also true; Socrates has lost his patience with Protagoras. In any case, the mutual exasperation should not surprise us; it is perhaps inevitable, given the wide disparity between the guiding assumptions of the two philosophers. For this rea-son, they fall back upon a discussion about the method of discussion, one in which the audience becomes actively involved. Without this analysis, the dialogue could not continue. The possibility of compromise seems more elusive than ever. Socrates’ thought advances dialogically, whereas Protagoras’ thought advances discursively.

Because of the incompatibility of their presuppositions, Socrates and Protagoras find themselves driven into a cul-de-sac. Socrates grasps this first. In a reflective turn, he orients the discussion toward its very form, so that the issue under discussion is the discussion itself—its rules and its presuppositions. He expresses his disapproval of Protagoras’ discursive method with characteristically acerbic irony: “now that you are faced by a man with a poor memory, please cut your answers down and make them short enough for me to follow” (Prt. 334d).1

Protagoras’ reply to his demand turns to his famous epistemic rela-tivism analyzed in extenso in the Theaetetus: “What do you mean, ‘make my answers short’? Am I to make them shorter than is necessary? . . . Am I . . . to make my answers as short as I think necessary, or as short as you think necessary?” (Prt. 334d-e).

We have two issues to analyze here: the question of the method of discussion, and the question of the criteria.

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The Method

Regarding the method of discussion, we have said already that the philosophy of Socrates goes better when he can elicit short yes-or-no re-sponses. This is the dialogic method, though in a narrow sense. The phi-losophy of Protagoras goes better when there is place for “both-yes-and-no” and “neither-yes-or-no.” Such responses require more elaboration, and generally go hand in hand with the discursive conversational, collo-quial way of thinking.2

Because Protagoras rejects the binary yes-or-no logic, he must de-scribe his positions discursively. The length of the discourse depends on the topic. It must be long enough to treat the matter properly but so long as to discourage response. Such are the discourses of Protagoras. He gives full answers, but he never filibusters or attempts to monopolize the discussion.

Like Protagoras, Plato has no wish to suppress disagreement or domi-nate the conversation. However, Plato believes that one can only under-stand matters by formulating a series of questions that can be answered, one after the other, with a clear, unambiguous “yes” or “no.” Such a method actively discourages descriptive explanations. For Plato, an issue has no “aspects,” because, in his mind, every aspect ineluctably becomes the total thing, just as any part of a piece of gold is both contiguous and identical to the whole piece. Plato moves toward the absolutization of aspects and points of view. Protagoras draws distinctions between as-pects and standpoints, not to mention their contexts, all of which requires longer, not shorter, answers. If Plato tends toward simplification, Pro-tagoras tends toward amplification.

The difference between the methods lies in their different attitudes toward human language. Human language has two aspects: a process of thinking and the elemental structure of thinking, which are in opposition each to the other: Our thinking develops in the form of sentences, which are the elementary units of thought. A sentence is the affirmation and the negation of a predicate from a subject; it cannot be something more than positive or negative, nor can it be something less. Thus, the dialogic method of Socrates is a generalization based on the character of the ele-mentary units of thought.

On the other hand, a proliferation of linked sentences creates a conti-nuity of evolving meaning. The subject goes through a series of predica-tions that alter its nature, so that at the end of this sentence-by-sentence process, the subject is no longer identical to what it was in the first sen-tence.

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Thus, the subject of a series of judgments has an accumulative char-acter. We can see this only at the end of the process, and not in any sin-gle elementary unit. The discursive method of Protagoras is a generali-zation based on the character of accumulative predication. This process creates an understanding that cannot be summarized in the yes-or-no scheme, but rather in something like yes-and-no-and-no-or-yes, or even neither-yes-nor-no.

The Criteria

Regarding the question of the criteria for conducting the discussion, Protagoras suggests, by means of a question, an idea that shows that Protagoras was fully aware of the consequences of his alleged relativism. He asks if he has “to make [his] answers as short as [he] think[s] neces-sary, or as short as [Plato] think[s] necessary?” (Prt. 334d). We need, then, to take his self-awareness in account in our attempt to interpret his relativism. In this regard, let me quote him again: “I have debated against many men in my time, and if I had argued by the rules of debate laid down by my opponent, as you demand, I should have proved no better than the next man, and the name of Protagoras would not be celebrated throughout Greece” (Prt. 335a).

We might well ask if Protagoras’ boast that he is famous throughout Greece (that is to say, the civilized world) can really be attributed to him, whether Plato put these words into his mouth to make him appear pom-pous and vain. Be that as it may, if we disregard the tone and look only at the content of the quotation, we can see that Protagoras is not the kind of radical relativist who rejects the very idea of standards in discussion (or anything else). As an educator, he has his own standards that he will not give up so easily.

From the defense of his own standard, we can learn something about Protagoras’ “relativism.” In fact, he is a moderate relativist: On the knowledge of facts and values, each one has his own standard since each one judges out of his own character and dispositions. All we can do is to acknowledge this fact. The question is different, however, regarding moral attitudes. In this field, there are general standards. Morality, that is, Zeus, is the real standard of measure in the field of values. In the first case, Protagoras is a moderate relativist since though he accepts that each one is the standard, he does not take a stand for or against this fact. He only recognizes this fact. In the second case, he is not relativist at all, since he clearly has a standard.

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Socrates, who relativizes the man-measure to an extremity that Pro-tagoras could not accept, expresses his disagreement with Protagoras’ criterion by claiming that there is no criterion at all for the discussion, and so he might as well go home.3

Extending the man-measure criterion to the rules of discussion, Soc-rates believes that, since Protagoras is able to speak either at length or briefly, he can speak briefly for Socrates’ sake. Socrates makes it appear that this question of discussion is nothing but formal matter. However, for Protagoras the question is not a matter of form but of content. He demands to be able to use the form of discourse that is appropriate, not only to the content under analysis, but to the circumstances of the discus-sion.

Socrates turns to leave, but the host Callias does not allow him to have his own way. At this point, members of the audience intervene to propose various criteria for allowing the discussion to continue. All of these criteria are, of course, at odds with each other. We can regard this general tumble of opinions as Plato’s sly satire of Protagoras’ homo men-sura. Indeed, subjectivism runs out of control here. In what follows, each participant forgets his respect for others and uses his moment of public attention to offer his own philosophy.

The first in asking for the continuation of the dialogue is Callias, an Epimethean character famous for being a bon vivant. His argument in favor of the continuation is based on the value of pleasure, not for the sake of finding the truth, nor for moral reasons, nor for achieving some profit.

Socrates rejects the Epimethean attitude. It does not achieve anything. He claims that his criterion supports friendly dialogue and discussion, whereas Protagoras’ criterion is better suited for public oration. It seems that the social circumstances of the dialogue are ambiguous. Socrates implies that Protagoras is turning a little soirée among friends into some kind of public event; in fact, the scene at Callias’ house partakes of both private and public qualities, as any soirée does. Of course, it is a bit nasty of Socrates to throw this accusation. More to the point, it seems to me that Socrates is using both a Zeusian argument (“the fast runner should slow down for the slower runner”) and an Epimethean argument (“I thought this was a friendly chat!”) against what he claims is Protagoras’ Promethean desire to win the debate. Of course, these arguments are motivated by Socrates’ own Promethean desire to win (and if he cannot win, he will go home!).

Callias is clearly in favor of Protagoras, his guest. When he realizes that his Epimethean argument has failed, he turns to a Protagorean argu-

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ment. He suggests in the name of justice, that each one must be allowed to speak according to his own criterion.

Alcibiades on the contrary, contradicts himself as befits a real lover. He is in favor of Socrates, his beloved. If freedom of speech is respected, there is no place for a dialogue. Someone must concede and it is just to demand this concession from Protagoras. Alcibiades believes that it all depends of prestige and status. He believes it is enough for Socrates if Protagoras recognizes Socrates’ superiority in dialogue, as long as Soc-rates recognizes Protagoras’ superiority in discourses. Note that his con-clusion, that Socrates’ stand is fairer than Protagoras’, is not a logical deduction from his argument.

Moreover, Alcibiades’ argument implies an unavoidable contradic-tion. Indeed, he asserts that the trouble with long discourses is that they are hard to follow. But this declaration implies the recognition of Socra-tes’ inferiority, namely, his defective memory. So to be loyal to his lover, he says that Socrates was only joking “about having a poor memory” (Prt. 336d). In other words, Socrates is actually speaking for those who are genuinely unable to follow the arguments in a long discourse. Thus, to avoid contradiction, Alcibiades attributes the weakness of memory alleged by Socrates himself to others. Immediately afterward, he needs to avoid another contradiction. His love for Socrates moves him to assert that Socrates’ stance is really the fair one; however, since such a decla-ration deprives, as happens with love in general, the other party of his right to participate in the discussion, Alcibiades is obliged to concede, though formally and not really, and assert, without consistency, that “everyone must express his own point of view” (Prt. 336d), adding an-other contradiction to the first. No wonder, therefore, about the contra-dictions in the discourse of a lover, since it is of the essence of love to contradict itself.

Critias speaks immediately after. He obliges his audience to become aware of Callias’ prejudice in favor of Protagoras and Alcibiades’ parti-ality in favor of Socrates. He makes a general call for impartiality. How-ever, this is not a way to solve the problem, since impartiality runs now against the very possibility of an argument. With Callias’ proposal, it is only Socrates who cannot continue, and with Alcibiades proposal, Pro-tagoras must surrender. In the interest of impartiality, however, neither one nor the other can continue!

Then, as an answer to Critias’ call for impartiality comes Prodicus’ proposal. As we have seen, if impartiality blocks further discussion, then there is a need to attenuate it. Until now, if you are for Protagoras, you are against Socrates, if you are for Socrates you are against Protagoras, and if you are impartial, namely, against any criterion, you are against

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both. Now the question is how to keep an antagonistic discussion going, in which its continuation requires the contradiction of renouncing each one to his criteria, and its keeping.

The perfect person for this task is Prodicus. In a reflective turn, he says that the real problem is a problem of language. Prodicus specializes in synonyms, or rather, in demonstrating the difference in meaning be-tween synonyms, which means showing that synonyms are not what they seem to be but may even have contradictory meanings. It indeed requires a great deal of skill and knowledge to make such distinctions. We the readers cannot learn anything about Prodicus’ philosophy precisely be-cause Plato’s humorous presentation is so enjoyable. Here, anyway, Prodicus decides to defend Critias’ position but attenuates it in order to enable the dialogue to proceed. He seeks the minimal necessary agree-ment for the dispute by means of making fine distinctions between words. He asks that both sides be heard impartially but not equally. He calls for “more to the wiser and less to the more ignorant” (Prt. 337a). He calls for argument rather than debate, the difference being that the first is “conducted among friends” and the second among adversaries. He calls for winning respect but not praise. He calls to the audience as well, to experience intellectual delight but not physical pleasure.

Humor aside, Prodicus helps us to understand Protagoras better. Pro-tagoras referred to certain proximity between the cold and the warm, the hard and the soft, in short, between opposites. If Protagoras points out the similarities that exist between opposites, Prodicus refers to opposition that exists between similar things.

The need for a mediator arises just because of this opposition between similar things. It is Hippias’ function to propose a third part. There is a need to restrain each one of the participants against their natural tenden-cies, something that must come from without. This is nothing but the es-sence of nomos against phusis. Asking for mutual concessions, Prodicus asserts that Protagoras must try shortening his long discourses and Soc-rates must try to repress his demand for brevity in argumentation. This task, however, requires the point of view of a third, extrinsic party, that is, requires a moderator.

These various points of view illustrate all the stages of a successful search for a criterion: the first step is one-sidedness (Callias and Alcibia-des), the next is impartiality (Critias), then moderate impartiality (Prodicus), and finally the need for arbitration (Hippias).

Here we have an opportunity to see the inner-conflict of democracy, the conflict that raises the need for a criterion: the conflict between per-suasion and arbitration. Persuasion is the opposite of arbitration, and ar-

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bitration remains devoid of meaning without some attempt to convince, to take a stand.

The inner-logic of this conflict in the impasse runs as follows: one-sidedness, as the beginning of the persuasive attempt (Callias) has an ab-stract character since it does not take into account its opposite, which is a way of annulling itself as a side in a two-sided context. The first response to one-sidedness is the awareness of the other side’s legitimacy (Alcibia-des), that is to say, swinging all the way in the other direction and so facing the same problem the same way, but from the other side. In es-sence, a circular motion. The circle is broken when each side becomes aware of the existence of the other (Prodicus). Each side attempts to in-clude in itself the other. Thus, the extrinsic opposition of sides is trans-formed into an inner opposition. Instead of being the parts against each other, they become part of each other. The subjectivity of each side in-cludes now the objectivity of the other, and so becomes less subjective in the process. Prodicus’ delicate handling of the differences in words suc-ceeds in overcoming the differences that block agreement.

At this stage, though the two sides have become closer each to the other by means of mutual introjection (which implies a blurring of dif-ferences between the parts), neither is ready to concede. Hippias points out the need for a third, independent part as a guarantee that, notwith-standing, the differences between the parts will be maintained. Indeed, if a total agreement were achieved, the discussion would come to an end; a pleasant end, perhaps, but an end nonetheless. Only by turning to a third, neutral factor can the proper degree of difference be maintained—enough to keep discussion going between the extremes of complete agreement and complete alienation.

Socrates then raises a new problem concerning arbitration. Not sur-prisingly, his opinion of arbitration is consistent with his attitude throughout the whole dialogue: between yes-and-no, between affirmation and negation, there is no room for a third term. His rejection of the mod-erator is rooted in his extreme cognitivist anti-formalism. Indeed, to rec-ognize the role of the moderator means to admit that knowledge is not merely known content, but also the form of that content, a form that is neither true nor false. The presence of a moderator “officially” confirms that the discussion itself must be reckoned as an extra-epistemic factor in the search for truth.

The question is, for Plato, the relationship between the moderator and the content under discussion. A moderator, if there is a place for one, may be someone who has nothing to do with the formalities of the dis-cussion, and everything to do with the content under discussion. If the moderator knows less about the content than the debaters do, he cannot

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moderate. If he knows more, then a fortiori, he should not be moderating but leading the discussion. Plato does not present his argument, however, in this way. He refers to merit or reputation rather than possession of knowledge. Thus, he states that, if a moderator has more or less reputa-tion, if he is either superior or inferior, he cannot moderate. However, “reputation,” “merit,” “inferiority,” and so on may be, for Plato, only a matter of more or less knowledge, of knowledge or ignorance, so that we can perfectly substitute these word by “knowledge.”

For the sophists, on the contrary, a debate means a kind of contest. It is not simply the means for arriving at epistemic results or a way of dis-covering truth, as it is for Plato. The sophists regard debate as a demo-cratic principle and as an arena for the exercise of human capacities.

As an alternative to arbitration, Socrates proposes the only thing he can suggest, that is, to reduce the discussion to a dialogue that will allow for affirmative or negative answers. Thus, Socrates proposes a change of roles—Protagoras will be the inquirer, and Socrates will reply. This is the best concession that Socrates can offer, given his philosophical as-sumptions.

Protagoras is unwilling to accept this proposal, since for him, asking Socrates questions would mean admitting ignorance. This point becomes clear, I think, out of his decision not to ask real questions, I mean, ques-tions about which the questioner has not an answer. Protagoras asks, in-stead, questions about matters on which he has, beforehand, an answer. In other words, the Protagorean questioning is not authentic. In this he differs from Socrates, who asks questions about what he does not know, unless when he becomes ironic, or as a means to arrive to clear ques-tions.

Notes

1. See Lach. 189c: “I am old, and my memory is bad.” Meno 71c: “I have

not a good memory, Meno and therefore I cannot now tell what I thought of him at the time.”

2. See Tht. 167e, where Protagoras distinguishes between dialectics and controversy, or between discourse and dialogue.

3. Interesting enough, that this is Plato’s reply, and not the reflective ques-tion whether the homo mensura criterion is applicable also to itself, that would make the argument fail. But this would be a reflective question that assumes the place for a form of thought, whereas Plato thinks only on the content.

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The Critique of Simonides’ Poem

Protagoras returns to the main issue of the dialogue, whether or not vir-tue is a question of education (paidéias) though under the guise of a dis-cussion about the ability to discuss and interpret poetry. We must re-member, then, that the following verses of Simonides are not, at a deep-est level, the subject matter under discussion, but rather, what these verses can do to the soul of those who read them. Protagoras will try to demonstrate, again, that virtue is a matter of education, and not of in-struction.

Socrates, however, will misunderstand him and insist that Protagoras refers to instruction. We have already seen that Socrates believes that all education is actually but instruction. Therefore, what is for Protagoras a mere heuristic device (the poem) is for Socrates the very issue under analysis. In the discussion, therefore, Socrates will refer always to the content of the verses, while Protagoras refers to their form.1

The distinction between Socrates the anti-formalist and Protagoras the formalist may be defined as a distinction, in general, between philosophy and interpretation. For Plato philosophy is not interpretation. For Plato, interpretation is a kind of second hand thinking. Because Plato only looks at the content, and not at the form, he regards interpretation as thinking about what someone else has already thought.

For Protagoras, philosophy means thinking about thinking, namely, interpretation. It is typical of formalism to put interpretation before phi-losophy. Plato the anti-formalist seeks for the truth, which is really a very different thing.

However, the kind of interpretation proposed by Socrates, as we will see later, expresses both his profound understanding of Protagoras’ atti-tude toward poems and his profound disagreement at once. He indeed re-members Protagoras’ words about the purpose of poets, Simonides in-

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eluded: they tried to hide their being sophists. Now ironically, Socrates wil l try to show that they tried \0 hide their being philosophers like him, the interpreter himself. From this point of view, the thesis of Protagoras, that Simonides contradicts himself, is less consistent with Protagoras ' own approach than the interpretative thesis exposed by Socrates.

Let me turn to the poem, of which only this fragment has come down to us. Once Protagoras has read the verses of Simonides, Soc rates says that he has already learned them (in the sense of knowl­edge-(episrhemai. Prr. 339b). From the very beginning, then, Soc rates is oriented to the question of knowledge, and not to the questi on of dis­cussi ng poetry.

Protagoras, from his standpoint, attempts to show that there is a con­tradiction between rwo verses in the poem, so that for him, to interpret a poem means, d irectly, to take a stand fo r or against it. The first quoted verse of Simoni des, directed to Scopas son ofCreo of ThessaJy. says:

0" lhe olher hand, fO become (y €1J ~ G' e (1 c) a good man in IrUIh, is difficull (X (1 >.. ( ". o"v}-a man ill mind and frame ajlffii1less minfingjollrsquare slruck (Prt. 339b).

The second verse says:

Yet Pillacus familiar words. I find. do IIOt

ring (rue. though Ihex. comefrom a wise mq~l; II is hard (X (1 >.. (no v), he said, /0 be «( f.I. to' (V (1 c) noble (PI'/. 339c).

Protagoras tries to show that the verses contradict each othe r and that, therefore, the poem contains an error; such an anitude is the result, or the expression, of Protagoras ' taking a stand. While Protagoras tries, thus, to criticize Simonides, Socrates will try to understand it without criticizing Simonides' intention or the content of the poem.

Here is the con tradiction: at one point Simonides says that it is hard to be virtuous but later be censures Pit1acus for saying exactly th e same thing, so that, adds Protagoras, when Simonides "critic izes the man who says the same as he does, he evidently cri ti cizes himself, so that ei ther his first or his second statement is not sound."

Here we encounter, apparently, another contradi ction, one th at con­cerns his own philosophy. Indeed , if he believes that every opinion has, so to speak, the right to be truthful , hi s critic ism of another's point of view contradicts this very belief. A consistent relativism would reject contradiction as a criterion for wrong-thinking. What is clear then, in Protagoras' claim against Simonides, is that Protagoras in fact does not

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support a consisterll or radical relativism. What does he suppOrt? We wi ll pu t this question aside for the moment.

Meanwhile, let us look more closely at the issue of the poem. What is under discussion here? Wby is it so important for Protagoras to reveal a contradiction in Simonides' poem?

Protagoras refers to this analysis as a continuation of the fonner dis­cussion about virtue. If this is the case, we must realize that when Pro­tagoras refers to a "discussion about virtue," he means a discussion about a discussioll about virtue , not a discussion about virtue itself. He looks at the form, at the souls of those who read the poem, while Plato looks at the content of the poem, which means he looks at vir1ue itself.

This Protagorean tendency, though taken 10 extremes, has acquired certain relevance in some philosophical schools and literary criticisms in our days. C ritics tend to discuss critiques of texts that are already cri­tiques of other texts, so that the essence is lost, just like the missing Ar­istotelian text in Umberto Eco' s The Name oflhe Rose. Not the rose, but its name; not its content but its form. But, since fonn is neithe r t rue nor false , the issue does not concern truth or lack of truth, but rather, the dis­cussion itself.

Protagoras indeed reveals the contradictions in Simonides ' poem in­stead of pursuing his analysis of virtue. This is for him the only ques­tion-the revelation of Simonides' contradictions. If th is were not the case, the very turn 10 the interpretation of the poem of an author for whom virtue-questions are unclear- would remain unexplained . How­ever, why does Protagoras refer to those who get matters wrong? Why does he not bring forth his own thoughts, or at least the thoughts of those whom he approves of? This much we can say with certainty: Protagoras and Pl ato have completely dilTerent ideas about what the issue under d is­cussion is. Protagoras is almost unable to understand Socrates' demand to discuss, plainly and simply, what virtue is.

Socrates, on the other hand, who is perhaps more conscious than Protagoras, cannot accept discussions about discussions . However, his midwife's method prevents him from jumping allover the opinio ns of his partners. His method is to use dialogue to guide the partner from dis­agreement to agreement, namely, to:l monologue. The monologue is the end of the Soc ratic dialogue. It is possible only ifhe succeeds in leading the partner, the other logos. to become aware of his fa ults. He is to be led to the extreme limit of his own logoi. For this reason , Socrates has no other choice than to accept being conducted, though as a chameleon, by his partner, and to engage in d iscussion on Protagoras' own terrain. Here Soc rates will show him the inner contradiction implied in the kind of

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textual analysis that Protagoras uses as a substitute (or so Plato feels) for direct analysis of truth itself.

Paradoxically, in the frame of his discussion about discussion, Pro-tagoras wants to reveal the contradiction in Simonides, and Socrates, in the frame of his discussion of the poem itself, wants to reveal the contra-diction implied in Protagoras’ discussion of Simonides’ contradiction, while showing, at the same time, how much more competent and skilled he is in this type of intellectual competition.

If the interpretative method of Protagoras is based in what appears in the text, namely, in appearances, Socrates bases his method in what his logos dictates as true. Socrates’ logic runs as follows: Since the error as-cribed to the object of thought is mere ignorance,2 Socrates cannot accept that the object of our analysis is wrong. When two debaters discuss an issue, one of them may err, but the object under discussion cannot err; it is what is. For this reason, Socrates will attempt to defend the author of the poem against the accusation of contradiction. This is not the result of an application of the principle of charity, but rather an attempt to bring things to extremes in order to show, ultimately, that texts are incapable of providing knowledge to their readers.3

In order to accomplish this task, Socrates will resort to sophist trick-ery (for that is how he understands sophist rhetoric: as trickery). He pro-ceeds with what Eco would call an “overinterpretation” of the poem.4 He turns, as we will immediately see, to the help of Prodicus. In this specific case, Socrates needs, for the sake of his argument, to interpret similarities as differences. Knowing Prodicus’ philosophical prejudices, he knows that Prodicus will help him make distinctions and overlook similarities, even if such interpretations appear to be forced in extreme. The line of defense of the poem adopted by Socrates will rest on the purported dif-ference between genesthai (to come to be, to have become, or to become) and emmenai (be, or to be), two terms roughly translatable as “to be.” Prodicus, faithful to his own philosophy, will never assert that similar things are similar but will be obliged to concede that they are different, even opposed. Prodicus will therefore be of great help.5 Socrates does not say this, however. He remarks that he merely turned to Prodicus in order to gain time to think. If that is true, then it was a terrific piece of luck for Socrates to turn to the very person most likely, among all those present, to advance his argument.

Socrates asks Prodicus if “to become” (genesthai) and “to be” (einai) are the same (Prt. 340b). Obviously, Prodicus will say that they are dif-ferent. These distinctions granted, Socrates can then claim that Pittacus’ apothegm asserts that it is hard to be virtuous, not to become virtuous. Simonides, on the other hand, asserts that it is hard to become virtuous,

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not to be virtuous. These are two different matters (like the difference between climbing a mountain and resting at its summit). Thus, Simon-ides is not contradicting himself when he criticizes Pittacus.

Socrates, following his typical logic, namely, that there is only one opposite to each opposite, deduces that Pittacus says that it is hard to be virtuous and easy to become virtuous, whereas Simonides asserts that it is easy to be virtuous and hard to become virtuous (so as it is hard to climb a mountain but easy to stay at its height).

Protagoras replies that Socrates himself errs when he ascribes to Si-monides the opinion that it is easy to be virtuous, for anyone knows that it is the hardest thing. That is to say, according to Protagoras, either Si-monides thinks that to be and to become are one and the same, and there-fore he contradicts himself, or he thinks that they are different, in which case he asserts something unacceptable, namely, that it is easy to be vir-tuous.

Socrates, to justify his attempt to save Simonides from contradiction, says, jokingly and with the help of Prodicus, that for Simonides the word “hard” means “bad,” so that Pittacus is saying that it is bad to be virtu-ous, this being the idea that Simonides uses to censor Pittacus.

However, if Simonides uses the same word for “hard” in the first verse, Protagoras would say, he is contending that it is bad to become virtuous. This argument does not appear in the dialogue. Before Pro-tagoras can take it up, Socrates says that Prodicus “is joking and wants to see if you are capable of rescuing your own argument.”

We see, then, that what Socrates explained until now with the help of Prodicus is not his own interpretation. Indeed, what is under discussion is Protagoras’ thesis, namely, whether Simonides contradicts himself. Soc-rates does not really care about this issue at all. He only wants to prove the opposite of whatever Protagoras asserts. He wants to prove that any-thing can be demonstrated in the interpretation of poetry, which is the same as proving that there is no epistemic value in interpreting poems.

Socrates’ Interpretation of the Poem

We can regard Socrates’ interpretation of the poem of Simonides as a preface for his theory of measurement. Let us look now at the meaning of his interpretation. What he is going to do is not an interpretation. He is going to use the text for the sake of demonstrating that all this effort is futile.

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First, it is worth remarking that Socrates offers a discourse instead of leading a dialogue—he does the very thing he condemned in Protagoras for doing earlier. This proves that the discourse and the position it adum-brates are not genuinely Socratic, but rather a kind of satire—a demon-stration of the vanity of discursive exposition.

This is a typical tactic of Plato’s: to imitate his opponent in an exag-gerated fashion in order to dramatize the flaws in his opponent’s method.

Socrates starts by offering a grotesque description of the background of the poem. Cretans and Lacedaemonians (Spartans), he says, are the greatest cultivators of science in all of Greece. There we find the most sophists on earth. However, they deny this and present themselves as ig-norant people (and we should remember that Protagoras said, earlier in the dialogue, that he was the only sophist ready to declare himself so in public). The Spartans present themselves as fighters rather than thinkers “in order to prevent people from finding out that their dominance in Greece is due to their wisdom . . . [T]hey prefer to give the impression that it is due to their military superiority and courage” (Prt. 342b). They have succeeded so well that many Greeks have taken to physical training in order to become like the Spartans, and go around “with bruised ears” (Prt. 342c).

Thus, the wisest pretend to be the most ignorant. In other Greek cities, admirers of Sparta bind their hands with thongs and wear short cloaks in the Spartan manner; they are unaware that they are emulating customs deliberately adopted to deceive them. Pro-Spartans, then, mimic imita-tors. What a description! Humor aside, it is impossible to refute it, be-cause it is based on the assumption that appearances hide the truth.

Socrates continues: Spartans, when “tired of discoursing with their sophists in secret and wish to do so openly, they put an expulsion order on all foreigners in the country,” and “forbid their young to travel abroad” and so assure that the secret of superiority will not leave Sparta.

Again, a contention impossible to refute. If someone were to assert that the Spartans are not really dedicated to philosophy, Socrates shows that the Spartan’s apparent mediocrity is actually proof of their superior-ity. Spartans, in their open, exoteric behavior, speak, indeed, on a medio-cre level. However, from time to time, they throw in a word or a phrase so brilliant that their listeners feel like helpless children.

However, some thinkers discovered that to be Spartan means to be dedicated to the intellectual ability to formulate brief, telling utterances. These imitators of Spartan culture include Thales, Pittacus of Mytilene, Bias of Priene, Solon, Cleobulus of Lindos, Myson of Chen, and, sev-enth, the Spartan Chilon. Pro-Spartans, then, devoted themselves to the philosophy of slogans and aphorisms. They were the ones who placed the

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famous inscriptions in the temple of Delphi as a gift to Apollo: “Know thyself” and “Nothing in excess” (Prt. 343b). Ancient philosophical style was, therefore, of “laconic” brevity.

Having turned essence into appearance, Socrates goes into an inter-pretation of the poem. One of those laconic apothegms is that of Pittacus: “it is hard to be virtuous.” Simonides, “anxious for a reputation for wis-dom, realized that if he attacked this saying and defeated it, then, just as if he had defeated a famous athlete, he would become famous in his own time” (Prt. 343b-c).6

Simonides, therefore, to put it in modern terms, wants to present a conference paper that will establish his own academic reputation at the expense of Pittacus’. This is the raison d’être of the poem.

Let me go to the text itself to see how Simonides does it according to Socrates.

The style of the first phrase (“to become a good man in truth, I admit, is hard”) is a proof that the phrase is a response to another one, to that of Pittacus. Simonides wrote indeed: “on the other hand” (me\n), which is totally unnecessary unless follows “on the one hand,” that is, unless it occurs in the frame of a discussion. Pittacus said, thus, that it is hard to be virtuous, and Simonides replies, as it were: “No it isn’t Pittacus: it’s becoming (genesthai) good that’s truly hard.”

This is the case regarding the “on the other hand” in the first line of the first verse. Now let us see what he asserts about the “in truth” in the same line. According to Socrates, “in truth” does not refer to “a good man,” for it would be nonsensical to assert that some men are truly good and others good, but not truly.

Thus, “in truth” is adverbial, not adjectival. It refers to what is hard to be, as if first Pittacus said: “O mortals, it is hard to be (emmenai) noble” (Prt. 343a). Then Simonides answers: “O Pittacus, that isn’t true. Not to be (einai) good, but to become (genesthai) good, in mind and frame a flawless minting foursquare struck—that is the hard thing in truth” (Prt. 344a). Thus, it becomes clear that the insertion of “on the other hand (me\n)” makes sense and the words “in truth” find their correct position at the end.

The rest of the poem only ratifies this interpretation. Simonides is saying that

whereas it is truly hard to become a good man but possible for a short while, yet according to you, Pittacus, having once reached that state, to remain in it and be (einai) a good man is impossible and superhuman since “A god alone could have that privilege,” . . . while a man can not escape being (emmenai) bad

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dragged down by helpless circumstance (Prt. 344c).

The whole following discussion is a disquisition about the difference between “to be” and “to become.” In a certain order of things, perhaps in any order, the following logic takes place:

• Whoever has not a value (namely, a positive value, a valuable value) may be able to have it. “Becoming virtuous is hard but possible.”

• Whoever has a value can also lose it. “It is possible for the virtuous to become unvirtuous.”

• Whoever has no value cannot be able not to have it since he already doesn’t have it. “For the bad man, not only is it impossible for him to be-come bad; of necessity he is already continuously bad.”

• Whoever has no value is able to remain in this state. The bad “al-ready is continuously bad.”

• Whoever has a value is unable to remain in this state. To be virtuous is impossible.

In summary, you can lose what you have, but you can’t lose what you don’t have. For this reason, a possession is never assured, whereas dis-possession is always assured.

Note that these values are divided into full positives and empty nega-tives. There are only positive values; there are no negative ones. This is not part of a value-neutral axiology suggested by Socrates, as it were, in the name of Simonides. In any case, this is Plato’s own theory, but smuggled in under the cloak of Simonides’ poem. He uses the poem for his own ends, thus defeating the plurality of criteria suggested by Pro-tagoras.

Let us continue with Socrates’ analysis. The ideal is to have a positive value. Thus, the question arises: how it is possible to pass from absence of value to a value, from evil to virtue, from non-being to being, from empty-handedness to possession? Until now, we only have a description. We do not yet have the means, namely, the mediation between the oppo-sites.

Knowledge provides us with the means by which we pass from not-having to having, from the lack of value to possession of value. Such is the case in “doing well at writing and reading” which is the result of “the knowledge of letters,” and so on in any order of things, as we have al-ready seen in our analysis of Socrates’ anti-formalism.7

As we have seen, whoever is bad can continue to be bad, though whoever is good may lapse from goodness. Besides, to be good or bad is a question of knowledge and ignorance. You are good due to your knowledge, and bad due to your ignorance. Goodness is science—badness is ignorance.

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Simonides has become another Socrates. To be a doctor, for instance, means to possess knowledge of healing

and sickness. If you do not have this knowledge, you are not a doctor. But then a further question arises: who is the bad doctor, the one who knows and yet does a bad job or the one who does a bad job because he is ignorant? As we have already seen, regarding lying, the bad is one who knows, or rather who lost his knowledge (not the one who never possessed it). To be a bad doctor, you first must be a doctor, a doctor who knows.

Here is hinted, then, a basic characteristic of Plato’s philosophy—his justification of evil, injustice, misrepresentation, and so forth, which is, as we have already seen, an issue analyzed in other dialogues. Let us take a glance at the following argument:

while the good man might become bad as a result of time or over-work or illness or some similar misfortune (for this is the only re-spect in which a man can do badly—by deprivation of knowledge) the bad man could never become bad, because he already was bad in the first place: if, then, he is to become bad, he will first have to become good (Prt. 344b).

The deprivation of a value means the deprivation of knowledge. This is a kernel point in Plato’s philosophy. Here, he introduces his theory: that virtue is knowledge.

Having entered into an analysis of Plato’s philosophy, we might do well to turn now to a seemingly unavoidable question: how would Plato interpret one who knows the good but does evil? Is he better or worse than one who does evil out of ignorance? If we can find an answer to these questions, then we have probably understood Plato accurately. These questions are not part of the text, but they arise, perhaps inevita-bly, from a critical reading of it.

In ancient Greece and today, the common opinion and belief is that some people know the good and yet do evil; these people are considered the most immoral, the lowest of the low. In ancient Greece and in our days, the legal system is based on anti-Platonic assumptions, that is, on the premise that whoever does evil intentionally deserves full punish-ment, and whoever does evil out of compulsion or madness is somehow less guilty of his crime.

The quoted paragraph contradicts this common sense. Moreover, Plato appears to hold two mutually exclusive opinions:

1. There cannot be someone that knowing the good does evil.

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2. Whoever lies, perpetrates injustice, and so on, intentionally, is bet-ter than whoever does it unwillingly.

In the first statement, Plato denies the phenomenon of intentional evil, and in the second statement, he admits it but claims that it is more ac-ceptable than unintentional evil.

The ambiguity of the text allows for these two answers. Indeed, he contends, in favor of the first reply, that “the only respect in which a man can do badly” is “by deprivation of knowledge” (Prt. 345c). In favor of the second response, he says that whoever will become bad “will first have to become good,” which means to know just about the thing about which he becomes bad.

In my opinion, there is no contradiction between these answers, be-cause to do evil willingly, as we have already seen in chapter 3, is not to do evil.

A further question may arise. Is the issue about facts or about values? Is the question related to “is” or to “ought”? Plato does not distinguish between these levels, but we can use the distinction in order to under-stand why he makes no distinction. Plato says: “no wise man thinks that any man willingly goes astray or willingly acts badly and disgracefully. They know perfectly well that all who do what is shameful (aischron) and bad (kakon) do so against their will” (Prt. 345d-e).

Contrary to Socrates’ opinion, people believe that evil is done will-ingly. It is not clear at all if Socrates refers to people as they are, or to people as they ought to be. Indeed, he does not say “no man” but “no wise man.” It is not clear, anyhow, if the question is about facts or about the stand he takes toward them.

Let us assume that the question concerns facts. In this case, the con-tention is that, actually, as a matter of fact, there are no people who as-sume that there are those who do evil willingly. This is therefore, not an argument against the thesis that may be perhaps attributed to Plato, that if indeed, there are, actually, not such persons, there ought to be.

In other dialogues, we can find the same kind of reasoning. In Hip-pias Minor Plato asserts that the person who lies willingly is better than the person who lies out of ignorance, and in The Republic and The Laws, Plato says that there is such a thing as a useful lie. Does this mean Plato believes in doing evil for the sake of the good? Since Plato does not dis-tinguish between Promethean and Zeusian values, this remains an open possibility in his philosophy, I mean, it is a possibility that does not run against his philosophy.

For Protagoras, however, doing evil willingly is a matter of fact, namely, in the frame of Promethean values, there are those who do evil willingly as a means for achieving an end. This does not imply that from

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the moral-Zeusian point of view they are better. Since Plato reduces all values to one value, he cannot accept this non-intellectualist stance.

Plato defends his thesis that it is better to do evil willingly than out of ignorance:

a noble man (kalos k’agathos) frequently finds himself in the posi-tion of having to force himself to love and praise someone—say, an estranged mother or father, or country, or whatever it may be. . . [They] are forced to cover up and praise them, and should they be indignant at some wrong inflicted by their parents or their state, they calm and soothe their own anger and compel themselves to love and praise their own kin. Now Simonides too, I think, fre-quently felt that he was eulogizing a tyrant or someone of that kind, not willingly but under compulsion (Prt. 345a-346a).

The distinction between “willingly” and “under compulsion” here is crucial. “Willingly” does not imply “with knowledge,” and “under com-pulsion” does not mean “without knowledge.” In both cases, the question is relevant for those who know. The difference is, simply, between “willingly” as referring to an end, and “under compulsion” as referring to means. The whole notion arises out of Plato’s adoption of a Promethean attitude, of a goal-oriented system of values, where evil remains justified as a means. However, since, as we have seen, Plato’s philosophy reduces a process to its results—whatever serves the end of good must itself be good.

As a mode of summarizing the underlying logic of Plato’s analysis of the poem of Simonides, we can assert that it has three components:

1. Virtue is knowledge and vice is ignorance. 2. What is a means for a good as an end, is itself a good insofar as it

serves the end of good, and evil insofar as it prevents the realization of good.

3. Nobody does evil willingly. Evil is only done under compulsion. All these conclusions are the result of Plato’s anti-formalism, which

implies the impossibility of offering an accurate analysis of evil, error, and, in general, of negative values. They are indeed either means or nothing at all. Error as a means is only willing error, evil as a means is also willingly, and so on. Error, injustice, evil, and so forth as such, in themselves, exist in thought but not in reality. Let us note here, in this connection, that this is impossible. Something existing solely in thought is plainly nothing.

Let me state another general conclusion of Socrates’ interpretation of the poem. Thomas Brickhouse points out that the ideas Socrates attrib-utes to Simonides can be attributed to anyone else.8 If this is true, as I

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also believe, then we can learn that this idea can be applied not only in this case but even to the very essence of a dialogue, namely, that dia-logue is only a prelude to asserting the impossibility of dialoguing at all. There cannot be two (or three, or five) logoi but only misunderstanding. Faced with two logoi, we must conclude that there is some misunder-standing. If we understood the same thing, there would be no need for a dialogue. If we appear to need a dialogue, that can only mean that one of us is ignorant, or perhaps both of us are. It is not Socrates, the master of dialogue, but Protagoras who asserts “that there are two logoi about eve-rything, opposite to one another.”9

Now we can understand the role of the analysis of Simonides’ poem

within the context of the whole dialogue. For Protagoras this analysis provides an example of his educative methods, in which the discussion of poems has a central role, not for the sake of knowledge or instruction, but for the sake of teaching virtue; not for the sake of the truth of the poem itself, but for the sake of virtue. The analysis of the poem as such, as an analysis alone, is more important than the content of the poem.

For Socrates, the poem becomes an opportunity, or a pretext, to af-firm his belief that virtue is knowledge. It also serves as a prologue to his theory of measurement. For him, as for Protagoras, the poem has no value in itself. Values for him mean only epistemic values. He indeed even rejects his own interpretation of the poem. He contends that each person interprets ambiguities in accordance with his own convictions. Thus, there is nothing to be learned by analyzing poems. Socrates even says that discussing poetry (other people’s writings) is akin to the prac-tice of hiring flute players for a party; people do it only when they don’t know how to entertain themselves with their own conversation. He brings virtuously the interpretation of the poems to such extremes only in order to reveal the worthlessness of interpretation.

Rather than analyze a poem about virtue then, Socrates would analyze virtue itself. He is not interested in the form of a discussion, which is something empty and meaningless, but its content.

Notes

1. I confess that I do not understand the distinction of Brickhouse and

Smith in this regard between what Simonides means with his poem and what Simonides’ words mean. Socrates' commitment with the meaning of the words is his attempt to grasp the meaning of Simonides’ poem, which is what Simonides mean. See Thomas C. Brickhouse, and Nicholas D. Smith, Plato’s Socrates (Ox-ford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 83-4.

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2. See, at the end of the Protagoras, where Socrates attributes error not to Prometheus, his model for knowledge, but to Epimetheus: “I am afraid that old Epimetheus [Afterthought] may lead us into many errors in our inquiry, just as he was negligent toward us in your story, when he allotted the various capaci-ties. I must say I preferred Prometheus [Forethought] to Epimetheus in the story. For I am making use of him, and taking forethought for my entire life when I concern myself with all these questions” (Prt. 361c-d).

3. See Ruth Scodel, “Literary Interpretation in Plato’s Protagoras,” An-cient Philosophy 6 (1986): 25-37.

4. See Umberto Eco, “Overinterpreting Texts,” in Interpretation and Overinterpretation, Stefan Collini, ed., (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 44-65.

5. Frede detects in the distinction between being and becoming a serious point in Plato’s argument, and relates the distinction with the idea of Eros in the Symposium: Dorothea Frede, “The Impossibility of Perfection: Socrates’ Criti-cism of Simonides’ Poem in the Protagoras,” Review of Metaphysics 39 (1986): 729-53.

6. It is worth noting in passing, that the strategy of winning fame by at-tacking the already famous, has persisted down to this day. In fact, the practice has become so widespread that most attempts to win fame sink without a trace into a vast ocean of academic journals that nobody has the time or energy to keep up with. Still, seekers of fame will travel not just across Greece but across the world in order to deliver a laconic phrase of fifteen or perhaps twenty min-utes at some philosophical conference.

7. See chapters 3 and 4 in this book. 8. Brickhouse and Smith, Plato’s Socrates, 83. 9. Diogenes Laertius, LEP, IX, 51.

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Returning to the Unity of Virtues

Courage and Wisdom (349d2-350c5)

Immediately after the interlude, the discussion returns to the initial ques-tion about the relationships between the virtues, which, as we have seen, has been expressed in two incompatible analogies: the “gold” analogy (the relationship of parts of gold to the mass of gold) and the “face” anal-ogy (the relationship of the parts to the face). Plato asks whether Pro-tagoras still endorses the “face” analogy—whether, in fact, he still re-gards the virtues as different from one another.

Protagoras appears to retreat at this point. He acknowledges some similarity among virtues, except for courage (andreia). However, from his point of view this is no concession at all. Justice, wisdom, temper-ance, and piety are all Zeusian values, so in that sense at least they are similar, but courage is an Epimethean value and therefore “absolutely different from all of them” (Prt. 349d). Thus he maintains that one can be courageous but utterly unjust (adikos), impious (anhosios), unruly and ignorant (amathes) (see Prt. 349d). On the other side, courage is similar to daring (tharraleoi) and recklessness. So Protagoras still adheres to the concepts he introduced in his tale.

Socrates’ reply consists of demonstrating that one can find people who specialize in being courageous; therefore, courage, like all the other virtues, boils down to a question of knowledge.1 Divers and infantrymen are courageous “because of their knowledge (episteme)” (Prt. 350a); that is, the knowledge they acquire in pursuit of their professions makes them more courageous than they were before.2 Furthermore, whoever is cou-

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rageous without knowledge must be mad, a notion that Protagoras en-dorses.

Socrates misunderstands Protagoras to be asserting that people are either courageous or mad—one or the other.3 He concludes that “the wis-est (sophotatoi) are the most daring,” that “being the most daring, the most courageous,” and that, “according to this argument, wisdom would be courage” (Prt. 350e).

Protagoras protests against this misunderstanding. This is not his way of thinking. Those with courage are indeed daring, but the daring are not necessarily courageous.

At this point, a misunderstanding arises. Protagoras believes that Soc-rates is reproaching him for assuming that the courageous are daring; Socrates, however, is only using this particular point to lead Protagoras to the conclusion that all the virtues are the same because they can all be reduced to knowledge. Protagoras says: “you have nowhere proved that when I agreed that the courageous were daring, my statement was wrong” (Prt. 350d). At this point, however, he understands well the in-tention of Socrates. The only point that Protagoras will concede to Soc-rates is that those who have knowledge are more daring than they would be without it. From this opinion, Socrates deduces that courage and wis-dom are the same. Protagoras argues that with this line of thought you can conclude, erroneously, that strength (ischus) is wisdom. He explains his point as follows:

For if, going on, you began by asking me if the strong (ischuroi) are powerful (d unatoi), I should say yes. Next you would ask if those who have knowledge of wrestling have greater physical power than those with none, and are more powerful after learning to wrestle than before, and I should agree. Armed with these ad-missions you would then be in a position to say, advancing exactly the same proofs, that on my own admission strength is wisdom (Prt. 350c-d).

Protagoras only asserts that the strong are physically powerful, but not that the physically powerful are the strong. Thus, based on the dis-tinctions set forth in his tale, Protagoras returns to the issue of courage and daring and asserts that the “courageous are daring but the daring are not always courageous.”4 Daring can be a Promethean skill (techné),5 but it can also be an Epimethean quality, for example if one becomes daring out of anger or madness, as in the case of physical power. There are, similarly, two kinds of courage: one Epimethean, that comes from na-ture, the other Promethean, that comes form the “proper training of the mind (eutrophia tes psuches)” (Prt. 351b).

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Of course, we might find, without leaving this conceptual framework, that daring may sometimes be neither Promethean nor Epimethean, but the result of a Zeusian education. However, that is not important. For our interpretation of the dialogue, it is enough to understand the principle that Protagoras uses to oppose Socrates’ attempt to collapse all values into knowledge and knowledge alone.

It is also important to note that there is a common denominator among the principles that Protagoras employs to distinguish among val-ues—that such a common denominator for values does not exist. He tries instead to establish an anti-reductionist typology of values each one based in a different principle. Rather than refute Protagoras directly, Plato will expound his theory of measurement. He will contend there, against Protagoras’ opinion, that the courageous are the daring.

According to Plato, the courageous do not face different risks than those faced by cowards. The difference between cowards and brave men is that cowards avoid risks and brave men face them. Both understand the risks in the same way. Both of them grasp the reality of danger. However—and Plato stresses this point—nobody really faces danger, by which he means truly frightening situations, since this would mean only ignorance and nothing else. To be frightened means being ignorant about the nature of the threat. Fright is never the result of knowledge. Whoever knows is not afraid, and whoever does not know may be afraid. Cowards and brave men both face the same things, that is, things that make them apprehensive, depending on their degrees of knowledge. Cowards avoid war but brave men go to war willingly. Now, war is something beautiful; it is not a disgrace; rather, it is something good, and therefore pleasant. Now is it possible that somebody would try to avoid what he knows to be beautiful, good, and pleasant? Obviously not. Therefore, there is no such thing as a coward.6 Those people whom we call cowards are purely and simply ignorant.

This is the peak of Plato’s intellectualism. Everybody knows that people can feel fear in certain situations even when they know that there is little or no danger. Plato would have us believe that those who ride in a roller coaster are scared because they actually believe that the next sharp turn will fling them into the air.

The courageous, on the other hand, may feel fear; not a shameful fear, but rather, a fear based on knowledge. Then, it is not their courage that makes them feel fear or run risks, but knowledge. To be courageous—means to know. In short, there are neither brave men nor cowards. If ignorance is the cause of what is called “cowardice,” and if knowledge produces its opposite, bravery, then cowardice and courage are simply other names for describing how much knowledge one possesses about

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matters of risk and danger. The conclusion then, is not, as Vlastos assumes, that courage is coextensive with knowledge,7 but one more radical—that courage does not exist.

Notes

1. See Michael O’Brien, The Socratic Paradoxes and the Greek Mind

(Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 1967), 141; Edward G. Ballard, So-cratic Ignorance: An Essay on Platonic Self-Knowledge (The Hague, Nether-lands: Martinus Nijhoff, 1965), 62; Patrick Coby, Socrates and the Sophistic Enlightenment: A Commentary on Plato’s Protagoras (London and Toronto: Associated University Presses, 1987), 141; Norman Gulley, The Philosophy of Socrates (New York: Macmillan, 1968), 160-1, interprets Plato as if he were distinguishing between courage and intrepidity or mere confidence or boldness. However, this is just the position of Protagoras in his answer to Socrates. Moreover, Gulley believes that Aristotle’s debt to Socrates, who is in my opin-ion nearer to Protagoras than to Socrates, “is clear” (160). He recognizes, how-ever, that Socrates has an intellectualistic interpretation of courage (160) and that Aristotle arrives at “the opposite of Socrates’ conclusion in the Protagoras” (161). Guthrie also recognizes the difference between Aristotle and Plato. Guthrie, HGP III, 452. See also Gerasimos X. Santas “Socrates at Work on Virtue and Knowledge in Plato’s Laches,” in The Philosophy of Socrates, Greg-ory Vlastos, ed., (New York: Anchor Books, 1971), 195ff.

O’Brien says that the argument in 349d-350c is ad hominem. “The brave are identical with the daring” is a false premise that allows the conclusion “wisdom is courage.” This is typically elenchus, says O’Brien, The Socratic Paradoxes, 139. Vlastos contends that at 351c-d Protagoras identifies good with pleasant. Vlastos says, “Socrates most likely meant to assert is . . . (a) that pleasure is a good (not the only one), (b) that whatever is best will in fact be the most pleas-ant.” Gregory Vlastos, ed., Plato’s Protagoras (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1965), XLI; and from here is not deduced that pleasure is a definitive of good. O’Brien asserts, against Vlastos, as follows: “At 354b several conventional goods are reduced, qua goods, to pleasure and prevention of pain. Between 354b and 355a it is stressed repeatedly that the many have no other telos but pleasure and pain, and at 355b the good is taken to be synonymous with the pleasant, the bad with the painful.” See John P. Sullivan, “The Hedonism in Plato’s Pro-tagoras,” Phronesis 6 (1961): 18-9. It is hardly possible to interpret all this as implying anything other than pure hedonism. O’Brian, The Socratic Paradoxes, 139. Gallop analyzes the Platonic demonstration of hedonism in detail in David Gallop, “The Socratic paradox in the Protagoras,” Phronesis 9 (1964): 117-29.

2. For a defense of Plato’s argument, see Roslyn Weiss, “Courage, Confi-dence, and Wisdom in the Protagoras,” Ancient Philosophy 5 (1985): 11-24.

3. Socrates: “men who are daring in this way are not courageous but crazy” (Prt. 350c).

4. O’Brien contends that Protagoras’ critique here is based on the fallacy

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of undistributed middle: the courage are daring; the wise are daring; therefore, the wise are courageous. O’Brien, The Socratic Paradoxes, 134. See also “The ‘Fallacy’ in Protagoras 349d-350c,” TAPA 92 (1962): 408-17. Though in logi-cal terms this is right, I do not believe that Protagoras’ critique is based on logic, but on the distinction between kinds of daring, that is, the one Promethean and the other Epimethean.

5. In Christopher C. W. Taylor’s translation of Prt. 351a-b, the difference between the Promethean and Epimethean aspects of daring is not made clear. Taylor translates the passage as: “For daring results both from skill and from animal boldness and madness, like capability.” Rather, the passage should read: “For daring results from art or from animal boldness or madness.”

6. Therefore, Plato does not need to demonstrate, as Klosko expects, that courage is wisdom, whereas he only demonstrated that wisdom is courage. See George Klosko, “Toward a Consistent Interpretation of the Protagoras,” in Soc-rates, Critical Assessments, vol. II, “Issues Arising from the Trial of Socrates,” William J. Prior, ed., (London: Routledge, 1996), 251. Plainly because there is not place for courage at all.

7. Vlastos, Protagoras, xxxv.

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The Theory of Measurement

On the basis of his particular brand of reductionism, Plato will try to build a technique of measurement based on a common standard of meas-urement for all kinds of values settled in order to make practical deci-sions in face of conflicting values.1 The assumption is that virtue is nothing but the result of a science of calculation and comparative mea-surement. With this theory, the dialogue arrives at a balance, since Plato’s theory of measurement constitutes his reply to the discourse of Protagoras as a whole. It is his response to Protagoras’ qualitative dis-tinction among values and even Plato’s response to Protagoras’ homo mensura. Plato, object-oriented, asserts that we may have the standard of measure, and Protagoras, subject-oriented, asserts that we are the meas-ure.2

Here Socrates takes up his argument that virtue is knowledge, which is to say, teachable in principle.3 Let us recall that Protagoras does not contend that virtue is teachable, in the sense of instruction, since virtue is not knowledge. Just because it is not knowledge, it is teachable only in the sense of education. We have, besides, two monologues: Protagoras’ monologue at the beginning of the dialogue and Socrates’ at its end. In this part of the dialogue, the formal style, however, is still dialogic, but the real weight and thrust of the meaning belongs entirely to Socrates.

According to Socrates, there are those who live well (eu zen) and those who live badly (kakos) (Prt. 351b). Those who live well do not live in pain and misery but, contrariwise, they live their life pleasantly (he-deos). To live pleasantly means to live in the good, whereas to live un-pleasantly means to live in the bad. Common people (hoi polloi) think that certain pleasant things (hedea) are bad (kaka) and some painful things (aniara) are good (agatha). They do not realize (says Socrates)

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that what is pleasant is necessarily good. And the reverse is also true: insofar as things are painful, they are bad.

Protagoras rejects this kind of reasoning. According to him, one lives well only when one enjoys (hedesthai) things that are worthy of respect (kale). He makes distinctions that Socrates is ready to eliminate. For Protagoras, to assert that what is desirable (hedu) is always good and what is painful always bad, is to give a response that does not include the necessary distinctions to understand the whole problem. Indeed, for him, certain desirable things (that are relevant for Epimethean values) are not good (are irrelevant for Zeusian values), and some painful (Epimethean negative values) things are not bad (irrelevant to Zeusian values), while others are good, and there is even a third category, consisting of things that are neither good nor bad.

Socrates reply that “desirable” is something that evolves or produces pleasure (hedone), and therefore what is pleasant is good, good insofar as it is pleasant. Indeed, many times the term “good” is used to express pleasure.

Protagoras agrees in that what is desirable involves or produces pleasure, but we cannot deduce the Zeusian good from this Epimethean value.

In what follows, Socrates attempts to refute the Protagorean distinc-tion between Epimethean and Zeusian values by means of a search for a common measure for the two. If we can find a measure for these values, we will have a tool for making practical decisions. Socrates proposes knowledge (episteme) as this common measure. Now, knowledge as a topic appears for the first time in the dialogue. Until now, knowledge was an attribute of values, or was a predicate. Now it becomes the sub-ject of analysis. It is just at this point that practically, though not for-mally, Protagoras abandons the dialogue, asking Socrates to press to his conclusions. Protagoras expressed his disagreement in a “passive aggres-sive” way. He remains only to say “yes” or “no” whenever Socrates asks for a response, and so gives Socrates’ theorizing the appearance of a dialogue. Formally, from now on, there will not be, in the dialogue, two logoi. Indeed for Protagoras, the reduction of all values to knowledge is much too extravagant, and so he retreats into silence. Perhaps he wants to show that Socrates is really, despite everything, a monologist, or perhaps he feels that he has nothing to do with such an extreme position except accord with the democratic right of being heard. The deepest meaning of Protagoras’ silence lies in its implicit protest against Socrates’ attempt to reduce the good (a Zeusian value), the beautiful (an Epimethean value), and the useful (a Promethean value) to knowledge.

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When Socrates asks Prodicus to set aside his distinctions between synonyms, we expect Prodicus to protest. However, according to this Platonic dialogue, he only smiles and agrees with Socrates. If this dia-logue is actually an eye-witness account of a real, historical encounter, we must conclude that all the sophists have decided to leave Socrates to pursue his thoughts more or less by himself. They seem tired now, whereas up to this point they have been portrayed as approving of Soc-rates. This attitude appears most explicitly near the end of the dialogue, when Protagoras says: “You seem utterly determined to get your way and have me giving the answers, Socrates, . . . Still if it makes you happy. I shall say that based on what we have agreed, I do consider this impossible” (Prt. 360e).

We may also ask whether there was still any real dialogue between Plato and Protagoras before this declaration. Or perhaps it was only a dialogue in the deepest meaning of the word, namely, two logoi that are different in every way, not only in their content, but in their differing presuppositions about the way in which two logoi may debate and listen to one another.

On the other hand, in a certain sense, the dialogue gives way to a new dialogue, this time with Protagoras and Plato together on the one side and public opinion on the other. The public is the new alternative now. It functions as the third party that they argue against. Since Protagoras al-lows Plato to continue without checking him, we can only try to recon-struct, on the basis of what we know about Protagoras, what may be a consistent Protagorean attitude regarding the theory of measurement. The following discussion, Socrates asserts, comes to “help us in our inquiry into courage and the relation between it and the other parts of virtue” (Prt. 353b). Now I will try to summarize the position of Socrates and then speculate on the possible position of Protagoras.

Plato against Protagoras

Socrates believed that knowledge is “noble and capable of controlling a man” (Prt. 352c). Accordingly, if someone knows what is good and what is bad, nothing would be able to overcome this knowledge or to force a person to do something contrary to what he knows is right and good. Socrates believes that knowledge is the motive that prompts thinking and doing. Knowledge is “the most powerful of all human qualities” (Prt. 352d). For example, if someone knows what is evil and unhealthy, he cannot overindulge in pleasures like food, drink, and sex.

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Not because these things give only immediate pleasure (hedone) or are pleasant (hedu) only in the short term, but because in the future, they will lead to illness, poverty, and suffering. If they would not provoke damage in the future, they would not be regarded as evil. They are evil in the pre-sent, therefore, because of their future results. A present pleasure is bad insofar as it deprives us from a greater pleasure or will bring about suf-fering and deprivation in the future. For example, physical training, military service, and medical treatments which involve cautery, surgery, drugs, and starvation diets are regarded as good, not because of the im-mediate pleasure they provide (they provide no such thing), but because the results, namely, cures and physical health, the safety of the city, power over others, or wealth.

For these reasons, Socrates concludes, we seek pleasure since it is good, and we avoid pain because it is bad. So, though bad means “pain-ful” and good means “pleasure”—painful does not mean “bad” and pleasure does not mean “good.” What is good cannot be painful but only pleasant, and what is bad cannot be pleasant but only painful. Even en-joyment is bad when it deprives people from greater pleasures, and pain is good when it deprives people from greater pain, or when it causes more pleasure than pain in the long run.

Socrates does not resort to total indistinction in order to demonstrate his thesis. Rather, he reduces, in an ordered and logical way, all the val-ues to knowledge. To assert that the good is good since it is pleasant, as Socrates is interpreted by those who sustain that he is a hedonist, is not the same as to assert that the pleasant is pleasant because it is good. Only this last assertion is Socratic and he is therefore not a hedonist.4 To assert that what is bad is bad since it is painful, is not the same as to assert that what is painful is painful because it is bad. Only this last assertion is So-cratic.5

There is no symmetry between good and pleasure. Pleasure is reduced to good and not the other way around. The logic of this asymmetry be-comes clear from the way Socrates asks about the distinction, on the one hand, between good and pleasure, and on the other hand, between pain and evil. Indeed, Socrates asserts that the alternative to the assertion that good is different from pleasure, and bad different from pain, is that “you seek pleasure as being good, while you avoid pain as being bad” (Prt. 354c). He does not assert that you seek the good because it is pleasur-able, while you avoid bad because it is painful—unless you are “satisfied to live out your life pleasantly and free from pain” (Prt. 355a) which is, in Socrates’ opinion, absurd. A life of pleasure is absurd: once someone accepts that what is bad, though being bad, he does this because he is overcome by pleasure; and since by pleasure he understands something

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good, the result is a greater absurdity: that a person commits evil since he is, as it were, overcome by the good.

Having raised the question of what is meant by the expression “to be overcome by pleasure” (Prt. 353c), Socrates introduces instances of Epimethean activities involving the gratification of needs. Drinking, eating, and sex were considered in ancient Greece to be kinds of praxis, or activities whose telos is in the activity itself rather than in its results.6 Whenever such activities are judged to be “bad,” it is not the activities but their pernicious consequences that are being considered. That is to say, these activities are condemned not because they are pleasant, but because they make us ill when we indulge in them to excess. Now if Plato had given Protagoras a fair opportunity to reply in the dialogue, the sophist would surely have argued that there was a difference between an action and its results, in the way that there is a difference between Epi-methean and Promethean varieties of activity. He would then have de-fined eating, drinking, and sex as typical Epimethean activities in which the subject must eventually suffer the consequences of his deeds. There-fore, if such activities may have unpleasant results, this does not mean that Socrates is right in claiming that they are undertaken for the sake of their consequences.

Similarly, the unpleasant activities that yield good things in the Pro-methean sense (gymnastics, medicine, and military service) (Prt. 354a), are regarded as good not because of the pain they incur, but because of their effects. Such activities are typically Promethean and require us to sacrifice a present advantage for a future one. Thus, the fact that the con-sequences of an action are pleasant does not mean, as Plato would have us believe, that the action itself must be pleasant as well.

Plato reduces pleasure to good and pain to bad, and this is the case of those who, hypothetically, are “satisfied to live out [their] life pleasantly and free from pain” (Prt. 355a). This is the absurd stand of the hedonist who believes that pleasure is the supreme good. Far from being hedonist, therefore, Socrates asserts that the summum bonum is the good and not pleasure. Or, what is the same, asserts that pleasure is pleasure since it is good, and not that the good is good since it is pleasant.7

Thus, whoever is overcome by pleasure behaves virtuously, since he is overcome by the good. Socrates attempts to reduce pleasure to good and pain to evil or bad. With this reduction accomplished, he can go on to develop an art for the measurement of values, a technique that will make it possible to compare values, because it will be possible to create a common standard of measurement. Now, with this reduction of qualita-tive differences between values, there remains only a difference in quan-tity and in magnitude, which allows for comparisons. Now, indeed, what

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Protagoras would call being “overcome by pleasure” means that one has chosen a greater evil over a lesser good. This is absurd. Therefore, no-body can say that he was overcome by pleasure when he does not choose the good.

Evil is now called “painful,” as the good is called “pleasant.” In prin-ciple, we can even refer to units of pleasure and units of pain, namely, we can refer to values by means of a quantitative evaluation, as if it were grain or oil. We can speak of quantities of pleasures and pains. We can also refer to actual greater and lesser pleasures. For this reason, we do not need any other criterion than pleasure itself. We would need another criterion when the task is to compare present pleasures to future ones. In these cases, the present ones appear to be greater than future ones, so that a present pain seems to be greater than a future one.

However, the difference between present and future is only apparent and is to be annulled by reducing the future to the present. So, instead of two different kinds of units acting here, pleasure and pain units on one hand, and on the other hand, the distance between the immediate and the deferred (between present and future)—we remain only with pleasure and pain units.8 Bearing this in mind, we can state that if we must choose between a greater quantity of pleasure units and a lesser quantity of pleasure units, it is obvious that we should choose the former. If we choose between greater quantity of pain units and lesser quantity of pain units, we choose the latter. On the other hand, if pleasure and pain are compared, the choice will be made for pleasure if pleasure is in greater quantity than pain. The art of measurement is needed in order to decide how many present units of pain and sacrifice we must invest in now to buy pleasure units in the future.

The art of measurement is the alternative to appearances. It is the remedy against the deceptive character of short-term pleasures and pains. It is a method to avoid errors in decision-making. It reveals the truth and, as such, the condition for our salvation.9 Namely, it is an epistemic in-strument no less than a valuative one. Without the theory of measure-ment, appearances drag us into error, they “confuse us and make us change our minds back and forth about the same things” (Prt. 356d). In other words, the theory of measurement will relieve our ignorance.

The theory of measurement reduces values to knowledge, or valuation to estimation. It is an attempt for the mensuration of values, since the science of measurement is the science of excess and defect reduced to the knowledge of the more and the less. Thus, in weighing pleasures against pleasures, we would select the greater one, whether it takes place in the present or in the future. In weighing pains against pains, we would choose the lesser one, whether it takes place in the present or in the fu-

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ture. Finally, in weighing pleasures against pains, we ignore the temporal element, and make our choice in the following way: If what is postponed is pleasure and what is immediate is pain, and the pleasure is greater than the pain, then we submit to present pain to enjoy future pleasure—in other words, we sacrifice the present for the future; and if what is post-poned is pain and what is immediate is pleasure, and the pain is greater than the pleasure, then our choice is to enjoy present pleasure and to suf-fer future pain—that is, we sacrifice the future for the present, and so on.10

Now, once we know about such a science, to say that we are over-come by pleasure amounts to saying that we are overcome by ignorance. Let me say, however, that “to be overcome by pleasure” is not in itself a phenomenon but an interpretation of it. Indeed, there is no such phe-nomenon. According to Plato, one cannot be overcome by pleasure. There is only a choice between pleasure and pain according to our knowledge of the good and the bad. Ignorance is only ignorance of the science of measurement. It is therefore an empty “lack” and not some-thing positive: “An error brought about by a lack of knowledge is caused by ignorance” (Prt. 357a).

With supreme irony, Socrates adds that those engaged in learning the science of measurement are precisely the sophists:

And it is of this ignorance that Protagoras here claims to be the physician, along with Prodicus and Hippias. But you, because of your belief that it is something other than ignorance, refuse to send your sons to these teachers of this subject, these sophists, and re-fuse to visit them yourselves, on the assumption that it cannot be taught; and because you prefer to hoard your money rather than pay it to them you do badly both individually and as a community (Prt. 357e).

Once pleasure is reduced to good and pain to bad, Socrates declares his readiness to reduce the beauty to the good and the ugly to the bad, and to reduce utility to good and harm to bad. This is clear from his rhe-torical question: Are not all actions which are directed at a pleasant and painless life admirable (kalon)? And is not an admirable action good (agathon) and beneficial (ophelimon) (Prt. 358b)?

A peak point in the discussion arises when, at the end, Socrates at-tempts to reduce terror and fear to knowledge through defining them as “the expectation of something bad” (Prt. 358e). Socrates’ extreme intel-lectualism consists in asserting that knowledge gained about a threat or danger would automatically modify our fear. He already stated this

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opinion in a rhetorical question at the beginning of the present stage in the discussion:

Protagoras, show me your attitude to this: what is your disposition in relation to knowledge (episteme)? Do you agree with the general opinion, or do you disagree? For the general opinion about knowl-edge is more or less as follows: it isn’t a strong or guiding or con-trolling element. And not only do people have this opinion about knowledge, but they also believe that in many cases where knowl-edge is present in a man, it is not the knowledge that controls him, but something else—now anger, now pleasure, now pain, now love, often fear—[Italics mine] thinking of knowledge just as one does of a slave, as something dragged along behind all the other elements. Now is this the sort of view you have of it, or do you think knowledge is admirable and capable of controlling a man, such that if a man knew what is good and bad, nothing could over-power this knowledge [fear included] or force the man to do any-thing other than what it dictates, since his intelligence provides the man with sufficient support (Prt. 352a-c)?

What is fearful is bad, and nobody wants to do evil or to be bad.11 Socrates thesis, namely, that virtue is knowledge, is by no means aporetic. Indeed, it is my view that Plato’s early dialogues are aporetic only on the surface.12 In fact, Plato has very clear conclusive ideas and articulates them clearly. However, since the extremism of his ideas makes them unpalatable to common sense, commentators prefer to re-gard him as inconsistent or ironic in the very places where he is the most cogent and straightforward.

Another reduction typical of Socrates is his conflation of goodness and utility. However, the two are not identical and the reduction may lead to confusion. What indeed is reduced to what, utility to good or good to utility? In my opinion, though he reduces good to utility, su-preme good remains the lasting end for the sake of which something may be useful. The reduction does not consist of asserting that the good is good for the sake of something else, but that something is useful for the sake of the good. However, when reducing good to utility, he calls utility “good.” He might as well say that the good is good for the sake of the good! In fact, he asserts this, but in a roundabout way, by means of defi-nitions. His last conclusion is that usefulness, which serves the good, is good in itself. The theory of measurement erases, therefore, the distinc-tion between means and ends, and becomes a tautology.

The theory of measurement allows Plato to deny that people might know what is good but may be carried away by passion to commit evil.

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His first step is then, to reduce pleasure to good. So, what is actually be-ing considered, instead of pleasure, is the idea of benefit. Benefit, profit, and usefulness replace pleasure. In this way, human activity becomes, basically, a teleological activity alone.

A teleological activity regards human acts only as means. We can recognize a teleological-oriented mind in that it seizes an act as good or evil only insofar as it is advantageous or damaging for certain given end. And, since the goal-oriented activity intends to the goal and not to the act itself, or since it is not taken for its own sake, then the means is not judged in the light of good or evil but only according to the goal. A good action is undertaken for the sake of its end, the good itself, which is a matter of knowledge.

All the philosophy of Plato is embedded in a teleological interpreta-tion of human activity. He imposes the goal-oriented criterion typical of the relationship of man with nature in the domain of labor, to the domain of the relationships of people with themselves and with others, namely, to the social dominion, assuming that any activity is measured according to efficiency. In efficient systems, man is himself the means to an end. Even in the Republic, the guardians are not determined according to the point of view of happiness, but according to the efficient fulfillment of their function in the social system as a whole. When he is asked if the guardians are happy, Plato responds:

Suppose that we were painting a statue, and someone came up to us and said: Why do you not put the most beautiful colors on the most beautiful parts of the body—the eyes ought to be purple, but you have made them black—to him we might fairly answer: Sir, you would not surely have us beautify the eyes to such a degree that they are no longer eyes; consider rather whether, by giving this and the other features their due proportion, we make the whole beautiful. And so I say to you, do not compel us to assign to the guardians a sort of happiness which will make them anything but guardians (Rep. 420c-d).

Just as the color of the eyes is not determined only by their beauty, so the life style of the guardians is not determined according to their happi-ness alone, but according to their function. This is true of the rest of the classes. Thus, what counts is the happiness of the whole, of all the mem-bers of the society, but not the specific life of each individual member. So as individual happiness is sacrificed for the sake of the whole—so human activity in general is, or becomes, a means for this whole, a means for an end.

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Thus, the theory of measurement is the necessary corollary of the re-duction of virtue to knowledge. In order to reduce all value to knowl-edge, it is to be assumed a common standard, and sought for a common measurability of all the values, not only virtues but also vices. Thus, Plato solves value-conflicts by measure and calculations. Ultimately, then, the theory of measurement is a theory of decision-making. To put it into practice, first one needs to reduce all the values to only one type, and to assume that there is no real conflict between values. What is called “conflict” is merely ignorance. So the theory of measurement becomes a practical theory of knowledge, one that is able to decide what to do and what not to do.

That the theory of measurement is an epistemic device—means that the need to take decisions does not arise out of real conflict between val-ues, but out of ignorance. The one who knows does not even need to de-cide between alternatives. The theory of measurement is a way to avoid the need to make real decisions, but decisions only in a devaluated meaning—decisions concerning means. Therefore, pleasure is good only insofar as it does not imply, as a consequence, its opposite—pain. And pain is bad insofar as it does not bring into its opposite—pleasure.

The model for his decision-making theory is the model of adopting means for the sake of ends. Indeed ends do not have common standards; only means do. Values, in themselves, do not have a common standard. As such, they are different from each other. It is not possible to compare values. How can we begin to compare moral good to utility, or pleasure to morality?

Values become measurable only when they are compared and defined in respect to each other. They are measurable when regarded in ab-stracto, only according to their extrinsic meaning. It is in this case that there is a need for a common standard, something in itself incomparable. This standard is the end. Now, values, as means, are reduced in such a way that they are neither good nor bad, but good or bad insofar as they bring about or do not bring about the desired end. Values are, thus, either useful or damaging, not in themselves, but in relation to the end. This is the only way to reduce value-conflicts to mere technique and calculation. It is the only way to reduce values to knowledge—to assert that virtue is knowledge. Knowledge now means nothing but a technique of calcula-tion. The theory of measurement is the natural and necessary conse-quence of Plato’s assertion that virtue is knowledge.

Errors in calculation can also be ascribed to ignorance. For example, to ignorance of the effects of temporal perspective. What is distant, whether good or bad, always seems to have less weight and importance than what is near; thus we miscalculate.

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What is not clear in his theory of measurement is whether it is an epistemic theory or a valuative one. If it is an epistemic theory, it asserts that people do interpret or may interpret their values in such a fashion. As a value theory of values, it recommends that people should interpret their values as a matter of knowledge. If it is an epistemic theory of val-ues, it contradicts what “the masses” generally think. If it is a valuative theory of values, it has no grounds or justification, and remains what it is—merely a recommendation. In any case, it is a valuative theory that pretends to be an epistemic theory.

Protagoras against Plato

For Protagoras, such an epistemic standard is not available. Virtue in particular and values in general are not a question of knowledge. Values are knowable, but one who believes, for this reason, that values are de-duced out of knowledge, would have to ascribe to them the attributes of reflection (since they are the objects of reflection). One would be pro-jecting the form of reflection onto the object of reflection. Plato is able to refer, only in principle, to units of good, pleasure, justice, efficiency, and so on, to be able to compare good with pleasure and pleasure with jus-tice. However, he is unable to determine the specific quantum of such units. How to determine those units concretely—there is not even a hint about this. Will the power of knowledge make us efficient and prone to suffering instead of hedonism and immorality? How does one compare the excited life of Democritus with the placid life of Epicure?

According to Protagoras, knowledge is not a leading or controlling in-stance of our will, but a means alone. Sometimes anger motivates our behavior, sometimes pleasure, sometimes the avoidance of pain, or love, or fear, but in all cases knowledge is the servant, not the master, of our drives and feelings. In his eyes, Plato’s approach would be similar to what is nowadays called “rationalization.” At least, his theory leaves am-ple room for the possibility of rationalization. There are those “who know what is best and are in a position to do it but nevertheless refuse to do so and do otherwise” (Prt. 352d).

On the other hand, in Epimethean-oriented issues, the future has no function, since the future would be the end for which the present was just a means. That is to say, the present would become a means for the sake of something else, for the future, for the results requested from an actual action, and the act would be measured by its results. If this were the case, the act would be typically Promethean. Satisfaction of needs, for in-

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stance, is oriented to the act itself, to the present, not to the future. From the Promethean point of view, pleasure is indeed something bad if it pro-duces undesirable results. In Promethean fashion, Plato reduces pleasure to utility. Then, we need somehow to correct the terminology, and not to call the results bad, but harmful or damaging. Judgments of good, bad, and evil must be related to the third tendency, the Zeusian.

Therefore, in fact, people do not seek, contrary to Socrates’ opinion, pleasure for being good and do not avoid pain for being bad. Between pleasure and good, there is no common measure-standard, just as none exists between pain and evil. Pain may agree with good or with evil. Similarly, the same pleasure may imply a good and may imply some-thing bad. And the same good may imply pleasure or pain. If this is right, good and pleasure are different from each other. Neither one interferes in the field of the other.

What is absurd, for Protagoras, is to assume that nobody would ever choose pleasure over morality. People do so all the time. That raises the question of how much we should repress pleasure for the sake of our own moral good and the well-being of the community. This is just the task of education.

Protagoras does not agree with Socrates’ reduction of all values to knowledge. He reduces instead knowledge to values. However, this does not imply that all values have the same status. Protagoras recognizes an asymmetry between values. He is not ready to assert, for example, that the physically powerful are the strong, but only that the strong are pow-erful. He does not agree with the assertion that all those who are daring are also courageous, but is ready to concede that the courageous are dar-ing. Sometimes, the motives for an action may coincide; sometimes that is good is also pleasurable; but sometimes not. Plato does not accept this self-understandable assertion. Protagoras’ asymmetry is the result of both, the inquiry into the factual conflict between values, and the valua-tive preference for moral, Zeusian values, over the rest.

The Platonic asymmetry, on the other hand, is the result of a logical calculation that is not based on observation of human affairs, nor does it grant priority to moral values. Rather, it tries to construct an epistemic standard of measure for values. The standard is, for Plato, an “ought” pretending to be an “is.” He reduces, apparently or at its face value, “ought” to “is,” and at a deeper level—“is” to “ought.” Protagoras re-duces “is” to “ought,” knowledge to values (though he makes morality his first priority). I believe that this is the source of the so-called Protago-rean relativism and the Socratic anti-relativism.

Protagoras’ answer to Plato’s theory of measurement is that a present pleasure is, indeed, greater than a future one, and a present evil is greater

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than a future one. For this reason, Epimetheus, who ignores program-ming, enjoys distributing qualities. The more he enjoys himself in the moment, the more he forgets a hypothetical future pleasure. The present, if it is pleasant, always outweighs the future, which is finally only a promise at best. The theory of measurement, by contrast, is Promethean. It is not, therefore, a hedonistic theory at all.

Moreover, insofar as the theory of measurement is Promethean—it cannot be stated as a universal theory for the measurement of values. The degree of “Epimetheism” is different in different individuals. The readi-ness to sacrifice is different, and so is the capacity for choosing the moral good against other values. Epimethean individuals will be ready to sacri-fice a little of the present for achieving a future pleasure, while the Pro-methean personalities will be ready to sacrifice a lot of the present for the sake of future pleasures. Moralists will renounce pleasure more easily than others, and renounce efficiency as well, if necessary. To be moral, efficient, and hedonistic, does not mean to “score” a “high” measure-ment. None of this is in itself a question of measurement and comparison. It is only the basis for understanding how people differ or agree from each other. It is not the basis for making decisions.

Since there is no place for an extrinsic criterion for the reduction of values to a single value, and of the individuals to a single, rational, indi-vidual—the truth is different for each individual. Moreover, the theory that Protagoras offered in his encounter with Socrates in Callias’ house contends that even a single individual has no other choice but to remain splintered among opposing values. However, he will never be able to avoid regret about his acts and valuations, since he is able to possess a criterion for valuation of values. Though values are not quantifiable, they are the object of valuation with the moral standard of measure. In this sense, there are teachers of virtue—educators.

Whoever is overcome by pleasure is not necessarily overcome by ig-norance. Though Protagoras valuates knowledge as a positive value, he does not believe that human beings act only according to knowledge. Their motives for action are multiple. Even if virtue is a value and knowledge is a value, virtue is not by necessity knowledge.

Finale

The dialogue comes to an end when Socrates says that the roles have been changed. Socrates seems to defend what he had intended to refute, and Protagoras seems to attack what he had intended to defend.13 This is

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not at all the case. Moreover, it is clear that for Socrates virtue is teach-able because it is a science. His former argument, that it is not teachable since there are no teachers of virtue, is ironic, and it is said to avoid stat-ing what is implicit in this empirical turn, namely, that everybody is ignorant about virtue, Protagoras included. His final position, therefore, is also his first and initial one. Regarding Protagoras, he does not say that virtue is not teachable, but that it is not knowledge, a point that Socrates believes is contradictory. From the point of view of Protagoras, it is not a contradiction, since he distinguishes between teaching in the sense of instruction and teaching in the sense of education. He is an educator, not an instructor.14

Once they reach this point, they decide to end the discussion. Both prevaricate about the reason for this decision. Protagoras politely praises Socrates’ wisdom, hinting, by means of this well-known rhetorical de-vice, that he disagrees with him. Socrates asserts that he is busy, but we readers know, and have known from the very beginning, that he has nothing better to do than rush off and repeat the whole dialogue to an unnamed auditor, and thus things end where they began.15

Notes

1. For the analysis of Plato’s Theory of Measurement and its place in a

broad theory of values, see Michael Strauss, Volition and Valuation: A Phe-nomenology of Sensational, Emotional and Conceptual Values (Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 1999), 183ss.

2. I take this idea from Thomas Buchheim, “Mass Haben und Mass Sein,” Zeitschrift für Philosophische Forschung 38 (1984): 629-37.

3. For a position that asserts that the theory of measurement is not pla-tonic, see Roslyn Weiss, “Hedonism in the Protagoras and the Sophist’s Guar-antee,” Ancient Philosophy 10 (1990): 17-40.

4. For the same conclusion, see Donald J. Zeyl, “Socrates and Hedonism: Protagoras 351b-358d,” Phronesis 25 (1980): 250-69. This opinion is sustained also, though each one with a different argumentation, by John P. Sullivan, “He-donism in Plato’s Protagoras,” Phronesis 6 (1961): 24-8; Alfred E. Taylor, Plato (London: Methuen, 1963), 260; Gregory Vlastos, “Socrates on Acrasia,” Phoenix 23 (1969): 75-8; Gerasimos X. Santas: Socrates: Philosophy in Plato’s Early Dialogues (London and Boston: Routledge Kegan Paul, 1979), 198-9; Richard Kraut, Socrates and the State (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), 265-6. For a hedonist Socrates see Christopher C. W. Taylor, Plato: Pro-tagoras, 164-167; Terence Irwin, Plato’s Moral Theory: The Early and Middle Dialogues (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1977), 103-8; George Grote, Plato and the Other Companions of Sokrates, volume II (Bristol, England: Thoemmes Press, 1992), 87-9; Reginald Hackforth, “Hedonism in Plato’s Protagoras,” CQ 22 (1928): 39-42; and I. M. Crombie, An Examination of Plato’s Doctrines, vol. 1

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(London: Routledge Kegan Paul, 1962), 240. 5. Weiss sustains on the contrary that in the Protagoras we have a radical

hedonistic position. See Roslyn Weiss, “A Rejoinder to Professors Gosling and Taylor,” 117-8. For the whole discussion see Roslyn Weiss, “The Hedonic Cal-culus in the Protagoras and the Phaedo,” JHPhil 27 (1989): 511-29; Justin C. B. Gosling, “The Hedonic Calculus in the Protagoras and the Phaedo: A Reply,” JHPhil 28 (1990): 115-6. See last note.

6. See Aristotle, Et. Nic. 1140b. 7. Among the interpreters, there are those who support the thesis that Soc-

rates identifies good with pleasure see n. 4 and also Gregory Vlastos, ed., “Plato’s Protagoras,” xi. Against this opinion, see also Richard Robinson, “Plato’s Consciousness of Fallacy,” Mind 51 (1942): 101-2, who asserts that Plato uses false premises purposefully, namely, that his hedonism (identification of good with pleasure) is part of his irony. This is also Jaeger’s interpretation, Werner Jaeger, Paideia: Die Formung des griechischen Menschen (Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1959), 1.143. I think that Socrates, ultimately, tries to reduce evil to good, and good to knowledge, so that also pleasure is knowledge, resulting in that the ignorant would not feel pleasure. Since Plato does not distinguish be-tween is and ought, it is not clear if the ignorant do not feel pleasure or ought not to feel pleasure. I believe that most of the alternative interpretations are based rather in the kind of understanding of interpreters, who are not ready to accept this Platonic way of thinking, which they call “absurd.” Moreover, in my opin-ion, not only is this not “absurd” but the only consistent result of his logic. How-ever, this is by no means hedonism, even not moderately, since the reduction is of pleasure to good and not the other way around.

8. Gallop says that for Plato, “a difference in time makes no difference in value. Only a difference in quantity could do this.” It is right that the difference in times makes no difference in value, but just because time is also a quantitative difference, though only apparently. Time, for the sake of calculation, may be annulled. Distance in time is a false appearance. If this were not the case, his whole technique of calculation would fail. See David Gallop, “The Socratic Paradox in the Protagoras,” Phronesis 9 (1964): 125.

9. See Prt. 356d-357a. 10. I do not think that this is to be called a hedonistic calculation, since

Epimetheus, the hedonistic god, is unable to make calculations. However, I think that Plato’s Theory of Measurement is not a dialectical device but he, be-ing sympathetic with Prometheus, indeed believes in it seriously. It may be that interpreters who reject this idea, like Kahn, believe that the theory is far from a moral approach. See Charles H. Kahn, “Plato on the Unity of Virtues,” in W.H. Werkmeister, ed., Facets of Plato’s Philosophy, Phronesis, Supp, vol. II (1976): 25. But if this is the case, then I prefer to understand Plato’s morality as being in harmony with this theory and not against it. See Irwin, who believes that Plato is hedonistic here. Terence Irwin, “Socrates the Epicurean,” Illinois Classical Studies 11 (1986): 198-219. I think that Plato neither used a dialectical device nor was, on the other hand, a hedonist.

11. Xenophon reports that Socrates regarded madness as contrary to

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knowledge. Moreover, though he did not quite equate ignorance with madness, for him it lay quite near madness. Xenophon, Memorabilia, IX.

12. The general opinion is that all the early dialogues are aporetic. At least, the Charmides, Euthyphro, Hippias Major, Hippias Minor, Laches, Lysis, Pro-tagoras, and Republic 1. See Hugh H. Benson, “Meno, the Slave-Boy, and the Elenchus,” Phronesis 35 (1990: 141-4.

13. See Søren Kierkegaard, The Concept of Irony (London: Collins, 1966), 93.

14. I totally agree in this point with O’Brien, The Socratic Paradoxes, 141. Koyré comes close to my interpretation when he asserts: “Socrates, who affirms that virtue is science, denies that it can be taught; and Protagoras, who claims to teach it, does not admit that virtue is science. But the reader-auditor well realizes that contradiction and paradox are only apparent: for if virtue is what Protagoras thinks it is, virtue is certainly not science and Socrates is right in asserting that it can not possibly be ‘taught.’ On the other hand, if virtue is what Socrates thinks it is, that is, an intellectual and hence intuitive science of values and the good, then virtue can be ‘taught.’ Obviously, Protagoras is not the man to do it. Who is? The answer is clear—Socrates. In other words, the philosopher; for the sci-ence that Socrates promised to reveal to us at a later date, the science of measure of values, is none other than, as we already know, philosophy.” Alexandre Koyré, Discovering Plato (New York: Columbia University Press, 1945), 32-3. Unless he fails to distinguish between education and instruction.

15. See Joseph Cropsey, Plato’s World: Man’s Place in the Cosmos (Chi-cago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 3.

Part IV

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Chapter 15

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Protagoras’ and Plato’s Approaches Compared

In the following three chapters I will attempt to run a “thought experi-ment” on the philosophical assumptions of Plato and Protagoras. I intend to exaggerate their points of view in order to reveal their fundamental tendencies. I therefore ask the reader to take the present chapters in the same spirit. When I say “Plato thinks,” I am referring to an exaggerated and sharpened Plato, one who has been construed from the sum total of his writings. The aim of such experiment will be to reveal philosophical assumptions and tendencies of the philosophies of Plato and Protagoras that are not explicitly articulated in the written work that has come down to us.

Let me try to resume in a comparative way the grounds for the Plato-Protagoras discussion. I am totally aware that the ins and outs of the dis-cussion are more complicated and sophisticated than I am able to sum-marize here. However, I believe that the following comparison will help illuminate the basic concerns and tendencies of both philosophers.

The whole controversy between Plato and Protagoras takes place at the level of reflection. Plato’s reflection reduces the form of thought to its content, whereas Protagoras’ reflection reduces the content of thought to its form.

Let me try to distinguish between two asymmetric relationships that may serve as parameters for our analysis of the controversy: the relation-ship between subject and object, and the relationship between perception and thought. These two axes may be useful for defining the two philoso-phical attitudes we are studying. The subject-object axis in general determines the frame for the discussion between objectivism and subjec-tivism, and the perception-thought axis determines the frame for the dis-cussion between empiricism and rationalism. Since those are uncondi-

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tioned axes, there is by no means a univocal relation between subjectiv-ism and empiricism and between objectivism and rationalism. The ques-tions concerning each axis are quite different even though the distinction may not always be evident.

Let me apply those relationships to an analysis of the Plato-Protagoras controversy. In my opinion, fifth-century Greek philosophy arrived at a clear consciousness of the distinction of the two poles of those relations. The subject, which is, by its very nature, the correlate of the object, became, as it were, an independent entity, and the object as well. Non-reflective thinking does not regard those poles as poles at all. Moreover, they are not part of human awareness, but gained their inde-pendence in the historical process of achieving self-consciousness. The subject is created, roughly speaking, only with the demarcation and defi-nition of the distance between the ego and its surroundings—that is, when the context in which the ego lives offers some kind of resistance to his will and desire. This kind of frustration indicates, for the individual, that there are limits to his will. Later, after subject and object gain some degree of independence, their connection will nevertheless remain to be explained.

A similar process took place regarding thought and perception. Per-ception and thought lived together in harmony, so to speak, though at a certain point they began to oppose each the other. This distinction be-came clear when it became evident that people do not see what they think and do not think what they see. A clear example is the distinction between perception and the atomistic explanation of the world. We do not perceive atoms, nor do we perceive their movement. In Greek phi-losophy, the peak of the rivalry between sense and thought is represented in the idea of substance and its relation to sense-qualities. The substance, unlike the mere thing, was a clear product of thought without a percep-tual correlate.1

It was at this historical stage of self-consciousness, when subject be-came distinguished from object, and thought from perception, that the discussion between Protagoras and Plato took place. Each one was con-cerned with the two kinds of rivalries, and tried to take a stand for one of the poles under discussion.

The reductions advanced by Protagoras and Plato are the result of their lack of awareness about the “polar” nature of the relations that I have been discussing. For this reason, Protagoras reduces object to sub-ject (insofar as he is oriented to epistemology), and thought to perception (insofar as he is oriented to empiricism). For the same reason, Plato re-duces subject to object (insofar as he tends to ontology), and perception to thought (insofar as he tends to rationalism).

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The grounds for the discussion are much more sophisticated. Indeed, since both attitudes are reflective, they are both concerned with the form of human thought, and not with what human thought grasps in its non-reflective attitude. This distinction between form and content or between what the mind grasps and the way it grasps it—is a basic distinction of consciousness. Consciousness, indeed, is consciousness of (or about) something. This “something” is the “content” of consciousness. How-ever, in reflective intentional acts, this “something,” this form itself, be-comes the content of consciousness. This consciousness of consciousness itself, we call reflection.

Subject and Object

Regarding the subject-object relationship, Protagoras can be con-strued as tending to interpret the object of knowledge by reducing it to the subject, whereas Plato tended to interpret the subject by reducing it to the object of knowledge. To the question of what we know in knowledge, a reflective question indeed, Protagoras responds, as it were: we know the subject, its subjective or formal reality, its milieu, its sober reality. Protagoras’ dictum that man is the measure of things (see Tht. 151-152) shows that he is concerned, at the epistemic level, only with the form of knowledge. The object of knowledge interests him only insofar as it makes an impact on the subject. The object of knowledge, more specifi-cally, is that which appears to the human intellect through the filter of perception. Everything turns around the subject. The subject is the an-swer to the question about the object.

Plato responds to the question about the subject, that it is nothing more than knowledge about the object, that is, knowledge about the content of thought. The object is the Idea in its ideality, which even be-comes the one and only acceptable reality.

Plato in his reflection does not grasp the subject but the object. Not the object as popular belief grasps it in its non-reflective consciousness, but the object as he grasps it in the rationality of his own reflection.

For Plato knowledge is not real since it is only a relation to its object, and not a relation to its object. It is a passive reference. For him, how-ever, the object of knowledge is the form of knowledge, though he takes it not as form but as content. Thus, he asks questions like: what is knowl-edge of knowledge? In virtue of what virtue is virtue? Knowledge pre-supposes a reality that is not its own product, but at the same time, this reality is ideal rather than real. The result of this way of thinking is the

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assumption of a world of Ideas, an ideal reality, which is taken to be the only true reality.

The only thing that knowledge is able to know may be something that, by its very nature, must be an independent reality. Knowledge can-not produce anything. Knowledge cannot create; it can only reflect real-ity, as a mirror does. If knowledge created something more than the knowledge of ideal Ideas, this would violate its character as knowledge, and knowledge would become non-knowledge.

Indeed, we can recognize ideas about objects (now, more strictly speaking in a Platonic language—ideas about ideas) because we can think about these ideas without thinking that they themselves exist. We only think about their object. The idea, in this kind of Platonic reflection, is a thought about something, and not a thought in itself. It is a thought that implies the transcendence of what is being thought of. Thinking as such, as consciousness, namely, the consciousness that the ego, the sub-ject, contributes some aspect in the act of knowledge, is not knowledge in the sense of reflecting a reality that may exist without it.

This extreme objectivism means that when Plato reflects, he denies that he is reflecting. Reflection, for him, lacks a specific content of its own—it lacks the form of knowledge and valuation. This was clearly the case in the Charmides when he analyzed the form of knowledge directly. The subject, under these assumptions, changes only according to its de-gree of knowledge, according to what he knows and what he ignores. This is the nucleus of his idea that virtue is knowledge.

Protagoras presents another kind of reflective philosophy. He recog-nizes the function of the subject, since he recognizes the presence of a form. He recognizes that there is a subjective system that is able to resist the conclusions of the intellect, an educable system. Knowledge, since it is knowledge of the subject, determines the character, by principle, of what it knows. This is the ground for his dictum that man is the standard of measure of what it is insofar as it is. Knowledge is the active respon-siveness of a subject, but then knowledge is only value.

For Protagoras the subject has a reality. The subject is not a tabula rasa who passively registers an object’s presence. The reflection of Pro-tagoras arises from thinking on the thinking of the object, and here it dis-covers the subjectivity, namely, the form, the real existence of con-sciousness, and not the ideal content of knowledge.

By contrast, Plato regards knowledge as a passive recognition that does not offer resistance to the known-contents. While Plato considers virtue to be knowledge—Protagoras considers knowledge itself as a vir-tue among virtues. I mean, he even views knowledge as an attitude, as a value standing in the face of facts.

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Plato seeks for the truth, and Protagoras asks for whom the truth is truth. Plato thinks about the truth because it is true. For Protagoras the truth is true because someone thinks so. For Plato, the logical question comes before the anthropological one, and for Protagoras anthropology determines logic. We can view their entire discussion as an attempt to determine whether anthropology precedes logic or logic precedes anthro-pology. If we reduce anthropology to logic, we get Platonism. The indi-vidual lacks any role in the constitution of truth. On the other hand, if we reduce logic to anthropology, we get Protagorean sophism. The truth de-pends on who thinks it, on how he thinks it, and insofar as he thinks it.

Plato raises the object of knowledge to the status of absolute truth. For Plato, the subject is a product of what he knows and does not know, so that he may be taught only in the sense of being instructed or in-formed.

For Plato, knowledge is a mirror of the object, while for Protagoras the object is a mirror of knowledge. This is an essential difference be-tween them. This difference is not a difference of cognition, but of re-flection about cognition. What is under discussion is the meaning of knowledge—knowledge of knowledge. For Protagoras, what knowledge knows is the subject—which means human values. Knowledge means people’s opinions, and opinions are determined by perception, circum-stances, and other matters that bear on subjective human experience. For Plato, knowledge knows the object and only the object. Thus, knowledge becomes a question of truth and falsehood, determined by the character of the content of knowledge.

Plato and Protagoras, each one in a peculiar way, attempt to systema-tize the contents of this original level of consciousness—common sense. However, each one tries to systematize common sense in a different way. Either commonsensical thinking is based on values (Protagoras) or on knowledge (Plato). Common consciousness lacks, generally, any system-atic idea about knowledge and valuation. It valuates without asking what values are, it holds opinions without wondering what opinions are made of, and it knows what it knows without theorizing about knowledge. On the one hand, an act is said to be just, a person moderate, a result useful, a reality beautiful or tasteful, and so on. On the other hand, something is said to be true or false.

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Perception and Thought

Regarding the relationship between perception and thought, the ques-tion arises, which of them is to be regarded as the criterion for knowl-edge. Protagoras attempts to interpret human thought by turning to sense-perception as its criterion; namely, things are as we perceive them. He understands by perception just the perception of things as they are per-ceived, without judging their modal status of existence. Socrates, on the other hand, tends to interpret perception by reducing it to the evidence offered by thought, namely, by the authority of logical thinking. There is one question that does not come under discussion, not because the two philosophers agree on it, but just because it is taken for granted, or pre-supposed: the very nature of the process of perception and of thought.

Protagoras tries to systematize his relativism. He transforms it into a whole philosophy, using perception as its model. He argues that truth and falsehood are not a question of knowledge.

Immanuel Kant contended that the senses do not err, not because they judge rightly, but because they do not judge at all.2 We may say the same about Protagoras, but after the step that also reduces thought to sense-perception. If in Protagoras’ philosophy there is no place for error, it is because he attempts to avoid judgment. He tries to construct a philoso-phy that will not appeal to a higher truth (see Tht. 167a-b).

In this regard, the information offered by Diogenes Laertius is of cru-cial importance. Protagoras said “that the soul is nothing other than the sensations.”3 Protagoras and Plato were interested, in their reflection, not only in thought, but also in finding the criterion for knowledge. Accord-ing to them, these are the two possible criteria—perception or thought. Plato takes the stand of reducing perception to thought, in such a way that thought criticizes perceptions, whereas Protagoras tends to reduce thought to perception, denying that thought has any character of its own. This reduction is the clue for understanding Protagoras’ formalist ap-proach, since sense-perception, taken from the point of view of its form, as perception and not as referring to some extrinsic reality, is neither true nor false, so that what is neither true nor false becomes the ground for his homo mensura criterion for knowledge.4

Protagoras says that “it’s true, both that some people are wiser than others, and that no one judges what’s false” (Tht. 167d). This seemingly paradoxical statement is very important for our understanding of Pro-tagoras. Knowledge, he says, is not conditioned by judging; true and false are kinds of judgments asserted about sentences, namely, about what is, in itself, neither true nor false. Protagoras can be construed as taking the content as if it were only the form. He grasps only the formal

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aspect of consciousness, and believes that the content of reflection is the content also of the original valuation, namely, that the form is the origi-nal content. The reduction of content to form runs directly and by neces-sity, to the relativization of values, though he did not go all the way in this direction—he did not transform relativization into relativism. I mean, Protagoras did not take a stand in favor of this relativization. Whenever he did take a stand, he favored some values over others. This is the clue for the unresolved conflict inherent to Protagoras’ philosophy. His relativization of values clashes with his role of educator, a role that needs a positive judgment of certain values over others judged nega-tively. Relativization of values would make his own profession mean-ingless, since he attempts to teach people how to persuade others, namely, he assumes, as an educator, that there are better values than oth-ers.5

Since he believes in the primacy of sense-perception, Protagoras fa-vors factuality over rationality, whereas Plato, who believes in the pri-macy of thought, favors rationality. Protagoras, in his empiricism, does not grasp values as products of human activity but as natural facts. Plato, on the contrary, as rationalist, does not grasp the process of knowledge but only its results—Ideas, given and fixed (quasi-natural) Ideas.

By facts, obviously, Protagoras may understand the facts as sense-perception testifies them. He is against reason only when it strays too far from sense-perception. He is not opposed to reason in principle. Due to this standpoint, he was neither a skeptic à la Phyrrho nor à la Sextus Empiricus. Post-Aristotelians reduced sense-perception to reason to re-veal reason in the senses. Protagoras, however, reduced reason to sense-perception to reveal the senses in reason. For the post-Aristotelians, the standard of measure was reason, whereas for Protagoras it was the senses. One may contradict reason with the evidence provided by sense-perception, but not the other way around.

Let me point out that this evidence is not the direct evidence of senses; it is a reflective evidence, a reflection of the senses. We are talk-ing about awareness of the senses, not sense perception itself. In his re-flective consciousness, Protagoras refers to what is neither true nor false as the only truth.

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Two Kinds of Reflection: Reduction of Form to Content and Content to Form

Plato and Protagoras are not aware that their philosophies are actually the product of a reflection about the form of consciousness. They tend to project—without being aware of it, I insist—their content of analysis in different ways toward different things. Protagoras “retro-projects” the content of the non-reflective mind to its form, namely, reduces the con-tent of thought to its form and, in so doing, becomes a relativist. He im-poses the form upon the content of thought.

Plato, when becoming aware of the form of thought, an awareness that defines his whole philosophy, projects this form into the content. He believes, as it were, that there is no place for the form of knowledge, but only for its content. This is why he views knowledge as a question of truth or falsehood, namely ignorance or knowledge. In objectifying the form, he imitates the original consciousness that objectifies values (as when we say that a deed is good, for instance). This is not identification with the original consciousness—it is merely an imitation. Plato’s objec-tivation is different from the original, commonsense objectivation. It is an extreme and systematic objectivation. What he does, thus, is to exag-gerate, in his reflection, the original objectivation, depriving it even of its valuative character and transforming it into knowledge. He does so be-cause he does not recognize form as form, but as content and, in this way, ascribes to values the character of knowledge.

For Plato what is known in knowledge is the content. In his reflection, this content is not the external reality to which knowledge refers. This reality does not determine knowledge. The last word lies in the standard by which this reality is known—the Idea. It is this standard that will de-termine whether knowledge is true or false. It is true if it reflects the Idea like a mirror, and it is false if it does not. What cannot be taken as a re-flection of the Idea is not considered true knowledge. Socrates considers the interference of subjective motives, drives, and interests as false or distorted knowledge. It is false knowledge because subjective motives, drives, and interests, in one word, values, tend to contaminate the purity of the content. In other words, content becomes subjective. From the So-cratic standpoint this line of reasoning is valid and applicable to every particular virtue—to courage, pleasure, utility, good, piety, and so on. All of these are varieties of knowledge; that is to say, they reflect the content of virtue but virtue as such cannot be regarded as a skill or capacity of the erroneously called “virtuous” man. For Plato, knowledge knows about the object, if the knower as knower is not himself the object of

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knowledge. The content of knowledge refers in its entirety to the external Idea. No content can be attributed to the subject.6

Plato and Protagoras, then, took a stand for one of two aspects of con-sciousness. Protagoras took a stand for the form—Plato for the content. Protagoras endorsed the subject and its social circumstances, and Plato the predicate, or the absolute character of values that finally become knowledge.

Thinking has the form of a relation between subject and predicate. When reflecting on thought, however, Plato rejects this relation, since in the analysis of the form of thought (namely, in reflection) he reduces thought to the subject-object relation, namely, to a truth-value relation. That means that each statement is either true or false, and that no state-ment can be neither true nor false. For his extreme anti-formalism, statements are true when the subject fits its object, and false when it does not. Protagoras, on the contrary, in his extreme formalism, reduces the truth-value relation to the form of thought. That means, that human statements are neither true nor false but expressions of the subject, or of the way human beings valuate their reality. Knowledge is always knowl-edge about the knower-subject. In other words, Protagoras regards the knower-subject as the only reality to be taken into account. All we can know is human knowledge, human values. And, since the subject is the sum of all his conflicting values, truth and false values included, he alone is the genuine and the unique content of reflective knowledge.

The subject is the very human reality which moral judgments attempt to improve. We scrutinize everything else with an active skepticism. About things in themselves we can say nothing, just as we have nothing to say about the gods, because we are unable to know if they exist or not.7 For a Protagorean mind, what people think and imagine is real for them insofar as they think it and imagine it. The real is the imaginary itself, or rather the imagined is the real. For Plato, the imagined is unreal. Protagoras does not know if the gods exist, but he knows that they exist in the Greek consciousness. He regards consciousness as constitutive, as opposed to Plato, who regards consciousness as cognitive.

Since each one adopts a reductionist viewpoint (that includes some real aspect of the process of knowledge and valuation in general), each one has a sound basis for argument. When Socrates invites people to re-flect, he does something that the original consciousness did in a direct, non-reflective way. Indeed, the original consciousness externalizes the intentional form of thought making it belong to the valued and/or known content. Socrates starts by analyzing just this form; the form is the con-tent of his reflection. As soon as form is recognized as content, he exter-nalizes it in such an extreme way that he cannot help but go overboard.

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He cannot stop even when his reflection contradicts the original non-reflective externalization. His philosophy carries him into paradoxes.

Plato obliterates the distinction between original and reflective thought. He regards what he discovers in reflection as if it were the direct knowledge of reality, which will become later the reality of the Ideas. And since he also ignores the distinction between knowledge and valua-tion, what applies to knowledge applies also to values, and bestows upon both functions a trans-subjective character, he becomes objectivist. What is objective in his objectivism are the values, insofar as they are the product of knowledge. Such values, reduced to knowledge, like predi-cates in isolated sentences, are not relative but absolute. They do not change when the objects change. Like predicates in isolated sentences, these values remain fixed and unchangeable.

Education and Instruction

Since Plato is concerned only with the content of knowledge, he re-gards teaching as synonymous with instruction; that is, with communi-cating information about the content of teaching, that is, its object. Pro-tagoras, on the contrary, being concerned only with the knower-subject, regards teaching as synonymous with education in the sense of upbring-ing or paideia.8 The early Plato, for his part, is unconcerned with up-bringing, since he does not regard the subject as being different from what he knows or does not know. The subject is definable only by the degree of his knowledge in respect to content.9 Protagoras, on the other hand, argues that virtue is knowable because it exists on its own account and can be an object of knowledge, and therefore taught in the sense of paideia. In place of a Socratic ontology that excludes the knower-subject, Protagoras’ tale suggests a theory of knowledge that is a theory about the subject. Although Protagoras does not regard virtue as knowledge, he nonetheless believes it to be knowable.

For Plato, knowing the nature of values means determining what they ought to be. To know what they ought to be is to possess rational knowl-edge, a knowledge that determines what they are or, what is the same, they ought to be what they are.

Protagoras is an educator. He can educate if he can state and impose values that are not deduced from the values that his student holds. When on the contrary, he asserts in the Protagoras that the city actually teaches virtue, he is again taking a non-valuative stand. It is a matter of fact that education imposes non-given values over the student’s given values. The

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point is not to impose them from outside, but as it were from inside. This means to adopt a valuative approach of values. Indeed, this is what edu-cation entails—changing the subject from one situation to another ac-cording to certain values that are not deduced out of what people actually think and valuate. We are not talking only about a change of circum-stances, but a change in the very subject. Education means that you ought to be what you are actually not. Such an attitude contradicts the meta-valuative approach, in which there is no place for an “ought to be,” namely, for the knowledge of not-being. Quite the contrary. Education means taking a stand for what-is-not against what-is. Thus, though Pro-tagoras rejects the rationalistic Platonic idea that we can deduce values from knowledge, he does not succeed in deducing his empiricist educa-tional values from any factual, given values or given facts.

Protagoras’ defense of education turns around the subject, and Plato’s defense of instruction turns around the object. Since the subject, for Plato, has no function, but is itself a function of the object (as the phe-nomenon is a function of the Idea), all what would be, as it were, part of the subject, is plainly nothing. The subject’s subjective and individual character remains reduced to his understanding—valuation is reduced to knowledge. The subject has no will. That is, he has no consciousness of a will that differs, as it were, from understanding, as it does for instance in the philosophy of Descartes. The good is good not because we want to reach it, but because we know it. The individual is a tabula rasa. For Protagoras, however, the individual has a character of his own, just as the gods in his tale have different characters.

Protagoras believes that our system of values is conflictive in essence. He binds himself to two, also conflicting, tasks: on the one side, to rec-ognize the conflict and to explain its origins, and on the other side to educate, which means to intervene in the conflict in favor of certain val-ues against others. He puts his theoretical knowledge of values at the service of his social practice—education.

Protagoras has a standard, though it lies neither in things nor in knowledge, but in the subjects’ moral capacity. If this were not the case, Protagoras would not be able to declare that he is a teacher of virtue, since nothing would be teachable. Indeed, education means helping peo-ple develop their moral capacity. It implies favoring certain values over others. More specifically, in Protagoras case, it means the priority of Zeusian, democratic, values.

For Protagoras the subject is an ultimate datum that determines what is known and what is unknown; therefore the subject’s essential nature can be altered, not by means of instruction, by means of knowledge, but by means of education, which means a change in values.

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Notes

1. Thus, the Platonic Idea can be regarded as a precursor of the notion of

Substance. 2. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason (New York: Macmillan,

1993), B350. 3. Diogenes Laertius, LEP, IX, “Protagoras.” 4. Perception is, in my opinion, only a model for Protagoras’ theory,

which means that it is not restricted to sense perception. See Laszlo Versényi, “Protagoras’ Man-Measure Fragment.” AJP 83 (1962): 178-84.

5. About the conflict between Protagoras the relativist and Protagoras the educator, see Heinrich Gomperz, Sophistik und Rhetorik (Aalen: Scientia Ver-lag, 1985), 261-5.

6. See a similar attitude in Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus logico-phi-losophicus (Mountain View, Calif.: Mayfield, 1999), 5.531.

7. See Diogenes Laertius, VPP, IX, 51. 8. About education as upbringing in ancient Greece, see the introduction

of Werner Jaeger, Paideia: Die Formung des griechischen Menschen (Berlin: W. de Gruyter, 1959).

9. It should be remarked that on this point there is a difference between the Socratic Plato and the Plato of The Republic, in which the philosopher’s at-titude is closer to that of Protagoras (see Rep. 401d and 411e).

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Protagoras’ Relativism and the Failure to Synthesize Theory and Practice

Protagoras espouses a non-valuative theory of knowledge and valuation. He only offers an account of knowledge and values. However, when he valuates, when he takes a stand for certain moral values, he contradicts his own meta-cognitive account. As Gomperz asserts, man is the measure “cannot be the shibboleth of any moral subjectivism.”1 Thus, he cannot reconcile his epistemic and his valuative approaches.2

In what sense does this contradiction between two approaches lead to the so-called “Protagoras’ relativism?” In what sense is Protagoras rela-tivist? The very fact that for Protagoras a myth is able to tell some truth, indicates that for him there is no place for truth but for myth alone, or that myth is truth. In which reality does Protagoras find his model for such a theory? It may be only from the human, social consciousness of the subject, when this consciousness thinks about its very situation. In its reflection, popular belief is moderately relativist. Protagoras, making philosophy out of this consciousness, namely, starting from the same as-sumptions of this consciousness, tries to extrapolate it. He attempts to systematize it, and in the process takes it to its extreme consequences.

Protagoras, according to his meta-value attitude, laid the grounds and foundations for a science of values, for axiology, namely, a non-valua-tive study of values. Plato and Aristotle may have misunderstood this aspect of his philosophy. Plato regarded Protagoras as a thorough rela-tivist, and Aristotle decided that he contradicted himself. For the most part, history of philosophy has been content to accept their judgment in the matter.

Contrary to those interpretations, Protagoras’ philosophy contains a relativistic epistemic tendency. The content of his philosophical thought is values and facts. Protagoras attempted to know values by recognizing

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their existence in the minds of the people who hold them. His knowledge was not a subjective knowledge of certain objective values, but an objec-tive knowledge of certain subjective values. What is relative in his phi-losophy is the relative character of those values. As a philosopher, he described values without either sharing them or opposing them. As an educator, on the contrary, he was not neutral; he upheld definite values. The result of this contradiction, for us as interpreters, was his ardent sup-port of democracy and pluralism. A democracy is a society that allows the free expression of all values, even if they disagree with one another. Thus, Protagoras tried to inculcate respect for social and civil values. His whole philosophy is deeply rooted in a democratic and tolerant spirit. He actually failed then to synthesize theory with practice. In fact, the very same failure occurs repeatedly throughout the history of philosophy, though each time at a different level and in a different context.

Protagoras as an educator, was not merely a specialist on means, a specialist in the way it is possible to change a subjective condition in or-der to want to become virtuous. He assumed that all of us sustain the same values, as it is clear from his comparison of his specialization with that of the doctors (Tht. 166e-167a).3 A doctor changes the state of the body with drugs, since health is the common value that he and his patient both assume. A doctor is not merely a technician; he is not ready to make people better or worse, healthier or sicker, as would be the case if he were merely a specialist in means. Analogously, an educator is not ready to teach people how to lie and cheat.

However, this position contradicts his other notion, namely, that what a person considers right and good is indeed right and good for him. For Protagoras the relativist, if something is “just and admirable to any state, then it actually is just and admirable for it, as long as that state accepts it” (Tht. 167b).

In order to conciliate between his theoretical relativism and his cher-ished values, Protagoras makes a further distinction, between what something is and what something appears to be. Justice as it appears to be is not justice as it is. The wise person, says Protagoras the teacher, is just one that makes justice, or beneficial things, “be and seem just and admirable to them, instead of any harmful things which used to be so for them” (Tht. 167c). The sophist may succeed in unifying appearance and reality. Whatever exists for someone, is appearance. Whatever exists in itself—is real.

A consistent relativism would have to assert, however, that we could not distinguish between what is and what appears to be. This indeed is what Protagoras himself asserted before: “there’s an immense difference between one man and another in just this respect: the things which are

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and appear to one man are different from those which are and appear to another” (Tht. 166d).

Here Protagoras does not make a distinction between appearance and reality. At any rate, he seems to have no available criterion to do that.

For cognitivist purposes, he does not distinguish between reality and appearance, nor does he distinguish between “to know” and “to be wise.” For valuative purposes, he does indeed make these distinctions. A wise person is “anyone who can effect a change in one of us, to whom bad things appear and are, and make good things both appear and be for him” (Tht. 166d). The wise man is then a specialist in means of common val-ues. The wise man has practical wisdom, and not theoretical knowledge.4

For this reason, practical wisdom cannot be reconciled with theoreti-cal knowledge, which is what Protagoras attempts to do.

From the perspective of theoretical knowledge, Protagoras asserts that “each of us is the measure of the things which are and the things which are not” (Tht. 166d). And for this reason, “It’s not that anyone ever makes someone whose judgments are false come, later on, to judge what’s true: after all, it isn’t possible to have in one’s judgments the things which are not, or anything other than what one’s experiencing, which is always true” (Tht. 167b).

The things that you judge as not-A, you cannot judge also as A; and what you judge as A—you cannot judge as if it were not-A. All this as-sumed that to be and to appear are indistinguishable, as it is for what theoretical knowledge is able to report about the state of human knowl-edge and valuation.

True or false are the criteria for theoretical knowledge, better and worse are the criteria for practical wisdom. In practical wisdom,

[w]hat does happen, I think, is this: when, because of a harmful condition in his mind, someone has in his judgments things which are akin to that condition, then by means of a beneficial condition one makes him have in his judgments things of that same sort—appearances which some people, because of ignorance, call true; but I call them better than the first sort, but not at all truer . . . And as for the wise . . . it’s doctors who are the wise, and where plants are concerned, gardeners—because I claim that they, too, whenever any of their plants are sick, instill perceptions that are beneficial and healthy, and true too, into them, instead of harmful ones . . . wise man makes beneficial things be and seem just and admirable to them, instead of any harmful things which used to be so for them. And according to the same principle the sophist is wise, too, in that he can educate his pupils in that way: and he de-serves a lot of money from those he has educated. Thus it’s true,

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both that some people are wiser than others, and that no one judges what’s false: and you have to put up with being a measure whether you like it or not, because that doctrine of mine is saved on these grounds (Tht. 167b-d).5

In principle, truth is not the same as better, and false is not the same as worse. Only in principle. Actually, Protagoras cannot be faithful to his own distinction, because he needs both to save his theory and to recon-cile it with practice.

For the point of view of the meta-level of theoretical knowledge, without taking a stand for or against our ability to know the nature of things in themselves, Protagoras can be construed as contending that people perceive and know according to their own disposition. We all possess knowledge according to our own subjective capacity. Each one of us is the measure of the content of his knowledge, which implies that there are no false opinions. A false opinion implies the being of a not-being, which is something that is neither perceivable nor conceivable. We cannot perceive the imperceptible and think the unthinkable. The human situation is such, per contra, that things are as they appear to be to each individual: “[T]he things which are and appear to one man are dif-ferent from those which are and appear to another” (Tht. 166d). Thus, nobody is closer to the truth than anyone else. A sick person who thinks that lemons taste sweet has no less knowledge than a healthy person who experiences the opposite. Values, like matters of taste, are not deduced out of knowledge.

In such a context, it becomes obvious that, contrary to what Plato claims, wisdom is not a matter of greater knowledge. Wisdom means, rather, the ability to change someone’s moral values, to make them better people in this sense. We cannot say that good things are more “real” or more “true” than bad things. Good things are neither more nor less real than bad things, though they are preferable at the other level, the valua-tive level. At the practical level, it is not a question of knowledge of facts, but of a change in attitude. Knowledge is irrelevant here. In moral issues there are better and worse people. It is a matter of fact, indeed, that people may be prone to do evil. Protagoras uses this fact as an argument for education—for the need to exert a salutary influence on people’s characters.

Each person has a given system of values, according to which he judges and takes stands toward the world, including the political world. People hold values, anyone has a different system of values, and anyone has a different order of priorities between conflicting values, an order defined by each individual disposition.

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At the meta-cognitive and meta-valuative levels, then, Protagoras takes a stand neither for or against any kind of knowledge, nor for or against any kind of values.

All this means that, at the epistemological meta-level, knowledge cannot be refuted and values cannot be criticized. This is the mark of the sophist’s epistemic relativism and axiological pluralism. To refute knowledge and to criticize values would be tantamount to asserting, in the first case, that you do not perceive what you perceive and do not know what you know, and in the second case, that you do not judge things as you judge them. Such refutation and criticism would involve judging what each person feels, thinks, and perceives—which would mean going beyond mere knowledge of these facts. Now, these facts constitute the form of knowledge and the form of valuation, without tak-ing into account their content.

Protagoras’ cognitivism, so analyzed, by no means entails any evaluative judgment of this knowledge of knowledge and knowledge of valuations. He did not attempt to deduce values from his knowledge of facts. He was ready to assert, by contrast, that people indeed may deduce their values for themselves. What seems to them to be just, is indeed, for them, just due to their given disposition to think so. Justice is what peo-ple believe it to be. Facts are deduced or at least are taken out of the prism of the values people sustain. Something is known, for example, insofar as it is beneficial and only from this value-perspective, and is not known in and for itself. People do not take a stand on a meta-cognitive and meta-valuative level.

A stand that someone takes about his epistemic approach would mean the assertion that the state of affairs described by knowledge is recom-mendable, that this state of affairs is the just state, or a preferable state; in short, would mean an attempt to bestow legitimacy to it. Protagoras’ ex-planation, on the contrary, remains an explanation and does not become a justification. His homo mensura statement is therefore cognitivist and does not take any stand.

Protagoras does not construct a relativistic approach on the valuative level either. If he did, he would be obliged to assert that, on account of those factual differences, each one ought to relativize the values he sus-tains. That conclusion would be a flagrant non sequitur from his prem-ises. Moreover, such relativism contradicts the Protagoras’ main thesis, which is that things are for me as they appear to me. As an alternative interpretation, I proposed that, at the epistemic level, as a reflective phi-losopher, he was a relativist who constructed a meta-theory of knowl-edge and a pluralistic theory of valuation. He realized that people judge (valuate) and know things and deeds in different ways according to their

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values and assumptions. Besides, Protagoras did not assert that things are different in themselves, but only different from each perspective. Namely, the very qualities of things are relational qualities and not inde-pendent and unconditional ones.

Clearly, Protagoras has a standard that is extrinsic to the standard im-plied by the homo mensura statement. The homo mensura statement de-termines a non-valuative, a non-justificatory, standard, whereas his own standard, the standard that allows him to be an educator, is totally extrin-sic to the state of affairs described by means of the homo mensura rule.

If Protagoras remained faithful to his meta-level of analysis, he would be unable to teach virtue, unable to advance certain values in favor of others. In the name of what, indeed, would he espouse any kind of mo-rality? Neither facts nor knowledge can constitute a ground for justifica-tion. The only support he can derive from his meta-theory is the conclu-sion that people are not ready to change their values until they undergo a change in themselves. They must be different than they are.

Let me insist, however, that Protagoras does not succeed in reconcil-ing these two tendencies or levels. His relativistic meta-theory is cogni-tive and value neutral whereas his practical approach, in which he tries to impose certain values over others—is valuative. Protagoras has, on the one side, a meta-theory of knowledge and valuation and, on the other side, a valuative moral theory. This “on the one side” and “on the other” signals, in itself, his failure. In the first level, he did not take a stand, whereas in the second he did. He supported a theory of knowledge and a theory of values that renounced all knowledge of what things are in themselves, and even whether they have an intrinsic value. His ethical approach defended a morality that was congenial to the pluralism of de-mocratic tolerance. In the first case he is relativist, though a cognitivist (descriptive) relativist. In the second case, he is not relativist but plural-ist, since he approves of certain values and rejects others while making room for the social co-existence of different values.

The Protagorean contradiction is an expression of the inner contra-diction of democracy. Democratic values at the relativist level are those of a society that permits a plurality of opinions. On the second level, de-mocratic values are those that he supports in his teachings. On this level, not any value is legitimized, but only those values that foster coopera-tion, encourage tolerance, and make democracy viable. Protagoras then was not relativist in the sense of someone that supports any value what-soever. His epistemic analysis is relativistic in the sense that he assumed that people indeed have values, not that they do not have them and not that they all have the same ones. He assumed that people know some-thing and not that they do not have any knowledge and not that they have

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the same knowledge. Asserting that something is just or true means, for his reflection, that it is true and just for someone and not true and just in itself. If Plato sought for a standard in the object or the Idea, Protagoras sought for a standard in the subject. Just as Socrates, taking a stand for the object, denied the subject, so Protagoras, taking a stand for the sub-ject, denied the object, or at least entertained grave doubts about its ex-istence.

In order to remain coherent, Protagoras would have had to distinguish between the epistemic and the valuative levels. At the epistemic level, a false opinion cannot be changed, as Plato would like, by means of pro-posing a counter, true opinion, since an opinion, true or false, is the result of a condition of the mind, of the mind’s form, rather than the actual content of the true or false idea itself. At the valuative level, on the con-trary, there are opinions that are, neither true nor false, but more or less beneficial, harmful, just, and so forth.

I would like to put Protagoras’ notions into sharper focus, even if it means pushing him a little further toward a paradoxical position. At the epistemic level, true and false opinions are neither true nor false. On the other hand, opinions from the valuative point of view, though are neither true nor false, can be better or worse. And, since Protagoras assumes that the source of our opinions is not knowledge but values, the only way to change an opinion, to change some content of thought, is to change the form or the disposition of mind, to change our values, not our knowl-edge. Education seeks to effect a change in the subject.

I shall insist that his epistemic level is already reflective: he regards the form of the idea, just the form, as content, even as the only content to be known. This is clearly a reflective point of view, a view that inverts all: what is in non-reflective thought a form, Protagoras refers to it as a content, and what non-reflective thought grasps as content, Protagoras refers to as form. In this regard, the example of the doctor becomes clearer. A doctor takes a stand for health and against sickness and, in this sense, he is as good as anyone is. Doctors and educators do not know what constitutes health or justice any better than you or I do; health and justice are values, and values in general are not a matter of expertise. We all possess the same share of the sense of justice that Zeus doled out to humankind. However, this sense of justice is not totally actualized in each citizen and in each State. There is a need, therefore, for education and moral leadership.

The problem with Protagoras’ theory—at least in the form that I have tried to reconstruct—is that it requires the denial of the content of knowl-

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edge, reducing it to its fonn. Since what is known depends on forms of knowledge and reasoning that pertain solely to the subject, the possibility of knowing is excilidecl These are the grounds for Protagorean formal­ism as we find it set out in the Theaetetus. However, this extreme formalism is attenuated by his preference of some values-of democratic values---over others. I have been arguing that these tendencies, the neu­tral-cognitive and the valuative, are irreconcilable.

Notes

I. Gomperz, GT. vol. J, 451. 2. Only for the sake of comparison, and to hint to the reader that this is not

the peak of philosophical rarities, let me contend that later, Hellenistic philoso­phy, as a philosophy that takes Greek philosophy to higher levels of reflection, makes even more sophisticated projections. Hellenistic philosophies are not philosophies of reflection, like those of Protagoras and Plato, but philosophies of reflection about reflection. [f Plato and Protagoras projected real aspects of the non-reflective mind, the Hell enistic philosophers projected the product of their own reflection onto the original non-reflective consciousness, so that the result was, for example, that when the stoics spoke about an order of the world, they did not intend to what they actually say, they where not concemed with the or­der of the world, but they were concerned with the problem of destiny. In other words, their concern with the world was not due to some concem with the world, but with human life through what appeared to be a concern with the na­ture of the world.

3. A similar idea appears in Prl. 314a-c. 4. Practical knowledge means the application of means on facts in light of

values as ends with the help of the knowledge of the relevant qualities of the facts to be changed.

5. This is the corresponding part of the "Protagoras speech" in the Theaelellls, though it must be taken carefully since it was written by Plato:

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Protagoras ' Relativism

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Chapter 17

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Plato’s Intellectualism and the Failure to Deduce Values from Knowledge

Plato starts by contemplating a fact: that values are predicated from deeds.

On this ground, instead of (and prior to) understanding that values are, in sentences, predicates of subjects, he tries to inquire after the ori-gins of those very predicates that appear, from the point of view of the isolated sentence, as fixed standards of valuation.1 He is partially right indeed, since if they were not fixed standards, they would not be able to function as predicates. However, he makes a step further, asking about the standard of those standards, finding it in knowledge. Knowledge, then, is the ultimate and the real standard. All values are reduced to knowledge. Values remain totally absorbed in the standard, so as in gen-eral the subject is only what the predicate asserts it is.2

For Plato, just because of their objective character, based on the inde-pendence of the predicate from the subject, values can be known as something that exists beforehand. It remains only to know them. It is a knowledge that implies a change of attitude of the knower subject ac-cording to the level of his knowledge. For this reason, there is no place for education, but only instruction. Not for educators in general, but for teachers of specific fields like mathematics, languages, and crafts.

Plato realized that predicates are standards for the knowing of the subjects. On this ground, Plato’s philosophy has two directions. On one hand, it is oriented to inquire about the standard itself, what later will end in his theory of Ideas. On the other hand, it is oriented to inquire about the relationship of the standard to what is seized by it—the subject.

The second tendency (the analysis of the relationship between the predicate and the subject) takes its logic out of the model of the meaning of isolated sentences. The isolation of sentences is already a work of re-

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flection. The resulting binary logic does not distinguish between contrary and contradictory. The model is the form of the isolated sentence. The logic of an isolated sentence includes only affirmation and negation of a predicate from a subject. There are no middle terms; there are no third parts; there is no place for mediation. Mediation assumes the account of more than one single sentence. In one single sentence, the predicate ei-ther is or is not the subject. If we say that the horse has wings, we are denying their absence even before the determination of the modal status. If it is said that the horse has no wings, the wings are being negated from the horse. In a single sentence, it cannot be said, meaningfully, that a horse both has and does not have wings. Such an utterance needs a fur-ther elucidation, further sentences. The notion simply cannot be properly conveyed in one single uncontextual sentence. In fact, any kind of sen-tence functions in this way; that is, any elementary unit of thought means both negation and affirmation. Plato, it seems, was the first to discover this phenomenon. In any case, Plato based his entire philosophy on ex-trapolations of the character of sentences taken in isolation. We can call it “a philosophy of the isolated sentence” and, in this sense, it is a reflec-tive approach, since such isolation is made only by reflection.

Now the question is why he takes sentences, in his sui generis reflec-tion, beyond their actual or common “use-value.” I think that this is be-cause he does not grasp that his thought is actually reflection. He regards, instead, the form, which is its object of reflection, as if it were part of the original content, transforming the logic of the sentence into the model of logic in general. Plato pushed the logic of the sentence beyond its own limits, believing that the sentence is the model of thought in general. This is the ground for his dialogic philosophy and, later on, of his Theory of Ideas. The Platonic dialogue is an expression of the affirmative-negative character of the sentence, and the Idea is an expression of the relatively universal and stable character of the predicate in relation to the subject.

Since Plato’s assumption is, out of his model of the isolated sentence, an ideal, even universal, standard, he is unable to understand Protagoras when, in the Theaetetus he asks why a person is the better standard of measure of all things than “a pig, or a baboon, or some other creature that has perception” (Tht. 161c). Very satiric, very ingenious indeed, but this is not yet a refutation. It is not, because if pigs would have self-consciousness, they would be, indeed, the standard of measure of all things, as would be the case, obviously, in a “piggean” world. Against this opinion, Plato has an extra-worldly standard, in the name of which he wants to refute Protagoras’ intrinsic standard.

Plato’s dialogic philosophy asks only a yes or no from other logos. Thus the dialogue, determined under the guidance of the model of an

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isolated sentence, turns into a monologue. One of the two logoi is the subject, the other the predicate, which are the constitutive parts of the same logos.

Now the Idea accumulates in accordance with the model of the predi-cate. The predicate cannot change insofar as it functions as predicate in a sentence. Since this is a formal trait of the sentence, Plato’s philosophy is a reflection that rejects itself. I am not trying to say that it is not a reflec-tion. It is, but rejects what it is. It is a reflection because it becomes the authority, the standard of measure for the validation of all further knowl-edge.

The Platonic Idea is the result of the predicative process, though taken in isolation from this process. As such, it becomes the content of thought, and since in his reflection Plato denies room for the form of thought, the content becomes the only criteria of knowledge. Thus, Plato believes that anybody who holds conflicting or erroneous values must necessarily be ignorant. Behavior must be based on knowledge and not on faulty values.

We may express Plato’s intellectualism in this way: if someone knows what he “ought” to be, then that’s what he must be. A coward’s only problem is that he lacks knowledge. Such a person can be instructed (not educated) in the nature of danger. Once he has learnt this lesson, he will behave according to what he knows, which is to say, he will behave cou-rageously. It is impossible for someone to know the good and to do evil willingly and consciously. According to Plato, there is “nothing stronger than knowledge (episteme), and . . . wherever knowledge is present, it is always stronger than pleasure or anything else” (Prt. 357d). Socrates even sustained that what people call “madness” is not but lack of wisdom (sophia):

Madness . . . according to him [to Socrates] was the opposite of Wisdom. Nevertheless he did not identify Ignorance with Madness; but not to know yourself, and to assume and think that you know what you do not, he put next to Madness. “Most men, however,” [declared Socrates] “do not call those mad who err in matters that lie outside the knowledge of ordinary people: madness is the name they give to errors in matters of common knowledge. For instance, if a man imagines himself to be so tall as to stoop when he goes through the gateways in the Wall, or so strong as to try to lift houses or to perform any other feat that everybody knows to be impossible, they say he’s mad. They don’t think a slight error im-plies madness, but just as they call strong desire love, so they name a great delusion madness.”3

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Namely, there is not a personality, there is not someone that if either has or has not knowledge, will remain without any change in his behav-ior and motivations—there is not a subject. His consistent and extreme rationalism does not make room for a personality as something real, since reality would mean the presence of a residue not grasped by the mind. Good behavior and good character spring from knowledge, whereas evil and weakness are only manifestations of ignorance. Plato could not admit that it is possible for a subject’s behavior to fall short of his intentions.

This, then, is the main assumption of the theory of measurement: hu-man activity cannot be explained by needs, values, desires, or anything else but knowledge. Needs and values do not exist independently or separately. The behavior of a wise person cannot be explained directly out of his needs. His behavior is subordinated to a “science of measure.” I shall insist: it is subordinated to such a science, not “ought” to be so, since if it were not so subordinated, this person, according to Plato, would not be wise after all.

In general, Plato asserts that the act itself is desirable if one desires its consequences. In other words, if you desire the ends you necessarily de-sire the means. This identification between means and ends is the basis for speaking of “bad pleasures” or “good pains.”

This identification is the result of confusing two modes of discourse, one applied to an activity that is a means toward an end different from itself, and the other to an activity that is an end in itself.4 Once Plato merges these two kinds of discourse, he has set the stage for a theory of measurement that is the basis of a criterion for judging actions and their consequences, in order to be guided by a decision-making theory: Plea-sure is bad when it prevents greater pleasures.5 This is a technique for maximizing pleasure and minimizing pain.6

Once Plato reduces pleasure to good, he is able to refute the popular notion of “being overcome by pleasures,” since whoever knows what the good consists in will act according to that knowledge. But if the concept of being overcome by pleasures is to have any meaning once good and pleasure are equated, then whenever someone does a bad thing because he is overcome by pleasure, he must also have been overcome by good (see Prt. 355b-d). However, it would be a mistake to call Plato a hedon-ist, since self-control is for him wisdom itself (see Prt. 358c). Actually, he is closer to stoicism than to hedonism.

Up to this point, Plato’s intention seems to be to reduce the diversity of virtues to a unity by transforming them all into Promethean virtues. Indeed, Socrates’ admission by the end of the dialogue of his preference in the myth for Prometheus rather than Epimetheus would seem to sup-

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port my view that the discussion about the unity of the virtues represents Plato’s reaction to Protagoras’ theory of the heterogeneity of values.

The establishment of the unity of virtues is only an introduction to the reduction of virtue to knowledge. Knowledge of the true measure of things is the only virtue, and all else that is conventionally thought to be virtue is mere ignorance. There can only be knowledge or ignorance, being or nothingness, truth or error (see Prt. 357d). By asserting that vir-tue is knowledge virtue becomes annulled and, a fortiori, the unity of virtues.

The question that has to be asked here is why Plato should assume that there is only knowledge and not virtue. In other words, why should he regard virtue as knowledge? I have already suggested the answer in proposing the idea that, in Plato’s view, the subject, and his capacity for being virtuous, cannot be different from the object of his knowledge. This extreme rationalist and cognitivist position leads Plato to assume that passions and interests are subordinated to the rational part of the soul. He does not even regard fear and courage, for example, as states of mind. They have no ontic existence, and are not defined as attitudes and powers in their own right—as Protagoras believes. Rather, Plato defines them entirely by their objects. They are merely knowledge of fearful and unfearful things. Plato defines courage as “the knowledge [wisdom, sophia] of fearful and non-fearful things” (Prt. 360d).

We need still to analyze the relationship between Plato’s reduction of virtue to knowledge and his preference for the Promethean principle (see Prt. 361d). What, then, is the connection between his claim that virtue is knowledge and his preference for Promethean teleological activity?

In the Socratic Plato, the subject is merely the product of what he knows and what he is ignorant about. This circumstance characterizes technical expertise and productive knowledge. Persons specializing in particular fields of endeavor differ from one another by their particular variety of knowledge. Indeed the basis of specialization is knowledge of those things that pertain to a specific field, and such knowledge is about means; in other words, it is technical knowledge. The theory of meas-urement, too, is knowledge not about ends but about means. Therefore if, as the Greeks believed, virtue is not techné, then it is not teachable, and there would be no reason for anyone to try to teach it. However, by the end of the dialogue, Plato asserts that political virtue is teachable. This takes place only after the theory of measurement is applied so as to turn political virtue into a Promethean virtue—that is, into a State-craft.

For Plato, politics is Promethean in nature. Thus the subject, for whom such productive activity is a means to an end, is submerged in the deed; he postpones his own vital needs, and sacrifices himself on behalf

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of an end that is different from the activity in which he is engaged. Similarly, Plato’s conception of virtue as knowledge suppresses the sub-ject. Knowledge means knowledge of the object but never of the subject. In Plato’s way of thinking there is no such thing as a subject who differs from what he knows and what he does not know. Hence, the suppression of the subject is the common denominator of Plato’s theory of the unity of the virtues as knowledge and of his preference for teleological activ-ity. Even when Plato asserts that he does not only inquire for the logos but also for the person who holds it, logos is content, and the person who holds it has only contents in mind.

Since there is, finally, no subject, the basic problem in Plato’s phi-losophy is his attempt to reduce every variety of activities to expertise, when expertise assumes a subject that possesses ends. Expertise has meaning only to the extent that given ends are assumed. However, if all activities are reduced to expertise, how are we to determine the ends that guide the activities? Plato’s absolute commitment to expertise obliges him to convert every end into a means. So that, strictly speaking, there are no ultimate ends. In the Protagoras, it would appear that Plato de-fends the idea that the ultimate end is salvation (Prt. 356e). In a Socratic spirit, one may nevertheless ask, to what purpose do we need to save our lives. Plato’s philosophy, however, admits of no ultimate ends—only of ends that are the means to other ends; the issue of ultimate ends is meaningless within the context of Platonic reasoning.

Notes

1. See “Plato’s Theory of Recollection and the Subject-Predicate Rela-

tionship” in chapter 4. 2. Gerasimos X. Santas asserts that in Plato, “no significant distinction

seems to be made between knowledge of values and knowledge in the sciences.” Gerasimos X. Santas: Socrates: Philosophy in Plato’s Early Dialogues (London and Boston: Routledge Kegan Paul, 1979), 138. It seems however, that Santas himself does not make a distinction between the knowledge of values out of which “what to do” is deducible, and knowledge of values out of which “what to do” is not deducible. Plato himself does not make this distinction since for him, beforehand, values (rather, virtues) are deducible out of knowledge and become themselves knowledge.

3. Xenophon, Memorabilia (New York: Arno Press, 1979), IV, III, ix 6-8. 4. I do not discuss here another confusion, that between good and advan-

tageous, and that between bad and disadvantageous. Plato clearly reduces the Good, a Zeusian value in the eyes of Protagoras, to Advantageous, a Promethean value. I have already discussed this point extensively in chapter 7.

5. For attempts to build up other theories of measurement of pleasures,

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see Jeremy Bentham, An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legisla-tion (London: Methuen, 1982), chapter 4; Henry Sidgwick, The Methods of Ethics (London: Macmillan, 1907), book II, chapters 2 and 3; Ralph B. Perry, General Theory of Value: Its Meaning and Basic Principles Constructed in Terms of Interest (New York: Longmanns, Green, 1926), chapter 21.

6. To Protagoras’ way of thinking, pleasure and pain are judged by a crite-rion that is different from the criterion of goodness and badness. In the case of pleasure and pain, the criterion is satisfaction of needs; whereas in that of good-ness and badness, the criterion is the utility or benefit gained by the results of an action. Hence, “good” and “bad” are terms applied here to means alone, which are good if they are helpful in achieving the end, and bad if they prevent its at-tainment. It is impossible, therefore, to establish a common basis for these crite-ria.

Appendixes

Appendix A

What Does "Man" Mean in Protagoras ' "Man Is the Measure ... ?"

Commentators usually discuss and take a stand for one of the altema­tive ways of understanding Protagoras ' anthr6pos. The altematives are as follows:

1. Anrhropos means the singular person, whose sensations are differ­ent from those of anyone e lsc . This is the interpretation of Plato and Ar­istot le. Plato says: "Protagoras means something on these lines: every­thing is, for me, the way it appears to me, and is, for you, the way it ap­pears to you; and you and [ are, each of us, a man" (Tht. 156e).'

2. Anthropos as a generic idea, namely. that the human species is dif­ferent from other species. Gomperz endorses this interpretation. He as­serts:

The phrase about man as the measure of things- the homo men­sura tenet, as it has been suitably abbreviated-was a contribution to the theory of cognition. Moreover "man," as opposed to the to­tality of objects, was obviously not the individual, but mankind as a whole. No unprejudiced reader will require to be convinced that this is at least the more natural and the more obvious meaning. 1

3. Anthropos means the social human being, not as generically distin­guis hed from other species, but as distinguished from other human be­ings on the basis of their soc ial circle. Namely, anlhropos is the political human being. This is the stand taken by Eugene Dupree!. He asserts that Protagoras is the less individualistic and the more "soc ial" among all the ancient philosophers, so that his conception of man is socio\ogic.3

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Regarding Gomperz’s interpretation let me say, first, that Protagoras does not refer to the totality of things, but to them so as they are per-ceived. Things are predicates of man. He does not say, for instance, “all things are x of y” but “Man is x of y.” If there is any difference between these two formalizations, the difference lies in that the subject matter is different in each case: “man” is the subject matter in the first case, and “all things” in the second case. In the first case, there is a turn to the form of knowledge, in the second case to its content.

Secondly, he does not refer to the totality of human beings but to each one of them. Protagoras indeed generalizes, since to refer to “each one” is already a kind of generalization. But Gomperz adds one more generali-zation to Protagoras’ generalization. I mean, he goes far beyond Pro-tagoras. In Protagoras, the general concept of man refers also to each singular person, including the difference between individuals, whereas the generic concept ignores the individual and ignores differences in or-der to grasp what they have in common. Gomperz, therefore, has rather a Platonic-oriented interpretation, whereas Plato himself knew how to dis-tinguish between his position and that of Protagoras.

As for Dupréel, perhaps he is right in assuming that Protagoras was the most social of all ancient philosophers. However, Dupréel takes Pro-tagoras metaphorically, as having a theory on the social conditioning rather than a theory of knowledge or a theory of perception. This, I think, may be a presupposition of Protagorean theory, but not part of it. If Du-préel, notwithstanding, is right, his interpretation regarding the generic meaning of “man” is hardly different from Gomperz’. Like Gomperz, Dupréel is generalizing the generalization of Protagoras, though in a more sophisticated way.

Plato’s understanding is better. I myself, regarding the question of the meaning of “man,” tend to agree with Schiller, Lewis Campbell and Brian Donovan4 who have all asserted (though each one with his sui generis arguments) that the two interpretations, the individual and the generic, were probably not clearly present in Protagoras’ thought. I would add that “Man” meant for Protagoras “this or that man” as well as an abstract, generic notion. Protagoras probably did not have clear con-ceptualization a la Aristotle of genera, species, and individuals, at least regarding the concept of man. Man is for him less than a genus and more than an individual. Man implies both, just as in the discourse of common sense, where the concept of man has the character of an archetype.

Archetypes are universals that mean ideal individuals and individuals that are adapted to these universals by being made to their measure (the stereotype).

Archetypal thinking is prevalent in common sense discourse, though mixed in with other ways of thinking, with substantiative thinking and with mythical thinking as well.

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Forms of thought, a question analyzed neither by Protagoras nor by Plato due to their reductionism, are the ways or categories that the mind uses when it orders the world. Forms of thought determine the relations among things. More specifically, a form of thinking is the way in which a universal refers to a singular entity. By universals, we try to capture and explain the singular entity. The specific characteristic of the singular entity, the universal, and their mutual relations, determine the differences between ways of ordering the world—the differences, that is, between forms of thought.5

Each form of thought delimits boundaries differently. The criteria for the affinity between entities and for division, characterization, and expla-nation are different in each case, so there is no correlation between ar-chetypes and genera and species. For example, we will find the archetype of “mother” but not the archetype of “human.” Whereas in thinking by genera and species, we will find the “human” species but not the “woman” species. This mode of arrangement is also, along and in con-flict with archetypes, typical of waking thought, which is based on the assumption of genera and species as universals that refer to singular enti-ties as substances. A substance is a substratum that is a “carrier” of quali-ties. Thus the lemon tree in my garden is, as a substance, that which has greenness, leaves, roots, and so on, as its qualities. However, beyond its qualities or parts, this tree is nothing more than an abstract substratum that carries these qualities.

The assumption of singular substances makes classification possible. It allows the subtraction or addition of qualities to the singular entity, without also changing or voiding the entity. The universal (the genera and species) and the qualities intend to explain and classify the singular entity, which is the substance. However, the universal does not include the uniqueness and full singularity of the entity. How, then, is a particu-lar singular entity discerned from another, within the framework of the classification? In “substantiative” thought, the substratum that carries the qualities is the principle of individuation. This furnishes the constancy that lies beyond the changes, and has the capacity of carrying qualities.6 Therefore, insofar as the substance is a singular entity subordinated to the hierarchy of genera and species, it is only a principle of individuation and, consequently, only an exemplar.

The universal of substantiative thought is produced by ignoring the qualities peculiar to any singular entity. All the distinctive qualities of a singular entity can be removed from it without the entity disappearing, owing to the fixed and entirely abstract structure of the substratum. However, in stereotypic thought the opposite is true, for it is impossible to remove all distinctive qualities of a singular entity and still retain

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something, because nothing exists beyond the gestaltic qualities that con-stitute the singular entity. Moreover, in stereotypic thought, not only do the qualities constitute the singular entity, but they also determine the way in which singular entities are ordered and the kind of relations each has with the others. They are thus more tightly linked with one another and with the whole than are the qualities of the substance, and the boundaries between them and the whole are less sharp. Therefore, if the parts (or gestaltic qualities) constitute the singular entity, then these parts also explain it. In other words, the singular entity is identified by one of its aspects—the aspect that is relevant to the situation. The gestaltic quality, by which the singular entity is identified, is the “universal” that explains everything and makes everything explicit. Hence, gestaltic qualities are the universals of stereotypic thought.

For the waking generic-stereotypic mind the same things may differ as to time and space and in some or all of their qualities, without disap-pearing or changing. Singular entities exist beyond their qualities as es-sences. For the pure stereotypic mind, by contrast, singular entities can-not have an essence beyond their gestaltic, sense-perceived qualities. They are constant only within the limits of what is sense-perceived. Be-cause of the absence of essence, or of an unalterable substratum, the same quality or aspect by which the singular is identified constitutes their identity. Unlike substances, singular entities in non-substantiating thought are not what is not perceived. They are not what they were, not what they will be, not what they would be. In a word, they are not their essence.7

In substantiative thought a substance cannot be another substance, since its substratum is its principle of individuation, which is the princi-ple of self-identity.

An archetype is a universal explanans, in the way that genera are ex-planans in substantiative thought. The singular entity in archetypal thought is a stereotype, just as the singular entity is a substance for sub-stantiative thought.

Archetypes are abstractions arranged as ideal prominent singular en-tities made of a permanent unity of certain qualities. An archetype is more than just a quality and less than a genus. It is already a single per-spective of the singular entity, as in oneiric thought; but not a fixed and indestructible substratum that ensures permanency beyond change, as in substantiative thought.

Insofar as the singular entity is not the archetype, it is not recogniz-able. In archetypal thought, the singular entity is nothing but the arche-type. Thus, an archetype subordinates a singular entity by way of adap-tation. Archetypes subordinate the singular entity by adjusting some of

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its qualities to them, and by the annulment of those qualities that are not adjustable. The result is a “made-to-measure” entity, namely a stereo-type. For example, to be a mother it is enough to be adapted to the ar-chetype of mother. The adapted mother is now an ideal mother, who has all the qualities belonging to this archetype, and is “freed” from qualities that are not adjustable.

The peculiarity of the archetypal way of thinking can thus be summa-rized, by contrasting it with qualities and the substantiative forms of thought:

1. The universality of the archetype, unlike that of the genera, is not achieved by eliminating all peculiar qualities, but by emphasizing some of the qualities of the singular entity and eliminating the others.

2. Archetypes, unlike qualities as universals (as in mythical thought), are not aspects of the singular entity. They are rather some aspects that, when brought together, constitute an individual-like structure.

3. The permanence of individual stereotypes, unlike that of sub-stances, is not based on a principle of permanency (abstract substrata), but on a fixed combination of qualities.

4. The stereotype, unlike an arranged whole, as in myths, is identical with its universal, the archetype.8

For Protagoras, if this is his pattern of thought, “man” may be an indi-vidual, or a city, and even human beings in general. Thus, it is not by chance that the interpreters cannot decide between the two (or three) al-ternatives, since for Protagoras does not make any essential distinction.

Notes

1. See Aristotle, Met. XI, 6, 1062b13. Plato, at a later stage of the argu-

ment, in Tht. 172a, has Protagoras talk about cities being measures of justice and injustice. It may be, therefore, that the individual interpretation cannot be based on Plato’s approach. However, there is yet the possibility that Plato understands Protagoras words otherwise. At least, there is here an explicit reduction of men to “individual man,” something in want of explanation.

2. Gomperz, GT, vol. I, 451. 3. See Eugene Dupréel, Les Sophistes: Protagoras, Gorgias, Hippias,

Prodicus (Paris: Editions du Griffon, 1948), 19. 4. Ferdinand C. S. Schiller, Studies in Humanism (Westport, Conn.:

Greenwood Press, 1970), 33. Lewis Campbell, The Theaetetus of Plato (New York: Arno Press, 1973), 254. Brian R. Donovan, “The Project of Protagoras,” Rhetoric Society Quarterly 23 (Winter 1993): 41.

5. About the distinction between form and content, and the historical de-velopment of forms of thought, see Oded Balaban, Subject and Consciousness (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, 1990), 3-20, 129-57.

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6. Aristotle deeply analyzed substantiative thinking. His analysis can be regarded as the self-consciousness of substantiative thought. He argues that the essence of things is eternal and can be neither produced nor destroyed. See Met., VII, 3, 8. VIII, 3. Thomas Aquinas ended a long period of terminological confu-sion over Aristotle’s texts when he correctly reduced the idea of substance to quidditas and to the subjectum. See Summa Theologiae, 1265-1273, I, quest. 29, a. 2, quest. 85, a. 1, a. 6.

7. See also Ernst Cassirer, The Philosophy of Symbolic Forms, vol. II (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1960), 63-4.

8. I developed this idea in more detail in Asnat Balaban and Oded Bala-ban, “Oneiric, Archetypal and Wakeful Forms of Thought: A Critique of Jung’s Theory of Archetypes,” Gestalt Theory, 17 (1995): 44-56. See Alessandro Levi, Contributo ad un’interpretazione del pensiero di Protagora, Atti del R. Istit. gen. di Sc. Lett. ed art, 65 (1905-6): 602.

Appendix B

Critical Remarks on Some Interpretations of Plato' s Self-Consciousness

W. K. C. Guthrie and J . Annas: Self-Knowledge Is Knowledge of the Self

According to Guthrie, Socrates asserts in the Charm ides that knowl­edge of oneself is also knowledge of itself. I-li s textual reference is to 16ge, where Socrates agrees with the fo llowing statement by Critias: " When a man has know ledge, he is knowi ng, and when he has know l­edge whose object is itself, he will know himse lf."\ However, for Soc­rates the problem does not lie in understanding the known-object (in this case- the knower-subject) nor the knowledge I have of it. For Socrates the question is neither lhe subject nor the object of knowledge, but the referellce of the subject to the object. Otherwise, he would not merely agree with Critias. Hi s very agreement demonstrates that he does not cons ider this a problem. The problem is not the subject as a thing or as an object but the very se lf-refe rence whose existence is ultimately denied. YOli are able, in principle, to know thaI you know and to know what you kn ow, but not to know how YOlI kn ow. That is a tota lly different ques­tion, the question of reference as such . In " know ing that" and " knowing what," you know the resu lt of the reference, not the reference itself. Un­less you understand reference as the object oflhe intentional act.

Following Guthrie. Ju lia Annas and others tend to understand "se lf­kn owledge" in the Chamlides as kn owledge of the se lf? They treat the

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argument as if it means that self-knowledge is sophrosune instead of be-ing knowledge of knowledge.3

Regarding sophrosune let me first recall, that in the Charmides it is Critias who proposes the definition of sophrosune as self-knowledge, and Socrates disagrees with him.

Regarding self-knowledge. On the basis of an extrapolation of what is said in the Alcibiades I, Annas asserts that

Plato may have come to think that there was nothing he could say, apart from hints and metaphor, to explain self-knowledge as knowledge that has for its object the elusive true or real self. In the Charmides the quest for the self as object of self-knowledge is re-placed by the more manageable and clearly articulable discussion of knowledge that has knowledge as its object.4

It very well may be that knowledge that has knowledge as its object is more manageable and easier to articulate than the quest for the self. However, if this is the reason that Plato moves from the analysis of the self to the analysis of knowledge, then such a move must lead to some kind of positive result. However, the dialogue ends denying, or at least doubting, the very existence of any knowledge that knows itself. If we accept Annas’ interpretation, then we must conclude that Plato is really denying the very existence of the self or soul. We cannot draw such a conclusion, because it runs directly against the very core of his philosophy.

What Plato means, in my opinion, is that self-knowledge is not the knowledge of the soul, or of the self or anything else; it is knowledge only insofar as the self is defined as an epistemic relation and not as a thing. In principle, at least, it is easy to know a thing. Plato has no trou-ble knowing (for example) the eye, but knowing the sight does indeed pose a special problem, since it is the visual relation. Moreover, Plato has a marked tendency to transform relations to things. In fact, this is the only way he can recognize relations, namely, not as such, as relations. This is Plato’s reason for rejecting the possibility of knowledge of knowledge.

After asserting, without any explanation, that “most of . . . [the So-cratic] arguments in the Charmides are not very good,”5 Annas asserts that “Socrates brings, in many different guises, the objection that knowl-edge must have a subject matter distinct from itself.”6 Annas adds, that “there is no way of interpreting [knowledge of knowledge] as knowledge of something in the way Socrates requires.”7 Here I might agree with Annas, but I am agreeing with Annas’ words, not their spirit. It seems

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that she is asserting, or at least hinting, what I contend, namely, that knowledge of knowledge is not knowledge of something, and, therefore, there is no place for self-knowledge, since knowledge is defined only by its results. But it turns out that I fail to understand her. Indeed, Annas goes on to assert that

the requirement can only be met if knowledge is conceived of as a relation between a subject and a distinct object, existing separately from the knower. This demand on knowledge, that its subject mat-ter exist separately from the knowing subject, is one which is very visible in the middle dialogues, where the preferred model of knowledge is mathematics, and it is one of the main features of what we mean by “Platonism” as a philosophical position.8

The question for Plato, however, clearly is not the existence of a third thing, the relation, between the knower and the known object, precisely because knowledge is immediate knowledge of the object. But he distin-guishes, more deeply indeed, between self-knowledge and knowledge of the self. Let me quote him:

[Socrates]: I do not doubt, I said, that a man will know himself, when he possesses that which has self-knowledge: but what neces-sity is there that, having this, he should know what he knows and what he does not know? Because, Socrates, they are the same. Very likely, I said; but I remain as stupid as ever; for still I fail to comprehend how this knowing what you know and do not know is the same as the knowledge of self (Chr. 169a-170a).

Plato defends this distinction throughout the dialogue not only stead-fastly but quite clearly as well. Moreover, Plato denies just the mediation of such a relation as a third party. In the following passage he clearly de-nies knowledge of knowledge but accepts knowledge insofar as it is knowledge of the known itself:

Then how will this knowledge or science teach him to know what he knows? Say that he knows health;—not wisdom or temperance, but the art of medicine has taught it to him; and he has learned harmony from the art of music, and building from the art of build-ing, neither, from wisdom or temperance: and the same of other things. That is evident.

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How will wisdom, regarded only as a knowledge of knowledge or science of science, ever teach him that he knows health, or that he knows building? It is impossible. Then he who is ignorant of these things will only know that he knows, but not what he knows? (Chr. 170c).

Annas, however, accepts that, for the Socratic Plato, self-knowledge is not knowledge, but not for the right reasons. She merely thinks so be-cause “The self is not the required kind of distinct object that knowledge, given this model, requires.”9 However, for Plato neither the self nor an objective relation is at stake here, but just reference as such—the process of referring. He is unwilling to accept the process of knowledge as something distinct from the subject as a thing or distinct from the known-object.

All the confusion began by assuming that the self of self-knowledge is not knowledge itself, but the self of the knower (the knowing subject). Annas believes that the knower is nothing but a direct relation to the ob-ject.

For Plato, the subject is a cognitive relation. But since there is no re-lation beyond what is known, there is no subject at all outside the result of knowledge, at least in the sense of a relation. There is indeed a body, and there is a soul, but they are things, not relations. Only as such, as things, can we know them. You can see the eye, but not the sight. Eyes, souls, and bodies are things, but vision and knowledge are relations and, as such, unknowable; furthermore, they are unknowable because they are nonexistent.

My critique also holds for Eduard Ballard.10 The discussion between Annas and Ballard, however, boils down to one single point: Ballard be-lieves that Plato discovered the existential self, whereas Annas believes that this self is not an individual self, but a socially committed one.

I believe that this discussion about self-knowledge may help the dis-cussion about the authenticity of Alcibiades I. I agree with Schleier-macher in that it is not Platonic, though not for the same reasons. Schleiermacher decries its “poverty,” but this opinion is a matter of taste, as Annas points out. Annas maintains that we cannot use any stylistic considerations to judge its authenticity. Indeed, style is an ambiguous criterion. However, other considerations lead me to believe that it is not Platonic: It is formalist in approach, and thus runs contrary to Plato’s very spirit.11 Indeed, the call for self-knowledge in the Alcibiades I ac-cords with Apollo’s command, “know yourself” (Alc. I, 129a), some-

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thing that flatly contradicts all the early Socratic dialogues, specially the Charmides.

Terry Penner: Socrates’ Legacy Is to Get People to See Things for Themselves

According to Penner, the Socratic dialogues are not merely negative. Socrates’ claim that he knows nothing and that nobody knows anything, “in no way implies that Socrates does not hold strong convictions . . . about ethical matters,”12 and that “the whole point of the Socratic dialec-tic is to get people to see things for themselves, as a result of his refuta-tions—and without their understanding being short-circuited by the de-vice of giving them a formula.”

Penner believes that the Socratic method consists in juxtaposing two opposing and defensible arguments in such a way that they both become indefensible, and in the process “to leave enough hints in the course of the dialectic that, even though the interlocutor can’t figure it out, a per-ceptive and persistent reader or listener can.”13

If this interpretation is correct, then we must take Socrates’ assertion that he knows nothing as an example of his irony (since if virtue is knowledge he cannot have strong moral convictions).

The example Penner uses to defend his interpretation is the Hippias Minor, where Socrates says the person who errs willingly is better than the one who errs unwillingly. That means, that “the more just person . . . is the one who does unjust deeds willingly rather than the one who does unjust deeds unwillingly—contrary to what the law and our general ethi-cal consciousness seems to suggest.”14

Now, according to Penner and most commentators, this is not really Socrates’ opinion since, at the end of the dialogue, he offers only as a hint a refutation by turning to facts: “Therefore the person who errs willingly in doing disgraceful and unjust things, Hippias, if there is such a person, will be no other than the good person” (Hip. Min. 376b4-6).

The conclusion, a positive one, is that no one errs willingly. True, if there were anyone who did err willingly, that person would be more vir-tuous, but no such person exists. Penner concludes that “the teeth of the outrageous conclusion are drawn; and though Hippias does not see this, the perceptive and persistent reader or listener can.”15

However, a perceptive and persistent reader might well see something else entirely.

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I think that Penner’s understanding of Socrates’ argumentation in the Hippias Minor is flawed. Specifically, he fails to understand what the real conclusion is, confusing the means with the end of the whole argu-mentation. What appears to be the conclusion of the argumentation is really only the means. The assertion “no one errs willingly” is actually an argument brought to show that there are no liars (a surprising argument, to be sure, but Platonic logic contains a lot of surprises).

The point is not whether people who err willingly do or do not exist, but that nobody can be a liar. Of course, such a view runs contrary to or-dinary common sense. The Socratic strategy here is to lead us to accept a series of conclusions; if you accept the last, then ipso jure you accept the first. Penner found Socrates’ conclusions so convincing that he forgot Plato’s task—to defend an unorthodox and unpopular position. Penner does not even recall the question concerning the inexistence of liars. But therein lies meaning of Plato’s words “if there is such a person” (Hip. Min. 376b).

There are no liars. If there is something a perceptive and persistent reader must understand, it is just this. Indeed, according to Socrates, if the only motive for thought and action were knowledge, nobody would lie willingly (since to lie means, as we noted above, to lie consciously and willingly).

The conflation of science and morality produces the assumption that morality depends on knowledge alone, which means in turn that there are no moral motives beyond knowledge. Finally, then, there are no moral motives at all, because one must base one’s decisions only on knowl-edge. Socrates not only opposes a theory of knowledge, he opposes a theory of ethics. This extreme intellectualism flagrantly contradicts our moral convictions, and tells us how far Socrates is ready to go to defend his epistemic, anti-formalist approach. Penner, perhaps out of some kind of unexamined identification with Socrates, ignores the more relevant passages, those referring to the impossibility of being a liar, or at least the assertion that liars are good. Socrates turns to common sense argu-ments in order to make extremely unacceptable opinions convincing. Penner, however, attempts to prove that Socrates’ opinions (and not merely his arguments) actually conform to common sense. In order to accomplish this feat of misinterpretation, Penner defends him where de-fense is easy, and forgets him where a defense would run against com-mon sense.

The problem with Plato’s way of thinking is that we cannot make a clear-cut distinction between his descriptive and prescriptive arguments. It is not clear, and it cannot be clear, whether Plato is asserting that liars do not exist, or if liars ought not exist. In fact his conclusion, that liars do

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not exist, can only be implied from certain logical considerations about what it would mean to be a liar under the presupposition that virtue is knowledge (it would mean that a liar is a good person, even the best kind of person, because one must be knowledgeable in order to lie).

If we do not share Socrates’ assumptions, well then, the notion that nobody errs willingly does not imply that nobody lies. In light of less anti-formalist reflective assumptions, the lie must be explained as moti-vated by drives, tendencies, thoughts, and not necessarily by knowledge alone. However, for Plato, knowledge is the only motivative force; this assumption is the key for understanding his odd conclusions.

It is not sufficient that the task of Socrates is to get people to see things by themselves.16 Moreover, this is very un-Socratic in spirit. I can imagine Socrates arguing as follows: If I ask a flutist what I will become if I study with him, he may answer: “You will become a person that un-derstands things concerned with the playing of the flute.” Similarly, If I go to Hippocrates, I will learn to become a person who understands things concerned with the health of the body. For Socrates, knowledge means only knowledge of specific matters. It follows then, that Socrates would never espouse such a vague, unspecified goal as teaching people to improve themselves in general, or to see things for themselves in general, without reference to a particular branch of knowledge. Such notions have no place in Socrates’ philosophy. Not because they are general assertions, but because such assertions becoming nothing when they are detached from the content in question; they become an empty form, a way to no-place, a “how” without a “what.”

Socrates does have notions about the inexistence of liars. This is a strange conclusion, but it prepares us to review our understanding of the early dialogues, the Protagoras included.

Gregory Vlastos: The Socratic Plato Is a Deductivist Philosopher

I would like to try a methodological critique of Gregory Vlastos. Re-garding the relationship between knowledge and moral goodness, Vlas-tos asserts that “what Socrates called ‘knowledge’ he thought both neces-sary and sufficient for moral goodness.”17 This is, shortly stated, the way Vlastos understands the idea that “virtue is knowledge.” However, in-stead of trying to understand Socrates, Vlastos counters Socrates’ ap-proach with his own. He even goes so far as to ask if Socrates was right,

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and claims that Socrates erred “on some fundamental points.”18 In other words, Vlastos takes a stand against Socrates instead of trying to exam-ine his assumptions.

Thus, Vlastos maintains that knowledge is neither necessary nor suf-ficient for moral goodness. Common sense furnishes the evidence he brings forward to challenge Socrates. According to Vlastos, one can fear even when one knows that there is nothing to be afraid of. Socrates would have said that this state of mind is absurd. Vlastos, however, an-swers that absurdity is no argument against facts. “But,” Vlastos adds “Socrates . . . has all too little interest in facts. . . . Socrates’ model for knowledge was what we would call deductive knowledge now-a-days.”19

Now it seems to me that Vlastos is considering the issue on a different level than the Socratic Plato does. To speak of inductive or deductive knowledge is to address oneself to the level of the knowledge of objects. Socrates is not interested in this sort of thing at all. Socrates and Plato are concerned with reflection; their question is not about knowledge of ob-jects, but about the knowledge of such knowledge. The Platonic issue is what it means to know something, and not what are the characteristics of an object.

What does it mean to know something? Socrates concludes that knowing means knowing the object. He uses this conclusion to deny that there is a form or mode of knowing (that is, that knowledge includes in itself more than the object of knowledge). Thus, the philosophy of the Socratic Plato does not concern itself with inductive or deductive knowl-edge of objects; rather, these processes are irrelevant to his interests.

It is neither relevant nor meaningful to point out that certain facts do not square with Plato’s theory. In Plato’s approach, one deduces facts from theory, rather than deducing theory from facts. A strange attitude, to be sure. We may be tempted to condemn it out of hand, but we will gain even more if we try to understand it.

Hence, Vlastos’ assertion that, for Socrates, knowledge is the neces-sary and sufficient condition for moral goodness does not fit in with the philosopher’s purpose. Rather, the Socratic Plato’s reduction of moral goodness to knowledge means the rejection of moral goodness as a state of mind. In other words, he does not admit that morality even exists in-dependently of knowledge.

Contrary to Vlastos, I maintain that the Socratic Plato is not a deduc-tivist philosopher, but a philosopher of consciousness.

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Robert Nozick: Asking What Is Knowledge Means Asking What Are the Necessary and Sufficient Conditions for

Knowledge

In his Socratic Puzzles, Nozick discusses the distinction between knowledge and true belief and the function of elenchus in Socrates’ phi-losophy.20 Contrary to Vlastos, who asserts that Socrates professes igno-rance regarding knowledge but not regarding true-beliefs (the beliefs prevailing in what he understands as elenchtic knowledge), Nozick con-tends that Socrates denies knowledge in both cases.

Instead of going into a discussion on the content of his analysis, let me state what are his assumptions. According to Nozick, knowledge means knowledge that p. Therefore, the question of knowledge is about the standard of knowledge: “The Socratic search for the definition of a concept F is a search for necessary and sufficient conditions that provide a standard that can be utilized to decide whether F applies in any given case.”21

Moreover, disregarding the Charmides, Nozick believes that Plato even did not discuss the concept of knowledge in his early dialogues.22

Then what are Nozick’s assumptions? When Socrates asks what is knowledge Nozick believes that he is not asking a reflective question, contrary to what I contend, but asks about the object of knowledge. In my opinion, then, Nozick confuses Plato’s answer with Plato’s question.

In my opinion, for Socrates, the only necessary and sufficient condi-tion of knowledge is knowledge itself, and there are not higher extrinsic standards for the recognition of knowledge. A standard, if available, would mean something that is neither true nor false, something that is not in itself knowledge. The knowing of a standard would mean knowledge of knowledge, something that Plato rejects, at least clearly in the early dialogues.

It could be said, against my interpretation, that Socrates believes that knowledge can be learned, namely, can be known. This is true, but the question is how to understand this assertion. In the Laches, for instance, it is said that knowledge can be learned, adding as an example that the “use of arms is really a kind of knowledge” (Lach. 182e).

Nozick’s identification between Plato’s question and Plato’s answer becomes clear in his assertion that for Socrates knowledge is virtue. In the Meno, when Meno asks Socrates why he is reluctant to concede that knowledge is virtue, Socrates understands the question as if it were about whether virtue is knowledge (Meno 89d). In the Republic it is said that

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“Being is the sphere or subject matter of knowledge, and knowledge is to know the nature of being” (Rep. 478a).

For Socrates therefore, virtue is knowledge but knowledge is not vir-tue. Since knowledge is the answer to the question, what is virtue, but virtue is not the answer to the question, what is knowledge. The question about what is knowledge is the question about the form of knowledge, a question without answer in Plato’s anti-formalistic mind. Moreover, for Socrates this is not the result of failing to understand something, but just the result of truly understanding what knowledge is—it is nothing but its content. He reduces knowledge to content.

Nozick asserts also that “Socrates has doctrines but what he teaches is not a doctrine but a method of inquiry.”23 Socrates, hearing these words, would want to ask: a method about what? The only answer he would be ready to accept is the one that reduces method to thing, method to con-tent; namely, the disavowal of a method at all, the disavowal of knowl-edge as form, and the acceptance only of the content of knowledge.

This approach prevents Nozick from understanding that Plato’s ques-tion is about knowledge of knowledge itself, namely, about the way or the form of knowledge. Consequently, he has difficulties understanding the meaning of Socrates’ assertion that he does not know. Indeed, the case is not that he does not know the content of knowledge, but knowl-edge itself. Socrates does not know precisely because he knows, if any-thing, only the content of knowledge, though his question is about knowledge as form. Socrates asks a question that he rejects in his an-swer.24 This is in my opinion the clue to understanding his position.

When Socrates says that he does not understand piety, courage, jus-tice, and so forth, he does not know what they are except knowledge. As such, as different from knowledge, they are just nothing, and being nothing, they are unknowable. They are only knowable insofar as they are knowledge.

Richard Robinson: The Early Plato Is an Educator and a Moral Reformer

Richard Robinson believes that the Socratic Plato is a moral reformer, but he adds that the philosopher differs from other moral reformers be-cause he maintains an unusually intellectual conception of virtue. He be-lieves that you cannot really be virtuous unless you have a philosophical

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understanding of the definition of virtue. The practice of virtue is identi-cal with the theory of it.25

Richard Robinson also argues that, according to the Socratic Plato,

in order to make men virtuous, you must make them know what virtue is. And in order to make them know what virtue is, you must remove their false opinion that they already know. And in order to remove this false opinion, you must subject them to elenchus. That is the way in which, according to the Socratic Plato, the elenchus comes to be the appropriate instrument for moral education.26

Robinson evidently has not gone the full distance with Plato. What Robinson calls “intellectual conception of virtue” is really the Socratic Plato’s denial of virtue, not its affirmation. When the Socratic Plato as-serts that virtue is knowledge he is saying that virtue cannot be the cause or condition of knowledge but that, on the contrary, knowledge is the cause or condition of virtue. In this way virtue is reduced to knowledge or—what amounts to the same thing—virtue is actually denied. The So-cratic Plato is therefore not a moral preacher or reformer. His attempt to understand virtue in and for itself leads to the conclusion that virtue does not exist. We cannot say that for the Socratic Plato the practice of virtue is identical with the theory of it, since for the philosopher there is no such theory. Although he does consider the possibility of a science or theory of virtue, he rejects it from the very outset. According to Plato, it is a fallacy to regard virtue as something independent of knowledge or as something that determines knowledge. To remove false opinion at the epistemic level immediately means to disavow virtue, since virtue is knowledge.

Thus, we cannot treat the elenchus—the Socratic method—as an “ap-propriate instrument for moral education,” since he denies the very pos-sibility of moral education. All there can be is instruction, or the trans-mission of information. Human character cannot be morally educated. One is moral to the extent that one has knowledge. The early, extremist Plato cannot accept that anything that is not in itself knowledge can de-termine knowledge.

Fear, for example, cannot be the cause of a particular kind of knowl-edge, as common sense might incline us to believe. Lack of knowledge is the only reason for fear. The extreme “cognitivism” of the Socratic Plato effectively denies all aspects of the soul outside of knowledge and igno-rance.27

J 16 Appendix B

John Gould: Episteme Is "Knowing How"

John Gould's interpretation of the philosopher's idea of knowledge seems to me to be especially inappropriate. Following Gilbert Ryle's distinction between knowing how and knowing that,28 Gould argues that

in putting forward the thesis that ttPU"rj is only to be attained by ETHa-'frJ!-lT1, Socrates was nOf asserting that clPET"rl necessarily results from a personal apprehension of the nature of good and evil (still less, of Good and Evil), but that for the achievement of apnrl what is required is a fonn armaTa! ability, comparable in some respects to the creative or artistic ability of poners, shoemak­ers and the like; that the (11 ~O" 1" rl t-' T'J which Socrates envisa§ed was a form of knowing how. knowing, that is, how to be mora/,2

Gould's interpretation may apply better to Protagoras and Gorgias than to Plato. In the Gorgias, as we have already seen, because of th e absence of an object of speech (namely, the absence of content) Plato rejects the ability to make good speeches. Something of the same sort occurs in the Prolagoras. There, Plato argues that virtue, in the sense of improvi ng the individual, cannot be taught. For to understand what im­provement means requires an object. Namely, we must know exactly how we may be improved, and in what. Plato flatly den ies that technical abil­ity can exist on its own account, or independent of its object. Ab ility is someth ing that must be evaluated and measured accord ing to its object.

We can define Plato's approach in this matter ;n a somewhat para­doxica l manner by asserting, for example, that the ability of th e shoe­maker resides ;n good shoes. This is th e case, too, regarding moral knowledge. There is no such thing as a moral character and therefore no such thing as the education of moral character; there are on ly moral acts. To know how to be moral is to know what is a moral act. The latter is not revealed in the way the act is perfonned, but by knowledge of its content, the thing toward which the act intends. Plato reduces the moral act to knowledge of its purpose.

If it makes sense to speak about how to engage in science, then a sci­ence of astronomy, of mathematics, or of medicine might legitimately be said to exist. But this is precisely what Plato denies: astronomy is noth­ing other than the science of the stars, mathematics nothing other than the science of numbers, and medicine nothing other than the science of health. We may say the same of every science-that it is a science of an object. Similarly, ajust act is notjusl in itself but in the context in which someone performs it. A moral act itself can be the object of knowledge,

Critical Remarks 317

not how it is done. To assert otherwise would imply that there is a dis­tinction between a cognitive relation to the act and the act itself. But ac­cording to Plato, this cannot be the case . Plato does not accept the rela­tion; he acknowledges only th e existence of the object.

Hintikka and Santas: Knowledge and Belief arle Independent Faculties

Especia lly illuminating regard ing my last thesis is the discussion be­tween Jaakko Hintikka and Gerasimos Santas about the question of whether or not Plato clear~ distinguishes between the function of Knowledge and Its Objects: Hintikka and Santas' discussion cente rs mainly on the argument in the fifth book of The Republic (475-480), in which Plato distinguishes between knowledge and opinion by means of their objects (the object of know ledge is being, th at of ignorance is nothingness, and that of op inion something that is haln'lay between be­ing and nothingness).

Hintikka asserts that in modem thought, knowledgl~ and opinion are faculties or powers; they are epistemic states, or what I have called epis· temic relations.)' Modem thought thus differentiates between the kn own object and the epistemic state, be it opin ion or knowledge. For Plato, however, ep istemic states "sometimes tended to comprise also those ob­jects which one's knowledge or opinion is about. In e,ther word s, Plato does not always clearly distinguish the objects of knowledge from the 'fu nctions' or 'products' of the power to know."n

Gerasimos Santas, on the other hand, maintains the contrary, asserting that Plato di stinguishes between the object and the function of knowl­edge. Santas' position is we ll substantiated by what Plato says about the faculty of sight in the Charmides (168d), where he distinguishes between the object and function of sight: color is the object of sight, and seeing is the function ofsighL)) Moreover, Santas' in terpretation is " that the dif­ference in objects between the faculties of knowledge and belief is re­quired by a certain difference in function .,,34 The function of infallibility, by its nature, "can be perfonned only with respect to objects that do nOI change, whereas the objects of belief need not be confined to these ob­jecls.".lS He also asserts in the same place that "the func:tion of lhe power of belief, the func tion of fallibility , can only be perfonned on objects that do change, the change in these objects accounting/or the fallibility 0/ the faculty ofbelie/[my italics]."

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Hintikka sums up his interpretation of Plato on this point when he ob-serves: “Plato used the distinction between knowledge and belief to infer that there is a distinction between their respective objects.”36 This is to say that the functions of knowledge and belief must be defined by means of their objects.

Santas’ interpretation of Plato’s position is that the objects upon which the functions of knowledge can be carried out are determined by the differences in these functions,37 and that to understand Plato, we must assume such differences of function.

I myself am inclined to define Plato’s attitude more sharply than Hin-tikka and Santas do. Although Plato distinguishes between the object of knowledge and the epistemic relation to it, he considers the epistemic relation only from the point of view of its content; that is to say, in terms of the referent, of what the object is. He does not mean by this that there is no epistemic relation; but that when we treat thought itself as an object of epistemic relation, we realize that it has no form of its own. For this reason, Plato can only speak about the difference between knowledge and opinion by invoking the distinction between their objects.

Therefore, rather than asserting together with Hintikka that “Plato used the distinction between knowledge and belief to infer that there is a distinction between their respective objects,”38 I prefer to say that Plato appealed to the distinction between objects of knowledge and belief be-cause he had no other plausible way of treating the subject. For Plato was unable to make the distinction between knowledge and belief as such—as processes that we can deal with in their own right. What Plato assumes (but does not explicitly state) is that anything that is purely relation or reference, and cannot be considered as an object, lies outside our scope of understanding. Therefore knowledge and belief cannot in fact be distinguished, except by means of their objects.

Plato has indeed, apparently, an inner criterion for the distinction between belief and knowledge: By the very nature of beliefs, we can have true and false beliefs, whereas by the very nature of knowledge, we cannot have true and false knowledge (see Grg. 454d). However, if we look at this criterion more closely, we realize that false knowledge is im-possible because knowledge cannot be separated or differentiated from its object.

Santas is right in asserting that we cannot assign infallibility39 to the object, but it belongs to knowledge as a function; it is “a property of the faculty of knowledge.”40 But again, the issue for Plato is not the nature of infallibility as such, independently of the object. Rather, a characteristic Platonic question about this matter would be, “What is infallibility (or fallibility) about?” Namely, the function of knowledge is resolved in the

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object. Ultimately it is reduced to the object and it becomes a property of the object.

Therefore to conclude: Plato was aware of the difference between knowledge and its object. But when he attempted explicitly to come to grips with the issue of the knowledge of knowledge in the Charmides, he failed because he considered knowledge only from the point of view of its content, so that he was unable, due to his anti-formalistic assumptions, to grasp epistemic relation itself, or the process of knowing.

It seems to me therefore that we may resolve the Hintikka-Santas controversy if we adopt a halfway position. Plato indeed distinguished between the object of knowledge and the epistemic relation to it. Santas is right on this point. However, for Plato the function of the epistemic relation has no form of its own, and he defines it purely through its con-tent. It is Plato’s attitude on this point that leads Hintikka to maintain that Plato confuses object and function.

Grote vs. O’Brien: A Discussion about Will and Intellect in Plato

Let me analyze the following interpretative discussion: Grote asserts that Plato errs by “dwelling exclusively on the intellec-

tual conditions of human conduct, and omitting to give proper attention to the emotional and volitional.”41

To this affirmation, O’Brien responds:

It is not fair to assume that Plato ought to have separated the grounds of conduct into the intellectual and the volitional because some later philosophers did so, and to find fault with a doctrine of his because in the light of such a separation it makes bad sense is equally unfair. Moral experience can be analyzed in different ways, and the analysis implied in the statement that virtue is knowledge is not that of Aristotle, or Augustine, or John Stuart Mill. The statement makes sense only if understood as a part of Platonic thought. . . . Platonic ethics is a coherent body of thought, or at least . . . the critic should accept its coherence as a working hy-pothesis.42

O’Brien, however, is not ready to go as far as his predecessors the doxographers, like Campbell,43 Constantin Ritter,44 and Victor Gold-schmidt,45 who inquired about some systematic evolution in Plato’s thought and tried to find laws of composition of his dialogues. René

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Schaerer asserts, on the other hand,46 that each dialogue is sui generis and has its own structure.

Grote’s quarrel with Plato’s philosophy falls into an extrinsic criti-cism that has nothing to do with real analysis.

O’Brien, demanding coherence as a working hypothesis, aims to un-derstand the argument only within the context of the philosophy that frames it. This method is not free of difficulties. Indeed, such an ap-proach justifies, but does not interpret. Grote’s task is criticism and O’Brien’s task is justification. O’Brien’s attitude is, however, the more acceptable of the two. It avoids the dogmatic implications of Grote’s as-sumption—that Plato is incoherent. Grote’s unspoken assumption is that he himself is coherent. He has outmatched Plato from the beginning.

However, if we adopt O’Brien’s approach to interpreting Plato’s ideas, Plato himself would be his best commentator. O’Brien has really set himself the task of restating, in his own words, what Plato has already said. Such an interpretation hardly seems like an interpretation at all, but more of a summary.

An interpretation must neither argue with its subject, nor mimic it. It is needed if it poses new questions and attempts to answer them. In this case, we might ask what leads Plato to his intellectualism. Plato himself did not discuss or analyze this question. In fact, he could not have done so, because the question transcends the explicit content of his philoso-phy. It deals with matters that must have been self-evident to Plato, and what is evident to the self is also beyond the self’s own perception, just as one can never directly see one’s own eyes.

Notes

1. See Guthrie, HGP, V. IV, 168 ff. 2. See Annas, “Plato believes that it is one and the same item to which

these words [‘self-knowledge’ and ‘sophrosune’] correctly refer.” Julia Annas, “Self-knowledge in Early Plato,” in Platonic Investigations, Dominic J. O’Meara, ed., (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 1985), 120. See also Edward G. Ballard, Socratic Ignorance: An Essay on Pla-tonic Self-Knowledge (The Hague, Netherlands: Martinus Nijhoff, 1965), 30.

3. For a similar approach, see Henry Teloh, The Development of Plato’s Metaphysics (Pennsylvania State University Press, 1981), 36.

4. Annas, “Self-knowledge in Early Plato,” 135. 5. Annas, “Self-knowledge in Early Plato,” 135. 6. Annas, “Self-knowledge in Early Plato,” 135. 7. Annas, “Self-knowledge in Early Plato,” 135. 8. Annas, “Self-knowledge in Early Plato,” 135. 9. Annas, “Self-knowledge in Early Plato,” 135.

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10. Ballard, Socratic Ignorance, 33. 11. See Friedrich Schleiermacher, Introductions to the Dialogues of Plato

(New York: Arno Press, 1973), 328-36. 12. Terry Penner, “Socrates and the Early Dialogues,” in The Cambridge

Companion to Plato, Richard Kraut, ed., (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 131.

13. Penner, “Socrates and the Early Dialogues,” 131-2. 14. Penner, “Socrates and the Early Dialogues,” 132. 15. Penner, “Socrates and the Early Dialogues,” 132. 16. See Penner, “Socrates and the Early Dialogues,” 131. 17. Gregory Vlastos, “The Paradox of Socrates,” in Gregory Vlastos, The

Philosophy of Socrates (New York: Anchor Books, 1971), 15. 18. Vlastos, “The Paradox of Socrates,”15. 19. Vlastos, “The Paradox of Socrates,”16. 20. See Robert Nozick, “Socratic Puzzles,” Phronesis XL/2 (1995): 146.

For a detailed analysis of the discussion of Nozick with Irwin and Vlastos, see Gail Fine, “Nozick’s Socrates,” Phronesis XLI/3 (1996): 232-44.

21. Nozick, “Socratic Puzzles,” 148. 22. Nozick, “Socratic Puzzles,” 146. 23. Nozick, “Socratic Puzzles,” 153. 24. For this reason, I think that Aristotle was nearly right when he asserted

that Socrates asked questions but did not answer them; “for he confessed that he did not know” (Top. 183b7-8).

25. Richard Robinson, Plato’s Earlier Dialectic (London: Oxford Univer-sity Press, 1953), 14.

26. Robinson, Plato’s Earlier Dialectic, 15. 27. Hence, the Socratic dialogues are much less aporetic than scholars tend

to believe. The appearance they give of being aporetic is the result of the radical position taken in regard to the rejection of the form of knowledge as something independent from content. This issue has not been given sufficient consideration by the interpreters.

28. John Gould, The Development of Plato’s Ethics (New York: Russell & Russell, 1955), 6. See Ryle, The Concept of Mind (London: Hutchinson, 1949), chapter II.

29. Gould, The Development of Plato’s Ethics, 7. 30. Jaakko Hintikka, “Knowledge and Its Objects,” in Patterns in Plato’s

Thought: Papers Arising out of the 1971 West Coast Greek Philosophy Confer-ence, Julius M. E. Moravcsik, ed., (Dordrecht and Boston: Reidel, 1973), and Gerasimos X. Santas, “Hintikka on Knowledge and Its Objects,” in Patterns in Plato’s Thought, Moravcsik, ed., 1-51.

31. See Hintikka, “Knowledge and Its Objects,” 9. 32. Hintikka, “Knowledge and Its Objects,” 9. 33. See Santas, “Hintikka on Knowledge and Its Object,” 41. 34. Santas, “Hintikka on Knowledge and Its Object,” 49. 35. Santas, “Hintikka on Knowledge and Its Object,” 49. 36. Hintikka, “Knowledge and Its Objects,” 9.

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37. See Santas, “Hintikka on Knowledge and Its Objects,” 49. 38. Hintikka, “Knowledge and Its Objects,” 9. 39. Infallible and fallible are the criteria applied by Plato to distinguish be-

tween knowledge and opinion. See Rep. 477e. 40. Santas, “Hintikka on Knowledge and Its Objects,” 45. 41. George Grote, Plato and the Other Companions of Sokrates. Volume I

(Bristol, England: Thoemmes Press, 1992), 399. 42. Michael O’Brien, The Socratic Paradoxes and the Greek Mind (Chapel

Hill: University of North Carolina, 1967), 5. 43. Lewis Campbell, in The Sophistes and Politicus of Plato (Oxford: Clar-

endon Press, 1967). 44. Constantin Ritter, Platon: Sein Lebens, seine Schriften, seine Lehre

(Munich: C. H. Beck, 1910). 45. See Victor Goldschmidt, Les Dialogues de Platon, Structure et Mèth-

ode Dialectique (Paris: Brionne, G. Monfort, 1984), 33. For him the dialogues are first and mainly a literary genre and the clue to understanding their philoso-phical meaning is to find the laws of their composition.

46. René Schaerer, La Question Platoniciense (Paris: Neuchatel, 1938), 66.

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339

Index

Abraham, Karl, 175n19 Adkins, Arthur, 117n57, 148n17 Alcibiades, 38, 45n1, 47n6, 131, 225-

27 Allen, Reginald, 84, 115n27, 116n33 Ambrose, Philip, 148n13 anamnesis. See reminiscence Anaximender, 93 Annas, Julia, 127, 305-308, 320-21 anti-formalism, 63, 65, 75, 79, 81, 87-

113, 119n83, 123-25, 127n1, 134, 191, 194, 227, 229, 236, 239, 275, 310-311, 314, 319. See also for-malism

Aquinas, Thomas, 304 Aristippus, 112 Aristophanes, 109 Aristotle, xvi, 27, 45, 47n10, 71, 103,

114n5, 118n61, 119n80, 168, 246n1, 279, 299-300; Analytica Priora, 216n7; De Anima, 71; De Interpretatione, 216n7; Metaphys-ics, 71, 103, 114n5, 119n80, 148n10, 216n7, 219n31, 303n1, 304n6; Nicomachean Ethics, 167, 263n6; Physics, 178, 216n7; Po-etics, 120n87, 127n1, 133, 198, 139; Politics, xvi, 167; Rhetoric, 117n42, 118n61, Topics, 216n7, 219n31, 263n6, 321n24

atomism, 105, 112, 120n85, 268 Ballard, Edward, 216n5, 308 belief, 10, 17, 59, 67, 91; true belief,

313-14 Bignone, Ettore, 91 binaric logic, 196-203, 207, 222, 290 Brickhouse, Thomas, 239-41 Brownstein, Oscar, 68n23 Buchheim, Thomas, 262n2

Burnet, John, 33n31, 114n8 Burnyeat, Myles, 119n83

Callias, 134-35, 224-27 Calogero, Guido, 102 Cherniss, Harold, 67n16, 120n93 Clinias (Alcibiades’ brother), 141 Coby, Patrick, xix-xx cognitivism, xii, 189, 227, 283-84, 293,

315. See also anti-formalism, content, form, 61, 65, 123, 125, 269,

274-76, 304n5. See also formalism, anti-formalism

contrary and contradictory, 99-100, 196-207, 209. See also binaric logic

conventionalism, 11 Cornford, Francis, 119n82 courage, xxn1, 60, 145, 194-95, 234,

243-47, 251, 260, 274, 291, 293, 314. See also fear, wisdom

craft analogy, 25, 51-53, 59-66. See also Prometheus, techné

Crisipus, 159 Critias, 93, 225-26, 305-306 Cropsey, Joseph, 149n28

Davidson, Donald, 11 deductivism, 311-12 democracy, xvii, xviii, xx, 72, 89-90,

94-113, 116n40, 117nn42-56, 139, 141-44, 181, 187-89, 193, 209-210, 226, 228, 250, 277, 280, 284, 286. See also Zeus, pluralism

Democritus, 70-71, 114n7, 178, 259 Denyer, Nicholas, 119n79 Desjardins, Rosemary, 31 Diogenes Laertius, 27, 272 Dissoi Logoi, 104-106. See also logos Donovan, Brian, 66n9, 300, 303 Dupréel, Eugene, 299-300

Eco, Umberto, 173n7, 231-232 education, xii, 72, 92, 110-111, 138,

146, 148-149, 172, 179-81, 183-85,

Index

340

187-90, 210, 229, 245, 249, 260, 262, 264, 276-78, 282, 285, 289, 315-316. See also instruction

efficiency, 168, 176. See also Prome-theus, pleasure, moral goodness

elenchus, 246n1, 313 Empedocles, as opposed to sophists,

69, 91, 105 Epimetheus, 147, 151-65, 168-72, 175,

176n24, 177-178, 181, 241n2, 261, 263n10, 292. See also Prometheus, Zeus

epistemic process, 79. See also formal-ism

exchange-value, 166-167. See also Prometheus, efficiency, goal-oriented activity, use-value

Farrington, Benjamin, 119n75 fear, 51, 59-60, 64, 161, 169, 245, 255,

256, 259, 293, 312, 315. See also courage, wisdom

Ferejohn, Michael, 66n11 form. See content and form formalism, 65, 76-78, 88-113, 92-94,

102, 105-106, 110, 112, 119n83, 123, 125, 127n1, 134, 148n14, 191, 194, 229, 272, 275, 286, 308-309. See also anti-formalism

Frede, Dorothea, 241n5 Friedländer, Paul, 66n13, 132, 177n41,

196 Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 7-10, 18-24, 31 Gallop, David, 263n8 goal-oriented activity, 8, 45, 66-67, 72,

139, 143, 161-65, 168, 170, 176, 182, 212-213, 239, 257. See also Prometheus, efficiency

gold-face analogies, 179, 192n2, 194, 200, 203-204, 211n2

Gomperz, Heinrich, 33n31, 91, 93, 117n49, 146-48, 174n9, 177n37, 185n2, 216n11, 279, 299-300

Goodman, Nelson, 11, 31-32 Gorgias, 27, 40-43, 51, 61, 70, 90, 92,

94-95, 100, 104, 135, 147, 303, 316 Gould, John, 127n2, 316-317 Grote, George, 196n1, 319-320 Grube, George, 46n4

Gulley, Norman, 246n1 Guthrie, William, 54, 69-70, 91, 110,

153-154, 201, 305-309 Havelock, Eric, 114n7, 155, 173n1,

174n10 hedonism, 112, 162, 164, 176n23,

246n1, 252-253, 259, 261, 263nn5-10, 292

Heraclitus, 69, 93, 100, 104-105, 119 hermeneutical reductionism, 7-13 Hermes, 153, 156, 169, 170 Hesiod. See Myth of Protagoras Hintikka, Jaakko, 66n14, 67n15, 317-

19 Hippias, 42, 95, 134-40, 171, 226-227,

238, 255 Hippocrates, 89 Hippocrates, son of Apollodorus, xxn1,

38, 46n6, 51-53, 126, 132-39 Hippodamus, 89 Hippothales, 61 homo mensura, 103, 109, 147, 190,

224, 228n3, 249, 272, 283-284, 299 Hubbard, B. A. F., 46n6 instruction. See education intellectualism, 6-8, 10, 47n9, 60,

115n22, 170, 204, 213, 239, 245, 246n1, 255, 289-97, 310, 320. See also formalism

interpretation, xx, 3-23, 26, 28-33, 37-38, 47, 50, 87, 94, 101-103, 108-109, 117, 119, 122, 131, 142, 144-47, 148, 151-58, 170-78, 187, 196-197, 208, 217, 229-35, 239-40, 245-46, 255-57, 263-264, 283, 299-300, 303, 306, 309, 313, 316-20

Irwin, Terence, 51-52, 65n6, 263n10 Jaeger, Werner, 263n7 justice, 41, 50, 65n4, 94-97, 123, 145,

153, 157-59, 169-73, 180-84, 185n2, 188, 193, 195, 196-206, 210, 211, 212, 214, 216n2, 217-8, 225, 259, 280, 285, 303n1

Kahn, Charles, 120n85, 173n1, 263n10 Kant, Immanuel, 176n25, 178n43, 272 Karnofsky, E. S., See Hubbard, B. A. F.

Index

341

Kerferd, George, 32n28, 91, 119nn74-82, 151, 174n9, 219n30

knowing-how, 316-317 Koestlin, Karl, 101-102 Koyré, Alexander, 131, 133, 264n14 Kraut, Richard, 116n40 Laird, John, 167 Logos, 16-17, 77, 93, 100, 104-106,

112, 146, 156, 160, 174n9, 179, 189, 208, 231-232, 240, 250-251, 291, 294. See also muthos

Malcolm, John, 41, 216n10 Miller, Clydee Lee, 177n40 morality, 45, 51, 63, 67n18, 97, 159,

162, 165, 170-72, 189, 223, 258-61, 263n25, 284, 310, 312. See also nomos, praxis, Zeus

Moravcsik, Julius, 105 Morrison, John, 131 Muthos, 77, 156, 160, 179 Myth of Protagoras, 77, 94, 116, 144-

46, 154-62, 169-78, 185, 279, 292; Hesiodic version, 157-158. See also logos, Epimetheus, Prometheus, Zeus

Nestle, Wilhelm, 174n9 Nill, Michael, 27, 178n44 nomos, 71, 72, 91, 96, 97, 114n2,

117n45, 161, 172, 176n22, 226. See also phusis, techné, Zeus

Nozick, Robert, 313-314 objectivism, 9, 14, 107, 191, 267-76.

See also subjectivism, formalism, anti-formalism

ontology, 56, 60, 76, 87, 94, 102-103, 105-106, 113, 119n74, 121, 124-25, 154, 208, 269, 276. See also theory of Ideas, anti-formalism

Palas, Reino, 65n5 Parmenides, 69-70, 93, 100, 103, 114n4 Pausanias, 136 Penner, Terry, 309-311 Pericles, 135, 141, 144, 182

Phusis, 70-2, 91, 96-97, 157, 161, 169, 172, 176n22, 178n44, 226. See also nomos, Epimetheus

Phyrrho, 273 piety, 63, 181, 193-206, 211-14, 243,

274, 314 Pittacus, 230-5 Plato, Alcibiades I, 126-127, 141, 306-

308; Apology, 60, 127n3, 135; Charmides, 54-55, 57, 307-309; Cratylus, 28, 54-55, 57, 61-62, 67, 105, 110, 119, 208, 219, 307-308; Euthydemus, 27-28, 46, 118, 208, 219; Euthyphro, 197; Gorgias, 41, 61, 92, 135, 318; Hippias Minor, 44, 50, 309-310; Laches, 149, 228, 313; Lysis, 61; Meno, 80-8, 115nn22-24, 228n1, 313; Par-menides, 67n16, 116; Phaedrus, 80, 115n27, 116n37, Phaedo, 80; Soph-ist, 43; Symposium, 46; Theaetetus, 24-25, 46, 52, 102, 106, 110-111, 119, 208, 228, 269, 272, 280-82, 290, 299, 303; The Republic, 65n4, 92, 257, 278n9, 314, 322n39

pleasure, xx, 29, 97, 131, 147, 158, 161-64, 166-72, 177n40, 178nn43-44, 187-188, 190, 194-96, 209, 215, 224, 226, 246n1, 250-61, 274, 291-292. See also Epimetheus

pluralism, 112, 280, 283-284. See also democracy

poesis, 45, 167. See also goal-oriented activity, Prometheus, praxis

Polansky, Ronald, 64, 68n27, 109 praxis, 45, 253. See also poesis, moral-

ity Prodicus of Ceos, 25, 42, 93, 95, 134-

38, 225-27, 232-233, 251, 255 Prometheus, 45, 147, 151-53, 155-69,

171, 174n9, 175n19, 176n25, 177nn40-41, 178n44, 182-183, 214-16, 241n2, 263n10, 292-3. See also efficiency, Epimetheus, poesis, techné, Zeus

recollection. See reminiscence reflection, 5-6, 30, 155, 270, 274-76.

See also anti-formalism, formalism

Index

342

relativism, 21-22, 26, 31nn5-7, 76, 91, 97, 99, 103, 108-109, 111, 121-23, 230, 260, 272-273, 279-86

reminiscence, 39, 80-81, 85-87, 115nn22-25

Rensi, Giuseppe, 101-103, 182 rhetoric, 37-45, 51, 67, 115, 117, 120,

147, 219, 304 Robinson, Richard, 148n9, 263n7, 314-

315 Robinson, Thomas, 106 Romilly, Jacqueline de, 73, 151 Rorty, Richard, 8-13, 19-20, 31n6 Ross, Sir David, 115n22 Rutherford, xxn1, 219n33 Ryle, Gilbert, 316 Santas, Gerasimos, 294n2, 317-19 Sartre, Jean-Paul, 54, 57 Schaerer, René, 320 Schiappa, Edward, 77, 118n64,

119n76, 219 Schiller, Ferdinand, 77, 300 Schleiermacher, Friedrich, 144, 308,

321 Schofield, Malcolm, 41, 131 self-control. See temperance sense-perception, xii, 64, 66n13, 69,

71, 93, 102-108, 112-113, 115n18, 119n82, 156, 189, 267-69, 271-73, 278n4, 281, 290, 300, 320

Sextus Empiricus, 101, 273 shame, 169-70, 177n6. See also justice,

Zeus Simonides the poet, xxn1, 109, 137,

148n16, 229-40 Sinclair, Thomas, 28 skepticism, 27-28, 70, 76, 95, 102, 105,

111-112, 120n85, 182, 209, 273, 275

Smith, Adam, 167 Socratic irony, 15-18, 32n18, 46nn4-5,

50, 65n2, 140, 138, 141-48, 149n19, 175n18, 221, 228, 230, 255-256, 262, 263n7, 309

Solana Dueso, José, 118n69 Sophistry, 28, 40, 51, 73-77, 95, 108 Stewart, John, 144, 161, 175n18,

176n25, 178nn43-44 Stoicism, 292

Stokes, Michael, 176n24 Strauss, Michael, 63, 65n1, 67n19,

147n4, 173n5, 176n20, 177nn33-39, 262n1

Stueber, Karsten, 31n9 subject and predicate, 80-88, 115n27;

annulment of the subject, 52-68; subject and object, xi, xii, 103, 125, 267-69. See also reminiscence

subjectivism, 9, 14, 76-77, 102, 107-108, 125, 191, 224, 267-79. See also anti-formalism, formalism, ob-jectivism

Taylor, A. E., 115n25 Taylor, C. C. W., 22, 133, 142-143,

149n23, 169-170, 177n35, 216n1, 217nn16-23, 247n5

Taylor, Charles, 3, 10 techné, 53, 89, 140, 149, 161, 167-69,

172, 177n41, 178n44, 181, 189, 244, 293. See also poesis, Prome-theus

Teloh, Henry, 117n40, 320n3 temperance, 57, 210, 213, 195, 210-14,

244, 292, 307 Thales, 136, 234 theory of Ideas, xi, 67n16, 81, 85, 87,

115n23, 201, 289-290. See also anti-formalism, reminiscence

understanding. See interpretation Untersteiner, Mario, 101, 118n70, 156-

7, 176n22 use-value, 166-167, 290. See also

exchange-value utility. See efficiency Versényi, Laszlo, 113 virtue is knowledge, xii, xix, 37, 43-44,

47n9, 50-51, 59, 63, 66n9, 116n40, 142-46, 149n20, 175n18, 178n44, 179-83, 188-90, 192n2, 237, 239-240, 249, 256, 258, 261-262, 264n14, 270, 276, 293, 309, 311, 313-15, 319

Vlastos, Gregory, 15, 47n9, 65n2, 119n82, 127n2, 147, 148n6, 149n31, 192n2, 196, 246, 311-13

Index

343

Wachterhauser, Brice, 7 Weiss, Roslyn, 263n5 Whitlock Blundell, Mary, 65n2 will and intellect, 319-320 Winner, Ellen, 17 wisdom, xvi, 38, 53-54, 92, 132, 152-

153, 157-158, 165, 168, 195, 210-214, 234-235, 243-47, 262, 281-282, 291-93, 307-308

Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 54, 57

Woodruf, Paul, 149n18 Xenophon, 263n11 Zeller, Eduard, 67n18 Zeus, 45, 94, 96-97, 132, 147, 152-64,

168-72, 175-85, 193-194, 212-15, 223-224, 238, 243-45, 250, 260, 277, 285, 294. See also Epime-theus, morality, Prometheus

345

About the Author

Born 1946 in Argentina, Oded Balaban studied at the University of Haifa, the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, and received his Ph.D. on Hegel’s Logic at the University of Tel Aviv. He is a Professor of Phi-losophy at the University of Haifa, Israel.

The author specializes in the theory of knowledge, ancient Greek philosophy, and political theory. His articles have been published in Dio-genes, Hermes, History of Philosophy Quarterly, History of Political Thought, Philosophy Research Archives, Review of Metaphysics, Semiotica, Journal of Value Inquiry, Theoria, Zeitschrift für Philoso-phische Forschung, among others. He is the author of Subject and Con-sciousness (Rowman and Littlefield, 1990), coauthor of The Bounds of Freedom (Peter Lang, 1995), which won the Straniak Philosophy Prize in Zurich, 1990, and Politics and Ideology (Avebury, 1995).