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BOOKX "And, indeed, " I said, "I also recognize in many other aspects of 595 a this city that we were entirely right in the way we founded it, but I say this particularly when reflecting on poetry." "What about it?" he said. "In not admitting at all any part of it that is imitative. For that the imitative, more than anything, must not be admitted looks, in my opin- ion, even more manifest now that the soul's forms have each been separated out." b "How do you mean?" "Between us — and you all won't denounce me to the tragic poets and all the other imitators — all such things seem to maim the thought of those who hear them and do not as a remedy have the knowledge of how they really are." "What are you thinking about in saying that?" he said. "It must be told," I said. "And yet, a certain friendship for Homer, and shame before him, which has possessed me since child- hood, prevents me from speaking. For he seems to have been the first teacher and leader of all these fine tragic things. Still and all, a man c must not be honored before the truth, but, as I say, it must be told." "Most certainly," he said. "Then listen, or rather, answer. " "Ask." [ 277 ] socrates/glaucon the republic 595 c "Could you tell me what imitation in general is? For I myself scarcely comprehend what it wants to be." "Then it follows," he said, "that I, of course, will comprehend it." "That wouldn't be anything strange," I said, "since men with 596 a duller vision have often, you know, seen things before those who see more sharply." "That's so," he said. "But vdth you present I couldn't be very eager to say whatever might occur to me, so look yourself. " "Do you want us to make our consideration according to our customary procedure, beginning from the following point? For we are, presumably, accustomed to set down some one particular form for each of the particular 'manys' to which we apply the same name. Or don't you understand?" "I do." "Then let's now set down any one of the 'manys' you please; for b example, if you wish, there are surely many couches and tables." "Of course:" "But as for ideas for these furnishings, there are presumably two, one of couch, one of table." "Yes." "Aren't we also accustomed to say that it is in looking to the idea of each implement that one craftsman makes the couches and another the chairs we use, and similarly for other things? For presumably none of the craftsmen fabricates the idea itself. How could he?" "In no way." "Well, now, see what you call this craftsman here." c "Which one?" "He who makes everything that each one of the manual artisans makes separately. " "That's a clever and wonderful man you speak of. " "Not yet. In an instant you'll say that even more. For this same manual artisan is not only able to make all implements but also makes everything that grows naturally from the earth, and he produces all animals — the others and himself too — and, in addition to that, pro- duces earth and heaven and gods and everything in heaven and every- thing in Hades under the earth. " d "That's quite a wonderful sophist you speak of," he said. "Are you distrustful?" I said. "And tell me, in your opinion could there be altogether no such craftsman; or in a certain way, could a maker of all these things come into being and in a certain way not? Or aren't you aware that you yourself could in a certain way make all these things?" 278 ] Book X I 595c-597b glaucon/socrates "And what," he said, "is that way?" 596 d "It's not hard," I said. "You could fabricate them quickly in many ways and most quickly, of course, if you are willing to take a mirror and carry it around everywhere; quickly you will make the sun and the e things in the heaven; quickly, the earth; and quickly, yourself and the other animals and implements and plants and everything else that was just now mentioned." "Yes," he said, "so that they look like they are; however, they surely are not in truth." "Fine," I said, "and you attack the argument at just the right place. For I suppose the painter is also one of these craftsmen, isn't he?" "Of course he is. " "But 1 suppose you'll say that he doesn't truly make what he makes. And yet in a certain way the painter too does make a couch, doesn't he?" "Yes," he said, "he too makes what looks like a couch." "And what about the couchmaker? Weren't you just saying that 597 a he doesn't make the form, which is what we, of course, say is just a couch, but a certain couch?" "Yes," he said, "I was saying that." "Then, if he doesn't make what is, he wouldn't make the being but something that is like the being, but is not being. And if someone were to assert that the work of the producer of couches or of any other manual artisan is completely being, he would run the risk of saying what's not true." "Yes," he said, "at least that would be the opinion of those who spend their time in arguments of this kind." "Therefore, let's not be surprised if this too turns out to be a dim thing compared to the truth. " "No, let's not." b "Do you," I said, "want us on the basis of these very things to investigate who this imitator is?" "If you want to," he said. "There turn out, then, to be these three kinds of couches: one that is in nature, which we would say, I suppose, a god produced. Or who else?" "No one else, 1 suppose." "And then one that the carpenter produced." "Yes," he said. "And one that the painter produced, isn't that so?" "Let it be so." [ 279 ] socrates/glaucon the republic 597 h "Then painter, couchmaker, god — these three preside over three forms of couches . " "Yes, three." c "Now, the god, whether he didn't want to or whether some necessity was laid upon him not to produce more than one couch in nature, made only one, that very one which is a couch. And two or more such weren't naturally engendered by the god nor will they be begotten." "How's that?" he said. "Because," I said, "if he should make only two, again one would come to light the form of which they in turn would both possess, and that, and not the two, would be the couch that is. " "Right," he said. d "Then, I suppose, the god, knowing this and wanting to be a real maker of a couch that really is and not a certain couchmaker of a cer- tain couch, begot it as one by nature." "So it seems." "Do you want us to address him as its nature-begetter or some- thing of the kind?" "That's just at any rate," he said, "since by nature he has made both this and everything else." "And what about the carpenter? Isn't he a craftsman of a couch?" "Yes." "And is the painter also a craftsman and maker of such a thing?" "Not at all." "But what of a couch will you say he is?" e "In my opinion," he said, "he would most sensibly be addressed as an imitator of that of which these others are craftsmen. ' "All right," I said, "do you, then, call the man at the third genera- tion from nature an imitator? " "Most certainly," he said. "Therefore this will also apply to the maker of tragedy, if he is an imitator; he is naturally third from a king and the truth, as are all the other imitators." "Probably." "Then we have agreed about the imitator. Now tell me this 598 a about the painter. In your opinion, does he in each case attempt to imitate the thing itself in nature, or the works of the craftsmen?" "The works of the craftsmen, " he said. "Such as they are or such as they look? For you still have to make this further distinction." "How do you mean?" he said. [ 280 ] Book X I 597b-599c sockates/glaucon "Like this. Does a couch, if you observe it from the side, or 598 a from the front, or from anywhere else, differ at all from itself? Or does it not differ at all but only look different, and similarly with the rest?" "The latter is so," he said. "It looks different, but isn't." "Now consider this very point. Toward which is painting directed b in each case— toward imitation of the being as it is or toward its looking as it looks? Is it imitation of looks or of truth?" "Of looks," he said. "Therefore, imitation is surely far from the truth; and, as it seems, it is due to this that it produces everything— because it lays hold of a certain small part of each thing, and that part is itself only a phantom. For example, the painter, we say, will paint for us a shoe- maker, a carpenter, and the other craftsmen, although he doesn't understand the arts of any one of them. But, nevertheless, if he is a c good painter, by painting a carpenter and displaying him from far off, he would deceive children and foolish human beings into think- ing that it is truly a carpenter." "Of course." "But, in any event, I suppose, my friend, that this is what must be understood about all such things: when anyone reports to us about someone, saying that he has encountered a human being who knows all the crafts and everything else that single men several- ly know, and there is nothing that he does not know more precisely than anyone else, it would have to be replied to such a one that he d is an innocent human being and that, as it seems, he has encountered some wizard and imitator and been deceived. Because he himself is unable to put knowledge and lack of knowledge and imitation to the test, that man seemed all-wise to him." "Very true," he said. "Then, next," I said, "tragedy and its leader, Homer, must be considered, since we hear from some that these men know all arts e and all things human that have to do with virtue and vice, and the divine things too. For it is necessary that the good poet, if he is go- ing to make fair poems about the things his poetry concerns, be in possession of knowledge when he makes his poems or not be able to make them. Hence, we must consider whether those who tell us this have encountered these imitators and been deceived; and whether, therefore, seeing their works, they do not recognize that these works are third from what is and are easy to make for the man 599 a who doesn't know the truth— for such a man makes what look like beings but are not. Or, again, is there also something to what they [ 281 ] socrates/gi^ucon the republic 599 a say, and do the good poets really know about the things that, in the opinion of the many, they say well?" "Most certainly," he said, "that must be tested." "Do you suppose that if a man were able to make both, the thing to be imitated and the phantom, he would permit himself to be serious about the crafting of the phantoms and set this at the head of his own b life as the best thing he has?" "No, I don't." "But, I suppose, if he were in truth a knower of these things that he also imitates, he would be far more serious about the deeds than the imitations and would try to leave many fair deeds behind as memorials of himself and would be more eager to be the one who is lauded rather than the one who lauds." "I suppose so," he said. "For the honor and the benefit coming from the two are hardly equal." "Well, then, about the other things, let's not demand an account c from Homer or any other of the poets by asking, if any one of them was a doctor and not only an imitator of medical speeches, who are the men whom any poet, old or new, is said to have made healthy, as Asclepius did; or what students of medicine he left behind as Asclepius did his ofiFspring.^ Nor, again, will we ask them about the other arts, but we'll let that go. But about the greatest and fairest things of which Homer attempts to speak — about wars and commands of armies and d governances of cities, and about the education of a human being — it is surely just to ask him and inquire, 'Dear Homer, if you are not third from the truth about virtue, a craftsman of a phantom, just the one we defined as an imitator, but are also second and able to recog- nize what sorts of practices make human beings better or worse in private and in public, tell us which of the cities was better governed thanks to you, as Lacedaemon was thanks to Lycurgus, and many e others, both great and small, were thanks to many others? What city gives you credit for having proved a good lawgiver and ben- efited them? Italy and Sicily do so for Charondas, and we for So- lon;2 now who does it for you?' Will he have any to mention? ' "I don't suppose so," said Glaucon. "At least, the Homeridae themselves do not tell of any." "Well, is any war in Homer's time remembered that was well 600 a fought with his ruling or advice?" "None." "Well, then, as is appropriate to the deeds of a wise man, do they tell of many ingenious devices for the arts or any other activities, just as for Thales the Milesian or Anacharsis the Scythian?"^ "Not at all; there's nothing of the sort." [ 282 ] Book X I 599a-601a socrates/glaucon "Well, then, if there is nothing in public, is it told that Homer, 600 a while he was himself alive, was in private a leader in education for certain men who cherished him for his intercourse and handed down a certain Homeric way of life to those who came after, just as Py- b thagoras himself was particularly cherished for this reason, and his successors even now still give Pythagoras' name to a way of life that makes them seem somehow outstanding among men." "Again," he said, "nothing of the sort is said. For Creophylos, Homer's comrade, would, Socrates, perhaps turn out to be even more ridiculous in his education than in his name,^ if the things said about Homer are true. For it is told that Homer suffered consid- erable neglect in his own day, when he was alive." c "Yes, that is told," I said. "But, Glaucon, if Homer were really able to educate human beings and make them better because he is in these things capable not of imitating but of knowing, do you suppose that he wouldn't have made many comrades and been honored and cherished by them? But Protagoras, the Abderite, after all, and Prot dicus, the Cean,^ and very many others are able, by private in- tercourse, to impress upon the men of their time the assurance that they will be able to govern neither home nor city unless they themselves d supervise their education, and they are so intensely loved for this wisdom that their comrades do everything but carry them about on their heads. Then do you suppose that if he were able to help human beings toward virtue, the men in Homer's time would have let him or Hesiod go around being rhapsodes and wouldn't have clung to them rather than to their gold? And wouldn't they have compelled these teachers to stay with them at home; or, if they weren't persuaded, e wouldn't they themselves have attended^ them wherever they went, until they had gained an adequate education?" "In my opinion, Socrates," he said, "what you say is entirely true." "Shouldn't we set down all those skilled in making, beginning with Homer, as imitators of phantoms of virtue and of the other sub- jects of their making? They don't lay hold of the truth; rather, as we were just now saying, the painter wdll make what seems to be a shoemaker to those who understand as little about shoemaking as he 601 a understands, but who observe only colors and shapes." "Most certainly. " "Then, in this way, I suppose we'll claim the poetic man also uses names and phrases to color each of the arts. He himself doesn't understand; but he imitates in such a way as to seem, to men whose condition is like his own and who observe only speeches, to speak very well. He seems to do so when he speaks using meter, rhythm. [ 283 ] socrates/glaucon the REPUBLIp 601 a and harmony, no matter whether the subject is shoemaking, general- b ship, or anything else. So great is the charm that these things by na- ture possess. For when the things of the poets are stripped of the colors of the music and are said alone, by themselves, I suppose you know how they look. For you, surely, have seen." "I have indeed," he said. "Don't they," I said, "resemble the faces of the boys who are youthful but not fair in what happens to their looks when the bloom has forsaken them?" "Exactly," he said. "Come now, reflect on this. The maker of the phantom, the imitator, we say, understands nothing of what is but rather of what c looks like it is. Isn't that so?" "Yes." "Well, then, let's not leave it half- said, but let's see it adequately." "Speak," he said. "A painter, we say, will paint reins and a bit." "Yes." "But a shoemaker and a smith will make them." "Certainly." "Then does the painter understand how the reins and the bit must be? Or does even the maker not understand— the smith and the leather- cutter — ^but only he who knows how to use them, the horseman?" "Very true." "And won't we say that it is so for everything?" "How?" d "For each thing there are these three arts— one that will use, one that will make, one that will imitate." "Yes." "Aren't the virtue, beauty, and rightness of each implement, animal, and action related to nothing but the use for which each was made, or grew naturally?" "That's so." "It's quite necessary, then, that the man who uses each thing be most experienced and that he report to the maker what are the good or bad points, in actual use, of the instrument he uses. For example, about flutes, a flute player surely reports to the flute-maker which ones would e serve him in playing, and he will prescribe how they must be made, and the other will serve him." "Of course." "Doesn't the man who knows report about good and bad flutes, and won't the other, trusting him, make them?" "Yes." [ 284 ] f Book X / 601a-602d socrates/glaucon r ? "Therefore the maker of the same implement will have right trust 601 e • concerning its beauty and its badness from being with the man who I knows and from being compelled to listen to the man who knows, while the user will have knowledge." 602 a "Certainly." "And will the imitator from using the things that he paints have knowledge of whether they are fair and right or not, or right opinion due to the necessity of being with the man who knows and receiving prescriptions of how he must paint?" "Neither." "Therefore, with respect to beauty and badness, the imitator will neither know nor opine rightly about what he imitates." "It doesn't seem so." "The imitator, in his making, would be a charming chap, so far as wisdom about what he makes goes." "Hardly." _ "But all the same, he will imitate, although he doesn't know in b what way each thing is bad or good. But as it seems, whatever looks to be fair to the many who don't know anything— that he will imitate." "Of course he will." "Then it looks like we are pretty well agreed on these things: the imitator knows nothing worth mentioning about what he imitates; imitation is a kind of play and not serious; and those who take up tragic poetry in iambics and in epics are all imitators in the highest possible degree." "Most certainly." "In the name of Zeus," I said, "then, isn't this imitating con- c cerned with something that is third from the truth? Isn't that so?" "Yes." "Now, then, on which one of the parts of the human being does it have the power it has?" "What sort of part do you mean?" "This sort. The same magnitude surely doesn't look equal to our sight from near and from far." "No, it doesn't." "And the same things look bent and straight when seen in water and out of it, and also both concave and convex, due to the sight's being misled by the colors, and every sort of confusion of this kind is plainly in our soul. And, then, it is because they take advantage of this d affection in our nature that shadow painting, and puppeteering, and many other tricks of the kind fall nothing short of wizardry." True. "And haven't measuring, counting, and weighing come to light as [ 2S5 ] sockates/glaucon THEREPUBLI 602 d most charming helpers in these cases? As a result of them, we are not ruled by a thing's looking bigger or smaller or more or heavier; rather we are ruled by that which has calculated, measured, or, if you please weighed." "Undeniably." e "But this surely must be the work of the calculating part in a soul." "Yes, it is the work of that part." "And to it, when it has measured and indicates that some things are bigger or smaller than others, or equal, often contrary appearances are presented at the same time about the same things." "Yes." "Didn't we say that it is impossible for the same thing to opine contraries at the same time about the same things?" "And what we said is right." 603 a "Therefore, the part of the soul opining contrary to the measures would not be the same as the part that does so in accordance with the measures." "No, it wouldn't." "And, further, the part which trusts measure and calculation would be the best part of the soul." "Of course." "Therefore, the part opposed to it would be one of the ordinary things in us." "Necessarily." "Well, then, it was this I wanted agreed to when I said that paint- ing and imitation as a whole are far from the truth when they produce their work; and that, moreover, imitation keeps company with the part h in us that is far from prudence, and is not comrade and friend for any healthy or true purpose." "Exactly," he said. "Therefore, imitation, an ordinary thing having intercourse with what is ordinary, produces ordinary offspring." "It seems so." "Does this," I said, "apply only to the imitation connected with the sight or also to that connected with the hearing, which we name poetry?" "It is likely," he said, "that it applies also to this." "Well, then," I said, "let's not just trust the likelihood based on painting; but let's now go directly to the very part of thought with ^ which poetry's imitation keeps company and see whether it is ordinary or serious." [ 286 ] Book X / 602d-604b glaucon/socrates "We must." 603 c "Let's present it in this way. Imitation, we say, imitates human beings performing forced or voluntary actions, and, as a result of the action, supposing themselves to have done well or badly, and in all of this experiencing pain or enjoyment. Was there anything else beyond this?" "Nothing." "Then, in all this, is a human being of one mind? Or, just as with respect to the sight there was faction and he had contrary opinions in d himself at the same time about the same things, is there also faction in him when it comes to deeds and does he do battle with himself? But I am reminded that there's no need for us to come to an agreement about this now. For in the previous arguments we came to sufficient agree- ment about all this, asserting that our soul teems with ten thousand such oppositions arising at the same time." "Rightly," he said. "Yes, it was right," I said. "But what we then left out, it is now necessary to go through, in my opinion." e "What was that?" he said. "A decent man," I said, "who gets as his share some such chance as losing a son or something else for which he cares particularly, as we were surely also saying then, will bear it more easily than other men." "Certainly." "Now let's consider whether he won't be grieved at all, or whether this is impossible, but that he will somehow be sensible in the face of pain." "The latter," he said, "is closer to the truth." "Now tell me this about him. Do you suppose he'll fight the pain 604 a and hold out against it more when he is seen by his peers, or when he is alone by himself in a deserted place?" "Surely," he said, "he will fight it far more when seen." "But when left alone, I suppose, he'll dare to utter many things of which he would be ashamed if someone were to hear, and will do many things he would not choose to have anyone see him do." "That's so," he said. "Isn't it argument and law that tell him to hold out, while the suf- fering itself is what draws him to the pain?" h True. "When a contradictory tendency arises in a human being about the same thing at the same time, we say that there are necessarily two things in him." "Undeniably." [287 ] socrates/gi^ucon the REPUBLIq 604 h "Isn't the one ready to be persuaded in whatever direction the law leads?" "How so?" "The law presumably says that it is finest to keep as quiet as possi- ble in misfortunes and not be irritated, since the good and bad in such things aren't plain, nor does taking it hard get one anywhere, nor are c any of the human things worthy of great seriousness; and being in pain is an impediment to the coming of that thing the support of which we need as quickly as possible in these cases." "What do you mean?" he said. "Deliberation," I said, "about what has happened. One must ac- cept the fall of the dice and settle one's affairs accordingly~in whatever way argument declares would be best. One must not behave like children who have stumbled and who hold on to the hurt place and spend their time in crying out; rather one must always habituate the d soul to turn as quickly as possible to curing and setting aright what has fallen and is sick, doing away with lament by medicine." "That," he said, "at all events, would be the most correct way for a man to face what chance brings." "And, we say, the best part is willing to follow this calculation—" "Plainly." "—whereas the part that leads to reminiscences of the suffering and to complaints and can't get enough of them, won't we say that it is irrational, idle, and a friend of cowardice?" "Certainly we'll say that." e "Now then, the irritable disposition affords much and varied imitation, while the prudent and quiet character, which is always nearly equal to itself, is neither easily imitated nor, when imitated, easily understood, especially by a festive assembly where all sorts of human beings are gathered in a theater. For the imitation is of a condi- tion that is surely alien to them." 605 a "That's entirely certain." "Then plainly the imitative poet isn't naturally directed toward any such part of the soul, and his wisdom isn't framed for satisfying it— if he's going to get a good reputation among the many— but rather toward the irritable and various disposition, because it is easily imitated." "Plainly." "Therefore it would at last be just for us to seize him and set him beside the painter as his antistrophe. For he is like the painter in mak- ing things that are ordinary by the standard of truth; and he is also b similar in keeping company with a part of the soul that is on the same [ 288 ] ^ook X I 604b-606b socrates/glaucon ilevel and not with the best part. And thus we should at last be justified 605 b Ijn not admitting him into a city that is going to be under good laws, be- ^cause he awakens this part of the soul and nourishes it, and, by making lit strong, destroys the calculating part, just as in a city when someone, |by making wicked men mighty, turns the city over to them and cor- Irupts the superior ones. Similarly, we shall say the imitative poet pro- Induces a bad regime in the soul of each private man by making phan- ^toms that are very far removed from the truth and by gratifying the c soul's foolish part, which doesn't distinguish big from little, but believes the same things are at one time big and at another little." "Most certainly." "However, we haven't yet made the greatest accusation against imitation. For the fact that it succeeds in maiming even the decent men, except for a certain rare few, is surely quite terrible." "Certainly, if it does indeed do that." "Listen and consider. When even the best of us hear Homer or any other of the tragic poets imitating one of the heroes in mourning and making quite an extended speech with lamentation, or, if you like, d singing and beating his breast, you know that we enjoy it and that we give ourselves over to following the imitation; suffering along with the hero in all seriousness, we praise as a good poet the man who most puts us in this state." "I know it, of course." "But when personal sorrow comes to one of us, you are aware that, on the contrary, we pride ourselves if we are able to keep quiet and bear up, taking this to be the part of a man and what we then e praised to be that of a woman." "I do recognize it," he said. "Is that a fine way to praise?" I said. "We see a man whom we would not condescend, but would rather blush, to resemble, and, instead of being disgusted, we enjoy it and praise it?" "No, by Zeus," he said, "that doesn't seem reasonable." "Yes, it is," I said, "if you consider it in this way." 606 a "In what way?" "If you are aware that what is then held down by force in our own misfortunes and has hungered for tears and sufficient lament and satisfaction, since it is by nature such as to desire these things, is that which now gets satisfaction and enjoyment from the poets. What is by nature best in us, because it hasn't been adequately educated by argu- ment of habit, relaxes its guard over this mournful part because it sees another's sufferings, and it isn't shameful for it, if some other man who b claims to be good laments out of season, to praise and pity him; rather [ 289 ] socrates/glaucon the republic 606 b it believes that it gains the pleasure and wouldn't permit itself to be deprived of it by despising the whole poem. I suppose that only a cer- tain few men are capable of calculating that the enjoyment of other people's sufferings has a necessary effect on one's own. For the pitying part, fed strong on these examples, is not easily held down in one's own sufferings." c "Very true," he said. "Doesn't the same argument also apply to the laughing part? If there are any jokes that you would be ashamed to make yourself, but that you enjoy very much hearing in comic imitation or in private, and you don't hate them as bad, you do the same as with things that evoke pity. For that in you which, wanting to make jokes, you then held down by argument, afraid of the reputation of buffoonery, you now release, and, having made it lusty there, have unawares been carried away in your own things so that you become a comic poet." d "Quite so," he said. "And as for sex, and spiritedness, too, and for all the desires, pains, and pleasures in the soul that we say follow all our action, poetic imitation produces similar results in us. For it fosters and waters them when they ought to be dried up, and sets them up as rulers in us when they ought to be ruled so that we may become better and happier in- stead of worse and more wretched." "I can't say otherwise," he said. e "Then, Glaucon," I said, "when you meet praisers of Homer who say that this poet educated Greece, and that in the management and education of human affairs it is worthwhile to take him up for study and for living, by arranging one's whole life according to this poet, you 607 a must love and embrace them as being men who are the best they can be, and agree that Homer is the most poetic and first of the tragic poets; but you must know that only so much of poetry as is hymns to gods or celebration of good men should be admitted into a city. And if you ad- mit the sweetened muse in lyrics or epics, pleasure and pain will jointly be kings in your city instead of law and that argument which in each instance is best in the opinion of the community." "Very true," he said. b "Well," I said, "since we brought up the subject of poetry again, let it be our apology that it was then fitting for us to send it away from the city on account of its character. The argument determined us. Let us further say to it, lest it convict us for a certain harshness and rusticity, that there is an old quarrel between philosophy and poetry. For that 'yelping bitch shrieking at her master,' and 'great in the empty c eloquence of fools,' 'the mob of overwise men holding sway,' and 'the refined thinkers who are really poor'^ and countless others are signs of 290 ] Book X / 606b-608c socrates/glaucon this old opposition. All the same, let it be said that, if poetry directed 607 c to pleasure and imitation have any argument to give showing that they should be in a city with good laws, we should be delighted to receive them back from exile, since we are aware that we ourselves are channed by them. But it isn't holy to betray what seems to be the truth. Aren't you, too, my friend, channed by it, especially when you con- template it through the medium of Homer?" d "Very much so." "Isn't it just for it to come back in this way— when it has made an apology in lyrics or some other meter?" "Most certainly." "And surely we would also give its protectors, those who aren't poets but lovers of poetry, occasion to speak an argument without meter on its behalf, showing that it's not only pleasant but also benefi- cial to regimes and human life. And we shall listen benevolently. For surely we shall gain if it should turn out to be not only pleasant but also e beneficial." "We would," he said, "undeniably gain" "But if not, my dear comrade, just like the men who have once fallen in love with someone, and don't believe the love is beneficial, keep away from it even if they have to do violence to themselves; so we too — due to the inborn love of such poetry we owe to our rearing in these fine regimes— we'll be glad if it turns out that it is best and truest. 608 a But as long as it's not able to make its apology, when we listen to it, well chant this argument we are making to ourselves as a coun- tercharm, taking care against falling back again into this love, which is childish and belongs to the many. We are, at all events, aware that such poetry mustn't be taken seriously as a serious thing laying hold of truth, but that the man who hears it must be careful, fearing for the regime in b himself, and must hold what we have said about poetry." "Entirely," he said. "I join you in saying that." "For the contest is great, my dear Glaucon," I said, "greater than it seems— this contest that concerns becoming good or bad— so we mustn't be tempted by honor or money or any ruling office or, for that matter, poetry, into thinking that it's worthwhile to neglect justice and the rest of virtue." "I join you in saying that," he said, "on the basis of what we have gone through. And I suppose anyone else would too." "And, yet," I said, "we haven't gone through the greatest rewards c and prizes proposed for virtue." "You are speaking of an inconceivable greatness," he said, "if there are others greater than those mentioned." "What that is great could come to pass in a short time?" I said. [ 291 ] socrates/glaucon the REPUBLIp 608 c "For surely, the whole of the time from childhood to old age would h short when compared with all time." "Rather, it's nothing at all," he said. "What then? Do you suppose that an immortal thing ought to be d serious about so short a time and not about all time?" "I do suppose so," he said. "But what do you mean by this?" "Haven't you perceived," I said, "that our soul is immortal and is never destroyed?" And he looked me in the face with wonder and said, "No, by Zeus, I haven't. Can you say that?" "If I am not to do an injustice," I said. "And I suppose you can too, for it's nothing hard." "It is for me," he said. "But I would gladly hear from you this thing that isn't hard." "You must hear it," I said. "Just speak," he said. "Do you," I said, "call something good and something bad?" "I do." e "Then do you have the same understanding of them as I do?" "What's that?" "What destroys and corrupts everything is the bad, and what saves and benefits is the good." "I do," he said. "And what about this? Do you say there is something bad and something good for each thing— for example, ophthalmia for the eyes, 609 a and sickness for the entire body, blight for grain, rot for wood, rust for iron and bronze, and, as I say, for nearly all things is there an evil and illness naturally connected with each?" "I do," he said. "When one of these attaches itself to something, doesn't it make the thing to which it attaches itself bad and, in the end, wholly dissolve and destroy it?" "Undeniably." "Therefore the evil naturally connected with each thing and its particular badness destroys it, or if this doesn't destroy it, surely there h is nothing else that could still corrupt it. For surely the good would never destroy anything, nor, again, would what is neither bad nor good." "How could they?" he said. "Therefore, if we find any existing thing that has an evil that makes it bad but is, however, not able to dissolve and destroy it, then won't we know that for a thing that is naturally so there is no destruc- tion?" [ 292 ]