Kamtekar Paper (How to Read a Platonic Dialogue)
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What Plato thought? How to read a Platonic dialogue1 1. Introduction
When we study the history of philosophy we want to understand what historical philosophers thought about various topics of philosophical interest, and why they thought what they did—and not just, as when we are studying philosophy non-‐historically, what are the good reasons for thinking something or the other. Plato frustrates this historian’s interest. It is a well-‐known problem that Plato writes in dialogues,2 putting every view in the voice of some character or the other, none of them named ‘Plato,’ and the solution of taking the main speaker in each dialogue, usually Socrates (but in some dialogues Parmenides, Timaeus, an Eleatic or Athenian Visitor) to be expressing Plato’s views is not fully satisfactory. Another well-‐known problem is that in many dialogues, the main speaker ends up in aporia (e.g. in the Protagoras, Socrates argues first that virtue is not teachable, for if it were virtuous men would teach it to their sons but they do not, later that since virtue is knowledge it is teachable, and ends by noting that these views conflict). A less well-‐known problem, and the focus of my paper, is that the dialogues depict a dialectical process, in which conclusions are dependent on starting points, but the starting point may be an interlocutor’s answer to the main speaker’s question (e.g. Theaetetus’ ‘it appears to me that knowledge is perception’), or, if it is the main speaker’s answer, the way the interlocutor asks the question may constrain what the main speaker can say in response (e.g. in Socrates’ defense of justice in the Republic, which I’ll discuss in detail in this paper).
Even if we somehow surmount these difficulties and come to a conclusion about what views are endorsed in a given dialogue, exporting a view from a dialogue to the mind of Plato requires considering how that view fits into the views endorsed by all the dialogues, but different dialogues seem to adopt contrary views (e.g. in the Timaeus the tripartite soul is the result of embodiment, but in the Phaedrus it is a cause of embodiment). The historian of philosophy naturally wants to seek out intellectual reasons for such changes in view, but Plato’s texts present the further problem that except for the stylistic conformity of a few dialogues to late 4th century fashions (e.g. the avoidance of hiatus and the preference for certain particles, such as ‘en’ instead of ‘kata’) and the report that the Laws was Plato’s last work (Aristotle Politics III.1264b26), on the basis of which we can identify some dialogues as written late in Plato’s career and others, by their stylistic differences from these as written earlier, we know so little about the order in which Plato composed his dialogues that it is
1 DRAFT; please don’t circulate without permission; but comments very welcome, to: [email protected]. Footnotes and references incomplete. 2 There is a generic explanation for why Plato wrote dialogues: the followers of Socrates wrote dialogues memorializing Socrates’ way of life (Aristotle named them Sokratikoi logoi). The Socrateses that emerge from these dialogues are so diverse that it seems more plausible to suppose that they are ‘experiments . . . directed towards capturing the potentialities rather than the realities of individual lives’ (Momigliano 1984, 46; cf. Vanderwaerdt 1994 for the legacy of this approach in antiquity) rather than accounts that aim to be historically accurate. In other words, a fictionalized conversation could reveal the type of person Socrates was (in the author’s eyes) or Socrates’ way of life (as the author understood it) by showing what he would say in various conversational circumstances. We may safely suppose that Plato used his Socratic conversations to depict the philosophical way of life as he conceived it (initially, later he would introduce other exemplary figures). For if the Socratics in general wrote dialogues, our question really shouldn’t be, ‘why did Plato write dialogues?’ but rather, ‘why do Plato’s dialogues look the way they do by contrast with the dialogues other Socratics wrote?’
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difficult to determine the direction of any changes in view.3 Because Plato sets his dialogues in the 5th century, there are few references to contemporary events by which we might date them—the Menexenus does refer to the King’s Peace of 386 BCE, so must have been composed after that date, but this isolated bit of information does not help us establish a chronology when we do not know what Plato wrote before or after. Our conceptions of philosophical progress are unreliable insofar as they are likely to be shaped by the philosophical sensibilities of our time.4
Given this litany of difficulties for attributing views to Plato, it may seem that we should give up on that (historian’s) project and simply follow the argument wherever it leads us. Some interpreters maintain that Plato deliberately left himself out of his dialogues in order to make his readers rely on reason and not the authority of his name to come to conclusions.5 But once reading, or even beginning, a dialogue has stimulated us to think for ourselves about a given topic, what motivation do we have to go back to the dialogue and follow Plato’s argument wherever it goes? It is hard to go along with Socrates’ assumption that a cause cannot bring about an effect whose nature is contrary to its own, given that this conception of a cause as a power to bring about something like itself has been banished from our scientific thinking since the 17th century; it is hard not to conclude than an important intellectual position has been rushed past when Socrates and his interlocutor agree that a virtue is ‘something’ (Protagoras 329c) without establishing that the referents of the virtue terms are not conventionally determined. Surely the prospect of retrieving what Plato (and indeed Protagoras, Parmenides, and others) thought, or at least what was thought by philosophers in Plato’s time, is what gives readers a reason to stay with the thought-‐world of the dialogues.
Plato seems at least sometimes to write in the spirit of exploring rather than establishing promising views, even though there seem to be certain views to which he has a life-‐long commitment (e.g. that goodness is not determined by convention, and that practical intelligibility is achieved by showing the good-‐directedness of an activity). We can make progress if in ‘what Plato thought’ we include more than Plato’s opinions or even his opinions and his reasons for holding them. We should include the views he elaborates given a hypothesis and the reasons he provides for considering this hypothesis plausible. These are views he clearly thinks are worth taking seriously, whether because he thinks they may be true, or because they are
3 Kahn, ‘On Platonic Chronology’ summarizes the findings of the best stylometric research. 4 Schleiermacher (1973), writing in the early 19th century, grouped the dialogues into 3, beginning with the investigative (e.g. Phaedrus, Protagoras, Parmenides), continuing with dialogues treating knowledge (e.g. Theaetetus, Sophist, Phaedo, Philebus) and ending with the constructive (Republic, Timaeus, Critias). He argued that this order was confirmed by its movement from myth to science. Schleiermacher found this philosophical development so obvious that he wrote ‘. . . if well-‐grounded historical traces were to be found of an earlier composition of the Republic prior to any one of those preparatory dialogues, though none such has yet been found, and, what is more, will not be found, we could not avoid falling into the most serious contradiction with our judgement upon Plato, and we should be much embarrassed how to reconcile this instance of unreason with his vast intelligence.’ (p. 44) *Owen-‐Cherniss on ordering of Timaeus, Theaetetus 5 Ruby Blondell adds that putting views in the voices of characters who believe them or at least are willing to defend them encourages us as readers to become participants in the dialogue while at the same time allowing us enough distance to be critical (Plato and the Play of Character pp. 39 & ff.).
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plausible, or even just because they are widely held. One of Plato’s great contributions to philosophy is his insight into how views are connected to one another. Taking this approach means that the dialectical dependence of the views arrived at in the dialogues is no longer an obstacle to determining what Plato thought, but a resource. And in fact, when we start to pay attention to dialectical dependence, we find that Plato provides readers with very explicit sign-‐posts about the correct attitude to take to the views he discusses. I do not claim that we are always to take the same attitude, only that we should pay attention to the explicit sign-‐posts, and that these should take interpretive priority over attention to character and drama, on the one hand, and a purely analytic approach to the arguments on the other. After decades of militantly ‘caring only for the arguments’, mainstream Anglo-‐American scholars have begun to integrate considerations about the suitability of speech for different soul-‐types into their scholarship. To take a couple examples: (A) In his 2006 book on the Meno, Dominic Scott argues that Socrates carefully tailors what he says to Meno’s moral and intellectual state. Scott argues that the Meno displays moral education in practice: Meno starts out intellectually lazy, shallow and combative in conversation; sometimes Socrates gives him the sorts of showy answers he wants even though he knows them to be inadequate, e.g. that the priests say that inquiry is guided by the truths we implicitly know and must only recollect6; after Socrates “shows” recollection at work in Meno’s slave, Meno becomes more cooperative in inquiry; however, the facts about Meno’s treasonous life known to Plato’s readers show how fragile is Socratic moral education. Plato’s answer to the question of the Meno, ‘is virtue teachable?’ is two-‐fold: (1) the kind of virtue that is knowledge can only be gained by the student recollecting for himself; (2) there is an inferior kind of virtue, based on true opinion, that may be acquired by divine dispensation but is unstable. In both cases, the odds are against moral education. As far as I can tell, Scott’s only evidence that Socrates privately believes that recollection will not help to guide inquiry (even though he says it will) is his own philosophical conviction: it’s obvious that there are partial cognitive grasps in between knowing a thing fully and drawing a blank about it, so Plato must be up to something when he has Socrates ignores these intermediate states.7 But given that Socrates is a character in a dialogue, we should base what we attribute to him on
6 In particular, Scott argues that Meno’s question about how we can inquire in the absence of knowledge is a non-‐issue, presuming that one either knows or is a cognitive blank, and that what lies behind it is the (possibly Gorgianic) eristic dilemma Socrates introduces at 80e: either you know something and don’t need to inquire, or you don’t know it, and don’t know what to inquire into (pp. 77-‐79). Further, recollection is not necessary to solve the problem-‐-‐hearsay or perception would do as well—nor is it sufficient—for recollection of latent knowledge requires some sort of partial explicit cognition of the object of inquiry, but that is ruled out by the ‘cognitive blank’ presupposition of Meno’s question. Finally, Socrates’ association of Meno’s question with eristic and with idleness and intellectual cowardice (81d) suggest that he tries to shame him by uncovering the motivation behind Meno’s question rather than that he answers it by the doctrine of recollection (pp. 81-‐82). 7 But NB the Theaetetus entertains the same all-‐ or nothing-‐ strategy (REF*)
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what he says in that dialogue rather than on what we think is philosophically sound—especially if the latter contradicts what he says. (B) Roslyn Weiss’s (2012) Philosophers in the Republic: Plato’s two paradigms begins,
[the dialogues’] aim is to put the philosophic life on display. The characters in them, though fictionalized, are real enough: there were—and are—such types. And within their respective types, the characters are each unique—as real people are. Socrates tailors his therapeutic method to the needs of his varied interlocutors, making the necessary concessions to their moral and intellectual limitations. By presenting images of philosophy in action, Plato’s dialogues speak to us, his readers. One might say that they contain two messages: . . . Socrates’ message is in the first instance for his interlocutors—not for us. It is driven by his interlocutors’ moral character and by the quirks of their personalities, by their good intentions and bad, by their interests, by their desires, by the level of their understanding, and by their willingness or reluctance to inquire further. But Plato’s message is for us; he invariably finds a way to remind us—by inserting some glaring peculiarity in the text—that we are not Socrates’ interlocutors but his.’ (pp. 1-‐2)
Weiss uses the idea that what Socrates says responds to his interlocutor’s particular moral and intellectual condition to argue for two radical conclusions: (1) the philosopher-‐ruler whose education is described in Republic VII is not Socrates’ or Plato’s ideal philosopher but an appetitive ‘approximation’ of that ideal that can win Glaucon and Adeimantus’ approval given their concern with manliness and political efficacy; (2) the justice defined as reason’s rule in the soul and as each class’s doing its own work in the city is really moderation, substituted for justice in Socrates’ defense because Glaucon and Adeimantus require him to show that justice is profitable, and the other-‐regarding disposition that really is justice is not defensible for its profitability, but rather for its nobility. Again, the linchpin of this argument is a philosophical conviction that justice is an other-‐regarding disposition distinct from (although dependent on) moderation, and that the quiet philosophical life is admirable. Plato’s readers should see that the account of justice and of the philosopher Socrates provides for Glaucon and Adeimantus is distorted. Among the ‘glaring textual peculiarities’ that alert the reader are Socrates’ offer of a shortcut skipping the account of moderation straight to the account of justice, and the great difficulty Socrates has in saying what justice in the city is, even though he constructed the city because it would be easier to find justice in it. Now of course Plato speaks to his readers over his characters’ heads—as a formal matter, any writer who uses characters does (NB in Republic Socrates is not only a character but also a first-‐person narrator). The question is how to discipline our procedure for determining what he is saying to us. In general, if you know nothing about someone’s beliefs, you can do no better than attribute to him what you believe (whether because this reduces cognitive load or because of some norm of believing). But in Plato’s Republic Socrates does offer reasons why we should not
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attribute to him the view that justice is an other-regarding disposition but rather that justice in the soul is wise reason’s rule, spirit’s alliance with reason, and appetite’s obedience to reason and spirit: all the virtues contain an ineliminable reference to wisdom, not only as a necessary condition, but as part of each virtue; Republic I represents ‘justice is another’s good’ not as the conception of justice that everyone recognizes but rather as the value of the justice defined by convention. The interpretive danger here is the limits of our own philosophical horizons: we may think certain truths are so obvious that Plato must have seen them, or that certain claims are so outlandish that he could not endorse them but must be using them in some special way, but our first response, given our distance from Plato, ought to be to think ourselves into a perspective from which these claims appear true (just as we turn to metaphorical interpretations of an expression only after the literal ones have all failed.). The best textual authority for readings like Scott’s and Weiss’s seems to me a passage from the Phaedrus, where, having contrasted the light-‐hearted diversion of writing with the serious work of dialectic, which plants discourses accompanied by knowledge into suitable souls, Socrates says that in order to use speech well
First, you must know the truth concerning everything you are speaking or writing about; you must learn how to define each thing in itself; and, having defined it, you must know how to divide it into kinds until you reach something indivisible. Second, you must understand the nature of the soul, along the same lines; you must determine which kind of speech is appropriate to each kind of soul, prepare and arrange your speech accordingly, and offer a complex and elaborate speech to a complex soul and a simple speech to a simple one. Then, and only then, will you be able to use speech artfully, to the extent that its nature allows it to be used that way, either in order to teach or in order to persuade. (277b-‐c)
If Socrates practices what he preaches, then, one might suppose (especially given the wide variety of characters among Socrates’ interlocutors, from Callicles to Theaetetus), the dialogues represent different types of souls being given speeches suited to either teach or persuade them, in accordance with their character.
But even if good speech takes into account the soul of the interlocutor, notice, first of all, that good speech in the Phaedrus passage requires the kind of dialectical and psychological knowledge Socrates disclaims throughout the dialogues. 8 Perhaps Socrates approximates such knowledge: he does seem to find conversation topics that his interlocutors have something to say about. He seems sensitive to what his interlocutor can understand and accept—and when his interlocutor says he doesn’t follow, he explains further. He discovers things about his own soul—his beliefs—and asks his interlocutors to do the same (Gorgias 458, further refs*). But these are norms of conversation aimed at inquiry for anyone and everyone who engages in it; Socrates may be better at observing them than we are, and observing him may be worth our while as we think about our own philosophical conversations. Socrates 8 Is the Philebus an exception?
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nowhere claims the special knowledge that entitles an expert to depart from (what he believes to be) the truth in the interests of someone’s moral education. I have a further worry about reading the dialogues for their dramatization of the educational possibilities for different psychological types. This is that while it is one thing to say of an interlocutor that he is angry or unreflective on the basis of his behaviour in a dialogue, it is quite another to say that he is ‘ruled by appetite’ or ‘tyrannical’ based on the particular psychological theory of the Republic. The psychological claims made in the Republic are as tentatively introduced and provisionally defended as the claims about politics, or metaphysics, or anything else and we risk using them more rigidly than Plato himself. (When Socrates is expounding the types of deficient characteristics and asks who is the man who corresponds to the timocratic constitution, Adeimantus immediately volunteers Glaucon, as a lover of honour—which Socrates immediately qualifies: Glaucon may be like the timocrat in his love of victory, but Glaucon is better educated in music and poetry, and not harsh to his slaves (548e-‐49a).)
In the two following sections of this paper, I show how paying attention to speakers’ explicit statements and their dialectical place in the Republic gives us new insight into two interpretive puzzles: (section 2) about the relationship of Book I to the rest of the book and (section 3) about the role of political claims in the overall argument of the work according to which the just life is better than the unjust. [for the sake of time, probably need to skip (3) Book X’s myth] 2. The relationship between Republic I and Republic II-‐X
The Socrates of Book I of the Republic reminds many readers of the Socrates of the dialogues of definition (e.g. Euthyphro, Lysis): he solicits definitions from his interlocutors and then refutes them. Book I ends with Socrates saying that he does not know what justice is, and that not knowing what justice is, he is not in a position to know whether or not it is a virtue, whether or not it makes its possessor happy (354a-‐c). The Socrates of Book II-‐X, by contrast, argues (at great length!) that the just person is is happier than the unjust. Some scholars characterize the Socrates of Republic Book II on as ‘dogmatic’ or ‘constructive’; many have taken Plato to be putting his own ideas into Socrates’ mouth.
An increasingly popular explanation for this change is that Plato uses Book I to point out Socrates’ shortcomings; recognizing these faults motivates his continuing in a different vein in Republic II-‐X.9 In particular, the criticism is that 9 It used to be thought that Book I of the Republic was an ‘early’ dialogue that must have pre-‐existed the rest of the book because of its similarity to many ‘early’ dialogues: richly characterized interlocutors brimful of opinions, a self-‐avowedly ignorant Socrates refuting them, the conclusion that neither Socrates nor the interlocutors know what the virtue under discussion is. The (dubiously Platonic) Clitophon was counted as evidence of this separate existence of Book I. However, the Clitophon’s relationship to the Book I we have is problematic. For example, the Clitophon attributes the questions about justice’s product to Clitophon rather than to Socrates (contrast Clitophon 409b-‐d and Republic 332c & ff.); it attributes the answer, ‘friendship, that is, agreement, that is, shared knowledge’ to a companion of Socrates (409d-‐e); this answer begs the question of the content of knowledge in a way familiar from the Euthydemus 288e-‐92e and a later passage in the Republic (505c); it attributes to Socrates the opinion that justice is helping friends and harming enemies (410b), but in Book I this is Polemarchus’, not Socrates’ view. However, the main point of the Clitophon—Clitophon’s complaint that while Socrates is good at inspiring people to pursue virtue, he
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Socrates’ dialectical practice of refuting his interlocutors by showing that their opinions are inconsistent (elenchus) fails to turn the interlocutors to inquiry: Cephalus quickly bows out of the argument; Thrasymachus is enraged, at first violently, then in a quiet sulk. Such people’s beliefs are ‘intransigent’, either because they were acquired a-rationally at a young age, or because some irrational desire (newly theorized in the Republic) demands their acceptance. Confirming this criticism of Socrates’ failure to deal adequately with intransigent beliefs is the new solution to the problem in Republic II-‐III—early childhood education to instill correct values—and the warning in Republic VII (537d-‐39d) about the dangers of practicing dialectic on just anyone irrespective of its suitability to their moral and intellectual state.10 The failure of Socratic dialectical practice prepares the way for a more constructive Socrates, one who offers his own account of justice rather than just refuting the accounts of others.11
This account of the Book I-‐Book II change in terms of a change from dialectical failure to a constructive approach is dramatically awkward. How can the very same
leaves them high and dry when it comes to helping them figure out how to pursue it (presumably because he leaves them without a definition)—is addressed in the rest of the Republic. That might support its being an alternative (and never completed) introduction to the Republic. Kahn, ‘Proleptic composition in the Republic, Or Why Republic I was never a separate dialogue’ argues for a closer connection on the grounds that Book I foreshadows so much of the rest of the Republic.* 10 Scott 1999, cf. Blondell p. 165 passim, who argues that Cephalus is a ‘dialectical non-‐starter’, although it is not clear to me whether this is supposed to be because of his attachment to wealth, like the oligarch of Book VII or because of his view that wisdom comes with age and tradition, making old age the time to philosophize; that Polemarchus, because of his “vigor, intelligence, stamina, honesty, . . . courage to scrutinize . . . establish opinions and abandon some of them if necessary, . . . friendly cooperative spirit . . and fundamental conviction that justice is worthwhile” [p. 177] is “an elenctic success”—but the ease with which he adopts new opinions should remind us of the democrat of Book IX, and make us uneasy; that Plato dramatizes Thrasymachus’ annoyance to acknowledge the alienating effect of Socratic elenchus on his own readers but also to show that “the commitment to injustice undermines the will and ability to participate in dialectic” (p. 181) because it inclines him to confrontation, authoritative pedagogy and insincerety. General lessons about Socratic elenchus: “any skillful arguer can lead a less skilled one to agree with his conclusions . . . but such agreement is obviously not enough to establish either argument or conclusion as sound.” (p. 184); say what you believe means Socrates is constrained by the interlocutor’s moral and intellectual qualities. And “Plato underlines these limitations by refusing to let Sokrates ever meet his intellectual match.” (p. 185) Reeve, Philosopher-‐Kings pp.*. 11 Blondell, p. 186, who also thinks that from Book II on, Socrates adopts the methods of the sophists (such as defending a view for the sake of argument), which is more cooperative and less ‘impossible’ for education than one-‐on-‐one elenchus. *But B. may be close to right, because perhaps the depersonalization of inquiry allows it to continue without anyone’s ego being on the line, as B. says (p. 208)? And given the Gorgias’ comment on the pitfalls of dialectic (458), isn’t it plausible that this hypothetical approach is a way of inquiring cooperatively? But that shift needn’t be grounded in a new psychology of belief-‐formation or character* For after all, we see that depersonalized investigation in the Protagoras (in what the many think about knowledge being dragged about like a slave) Also Gorgias distinction between two types of persuasion, with and without knowledge, might suggest Socrates is doing the latter here. But he’s not if he’s making his hypotheses known.
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Socrates be a dialectical failure at one moment and then have acquired an entirely new approach a few dramatic moments later? As Socrates narrates the transition from (our) Book I to Book II, ‘When I said this, I thought I had done with the discussion, but it turned out to have been only a prelude.’ (357a). The ‘this’ which he had just said a dramatic moment earlier is a diagnosis of his own dialectical failure:
. . . Thrasymachus, after you became gentle and ceased to give me rough treatment [I had my feast of words]. Yet I haven’t had a fine banquet. But that’s my fault not yours. I seem to have behaved like a glutton, snatching at every dish that passes and tasting it before properly savoring its predecessor. Before finding the answer to our first inquiry about what justice is, I let that go and turned to investigate whether it is a kind of vice and ignorance or a kind of wisdom and virtue. Then an argument came up about injustice being more profitable than justice, and I couldn’t refrain from abandoning the previous one and following up on that. Hence the result of the discussion, as far as I’m concerned, is that I know nothing, for when I don’t know what justice is, I’ll hardly know whether it is a kind of virtue or not, or whether a person who has it is happy or unhappy. (354a-‐c)
In other words, Socrates shouldn’t have argued that justice is a virtue or that its possessor is happy when he had not yet given a definition of justice, because in the absence of an adequate account of what justice is, he cannot know what its properties are.12 Why should we dismiss Socrates’ own diagnosis that it’s his own failure of knowledge that’s to blame and suppose instead that the problem is the defect in Thrasymachus’ rationality that calls for a non-‐rational mode of engagement?
If Plato’s point is that Socrates’ arguments may fail due to his interlocutor’s irrationality, what should we think about the relationship between Plato’s work and his reader. Does Plato aim to persuade his readers of the intrinsic goodness of justice? Is he limited (like Socrates) by his readers’ irrationality, or does he also use strategies to work on our irrationality (e.g. as Edelstein and Lear suggest the myths do.13)
We can account for the Book I – Book II transition without making it dramatically awkward. But to begin, we should not exaggerate the difference. For although Socrates ends Book I in aporia and is constructive in Book II, he is not suddenly dogmatic. Even as he produces an account of what justice is in the city and the soul in order to answer the pressing question whether it is good by itself or not, the Socrates of Book II on repeatedly reminds his interlocutors that the results of his arguments are less than fully accurate (435c-‐d, 504b), that he himself lacks the knowledge of the good (506c)14 required for someone to be able to see whether anything in particular is good (520c). 12 Priority of Definition texts and scholarly literature. REFS* 13 Edelstein, Lear REFS* 14 maybe say how to understand 533, where Socrates says Glaucon won’t be able to follow him any longer? Why not, because it’ll involve hypothesis above hypothesis of Forms (same form accounts for justice of city and soul)? What can Socrates do that G&A can’t—engage in dialectic? That doesn’t require knowledge, though.
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Suppose that Socrates doesn’t suddenly acquire knowledge of what justice is, but remains in the intellectual condition he owns at the end of Book I: unable to give an account. How, then, in the absence of this account, is he to answer the challenge renewed by Glaucon and Adeimantus in Book II that he show that the just person is happier than the unjust person, not only for the sake of the consequences of being seen to be just, but because it is so good to be just? We all know what he does: (1) he comes up with an account of what justice is in a soul, and shows that this justice in the soul is good for its possessor. How does he come up with the account of what justice is in a soul, in the absence of an account of justice? Again, we know what he does: (2) he supposes that justice in the soul has the same form as justice in a city, and (2a) he comes up with an account of what justice is in the city. How does he come up with the account of what justice is in the city, in the absence of an account of what justice is?15 (3) He constructs a city that meets certain specifications—it is one in which the law aims at the good not of the rulers, as Thrasymachus claims is the case in all existing cities, but of the whole city—and accepts that, as Thrasymachus claims, justice in that city is defined by its law.16 (4) The law of the city aimed at the good of the whole rather than the ruling class is: each does his/her own work, the work that he/she is best suited to do. That is justice in the city; given the assumption that justice in the soul has the same form, it will be each part of the soul doing its own work. And having a soul in which each part does its own work turns out to be a condition of harmony, which is the health of the soul, which affords its possessor the enjoyments of the best goods (knowledge of Forms, the best pleasures of appetite and spirit) possible. None of these steps is immune from criticism: one might say (as Aristotle does) that the institutions of the city Socrates describes fail to bring about the happiness of the city as a whole. One might say that the account of justice in the city is flawed. One might say that justice is not the same in the city and soul (although Plato might be more committed to this than to his particular construction of the city on the grounds that it fits with his method of supposing that everything is what it is by participating in Forms, cf. Phaedo 100a-‐101e). My point is not so much to defend the reasoning by which Socrates defends justice as to show what kind of reasoning it is.
There is a similar transition in the Meno: Meno wants to know whether virtue is teachable; when Socrates insists that they need to know what virtue is in order to answer the question whether it is teachable, Meno zaps him with the question, ‘How will you look for it, Socrates, when you do not know at all what it is? How will you aim to search for something you do not know at all? If you should meet with it, how will you know that this is the thing that you did not know?’ (Meno 80d) In the Meno, after telling Meno that learning is really the recollection of latent beliefs and illustrating this by the example of a slave who has never been taught geometry coming to see the solution to a non-‐obvious geometrical problem (81a-‐86b), Socrates shows how one can, in fact, investigate the teachability of virtue in
15 NB priority of definition applies not only to properties (poia) but also to instances. REFS* 16 For further references to law in the Republic, see 471b9-‐10, 421a5, 484b9-‐c1, 425c10-‐26e4; Annas, ‘Virtue and Law in the Republic’ REF* goes through all these passages, but I don’t know if she would endorse my account of the argument’s dependence on Thrasymachus’ notion of law.
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the absence of an account of what virtue is (86e-‐89a). On the hypothesis that virtue is knowledge, virtue is indeed teachable, and on the hypotheses that virtue is always beneficial and that only knowledge is always beneficial, virtue is knowledge; we have reason to support that only knowledge is always beneficial by noticing that without knowledge, things we typically think of as good are not good, e.g., courage without knowledge is rashness. Socrates models his hypothetical investigation of the teachability of virtue on the way a geometer investigates the question, ‘can a given area be inscribed in the form of a triangle in a given circle?’ The answer is, ‘yes, if that area is the area of a rectangle that falls short of the rectangle constructed on the circle’s diameter by a rectangle similar to itself’.17 The reasoning involved is greatly aided by (or perhaps not possible without) the construction of a model. The Meno parallel shows that we can account for the change in how much Socrates has to say by way of positively characterizing justice (in the soul and city) without attributing an entirely new persona, outlook about dialectic, or philosophical position, to him. For in the Meno, it is clearly the same Socrates who on the one hand persists in asking the ‘what is virtue?’ question and insists that one can’t know anything about virtue (including what are its instances) unless one knows what virtue is, and on the other hand pursues the ‘is virtue teachable?’ question (apparently under similar practical pressure) without an answer to ‘what is virtue?’ In the Meno, we simply take him at his word that he is pursuing the teachability question on a hypothesis. Why not do the same with the Republic?
This approach conforms quite closely to Socrates’ characterization of dianoia (‘thought’) in the famous Divided Line passage in Republic VII.18
In one subsection, the soul, using as images the things that were imitated before, is forced to investigate from hypotheses, proceeding not to a first principle but to a conclusion. In the other subsection, however, it makes its way to a first principle that is not a hypothesis, proceeding from a hypothesis but without the images used in the previous subsection, using forms themseves and making its investigation through them . . . You’ll understand it more easily after the following preamble. I think you know that students of geometry, calculation, and the like hypothesize the odd and the even, the various figures, the three kinds of angles, and other things akin to these in each of their investigations, as if they knew them. They make these their hypotheses and don’t think it necessary to give any account of them, either to themselves or to others, as if they were clear to everyone. And going from these first principles through the remaining steps, they arrive in full agreement. . . you also know that, although they use visible figures and make claims about them, their thought isn’t directed to them but to those other things that they are like. They make their claims for the sake of the square
17 Diagram* 18 Fine 2003, ‘Knowledge and Belief in Republic V-‐VII’, p. 106: ‘Plato in the Republic place himself at L3 [viz. thought, dianoia]’. Fine identifies two criteria to distinguish thought and dialectic: (i) the use of sensible images of forms but for the sake of thinking about the forms, and (ii) the movement from hypothesis to conclusion. Cf. Irwin PMT 222-‐3, Gallop in AGP 47 (1965) pp. 113-‐31*
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itself and the diagonal itself, not the diagonal they draw, and similarly with the others. These figures that they make and draw, of which shadows and reflections in water are images, they now in turn use as images, in seeking to see those others themselves that one cannot see except by means of thought. . . . This, then, is the kind of thing that, on the one hand, I said is intelligible, and, on the other, is such that the soul is forced to use hypotheses in the investigation of it, not travelling up to a first principle, since it cannot reach beyond its hypotheses, but using as images those very things of which images were made in the section below, and which, by comparison to their images, were thought to be clear and to be valued as such. (510b-‐11b)
In the passage I have here excerpted, Socrates describes our various cognitive powers and the objects they grasp, starting at the lower levels with imagination and opinion, powers that grasp sensible objects, and moving to the higher levels with thought (dianoia) and understanding (noêsis), powers that grasp Forms. Thought reasons ‘down’ from hypotheses to conclusions, treating hypotheses as principles (or starting points), and using visible things as images of Forms—geometers construct diagrams to reason about abstract objects. Superior to thought is understanding, the achievement of dialectic, which treats hypotheses as hypotheses and so aims to ground them in something ‘higher’ until it reaches an unhypothetical first principle. Something like this method of investigation, distinguishing a ‘way up’ and a ‘way down’ is described in the Phaedo (100b-‐101e), where, significantly, Socrates describes the Forms as his hypothesis. In sum, I have argued in this section that the hypothesis (n) ‘justice in the city is each class doing its own’ is based on (n’) ‘justice is the same form in city and soul’ and (n’’) the construction of the city according to a law that makes the city as a whole rather than just the rulers, happy.19 In the next section, I show the pay-‐off this interpretation for understanding the role of politics in the argument of the Republic. 3. Politics in the Argument of Books II-‐IX: The happiness of the guardians Twice in the course of Socrates’ defense of justice in the Republic Glaucon and Adeimantus interrupt Socrates to say that the political arrangements he is drawing up for the ideal city (namely, banning the guardians from owning private property and requiring the philosophers to rule) deprive the guardians of happiness. Socrates replies, on the first occasion, that their aim is not to make any group in the city outstandingly happy, but the city as a whole happy, and on the second occasion, that the aim of the law is not to make any group, but the city as a whole, happy, by bringing the citizens into harmony with one another.
And then Adeimantus interrupted: How would you defend yourself, Socrates, he said, if someone told you that you aren’t making these men very happy and that it’s their own fault? The city really belongs to them, yet they derive no good from it. Others own land, build fine big houses, acquire furnishings to go along with them, make their own private sacriices to the gods, entertain
19 cf. Netz 2003 on the complex object that a hypothesis is: proposition plus construction
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guests, and also, of course, possess what you were talking about just now, gold and silver and all the things that are thought to belong to people who are blessedly happy. But one might well say that your guardians are simply settled in the city like mercenaries and that all they do is watch over it. Yes, I said, and what’s more, they work simply for their keep and get no extra wages as the others do. Hence, if they want to take a private trip away from the city, they won’t be able to; they’ll have nothing to give to their mistresses, nothing to spend in whatever other ways they wish, as people do who are considered happy. You’ve omitted these and a host of other, similar facts from your charge. . . . I think we’ll discover what to say if we follow the same path as before. We’ll say that it wouldn’t be surprising if these people were happiest just as they are, but that, in establishing our city, we aren’t aiming to make any one group outstandingly happy but to make the whole city so, as far as possible. [For]20 we thought that we’d find justice most easily in such a city and injustice by contrast, in the one that is governed worst and that, by observing both cities, we’d be able to judge the question we’ve been inquiring into for so long. We take ourselves, then, to be fashioning the happy city, not picking out a few happy people and putting tem in it, but making the whole city happy (419-‐20c). [Glaucon:] Then are we to do them [=the philosophers] an injustice by making them live a worse life when they could live a better one? [Socrates:] You are forgetting again that it isn’t the law’s concern to make any one class in the city outstandingly happy but to contrive to spread happiness throughout the city by bringing the citizens into harmony with each other through persuasion or compulsion and by making them share with each other the benefits that each class can confer on the community. The law produces such people in the city, not in order to allow them to turn in whatever direction they want, but to make use of them to bind the city together (519d-‐20a, tr. Grube-‐Reeve).
Students of Plato’s political thought have naturally come away from these passages with the question: what does Plato think is the relationship between this happiness of the city as a whole and the happiness of its citizens? Does the happiness of the city float free of the happiness of its citizens because Plato thinks of the city as a kind of super-‐organism?21 Or does the happiness of the city consist in the happiness of its citizens?22 Or is the city happy in virtue of the happiness of some subset of its citizens just as it is wise in virtue of its rulers’ wisdom? Or is the city happy to the
20 Grube-‐Reeve and Griffith omit the connecting gar in their translation; Shorey and Reeve translate it. 21 Popper 1962, 169, cf. 79-‐81, Williams 1973, 197 22 Vlastos 1977, 15; Annas 1981, 179
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extent that its citizens are happy and its constitution is the cause of their happiness?23 Attention to the role of claims about the ideal city in the context of the Republic’s dialectic shows why these passages cannot yield a determinate answer to the question about the relationship between city’s and citizens’ happiness. This is not because the Republic is not ‘about’ politics but rather ethics (it’s about a lot of things, and Aristotle criticizes some of the arrangements of the city in Politics II, so he clearly took it to be about politics among other things), but rather because of the role that its political claims play in its overarching ethical argument. From Book II to Book IV, the city goes from being a city to being ‘the good and correct constitution’ (449a). On what grounds does Socrates conclude that the city he describes is happy? Is it because it’s reasonable to assume that a city is happy (well-‐functioning) if its citizens behave justly24? But Socrates asserts that the city is happy (419-‐20, above) before he gives an account of its justice (‘each class doing its own work, 433a-‐ And lots of readers (as early as Aristotle) have doubted that the city described in the Republic is a happy city. It certainly makes enough controversial innovations!
Let’s examine a little more closely the suggestion of the previous section that the happiness and justice of the city Socrates is describing fall out of his dialectical position vis-‐à-‐vis Thrasymachus. In Republic I, Thrasymachus claims that the rulers in any constitution frame laws to their own advantage and call these laws’ prescriptions ‘justice’ (338d-‐339e), consequently, when one (supposing one not to be the ruler) follows these prescriptions, one is serving ‘another’s good’ (358b-‐c, 343c). Since Thrasymachus has said the law (which defines justice) is in every actual city established to serve the interest of the rulers (338d), Socrates posits a city in which the law is not established to serve the interest of the rulers, but that of the whole city, and asks, what is justice in this city? This is why Socrates says in the passages quoted above that the aim of the law is to make the city as a whole as happy as possible. There may be a lot of disagreement about what institutions actually produce the happiness of everyone, but what matters for Socrates’ argument is the stipulation that whatever institutions they have, they must be for the happiness of the whole. The same stipulation allows Socrates to ‘discover’ justice in this city, and that is why, when he finally defines it, he says it has been ‘rolling around at our feet from the very beginning’ (432d). Socrates’ reply to Thrasymachus runs as follows: I’ll show you what justice would be in a city that sets up its laws for the sake of the happiness of the whole city rather than for the sake of its rulers. Justice would be that each does his own work. Socrates does not have to prove that this city is just because he accepts Thrasymachus’ legalism (the law defines justice).
But of course Socrates’ principal task, for the sake of which he describes the city, in reply to Thrasymachus, Glaucon and Adeimantus, is to show that individual justice makes its possessor happy. But if in order to say what justice is, he has described a city whose citizens are just by stipulation (whether they are all just or 23 Kamtekar 2001, 205-‐6 24 Irwin REF*
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only the rulers are properly just while the others are only ‘politically’ just), he is in no position to say that these citizens are happy until he has demonstrated that the just individual is happy. Otherwise, his political claims would beg the ethical question of the whole dialogue. And Plato has Socrates make this point explicitly. Following his statement that he is aiming to make not one group, but the city as a whole, as happy as possible, Socrates reminds Adeimantus that this is for the reason that (gar) he expects to find justice most easily in such a city (420b-‐c, cf. 369a, 371e, 372e, 376d). This is, on the one hand, an undefended political claim, but, on the other hand, it is given by his dialectical relationship to Thrasymachus. So what Socrates reminds us of in this passage is the dialectical goal for the sake of which he is describing the city as he is. Plato has Socrates alert us to the constraints on what he can and cannot say about the citizens’ happiness in another passage, which has not drawn the attention of students of Plato’s political philosophy as have the passages above. After he has finished discussing the stories about gods and heroes to be allowed into or banned from the musical education of the guardians of the ideal city, Socrates points out that what remains to be discussed is stories about human beings, but they can’t settle that because if they say, as they will want to, that they should ban stories that say that many just people are unhappy and many unjust ones happy because injustice is profitable if it goes undetected, then they will have agreed to the very point that is in question in their whole discussion (392a-‐c). (I had previously thought that it would be question-‐begging to say that the citizens, who are by stipulation just, are happy; but more generally it would be question-‐begging to say whether anyone is happy, if the question about the relationship between happiness and justice is open to answers such as that happiness depends entirely on justice.) Now the criteria for banning stories about gods and heroes (paradigmatically happy beings) acting viciously were their untruth and their corrosive effect on citizens’ (‘political’) virtue. So the point of holding off on the stories awaits Socrates’ answer to the question whether the just person is happier than the unjust in any and every circumstance.25 The lesson? We cannot determine what Plato thinks about the relationship between individual and city happiness from these passages in the Republic. Socrates does say at one point that the guardians’/auxiliaries’ life is better than even an Olympic victor’s (465e-‐66b). But here he is talking about recognition and reward in the city, not about the condition of anyone’s soul. If we want to know what he thinks about the relation between individual and city happiness, we can turn to the Laws, where the dialectic doesn’t require silence on the question. Still, this does not mean it is out of place to evaluate the political institutions of the ideal city, just as it is not out of place to say that a geometrical figure is not well drawn.26 4. The myth of Er
25 I discuss this passage and the relationship of the contents of the citizens’ education to the framing argument in my 2010. 26 Netz points out that in geometrical texts, the drawings are pretty sloppy, and perhaps that has a parallel in Plato’s nonchalance about many of the details of the city?
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The Republic closes with an account of the “prizes, wages and gifts” of justice and injustice including Er’s tale of the afterlife punishment/reward and then reincarnation of souls according to their justice or injustice (614b-‐21a) is treated by many readers as an appendage to the main argument of the Republic that justice is better than injustice all by itself and irrespective of any consequences, on the grounds that it gives the unpersuaded or the unphilosophical merely consequentialist reasons to be just, or else a myth that speaks to the nonrational elements in our souls.
But the myth of Er gives us no second-‐best reasons to be just. Socrates interrupts the narrative to make clear its message: because we choose our own next incarnations, the most important thing of all is to learn how to make the best choice, and that requires (a) caring only about justice and injustice, respectively, the greatest good and greatest evil and (b) learning about other things—wealth, beauty, public office, high birth—how they, in combination with one another and with a given state of soul, contribute to a life of justice or injustice (618c-‐19b).27 Socrates’ comments emphasize that whether you have a just or unjust soul (and this depends on what the soul values and knows about value) matters even beyond this life because your character stays with you and shapes your choices even beyond this life and into the next. These are consequences, but we might consider them natural consequences, for they are not the result of any social arrangements. Each soul’s choice of a life reflects its judgments of good and bad and its desires, so that its reincarnation outcome reveals its nature.
Er’s narrative shows by example the kind of experience that can shape a choice (620a-‐b): Orpheus chooses the life of a swan because, having died at women’s hands, he does not wish to be born to a woman; Ajax chooses to be a lion because, remembering that Achilles’ armor went to Odysseus instead of to him, he wishes to avoid human life; Agamemnon, who also hates human beings, chooses to be an eagle.28 These souls make poor choices because their perspective is so narrow: they think the best life is simply one that avoids the particular evils they previously endured—they are like the people Aristotle mentions who identify happiness with health when they are sick, with wealth when they are poor, and with knowledge when conscious of their ignorance (EN I.4 1095a22-‐26).
27 Socrates says that the arrangement (taxis) of the soul is not included in the model of the life (bios) to be chosen, for the choosing alters that arrangement (618b). I don’t yet properly understand the thought, but it resembles Aristotle’s talk of action shaping character through habituation and Plato says similar things about actions/choices shaping one’s character near the end of the Callicles section of the Gorgias, c. 510.* Does Socrates’ comment also suggest that the soul adds something from its character (its opinions about good and evil?) to the life? (Since we don’t know the true nature of the soul when disembodied, whether it is simple or tripartite, 611-‐12, might this include nonrational dispositions as well, such as spiritedness and gentleness?) 28 on the other side, a swan and other musical animals choose [hairesin, 620a8] human lives. The only examples of metempsychotic promotion from non-‐human to human here are of “musical” animals—presumably because of music’s affinity with rationality.
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