Persons of the Dialogue
PHAEDO, who is the narrator of the dialogue to ECHECRATES of Phlius
SOCRATES
APOLLODORUS
SIMMIAS
CEBES
CRITO
ATTENDANT OF THE PRISON
Scene
The Prison of Socrates
Place OF THE NARRATION: Phlius.
Echecrates. Were you yourself, Phaedo, in the prison with
Socrates on the day when he drank the poison?
Phaedo. Yes, Echecrates, I was.
Ech. I wish that you would tell me about his death. What did he
say in his last hours? We were informed that he died by taking poison,
but no one knew anything more; for no Phliasian ever goes to Athens now,
and a long time has elapsed since any Athenian found his way to Phlius,
and therefore we had no clear account.
Phaed. Did you not hear of the proceedings at the trial?
Ech. Yes; someone told us about the trial, and we could not
understand why, having been condemned, he was put to death, as appeared,
not at the time, but long afterwards. What was the reason of this?
Phaed. An accident, Echecrates. The reason was that the stern of
the ship which the Athenians send to Delos happened to have been crowned
on the day before he was tried.
Ech. What is this ship?
Phaed. This is the ship in which, as the Athenians say, Theseus
went to Crete when he took with him the fourteen youths, and was the
saviour of them and of himself. And they were said to have vowed to
Apollo at the time, that if they were saved they would make an annual
pilgrimage to Delos. Now this custom still continues, and the whole
period of the voyage to and from Delos, beginning when the priest of
Apollo crowns the stern of the ship, is a holy season, during which the
city is not allowed to be polluted by public executions; and often, when
the vessel is detained by adverse winds, there may be a very
considerable delay. As I was saying, the ship was crowned on the day
before the trial, and this was the reason why Socrates lay in prison and
was not put to death until long after he was condemned.
Ech. What was the manner of his death, Phaedo? What was said or
done? And which of his friends had he with him? Or were they not allowed
by the authorities to be present? And did he die alone?
Phaed. No; there were several of his friends with him.
Ech. If you have nothing to do, I wish that you would tell me
what passed, as exactly as you can.
Phaed. I have nothing to do, and will try to gratify your wish.
For to me, too, there is no greater pleasure than to have Socrates
brought to my recollection, whether I speak myself or hear another speak
of him.
Ech. You will have listeners who are of the same mind with you,
and I hope that you will be as exact as you can.
Phaed. I remember the strange feeling which came over me at being
with him. For I could hardly believe that I was present at the death of
a friend, and therefore I did not pity him, Echecrates; his mien and his
language were so noble and fearless in the hour of death that to me he
appeared blessed. I thought that in going to the other world he could
not be without a divine call, and that he would be happy, if any man
ever was, when he arrived there, and therefore I did not pity him as
might seem natural at such a time. But neither could I feel the pleasure
which I usually felt in philosophical discourse (for philosophy was the
theme of which we spoke). I was pleased, and I was also pained, because
I knew that he was soon to die, and this strange mixture of feeling was
shared by us all; we were laughing and weeping by turns, especially the
excitable Apollodorus-you know the sort of man?
Ech. Yes.
Phaed. He was quite overcome; and I myself and all of us were
greatly moved.
Ech. Who were present?
Phaed. Of native Athenians there were, besides Apollodorus,
Critobulus and his father Crito, Hermogenes, Epigenes, Aeschines, and
Antisthenes; likewise Ctesippus of the deme of Paeania, Menexenus, and
some others; but Plato, if I am not mistaken, was ill.
Ech. Were there any strangers?
Phaed. Yes, there were; Simmias the Theban, and Cebes, and
Phaedondes; Euclid and Terpison, who came from Megara.
Ech. And was Aristippus there, and Cleombrotus?
Phaed. No, they were said to be in Aegina.
Ech. Anyone else?
Phaed. I think that these were about all.
Ech. And what was the discourse of which you spoke?
Phaed. I will begin at the beginning, and endeavor to repeat the
entire conversation. You must understand that we had been previously in
the habit of assembling early in the morning at the court in which the
trial was held, and which is not far from the prison. There we remained
talking with one another until the opening of the prison doors (for they
were not opened very early), and then went in and generally passed the
day with Socrates. On the last morning the meeting was earlier than
usual; this was owing to our having heard on the previous evening that
the sacred ship had arrived from Delos, and therefore we agreed to meet
very early at the accustomed place. On our going to the prison, the
jailer who answered the door, instead of admitting us, came out and bade
us wait and he would call us. "For the Eleven," he said, "are now with
Socrates; they are taking off his chains, and giving orders that he is
to die to-day." He soon returned and said that we might come in. On
entering we found Socrates just released from chains, and Xanthippe,
whom you know, sitting by him, and holding his child in her arms. When
she saw us she uttered a cry and said, as women will: "O Socrates, this
is the last time that either you will converse with your friends, or
they with you." Socrates turned to Crito and said: "Crito, let someone
take her home." Some of Crito's people accordingly led her away, crying
out and beating herself. And when she was gone, Socrates, sitting up on
the couch, began to bend and rub his leg, saying, as he rubbed: "How
singular is the thing called pleasure, and how curiously related to
pain, which might be thought to be the opposite of it; for they never
come to a man together, and yet he who pursues either of them is
generally compelled to take the other. They are two, and yet they grow
together out of one head or stem; and I cannot help thinking that if
Aesop had noticed them, he would have made a fable about God trying to
reconcile their strife, and when he could not, he fastened their heads
together; and this is the reason why when one comes the other follows,
as I find in my own case pleasure comes following after the pain in my
leg, which was caused by the chain."
Upon this Cebes said: I am very glad indeed, Socrates, that you
mentioned the name of Aesop. For that reminds me of a question which has
been asked by others, and was asked of me only the day before yesterday
by Evenus the poet, and as he will be sure to ask again, you may as well
tell me what I should say to him, if you would like him to have an
answer. He wanted to know why you who never before wrote a line of
poetry, now that you are in prison are putting Aesop into verse, and
also composing that hymn in honor of Apollo.
Tell him, Cebes, he replied, that I had no idea of rivalling him or his
poems; which is the truth, for I knew that I could not do that. But I
wanted to see whether I could purge away a scruple which I felt about
certain dreams. In the course of my life I have often had intimations in
dreams "that I should make music." The same dream came to me sometimes
in one form, and sometimes in another, but always saying the same or
nearly the same words: Make and cultivate music, said the dream. And
hitherto I had imagined that this was only intended to exhort and
encourage me in the study of philosophy, which has always been the
pursuit of my life, and is the noblest and best of music. The dream was
bidding me to do what I was already doing, in the same way that the
competitor in a race is bidden by the spectators to run when he is
already running. But I was not certain of this, as the dream might have
meant music in the popular sense of the word, and being under sentence
of death, and the festival giving me a respite, I thought that I should
be safer if I satisfied the scruple, and, in obedience to the dream,
composed a few verses before I departed. And first I made a hymn in
honor of the god of the festival, and then considering that a poet, if
he is really to be a poet or maker, should not only put words together
but make stories, and as I have no invention, I took some fables of
esop, which I had ready at hand and knew, and turned them into verse.
Tell Evenus this, and bid him be of good cheer; that I would have him
come after me if he be a wise man, and not tarry; and that to-day I am
likely to be going, for the Athenians say that I must.
Simmias said: What a message for such a man! having been a frequent
companion of his, I should say that, as far as I know him, he will never
take your advice unless he is obliged.
Why, said Socrates,-is not Evenus a philosopher?
I think that he is, said Simmias.
Then he, or any man who has the spirit of philosophy, will be willing to
die, though he will not take his own life, for that is held not to be
right.
Here he changed his position, and put his legs off the couch on to the
ground, and during the rest of the conversation he remained sitting.
Why do you say, inquired Cebes, that a man ought not to take his own
life, but that the philosopher will be ready to follow the dying?
Socrates replied: And have you, Cebes and Simmias, who are acquainted
with Philolaus, never heard him speak of this?
I never understood him, Socrates.
My words, too, are only an echo; but I am very willing to say what I
have heard: and indeed, as I am going to another place, I ought to be
thinking and talking of the nature of the pilgrimage which I am about to
make. What can I do better in the interval between this and the setting
of the sun?
Then tell me, Socrates, why is suicide held not to be right? as I have
certainly heard Philolaus affirm when he was staying with us at Thebes:
and there are others who say the same, although none of them has ever
made me understand him.
But do your best, replied Socrates, and the day may come when you will
understand. I suppose that you wonder why, as most things which are evil
may be accidentally good, this is to be the only exception (for may not
death, too, be better than life in some cases?), and why, when a man is
better dead, he is not permitted to be his own benefactor, but must wait
for the hand of another.
By Jupiter! yes, indeed, said Cebes, laughing, and speaking in his
native Doric.
I admit the appearance of inconsistency, replied Socrates, but there may
not be any real inconsistency after all in this. There is a doctrine
uttered in secret that man is a prisoner who has no right to open the
door of his prison and run away; this is a great mystery which I do not
quite understand. Yet I, too, believe that the gods are our guardians,
and that we are a possession of theirs. Do you not agree?
Yes, I agree to that, said Cebes.
And if one of your own possessions, an ox or an ass, for example took
the liberty of putting himself out of the way when you had given no
intimation of your wish that he should die, would you not be angry with
him, and would you not punish him if you could?
Certainly, replied Cebes.
Then there may be reason in saying that a man should wait, and not take
his own life until God summons him, as he is now summoning me.
Yes, Socrates, said Cebes, there is surely reason in that. And yet how
can you reconcile this seemingly true belief that God is our guardian
and we his possessions, with that willingness to die which we were
attributing to the philosopher? That the wisest of men should be willing
to leave this service in which they are ruled by the gods who are the
best of rulers is not reasonable, for surely no wise man thinks that
when set at liberty he can take better care of himself than the gods
take of him. A fool may perhaps think this-he may argue that he had
better run away from his master, not considering that his duty is to
remain to the end, and not to run away from the good, and that there is
no sense in his running away. But the wise man will want to be ever with
him who is better than himself. Now this, Socrates, is the reverse of
what was just now said; for upon this view the wise man should sorrow
and the fool rejoice at passing out of life.
The earnestness of Cebes seemed to please Socrates. Here, said he,
turning to us, is a man who is always inquiring, and is not to be
convinced all in a moment, nor by every argument.
And in this case, added Simmias, his objection does appear to me to have
some force. For what can be the meaning of a truly wise man wanting to
fly away and lightly leave a master who is better than himself? And I
rather imagine that Cebes is referring to you; he thinks that you are
too ready to leave us, and too ready to leave the gods who, as you
acknowledge, are our good rulers.
Yes, replied Socrates; there is reason in that. And this indictment you
think that I ought to answer as if I were in court?
That is what we should like, said Simmias.
Then I must try to make a better impression upon you than I did when
defending myself before the judges. For I am quite ready to acknowledge,
Simmias and Cebes, that I ought to be grieved at death, if I were not
persuaded that I am going to other gods who are wise and good (of this I
am as certain as I can be of anything of the sort) and to men departed
(though I am not so certain of this), who are better than those whom I
leave behind; and therefore I do not grieve as I might have done, for I
have good hope that there is yet something remaining for the dead, and,
as has been said of old, some far better thing for the good than for the
evil.
But do you mean to take away your thoughts with you, Socrates? said
Simmias. Will you not communicate them to us?-the benefit is one in
which we too may hope to share. Moreover, if you succeed in convincing
us, that will be an answer to the charge against yourself.
I will do my best, replied Socrates. But you must first let me hear what
Crito wants; he was going to say something to me.
Only this, Socrates, replied Crito: the attendant who is to give you the
poison has been telling me that you are not to talk much, and he wants
me to let you know this; for that by talking heat is increased, and this
interferes with the action of the poison; those who excite themselves
are sometimes obliged to drink the poison two or three times.
Then, said Socrates, let him mind his business and be prepared to give
the poison two or three times, if necessary; that is all.
I was almost certain that you would say that, replied Crito; but I was
obliged to satisfy him.
Never mind him, he said.
And now I will make answer to you, O my judges, and show that he who has
lived as a true philosopher has reason to be of good cheer when he is
about to die, and that after death he may hope to receive the greatest
good in the other world. And how this may be, Simmias and Cebes, I will
endeavor to explain. For I deem that the true disciple of philosophy is
likely to be misunderstood by other men; they do not perceive that he is
ever pursuing death and dying; and if this is true, why, having had the
desire of death all his life long, should he repine at the arrival of
that which he has been always pursuing and desiring?
Simmias laughed and said: Though not in a laughing humor, I swear that I
cannot help laughing when I think what the wicked world will say when
they hear this. They will say that this is very true, and our people at
home will agree with them in saying that the life which philosophers
desire is truly death, and that they have found them out to be deserving
of the death which they desire.
And they are right, Simmias, in saying this, with the exception of the
words "They have found them out"; for they have not found out what is
the nature of this death which the true philosopher desires, or how he
deserves or desires death. But let us leave them and have a word with
ourselves: Do we believe that there is such a thing as death?
To be sure, replied Simmias.
And is this anything but the separation of soul and body? And being dead
is the attainment of this separation; when the soul exists in herself,
and is parted from the body and the body is parted from the soul-that is
death?
Exactly: that and nothing else, he replied.
And what do you say of another question, my friend, about which I should
like to have your opinion, and the answer to which will probably throw
light on our present inquiry: Do you think that the philosopher ought to
care about the pleasures-if they are to be called pleasures-of eating
and drinking?
Certainly not, answered Simmias.
And what do you say of the pleasures of love-should he care about them?
By no means.
And will he think much of the other ways of indulging the body-for
example, the acquisition of costly raiment, or sandals, or other
adornments of the body? Instead of caring about them, does he not rather
despise anything more than nature needs? What do you say?
I should say the true philosopher would despise them.
Would you not say that he is entirely concerned with the soul and not
with the body? He would like, as far as he can, to be quit of the body
and turn to the soul.
That is true.
In matters of this sort philosophers, above all other men, may be
observed in every sort of way to dissever the soul from the body.
That is true.
Whereas, Simmias, the rest of the world are of opinion that a life which
has no bodily pleasures and no part in them is not worth having; but
that he who thinks nothing of bodily pleasures is almost as though he
were dead.
That is quite true.
What again shall we say of the actual acquirement of knowledge?-is the
body, if invited to share in the inquiry, a hinderer or a helper? I mean
to say, have sight and hearing any truth in them? Are they not, as the
poets are always telling us, inaccurate witnesses? and yet, if even they
are inaccurate and indistinct, what is to be said of the other
senses?-for you will allow that they are the best of them?
Certainly, he replied.
Then when does the soul attain truth?-for in attempting to consider
anything in company with the body she is obviously deceived.
Yes, that is true.
Then must not existence be revealed to her in thought, if at all?
Yes.
And thought is best when the mind is gathered into herself and none of
these things trouble her-neither sounds nor sights nor pain nor any
pleasure-when she has as little as possible to do with the body, and has
no bodily sense or feeling, but is aspiring after being?
That is true.
And in this the philosopher dishonors the body; his soul runs away from
the body and desires to be alone and by herself?
That is true.
Well, but there is another thing, Simmias: Is there or is there not an
absolute justice?
Assuredly there is.
And an absolute beauty and absolute good?
Of course.
But did you ever behold any of them with your eyes?
Certainly not.
Or did you ever reach them with any other bodily sense? (and I speak not
of these alone, but of absolute greatness, and health, and strength, and
of the essence or true nature of everything). Has the reality of them
ever been perceived by you through the bodily organs? or rather, is not
the nearest approach to the knowledge of their several natures made by
him who so orders his intellectual vision as to have the most exact
conception of the essence of that which he considers?
Certainly.
And he attains to the knowledge of them in their highest purity who goes
to each of them with the mind alone, not allowing when in the act of
thought the intrusion or introduction of sight or any other sense in the
company of reason, but with the very light of the mind in her clearness
penetrates into the very fight of truth in each; he has got rid, as far
as he can, of eyes and ears and of the whole body, which he conceives of
only as a disturbing element, hindering the soul from the acquisition of
knowledge when in company with her-is not this the sort of man who, if
ever man did, is likely to attain the knowledge of existence?
There is admirable truth in that, Socrates, replied Simmias.
And when they consider all this, must not true philosophers make a
reflection, of which they will speak to one another in such words as
these: We have found, they will say, a path of speculation which seems
to bring us and the argument to the conclusion that while we are in the
body, and while the soul is mingled with this mass of evil, our desire
will not be satisfied, and our desire is of the truth. For the body is a
source of endless trouble to us by reason of the mere requirement of
food; and also is liable to diseases which overtake and impede us in the
search after truth: and by filling us so full of loves, and lusts, and
fears, and fancies, and idols, and every sort of folly, prevents our
ever having, as people say, so much as a thought. For whence come wars,
and fightings, and factions? whence but from the body and the lusts of
the body? For wars are occasioned by the love of money, and money has to
be acquired for the sake and in the service of the body; and in
consequence of all these things the time which ought to be given to
philosophy is lost. Moreover, if there is time and an inclination toward
philosophy, yet the body introduces a turmoil and confusion and fear
into the course of speculation, and hinders us from seeing the truth:
and all experience shows that if we would have pure knowledge of
anything we must be quit of the body, and the soul in herself must
behold all things in themselves: then I suppose that we shall attain
that which we desire, and of which we say that we are lovers, and that
is wisdom, not while we live, but after death, as the argument shows;
for if while in company with the body the soul cannot have pure
knowledge, one of two things seems to follow-either knowledge is not to
be attained at all, or, if at all, after death. For then, and not till
then, the soul will be in herself alone and without the body. In this
present life, I reckon that we make the nearest approach to knowledge
when we have the least possible concern or interest in the body, and are
not saturated with the bodily nature, but remain pure until the hour
when God himself is pleased to release us. And then the foolishness of
the body will be cleared away and we shall be pure and hold converse
with other pure souls, and know of ourselves the clear light everywhere;
and this is surely the light of truth. For no impure thing is allowed to
approach the pure. These are the sort of words, Simmias, which the true
lovers of wisdom cannot help saying to one another, and thinking. You
will agree with me in that?
Certainly, Socrates.
But if this is true, O my friend, then there is great hope that, going
whither I go, I shall there be satisfied with that which has been the
chief concern of you and me in our past lives. And now that the hour of
departure is appointed to me, this is the hope with which I depart, and
not I only, but every man who believes that he has his mind purified.
Certainly, replied Simmias.
And what is purification but the separation of the soul from the body,
as I was saying before; the habit of the soul gathering and collecting
herself into herself, out of all the courses of the body; the dwelling
in her own place alone, as in another life, so also in this, as far as
she can; the release of the soul from the chains of the body?
Very true, he said.
And what is that which is termed death, but this very separation and
release of the soul from the body?
To be sure, he said.
And the true philosophers, and they only, study and are eager to release
the soul. Is not the separation and release of the soul from the body
their especial study?
That is true.
And as I was saying at first, there would be a ridiculous contradiction
in men studying to live as nearly as they can in a state of death, and
yet repining when death comes.
Certainly.
Then, Simmias, as the true philosophers are ever studying death, to
them, of all men, death is the least terrible. Look at the matter in
this way: how inconsistent of them to have been always enemies of the
body, and wanting to have the soul alone, and when this is granted to
them, to be trembling and repining; instead of rejoicing at their
departing to that place where, when they arrive, they hope to gain that
which in life they loved (and this was wisdom), and at the same time to
be rid of the company of their enemy. Many a man has been willing to go
to the world below in the hope of seeing there an earthly love, or wife,
or son, and conversing with them. And will he who is a true lover of
wisdom, and is persuaded in like manner that only in the world below he
can worthily enjoy her, still repine at death? Will he not depart with
joy? Surely he will, my friend, if he be a true philosopher. For he will
have a firm conviction that there only, and nowhere else, he can find
wisdom in her purity. And if this be true, he would be very absurd, as I
was saying, if he were to fear death.
He would, indeed, replied Simmias.
And when you see a man who is repining at the approach of death, is not
his reluctance a sufficient proof that he is not a lover of wisdom, but
a lover of the body, and probably at the same time a lover of either
money or power, or both?
That is very true, he replied.
There is a virtue, Simmias, which is named courage. Is not that a
special attribute of the philosopher?
Certainly.
Again, there is temperance. Is not the calm, and control, and disdain of
the passions which even the many call temperance, a quality belonging
only to those who despise the body and live in philosophy?
That is not to be denied.
For the courage and temperance of other men, if you will consider them,
are really a contradiction.
How is that, Socrates?
Well, he said, you are aware that death is regarded by men in general as
a great evil.
That is true, he said.
And do not courageous men endure death because they are afraid of yet
greater evils?
That is true.
Then all but the philosophers are courageous only from fear, and because
they are afraid; and yet that a man should be courageous from fear, and
because he is a coward, is surely a strange thing.
Very true.
And are not the temperate exactly in the same case? They are temperate
because they are intemperate-which may seem to be a contradiction, but
is nevertheless the sort of thing which happens with this foolish
temperance. For there are pleasures which they must have, and are afraid
of losing; and therefore they abstain from one class of pleasures
because they are overcome by another: and whereas intemperance is
defined as "being under the dominion of pleasure," they overcome only
because they are overcome by pleasure. And that is what I mean by saying
that they are temperate through intemperance.
That appears to be true.
Yet the exchange of one fear or pleasure or pain for another fear or
pleasure or pain, which are measured like coins, the greater with the
less, is not the exchange of virtue. O my dear Simmias, is there not one
true coin for which all things ought to exchange?-and that is wisdom;
and only in exchange for this, and in company with this, is anything
truly bought or sold, whether courage or temperance or justice. And is
not all true virtue the companion of wisdom, no matter what fears or
pleasures or other similar goods or evils may or may not attend her? But
the virtue which is made up of these goods, when they are severed from
wisdom and exchanged with one another, is a shadow of virtue only, nor
is there any freedom or health or truth in her; but in the true exchange
there is a purging away of all these things, and temperance, and
justice, and courage, and wisdom herself are a purgation of them. And I
conceive that the founders of the mysteries had a real meaning and were
not mere triflers when they intimated in a figure long ago that he who
passes unsanctified and uninitiated into the world below will live in a
slough, but that he who arrives there after initiation and purification
will dwell with the gods. For "many," as they say in the mysteries, "are
the thyrsus bearers, but few are the mystics,"-meaning, as I interpret
the words, the true philosophers. In the number of whom I have been
seeking, according to my ability, to find a place during my whole life;
whether I have sought in a right way or not, and whether I have
succeeded or not, I shall truly know in a little while, if God will,
when I myself arrive in the other world: that is my belief. And now,
Simmias and Cebes, I have answered those who charge me with not grieving
or repining at parting from you and my masters in this world; and I am
right in not repining, for I believe that I shall find other masters and
friends who are as good in the world below. But all men cannot believe
this, and I shall be glad if my words have any more success with you
than with the judges of the Athenians.
Cebes answered: I agree, Socrates, in the greater part of what you say.
But in what relates to the soul, men are apt to be incredulous; they
fear that when she leaves the body her place may be nowhere, and that on
the very day of death she may be destroyed and perish-immediately on her
release from the body, issuing forth like smoke or air and vanishing
away into nothingness. For if she could only hold together and be
herself after she was released from the evils of the body, there would
be good reason to hope, Socrates, that what you say is true. But much
persuasion and many arguments are required in order to prove that when
the man is dead the soul yet exists, and has any force of intelligence.
True, Cebes, said Socrates; and shall I suggest that we talk a little of
the probabilities of these things?
I am sure, said Cebes, that I should gready like to know your opinion
about them.
I reckon, said Socrates, that no one who heard me now, not even if he
were one of my old enemies, the comic poets, could accuse me of idle
talking about matters in which I have no concern. Let us, then, if you
please, proceed with the inquiry.
Whether the souls of men after death are or are not in the world below,
is a question which may be argued in this manner: The ancient doctrine
of which I have been speaking affirms that they go from this into the
other world, and return hither, and are born from the dead. Now if this
be true, and the living come from the dead, then our souls must be in
the other world, for if not, how could they be born again? And this
would be conclusive, if there were any real evidence that the living are
only born from the dead; but if there is no evidence of this, then other
arguments will have to be adduced.
That is very true, replied Cebes.
Then let us consider this question, not in relation to man only, but in
relation to animals generally, and to plants, and to everything of which
there is generation, and the proof will be easier. Are not all things
which have opposites generated out of their opposites? I mean such
things as good and evil, just and unjust-and there are innumerable other
opposites which are generated out of opposites. And I want to show that
this holds universally of all opposites; I mean to say, for example,
that anything which becomes greater must become greater after being
less.
True.
And that which becomes less must have been once greater and then become
less.
Yes.
And the weaker is generated from the stronger, and the swifter from the
slower.
Very true.
And the worse is from the better, and the more just is from the more
unjust.
Of course.
And is this true of all opposites? and are we convinced that all of them
are generated out of opposites?
Yes.
And in this universal opposition of all things, are there not also two
intermediate processes which are ever going on, from one to the other,
and back again; where there is a greater and a less there is also an
intermediate process of increase and diminution, and that which grows is
said to wax, and that which decays to wane?
Yes, he said.
And there are many other processes, such as division and composition,
cooling and heating, which equally involve a passage into and out of one
another. And this holds of all opposites, even though not always
expressed in words-they are generated out of one another, and there is a
passing or process from one to the other of them?
Very true, he replied.
Well, and is there not an opposite of life, as sleep is the opposite of
waking?
True, he said.
And what is that?
Death, he answered.
And these, then, are generated, if they are opposites, the one from the
other, and have there their two intermediate processes also?
Of course.
Now, said Socrates, I will analyze one of the two pairs of opposites
which I have mentioned to you, and also its intermediate processes, and
you shall analyze the other to me. The state of sleep is opposed to the
state of waking, and out of sleeping waking is generated, and out of
waking, sleeping, and the process of generation is in the one case
falling asleep, and in the other waking up. Are you agreed about that?
Quite agreed.
Then suppose that you analyze life and death to me in the same manner.
Is not death opposed to life?
Yes.
And they are generated one from the other?
Yes.
What is generated from life?
Death.
And what from death?
I can only say in answer-life.
Then the living, whether things or persons, Cebes, are generated from
the dead?
That is clear, he replied.
Then the inference is, that our souls are in the world below?
That is true.
And one of the two processes or generations is visible-for surely the
act of dying is visible?
Surely, he said.
And may not the other be inferred as the complement of nature, who is
not to be supposed to go on one leg only? And if not, a corresponding
process of generation in death must also be assigned to her?
Certainly, he replied.
And what is that process?
Revival.
And revival, if there be such a thing, is the birth of the dead into the
world of the living?
Quite true.
Then there is a new way in which we arrive at the inference that the
living come from the dead, just as the dead come from the living; and if
this is true, then the souls of the dead must be in some place out of
which they come again. And this, as I think, has been satisfactorily
proved.
Yes, Socrates, he said; all this seems to flow necessarily out of our
previous admissions.
And that these admissions are not unfair, Cebes, he said, may be shown,
as I think, in this way: If generation were in a straight line only, and
there were no compensation or circle in nature, no turn or return into
one another, then you know that all things would at last have the same
form and pass into the same state, and there would be no more generation
of them.
What do you mean? he said.
A simple thing enough, which I will illustrate by the case of sleep, he
replied. You know that if there were no compensation of sleeping and
waking, the story of the sleeping Endymion would in the end have no
meaning, because all other things would be asleep, too, and he would not
be thought of. Or if there were composition only, and no division of
substances, then the chaos of Anaxagoras would come again. And in like
manner, my dear Cebes, if all things which partook of life were to die,
and after they were dead remained in the form of death, and did not come
to life again, all would at last die, and nothing would be alive-how
could this be otherwise? For if the living spring from any others who
are not the dead, and they die, must not all things at last be swallowed
up in death?
There is no escape from that, Socrates, said Cebes; and I think that
what you say is entirely true.
Yes, he said, Cebes, I entirely think so, too; and we are not walking in
a vain imagination; but I am confident in the belief that there truly is
such a thing as living again, and that the living spring from the dead,
and that the souls of the dead are in existence, and that the good souls
have a better portion than the evil.
Cebes added: Your favorite doctrine, Socrates, that knowledge is simply
recollection, if true, also necessarily implies a previous time in which
we learned that which we now recollect. But this would be impossible
unless our soul was in some place before existing in the human form;
here, then, is another argument of the soul's immortality.
But tell me, Cebes, said Simmias, interposing, what proofs are given of
this doctrine of recollection? I am not very sure at this moment that I
remember them.
One excellent proof, said Cebes, is afforded by questions. If you put a
question to a person in a right way, he will give a true answer of
himself; but how could he do this unless there were knowledge and right
reason already in him? And this is most clearly shown when he is taken
to a diagram or to anything of that sort.
But if, said Socrates, you are still incredulous, Simmias, I would ask
you whether you may not agree with me when you look at the matter in
another way; I mean, if you are still incredulous as to whether
knowledge is recollection.
Incredulous, I am not, said Simmias; but I want to have this doctrine of
recollection brought to my own recollection, and, from what Cebes has
said, I am beginning to recollect and be convinced; but I should still
like to hear what more you have to say.
This is what I would say, he replied: We should agree, if I am not
mistaken, that what a man recollects he must have known at some previous
time.
Very true.
And what is the nature of this recollection? And, in asking this, I mean
to ask whether, when a person has already seen or heard or in any way
perceived anything, and he knows not only that, but something else of
which he has not the same, but another knowledge, we may not fairly say
that he recollects that which comes into his mind. Are we agreed about
that?
What do you mean?
I mean what I may illustrate by the following instance: The knowledge of
a lyre is not the same as the knowledge of a man?
True.
And yet what is the feeling of lovers when they recognize a lyre, or a
garment, or anything else which the beloved has been in the habit of
using? Do not they, from knowing the lyre, form in the mind's eye an
image of the youth to whom the lyre belongs? And this is recollection:
and in the same way anyone who sees Simmias may remember Cebes; and
there are endless other things of the same nature.
Yes, indeed, there are-endless, replied Simmias.
And this sort of thing, he said, is recollection, and is most commonly a
process of recovering that which has been forgotten through time and
inattention.
Very true, he said.
Well; and may you not also from seeing the picture of a horse or a lyre
remember a man? and from the picture of Simmias, you may be led to
remember Cebes?
True.
Or you may also be led to the recollection of Simmias himself?
True, he said.
And in all these cases, the recollection may be derived from things
either like or unlike?
That is true.
And when the recollection is derived from like things, then there is
sure to be another question, which is, whether the likeness of that
which is recollected is in any way defective or not.
Very true, he said.
And shall we proceed a step further, and affirm that there is such a
thing as equality, not of wood with wood, or of stone with stone, but
that, over and above this, there is equality in the abstract? Shall we
affirm this?
Affirm, yes, and swear to it, replied Simmias, with all the confidence
in life.
And do we know the nature of this abstract essence?
To be sure, he said.
And whence did we obtain this knowledge? Did we not see equalities of
material things, such as pieces of wood and stones, and gather from them
the idea of an equality which is different from them?-you will admit
that? Or look at the matter again in this way: Do not the same pieces of
wood or stone appear at one time equal, and at another time unequal?
That is certain.
But are real equals ever unequal? or is the idea of equality ever
inequality?
That surely was never yet known, Socrates.
Then these (so-called) equals are not the same with the idea of
equality?
I should say, clearly not, Socrates.
And yet from these equals, although differing from the idea of equality,
you conceived and attained that idea?
Very true, he said.
Which might be like, or might be unlike them?
Yes.
But that makes no difference; whenever from seeing one thing you
conceived another, whether like or unlike, there must surely have been
an act of recollection?
Very true.
But what would you say of equal portions of wood and stone, or other
material equals? and what is the impression produced by them? Are they
equals in the same sense as absolute equality? or do they fall short of
this in a measure?
Yes, he said, in a very great measure, too.
And must we not allow that when I or anyone look at any object, and
perceive that the object aims at being some other thing, but falls short
of, and cannot attain to it-he who makes this observation must have had
previous knowledge of that to which, as he says, the other, although
similar, was inferior?
Certainly.
And has not this been our case in the matter of equals and of absolute
equality?
Precisely.
Then we must have known absolute equality previously to the time when we
first saw the material equals, and reflected that all these apparent
equals aim at this absolute equality, but fall short of it?
That is true.
And we recognize also that this absolute equality has only been known,
and can only be known, through the medium of sight or touch, or of some
other sense. And this I would affirm of all such conceptions.
Yes, Socrates, as far as the argument is concerned, one of them is the
same as the other.
And from the senses, then, is derived the knowledge that all sensible
things aim at an idea of equality of which they fall short-is not that
true?
Yes.
Then before we began to see or hear or perceive in any way, we must have
had a knowledge of absolute equality, or we could not have referred to
that the equals which are derived from the senses-for to that they all
aspire, and of that they fall short?
That, Socrates, is certainly to be inferred from the previous
statements.
And did we not see and hear and acquire our other senses as soon as we
were born?
Certainly.
Then we must have acquired the knowledge of the ideal equal at some time
previous to this?
Yes.
That is to say, before we were born, I suppose?
True.
And if we acquired this knowledge before we were born, and were born
having it, then we also knew before we were born and at the instant of
birth not only equal or the greater or the less, but all other ideas;
for we are not speaking only of equality absolute, but of beauty,
goodness, justice, holiness, and all which we stamp with the name of
essence in the dialectical process, when we ask and answer questions. Of
all this we may certainly affirm that we acquired the knowledge before
birth?
That is true.
But if, after having acquired, we have not forgotten that which we
acquired, then we must always have been born with knowledge, and shall
always continue to know as long as life lasts-for knowing is the
acquiring and retaining knowledge and not forgetting. Is not forgetting,
Simmias, just the losing of knowledge?
Quite true, Socrates.
But if the knowledge which we acquired before birth was lost by us at
birth, and afterwards by the use of the senses we recovered that which
we previously knew, will not that which we call learning be a process of
recovering our knowledge, and may not this be rightly termed
recollection by us?
Very true.
For this is clear, that when we perceived something, either by the help
of sight or hearing, or some other sense, there was no difficulty in
receiving from this a conception of some other thing like or unlike
which had been forgotten and which was associated with this; and
therefore, as I was saying, one of two alternatives follows: either we
had this knowledge at birth, and continued to know through life; or,
after birth, those who are said to learn only remember, and learning is
recollection only.
Yes, that is quite true, Socrates.
And which alternative, Simmias, do you prefer? Had we the knowledge at
our birth, or did we remember afterwards the things which we knew
previously to our birth?
I cannot decide at the moment.
At any rate you can decide whether he who has knowledge ought or ought
not to be able to give a reason for what he knows.
Certainly, he ought.
But do you think that every man is able to give a reason about these
very matters of which we are speaking?
I wish that they could, Socrates, but I greatly fear that to-morrow at
this time there will be no one able to give a reason worth having.
Then you are not of opinion, Simmias, that all men know these things?
Certainly not.
Then they are in process of recollecting that which they learned before.
Certainly.
But when did our souls acquire this knowledge?-not since we were born as
men?
Certainly not.
And therefore previously?
Yes.
Then, Simmias, our souls must have existed before they were in the form
of man-without bodies, and must have had intelligence.
Unless indeed you suppose, Socrates, that these notions were given us at
the moment of birth; for this is the only time that remains.
Yes, my friend, but when did we lose them? for they are not in us when
we are born-that is admitted. Did we lose them at the moment of
receiving them, or at some other time?
No, Socrates, I perceive that I was unconsciously talking nonsense.
Then may we not say, Simmias, that if, as we are always repeating, there
is an absolute beauty, and goodness, and essence in general, and to
this, which is now discovered to be a previous condition of our being,
we refer all our sensations, and with this compare them-assuming this to
have a prior existence, then our souls must have had a prior existence,
but if not, there would be no force in the argument? There can be no
doubt that if these absolute ideas existed before we were born, then our
souls must have existed before we were born, and if not the ideas, then
not the souls.
Yes, Socrates; I am convinced that there is precisely the same necessity
for the existence of the soul before birth, and of the essence of which
you are speaking: and the argument arrives at a result which happily
agrees with my own notion. For there is nothing which to my mind is so
evident as that beauty, goodness, and other notions of which you were
just now speaking have a most real and absolute existence; and I am
satisfied with the proof.
Well, but is Cebes equally satisfied? for I must convince him too.
I think, said Simmias, that Cebes is satisfied: although he is the most
incredulous of mortals, yet I believe that he is convinced of the
existence of the soul before birth. But that after death the soul will
continue to exist is not yet proven even to my own satisfaction. I
cannot get rid of the feeling of the many to which Cebes was
referring-the feeling that when the man dies the soul may be scattered,
and that this may be the end of her. For admitting that she may be
generated and created in some other place, and may have existed before
entering the human body, why after having entered in and gone out again
may she not herself be destroyed and come to an end?
Very true, Simmias, said Cebes; that our soul existed before we were
born was the first half of the argument, and this appears to have been
proven; that the soul will exist after death as well as before birth is
the other half of which the proof is still wanting, and has to be
supplied.
But that proof, Simmias and Cebes, has been already given, said
Socrates, if you put the two arguments together-I mean this and the
former one, in which we admitted that everything living is born of the
dead. For if the soul existed before birth, and in coming to life and
being born can be born only from death and dying, must she not after
death continue to exist, since she has to be born again? surely the
proof which you desire has been already furnished. Still I suspect that
you and Simmias would be glad to probe the argument further; like
children, you are haunted with a fear that when the soul leaves the
body, the wind may really blow her away and scatter her; especially if a
man should happen to die in stormy weather and not when the sky is calm.
Cebes answered with a smile: Then, Socrates, you must argue us out of
our fears-and yet, strictly speaking, they are not our fears, but there
is a child within us to whom death is a sort of hobgoblin; him too we
must persuade not to be afraid when he is alone with him in the dark.
Socrates said: Let the voice of the charmer be applied daily until you
have charmed him away.
And where shall we find a good charmer of our fears, Socrates, when you
are gone?
Hellas, he replied, is a large place, Cebes, and has many good men, and
there are barbarous races not a few: seek for him among them all, far
and wide, sparing neither pains nor money; for there is no better way of
using your money. And you must not forget to seek for him among
yourselves too; for he is nowhere more likely to be found.
The search, replied Cebes, shall certainly be made. And now, if you
please, let us return to the point of the argument at which we
digressed.
By all means, replied Socrates; what else should I please?
Very good, he said.
Must we not, said Socrates, ask ourselves some question of this
sort?-What is that which, as we imagine, is liable to be scattered away,
and about which we fear? and what again is that about which we have no
fear? And then we may proceed to inquire whether that which suffers
dispersion is or is not of the nature of soul-our hopes and fears as to
our own souls will turn upon that.
That is true, he said.
Now the compound or composite may be supposed to be naturally capable of
being dissolved in like manner as of being compounded; but that which is
uncompounded, and that only, must be, if anything is, indissoluble.
Yes; that is what I should imagine, said Cebes.
And the uncompounded may be assumed to be the same and unchanging, where
the compound is always changing and never the same?
That I also think, he said.
Then now let us return to the previous discussion. Is that idea or
essence, which in the dialectical process we define as essence of true
existence-whether essence of equality, beauty, or anything else: are
these essences, I say, liable at times to some degree of change? or are
they each of them always what they are, having the same simple,
self-existent and unchanging forms, and not admitting of variation at
all, or in any way, or at any time?
They must be always the same, Socrates, replied Cebes.
And what would you say of the many beautiful-whether men or horses or
garments or any other things which may be called equal or beautiful-are
they all unchanging and the same always, or quite the reverse? May they
not rather be described as almost always changing and hardly ever the
same either with themselves or with one another?
The latter, replied Cebes; they are always in a state of change.
And these you can touch and see and perceive with the senses, but the
unchanging things you can only perceive with the mind-they are invisible
and are not seen?
That is very true, he said.
Well, then, he added, let us suppose that there are two sorts of
existences, one seen, the other unseen.
Let us suppose them.
The seen is the changing, and the unseen is the unchanging.
That may be also supposed.
And, further, is not one part of us body, and the rest of us soul?
To be sure.
And to which class may we say that the body is more alike and akin?
Clearly to the seen: no one can doubt that.
And is the soul seen or not seen?
Not by man, Socrates.
And by "seen" and "not seen" is meant by us that which is or is not
visible to the eye of man?
Yes, to the eye of man.
And what do we say of the soul? is that seen or not seen?
Not seen.
Unseen then?
Yes.
Then the soul is more like to the unseen, and the body to the seen?
That is most certain, Socrates.
And were we not saying long ago that the soul when using the body as an
instrument of perception, that is to say, when using the sense of sight
or hearing or some other sense (for the meaning of perceiving through
the body is perceiving through the senses)-were we not saying that the
soul too is then dragged by the body into the region of the changeable,
and wanders and is confused; the world spins round her, and she is like
a drunkard when under their influence?
Very true.
But when returning into herself she reflects; then she passes into the
realm of purity, and eternity, and immortality, and unchangeableness,
which are her kindred, and with them she ever lives, when she is by
herself and is not let or hindered; then she ceases from her erring
ways, and being in communion with the unchanging is unchanging. And this
state of the soul is called wisdom?
That is well and truly said, Socrates, he replied.
And to which class is the soul more nearly alike and akin, as far as may
be inferred from this argument, as well as from the preceding one?
I think, Socrates, that, in the opinion of everyone who follows the
argument, the soul will be infinitely more like the unchangeable even
the most stupid person will not deny that.
And the body is more like the changing?
Yes.
Yet once more consider the matter in this light: When the soul and the
body are united, then nature orders the soul to rule and govern, and the
body to obey and serve.
Now which of these two functions is akin to the divine? and which to the
mortal? Does not the divine appear to you to be that which naturally
orders and rules, and the mortal that which is subject and servant?
True.
And which does the soul resemble?
The soul resembles the divine and the body the mortal-there can be no
doubt of that, Socrates.
Then reflect, Cebes: is not the conclusion of the whole matter
this?-that the soul is in the very likeness of the divine, and immortal,
and intelligible, and uniform, and indissoluble, and unchangeable; and
the body is in the very likeness of the human, and mortal, and
unintelligible, and multiform, and dissoluble, and changeable. Can this,
my dear Cebes, be denied?
No, indeed.
But if this is true, then is not the body liable to speedy dissolution?
and is not the soul almost or altogether indissoluble?
Certainly.
And do you further observe, that after a man is dead, the body, which is
the visible part of man, and has a visible framework, which is called a
corpse, and which would naturally be dissolved and decomposed and
dissipated, is not dissolved or decomposed at once, but may remain for a
good while, if the constitution be sound at the time of death, and the
season of the year favorable? For the body when shrunk and embalmed, as
is the custom in Egypt, may remain almost entire through infinite ages;
and even in decay, still there are some portions, such as the bones and
ligaments, which are practically indestructible. You allow that?
Yes.
And are we to suppose that the soul, which is invisible, in passing to
the true Hades, which like her is invisible, and pure, and noble, and on
her way to the good and wise God, whither, if God will, my soul is also
soon to go-that the soul, I repeat, if this be her nature and origin, is
blown away and perishes immediately on quitting the body as the many
say? That can never be, dear Simmias and Cebes. The truth rather is that
the soul which is pure at departing draws after her no bodily taint,
having never voluntarily had connection with the body, which she is ever
avoiding, herself gathered into herself (for such abstraction has been
the study of her life). And what does this mean but that she has been a
true disciple of philosophy and has practised how to die easily? And is
not philosophy the practice of death?
Certainly.
That soul, I say, herself invisible, departs to the invisible worldto
the divine and immortal and rational: thither arriving, she lives in
bliss and is released from the error and folly of men, their fears and
wild passions and all other human ills, and forever dwells, as they say
of the initiated, in company with the gods. Is not this true, Cebes?
Yes, said Cebes, beyond a doubt.
But the soul which has been polluted, and is impure at the time of her
departure, and is the companion and servant of the body always, and is
in love with and fascinated by the body and by the desires and pleasures
of the body, until she is led to believe that the truth only exists in a
bodily form, which a man may touch and see and taste and use for the
purposes of his lusts-the soul, I mean, accustomed to hate and fear and
avoid the intellectual principle, which to the bodily eye is dark and
invisible, and can be attained only by philosophy-do you suppose that
such a soul as this will depart pure and unalloyed?
That is impossible, he replied.
She is engrossed by the corporeal, which the continual association and
constant care of the body have made natural to her.
Very true.
And this, my friend, may be conceived to be that heavy, weighty, earthy
element of sight by which such a soul is depressed and dragged down
again into the visible world, because she is afraid of the invisible and
of the world below-prowling about tombs and sepulchres, in the
neighborhood of which, as they tell us, are seen certain ghostly
apparitions of souls which have not departed pure, but are cloyed with
sight and therefore visible.
That is very likely, Socrates.
Yes, that is very likely, Cebes; and these must be the souls, not of the
good, but of the evil, who are compelled to wander about such places in
payment of the penalty of their former evil way of life; and they
continue to wander until the desire which haunts them is satisfied and
they are imprisoned in another body. And they may be supposed to be
fixed in the same natures which they had in their former life.
What natures do you mean, Socrates?
I mean to say that men who have followed after gluttony, and wantonness,
and drunkenness, and have had no thought of avoiding them, would pass
into asses and animals of that sort. What do you think?
I think that exceedingly probable.
And those who have chosen the portion of injustice, and tyranny, and
violence, will pass into wolves, or into hawks and kites; whither else
can we suppose them to go?
Yes, said Cebes; that is doubtless the place of natures such as theirs.
And there is no difficulty, he said, in assigning to all of them places
answering to their several natures and propensities?
There is not, he said.
Even among them some are happier than others; and the happiest both in
themselves and their place of abode are those who have practised the
civil and social virtues which are called temperance and justice, and
are acquired by habit and attention without philosophy and mind.
Why are they the happiest?
Because they may be expected to pass into some gentle, social nature
which is like their own, such as that of bees or ants, or even back
again into the form of man, and just and moderate men spring from them.
That is not impossible.
But he who is a philosopher or lover of learning, and is entirely pure
at departing, is alone permitted to reach the gods. And this is the
reason, Simmias and Cebes, why the true votaries of philosophy abstain
from all fleshly lusts, and endure and refuse to give themselves up to
them-not because they fear poverty or the ruin of their families, like
the lovers of money, and the world in general; nor like the lovers of
power and honor, because they dread the dishonor or disgrace of evil
deeds.
No, Socrates, that would not become them, said Cebes.
No, indeed, he replied; and therefore they who have a care of their
souls, and do not merely live in the fashions of the body, say farewell
to all this; they will not walk in the ways of the blind: and when
philosophy offers them purification and release from evil, they feel
that they ought not to resist her influence, and to her they incline,
and whither she leads they follow her.
What do you mean, Socrates?
I will tell you, he said. The lovers of knowledge are conscious that
their souls, when philosophy receives them, are simply fastened and
glued to their bodies: the soul is only able to view existence through
the bars of a prison, and not in her own nature; she is wallowing in the
mire of all ignorance; and philosophy, seeing the terrible nature of her
confinement, and that the captive through desire is led to conspire in
her own captivity (for the lovers of knowledge are aware that this was
the original state of the soul, and that when she was in this state
philosophy received and gently counseled her, and wanted to release her,
pointing out to her that the eye is full of deceit, and also the ear and
other senses, and persuading her to retire from them in all but the
necessary use of them and to be gathered up and collected into herself,
and to trust only to herself and her own intuitions of absolute
existence, and mistrust that which comes to her through others and is
subject to vicissitude)-philosophy shows her that this is visible and
tangible, but that what she sees in her own nature is intellectual and
invisible. And the soul of the true philosopher thinks that she ought
not to resist this deliverance, and therefore abstains from pleasures
and desires and pains and fears, as far as she is able; reflecting that
when a man has great joys or sorrows or fears or desires he suffers from
them, not the sort of evil which might be anticipated-as, for example,
the loss of his health or property, which he has sacrificed to his
lusts-but he has suffered an evil greater far, which is the greatest and
worst of all evils, and one of which he never thinks.
And what is that, Socrates? said Cebes.
Why, this: When the feeling of pleasure or pain in the soul is most
intense, all of us naturally suppose that the object of this intense
feeling is then plainest and truest: but this is not the case.
Very true.
And this is the state in which the soul is most enthralled by the body.
How is that?
Why, because each pleasure and pain is a sort of nail which nails and
rivets the soul to the body, and engrosses her and makes her believe
that to be true which the body affirms to be true; and from agreeing
with the body and having the same delights she is obliged to have the
same habits and ways, and is not likely ever to be pure at her departure
to the world below, but is always saturated with the body; so that she
soon sinks into another body and there germinates and grows, and has
therefore no part in the communion of the divine and pure and simple.
That is most true, Socrates, answered Cebes.
And this, Cebes, is the reason why the true lovers of knowledge are
temperate and brave; and not for the reason which the world gives.
Certainly not.
Certainly not! For not in that way does the soul of a philosopher
reason; she will not ask philosophy to release her in order that when
released she may deliver herself up again to the thraldom of pleasures
and pains, doing a work only to be undone again, weaving instead of
unweaving her Penelope's web. But she will make herself a calm of
passion and follow Reason, and dwell in her, beholding the true and
divine (which is not matter of opinion), and thence derive nourishment.
Thus she seeks to live while she lives, and after death she hopes to go
to her own kindred and to be freed from human ills. Never fear, Simmias
and Cebes, that a soul which has been thus nurtured and has had these
pursuits, will at her departure from the body be scattered and blown
away by the winds and be nowhere and nothing.
When Socrates had done speaking, for a considerable time there was
silence; he himself and most of us appeared to be meditating on what had
been said; only Cebes and Simmias spoke a few words to one another. And
Socrates observing this asked them what they thought of the argument,
and whether there was anything wanting? For, said he, much is still open
to suspicion and attack, if anyone were disposed to sift the matter
thoroughly. If you are talking of something else I would rather not
interrupt you, but if you are still doubtful about the argument do not
hesitate to say exactly what you think, and let us have anything better
which you can suggest; and if I am likely to be of any use, allow me to
help you.
Simmias said: I must confess, Socrates, that doubts did arise in our
minds, and each of us was urging and inciting the other to put the
question which he wanted to have answered and which neither of us liked
to ask, fearing that our importunity might be troublesome under present
circumstances.
Socrates smiled and said: O Simmias, how strange that is; I am not very
likely to persuade other men that I do not regard my present situation
as a misfortune, if I am unable to persuade you, and you will keep
fancying that I am at all more troubled now than at any other time. Will
you not allow that I have as much of the spirit of prophecy in me as the
swans? For they, when they perceive that they must die, having sung all
their life long, do then sing more than ever, rejoicing in the thought
that they are about to go away to the god whose ministers they are. But
men, because they are themselves afraid of death, slanderously affirm of
the swans that they sing a lament at the last, not considering that no
bird sings when cold, or hungry, or in pain, not even the nightingale,
nor the swallow, nor yet the hoopoe; which are said indeed to tune a lay
of sorrow, although I do not believe this to be true of them any more
than of the swans. But because they are sacred to Apollo and have the
gift of prophecy and anticipate the good things of another world,
therefore they sing and rejoice in that day more than they ever did
before. And I, too, believing myself to be the consecrated servant of
the same God, and the fellow servant of the swans, and thinking that I
have received from my master gifts of prophecy which are not inferior to
theirs, would not go out of life less merrily than the swans. Cease to
mind then about this, but speak and ask anything which you like, while
the eleven magistrates of Athens allow.
Well, Socrates, said Simmias, then I will tell you my difficulty, and
Cebes will tell you his. For I dare say that you, Socrates, feel, as I
do, how very hard or almost impossible is the attainment of any
certainty about questions such as these in the present life. And yet I
should deem him a coward who did not prove what is said about them to
the uttermost, or whose heart failed him before he had examined them on
every side. For he should persevere until he has attained one of two
things: either he should discover or learn the truth about them; or, if
this is impossible, I would have him take the best and most irrefragable
of human notions, and let this be the raft upon which he sails through
life-not without risk, as I admit, if he cannot find some word of God
which will more surely and safely carry him. And now, as you bid me, I
will venture to question you, as I should not like to reproach myself
hereafter with not having said at the time what I think. For when I
consider the matter either alone or with Cebes, the argument does
certainly appear to me, Socrates, to be not sufficient.
Socrates answered: I dare say, my friend, that you may be right, but I
should like to know in what respect the argument is not sufficient.
In this respect, replied Simmias: Might not a person use the same
argument about harmony and the lyre-might he not say that harmony is a
thing invisible, incorporeal, fair, divine, abiding in the lyre which is
harmonized, but that the lyre and the strings are matter and material,
composite, earthy, and akin to mortality? And when someone breaks the
lyre, or cuts and rends the strings, then he who takes this view would
argue as you do, and on the same analogy, that the harmony survives and
has not perished; for you cannot imagine, as we would say, that the lyre
without the strings, and the broken strings themselves, remain, and yet
that the harmony, which is of heavenly and immortal nature and kindred,
has perished-and perished too before the mortal. The harmony, he would
say, certainly exists somewhere, and the wood and strings will decay
before that decays. For I suspect, Socrates, that the notion of the soul
which we are all of us inclined to entertain, would also be yours, and
that you too would conceive the body to be strung up, and held together,
by the elements of hot and cold, wet and dry, and the like, and that the
soul is the harmony or due proportionate admixture of them. And, if this
is true, the inference clearly is that when the strings of the body are
unduly loosened or overstrained through disorder or other injury, then
the soul, though most divine, like other harmonies of music or of the
works of art, of course perishes at once, although the material remains
of the body may last for a considerable time, until they are either
decayed or burnt. Now if anyone maintained that the soul, being the
harmony of the elements of the body, first perishes in that which is
called death, how shall we answer him?
Socrates looked round at us as his manner was, and said, with a smile:
Simmias has reason on his side; and why does not some one of you who is
abler than myself answer him? for there is force in his attack upon me.
But perhaps, before we answer him, we had better also hear what Cebes
has to say against the argument-this will give us time for reflection,
and when both of them have spoken, we may either assent to them if their
words appear to be in consonance with the truth, or if not, we may take
up the other side, and argue with them. Please to tell me then, Cebes,
he said, what was the difficulty which troubled you?
Cebes said: I will tell you. My feeling is that the argument is still in
the same position, and open to the same objections which were urged
before; for I am ready to admit that the existence of the soul before
entering into the bodily form has been very ingeniously, and, as I may
be allowed to say, quite sufficiently proven; but the existence of the
soul after death is still, in my judgment, unproven. Now my objection is
not the same as that of Simmias; for I am not disposed to deny that the
soul is stronger and more lasting than the body, being of opinion that
in all such respects the soul very far excels the body. Well, then, says
the argument to me, why do you remain unconvinced? When you see that the
weaker is still in existence after the man is dead, will you not admit
that the more lasting must also survive during the same period of time?
Now I, like Simmias, must employ a figure; and I shall ask you to
consider whether the figure is to the point. The parallel which I will
suppose is that of an old weaver, who dies, and after his death