Phil Pape 1

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."

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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?"

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"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, ofcourse, 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."

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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.

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"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

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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."

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"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.

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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."

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? "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

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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."

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"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."

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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?"

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t "That's likely," he said. 609 b ' "What then?" I said. "Doesn't the soul have something that makes rjt bad?" f> "Very much so/' he said, "all the things we were just going ^ through—injustice, licentiousness, cowardice, and lack of learning." c

f "Does any one of them dissolve and destroy it? And reflect, so rthat we won't be deceived into supposing that the unjust and foolish IJiuman being, when he is caught doing injustice, is then destroyed due

g|o the injustice, which is a badness of soul. But do it this way: just as

I jhe badness of body, which is disease, melts and destroys a body and

Ibrings it to the point where it is not even a body, similarly all the things

tof which we were just speaking are corrupted by their own specific ? vice, which attaches itself to them and is present in them, and they d

tfinally come to the point where they are not. Isn't that so?"

k Yes.

|; "Come, then, and consider soul in the same way. Do injustice ; and the rest of vice, when they are present in it, by being present and

; attaching themselves, corrupt and wither it until, brought to the point t of death, they separate it from the body?"

I "That's not at all the way it is," he said.

& "But it is, on the contrary, unreasonable," I said, "that a thing be

[destroyed by a badness that is alien and not by one that is its own."

"It is unreasonable."

% "Reflect, Glaucon," I said, "that we don't suppose a body should e i; be destroyed by the badness of foods, whatever it may be—whether it

f is their oldness, rottenness, or anything else. But if the badness of the

; foods themselves introduces the badness ofbody into the body, we shall say that due to them it was destroyed by its own vice, which is disease. But we shall never admit that the body, which is one thing, is corrupted 610 a

[ by the badness of food, which is another thing, if the alien evil does not

; introduce the evil that is naturally connected with the body."

t^ "What you say," he said, "is quite right." "Well, then," I said, "according to the same argument, if badness

of body doesn't introduce badness of soul into a soul, we would never admit that a soul is destroyed by an alien evil that does not bring with it

; the specific badness of a soul—that is, we would not admit that one

: thing is destroyed by the evil of another."

"That's reasonable," he said.

"Well then, either let's refute what we are saying and show that it's not fine, or, as long as it's unrefuted, let's never assert that by fever, b

I or by another illness, or, again, by slaughter—even if someone cuts the whole body up into the smallest pieces—a soul is ever closer to being destroyed as a result of these things, before someone proves that due to

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610 b these sufferings of the body the sou] itself becomes unjuster and unholier. But when an ahen vice comes to be in something else and its

c own peculiar vice does not come to be in it, let's not permit anyone to assert that a soul or anything else is destroyed."

"On the contrary," he said, "no one will ever show that when men are dying their souls become unjust due to death."

"And," I said, "if someone dares to come to close quarters with the argument and say that the dying man becomes worse and unjuster just so as not to be compelled to agree that souls are immortal, we shall surely insist that, if the man who says this says the truth, injustice is

d fatal to him who has it, even as disease is, and that, since by its nature it kills, those who get it die Irom it—those who get most, more quickly those who get less, in more leisurely fashion. They would be unlike the unjust men who, as things now stand, do indeed die from injustice, but at the hands of other men who administer the penalty."

"By Zeus," he said, "then injustice won't look like such a very ter- rible thing if it will be fatal to the one who gets it. For it would be a relief from evils. But I suppose rather that it will look, all to the con-

e trary, like it kills other men, if it can, but makes its possessor very much alive and, in addition to alive, sleepless. So far surely, as it seems, does its camp lie from fatality."

"What you say is fine," I said. "For surely, whenever its own badness and its own evil are not sufficient to kill and destroy a soul, an evil assigned to the destruction of something else will hardly destroy a

soul, or anything else except that to which it is assigned."

"Yes, hardly," he said, "at least as is likely."

"Therefore, since it's not destroyed by a single evil—either its

611 a own or an alien—it's plainly necessary that it be always and, if it is al- ways, that it be immortal."

"That is necessary," he said.

"Well, then," I said, "let this be so. And if it is, you recognize that there would always be the same souls. For surely they could not be-

come fewer if none is destroyed, nor again more numerous. For if any

of the immortal things should become more numerous, you know that

they would come from the mortal, and everything would end up by

being immortal."

"What you say is true." "But," I said, "let's not suppose this—for the argument won't per-

b mit it—nor that soul by its truest nature is such that it is full of much

variety, dissimilarity, and quarrel with itself"

"How do you mean?" he said. "It's not easy," I said, "for a thing to be eternal that is both com-

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posed out of many things and whose composition is' not of the finest, as 611 b the soul now looked to us."

"No; at least it's not likely."

"Well then, that soul is immortal both the recent argument and the others would compel us to accept. But it must be seen such as it is

in truth, not maimed by community with body and other evils, as we c now see it. But what it is like when it has become pure must be exam- ined sufficiently by calculation. And one will find it far fairer and discern justice and injustice^ and everything we have now gone through more distinctly. Now we were telling the truth about it as it looks at present. However that is based only on the condition in which we saw it. Just as those who catch sight of the sea Glaucus^ would no d longei- easily see his original nature because some of the old parts of his

body have been broken off and the others have been ground down and thoroughly maimed by the waves at the same time as other things have grown on him—shells, seaweed, and rocks—so that he resembles any beast rather than what he was by nature, so, too, we see the soul in such a condition because of countless evils. But, Glaucon, one must look elsewhere."

"Where?" he said.

"To its love of wisdom, and recognize what it lays hold of and e with what sort of things it longs to keep company on the grounds that it is akin to the divine and immortal and what is always, and what it would become like if it were to give itself entirely to this longing and were brought by this impulse out of the deep ocean in which it now is, and the rocks and shells were hammered off—those which, because it feasts on earth, have grown around it in a wild, earthy, and rocky profu- 612 a sion as a result of those feasts that are called happy. And then one would see its true nature—whether it is many-formed or single-formed, or in what way it is and how. But now, as I suppose, we have fairly gone through its affections and forms in its human life."

"That's entirely certain," he said.

"In the argument," I said, "haven't we both cleared away the other parts of the criticism and also not brought in the wages and b

reputations connected with justice as you said Hesiod and Homer do? But we found that justice by itself is best for soul itself, and that the soul must do the just things, whether it has Gyges' ring or not, and, in

addition to such a ring. Hades' cap."^^

"What you say is very true," he said. "Then, Glaucon," I said, "isn't it now, at last, unobjectionable, in

addition, also to give back to justice and the rest of virtue the

wages—in their quantity and in their quality—that they procure for c

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612 c the soul from human beings and gods, both while the human being is still alive and when he is dead?"

"That's entirely certain," he said.

"Then, will you give back to me what you borrowed in the argu- ment?"

"What in particular?" "I gave you the just man's seeming to be unjust and the unjust

man just. You both asked for it; even if it weren't possible for this to escape gods and human beings, all the same, it had to be granted for the argument's sake so that justice itself could be judged as compared with

d injustice itself. Or don't you remember?" "If I didn't," he said, "I should indeed be doing an injustice."

"Well, then," I said, "since they have been judged, on justice's behalf I ask back again the reputation it in fact has among gods and among human beings; and I ask us to agree that it does enjoy such a reputation, so that justice may also carry off the prizes that it gains from seeming and bestows on its possessors, since it has made clear that it bestows the good things that come from being and does not deceive those who really take possession of it."

e "What you ask," he said, "is only just." "Then," I said, "won't you first give this back: that it doesn't

escape the notice of gods, at least, what each of the two men is?" "Yes," he said, "we shall give that back." "And if they don't escape notice, the one would be dear to the

gods and the other hateful, as we also agreed at the beginning?" That s so.

"And won't we agree that everything that comes to the man dear 613 a to the gods—insofar as it comes from gods—is the best possible, except

for any necessary evil that was due to him for former mistakes?" "Most certainly."

"Thus, it must be assumed in the case of the just man that, if he falls into poverty, diseases, or any other of the things that seem bad, for

him it will end in some good, either in life or even in death. For, surely,

gods at least will never neglect the man who is eagerly willing to be- come just and, practicing virtue, likens himself, so far as is possible for

i> a human being, to a god." "It's quite likely," he said, "that such a man isn't neglected by his

like."

"And, in the case of the unjust man, mustn't we think the opposite of these things?"

"Very much so." "Then such would be some of the prizes from gods to the just

man."

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"In my opinion, at least," he said. 613 b "And what does he get from human beings?" I said. "Or, if that

which is must be asserted, isn't it this way? Don't the clever unjust men do exactly as do all those in a race who run well from the lower end of the course but not from the upper?ii ^t tjjg start they leap sharply

away but end up by becoming ridiculous and, with their ears on their c shoulders,^2 j-^jj off uncrowned? But those who are truly run- ners come to the end, take the prizes, and are crowned. Doesn't it also for the most part turn out that way with the just? Toward the end of every action, association, and life they get a good reputation and bear off

the prizes from human beings." "Quite so."

"Will you, then, stand for my saying about them what you your- self said about the unjust? For I shall say that it's precisely the just, d

when they get older, who rule in their city if they wish ruling offices, and marry wherever they wish and give in marriage to whomever they want. And everything you said about the unjust, I now say about these men. And, again, about the unjust, I shall say that most of them, even if

they get away unnoticed when they are young, are caught at the end of the race and ridiculed; and when they get old, they are insulted in their wretchedness by foreigners and townsmen. As for being whipped and the things that you, speaking truly, said are rustic—that they will be e

racked and burned—suppose that you have also heard from me that they suffer all these things. But, as I say, see if you'll stand for it."

"Very much so," he said. "For what you say is just." "Well, then," I said, "such would be the prizes, wages, and gifts

coming to the just man while alive from gods and human beings, in ad- 614 a dition to those good things that justice itself procured."

"And they are," he said, "quite fair and sure ones." "Well," I said, "they are nothing in multitude or magnitude com-

pared to those that await each when dead. And these things should be heard so that in hearing them each of these men will have gotten back the full measure of what the argument owed him."

"Do tell," he said, "since there aren't many other things that b would be more pleasant to hear."

"I will not, however, tell you a story of Alcinous," I said, "but

rather of a strong man, Er, son of Armenius, by race a Pam- phylian.13 Once upon a time he died in war; and on the tenth day, when the corpses, already decayed, were picked up, he was picked up in a good state of preservation. Having been brought home, he was

about to be buried on the twelfth day; as he was lying on the pyre, he

came back to life, and, come back to life, he told what he saw in the other world. He said that when his soul departed, it made a journey in

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614 c the company ofmany, and they came to a certain demonic place, where there were two openings in the earth next to one another, and, again two in the heaven, above and opposite the others. Between them sat judges who, when they had passed judgment, told the just to continue their journey to the right and upward, through the heaven; and they at- tached signs of the judgments in front of them. The unjust they told to continue their journey to the left and down, and they had behind them

d signs of everything they had done. And when he himself came forward they said that he had to become a messenger to human beings of the things there, and they told him to listen and to look at everything in the place. He saw there, at one of the openings of both heaven and earth, the souls going away when judgment had been passed on them. As to the other two openings, souls out of the earth, full of dirt and dust, came up from one of them; and down from the other came other souls,

e pure from heaven. And the souls that were ever arriving looked as though they had come from a long journey: and they went away with delight to the meadow, as to a public festival, and set up camp there. All those who were acquaintances greeted one another; and the souls that came out of the earth inquired of the others about the things in the other place, and those from heaven about the things that had happened

to those from the earth. And they told their stories to one another, the tl5 a ones lamenting and crying, remembering how much and what sort of

things they had suffered and seen in the journey under the earth—the

journey lasts a thousand years—and those from heaven, in their turn, told of the inconceivable beauty of the experiences and the sights there.

Now to go through the many things would take a long time, Glaucon. But the sum, he said, was this. For all the unjust deeds they had done anyone and all the men to whom they had done injustice, they had paid the penalty for every one in turn, ten times over for each. That is, they

were punished for each injustice once every hundred years; taking this h as the length of human life, in this way they could pay off the penalty

for the injustice ten times over. Thus, for example, if some men were causes of the death of many, either by betraying cities or armies and

had reduced men to slavery, or were involved in any other wrongdoing, they received for each of these things tenfold sufferings; and again, if

they had done good deeds and had proved just and holy, in the same

c measure did they receive reward. And about those who were only just born and lived a short time, he said other things not worth mentioning. And he told of still greater wages for impiety and piety toward gods and parents and for murder. For he said he was there when one man was asked by another, 'Where is Ardiaeus the Great?' This Ardiaeus

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had been tyrant in a certain city of Pamphylia just a thousand years 615 c before that time; he had, as was said, killed his old father and elder brother and done many other unholy deeds." Now Er said that the d man asked responded, 'He hasn't come. Nor will he come here,' he asserted. 'For this too, of course, was one of the terrible sights we saw. When we were near the mouth about to go up and had suffered every- thing else, we suddenly saw him and others. Just about all ofthem were tyrants, but there were also some private men, of those who had com- mitted great faults. They supposed they were ready to go up, but the e mouth did not admit thern; it roared when one of those whose badness is incurable or who had not paid a sufficient penalty attempted to go up. There were men at that place,' he said, 'fierce men, looking fiery through and through, standing by and observing the sound, who took hold of some and led them away, but who bound Ardiaeus and others hands, feet, and head, threw them down and stripped off their skin. 616 a They dragged them along the wayside, carding them like wool on thorns; and they indicated to those who came by for what reason this was done and that these men would be led away and thrown into Tar- tarus.' They had experienced many fears of all kinds, he said, but more extreme than any was the fear that each man experienced lest the sound come as he went up; and when it was silent, each went up with the greatest delight. Such then were the penalties and punishments; and, on

the other hand, the bounties were the antistrophes of these.

"When each group had spent seven days in the plain, on the b eighth they were made to depart from there and continue their journey. In four days they arrived at a place from which they could see a

straight light, like a column, stretched from above through all ofheaven

and earth, most of all resembling the rainbow but brighter and purer.

They came to it after having moved forward a day's journey. And there, at the middle of the light, they saw the extremities of its bonds c

stretched from heaven; for this light is that which binds heaven, like the

undergirders of triremes, thus holding the entire revolution together.

From the extremities stretched the spindle of Necessity, by which all the revolutions are turned. Its stem and hook are of adamant, and its

whorl is a mixture of this and other kinds. The nature of the whorl is like this: its shape is like those we have here; but, from what he said, it d must be conceived as if in one great hollow whorl, completely scooped

out, lay another like it, but smaller, fitting into each other as bowls fit

into each other; and there is a third one like these and a fourth, and four others. For there are eight whorls in all, lying in one another with their rims showing as circles from above, while from the back they e

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16 e form one continuous whorl around the stem, which is driven right '

through the middle of the eighth.*^ Now the circle formed by the lip of the first and outermost whorl is the broadest; that of the sixth, sec-

ond; that of the fourth, third; that of the eighth, fourth; that of the sev-

enth, fifth; that of the fifth, sixth; that of the.third, seventh; and that of

the second, eighth. And the lip of the largest whorl is multicolored; that 17 a of the seventh, brightest; that of the eighth gets its color from the sev-

enth's shining on it; that of the second and the fifth are like each

other, yellower than these others; the third has the whitest color; the

fourth is reddish; and the sixth is second in whiteness. The whole spindle is turned in a circle with the same motion, but within the revolving whole the seven inner circles revolve gently in the opposite

direction from the whole; of them, the eighth goes most quickly, second

b and together with one another are the seventh, sixth and fifth. Third in swiftness, as it looked to them, the fourth circled about; fourth, the

third; and fifth, the second. And the spindle turned in the lap of Necessity. Above, on each of its circles, is perched a Siren, accompany-

ing its revolution, uttering a single sound, one note; from all eight is

produced the accord of a single harmony. Three others are seated c round about at equal distances, each on a throne. Daughters of

Necessity, Fates—Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos*^—clad in white with wreaths on their heads, they sing to the Sirens' harmony, Lachesis

of what has been, Clotho of what is, and Atropos of what is going to be. And Clotho puts her right hand to the outer revolution of the spindle and joins in turning it, ceasing from time to time; and Atropos with her

left hand does the same to the inner ones; but Lachesis puts one hand to one and the other hand to the other, each in turn.

d "Now, when they arrived, they had to go straight to Lachesis. A certain spokesman first marshaled them at regular distances from each other; then, he took lots and patterns of lives from Lachesis' lap, and

went up to a high platfoiin and said, 'This is the speech of Necessity's maiden daughter, Lachesis. Souls that live a day, this is the beginning

of another death bringing cycle for the mortal race. A demon will not e select you, but you will choose a demon. Let him who gets the first lot

make the first choice of a life to which he will be bound by necessity.

Virtue is without a master; as he honors or dishonors her, each will have

more or less of her. The blame belongs to him who chooses; god is blameless.'

"When he had said this, he cast the lots among them all, and each picked up the one that fell next to him—except for Er who wasn't per- mitted to do so. To the man who picked it up it was plain what number he had drawn. After this, in turn, he set the patterns of the lives on the

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ground before them; there were far more than there were souls present. ^^^ "

There were all sorts; lives of all animals, and, in particular, all the

varieties of hurrian lives. There were tyrannies among them, some last- ing to the end, others ruined midway, ending both in poverty and exile

and in beggary. And there were lives of men of repute—some for their forms and beauty and for strength in general as well as capacity in contests; others for their birth and the virtues of their ancestors—and b there were some for men without repute in these things; and the same was the case for women, too. An ordering of the soul was not in them, due to the necessity that a soul become different according to the life it chooses. But all other things were, mixed with each other and with

wealth and poverty and with sickness and health, and also with the

states intermediate to these.

"Now here, my dear Glaucon, is the whole risk for a human being, as it seems. And on this account each of us must, to the neglect of other studies, above all see to it that he is a seeker and student of c that study by which he might be able to learn and find out who will give him the capacity and the knowledge to distinguish the good and the bad life, and so everywhere and always to choose the better from among those that are possible. He will take into account all the things we have just mentioned and how in combination and separately they affect the virtue of a life. Thus he may know the effects, bad and good, of beauty mixed with poverty or wealth and accompanied by this or that habit of d

soul; and the effects of any particular mixture with one another of good

and bad birth, private station and ruling office, strength and weakness, facility and difBculty in learning, and all such things that are connected

with a soul by nature or are acquired. From all this he will be able to draw a conclusion and choose—in looking off toward the nature of the soul—between the worse and the better life, calling worse the one that e

leads it toward becoming more unjust, and better the one that leads it to becoming juster. He will let everything else go. For we have seen that this is the most important choice for him in life and death. He must go to Hades adamantly holding to this opinion so that he won't be 619 a

daunted by wealth and such evils there, and rush into tyrannies and

other such deeds by which he would work many irreparable evils, and himself undergo still greater suffering; but rather he will know how al- ways to choose the life between such extremes and flee the excesses in

either direction in this life, so far as is possible, and in all of the next

life. For in this way a human being becomes happiest. b "And the messenger from that place then also reported that the

spokesman said the following: 'Even for the man who comes forward last, if he chooses intelligently and lives earnestly, a life to content him

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19 b is laid up, not a bad one. Let che one who begins not be careless ^^ his choice. Let not the one who is last be disheartened.' *

"He said that when the spokesman had said this the man who v. drawn the first lot came forward and immediately chose the gre^*. tyranny, and, due to folly and gluttony, chose without having

^ sidered everything adequately; and it escaped his notice that eating , .~

own children and other evils were fated to be a part of that life. Wu he considered it at his leisure, he beat his breast and lamentecj ., choice, not abiding by the spokesman's forewarning. For he (Jjj f blame himself for the evils but chance, demons, and anything r^^-L than himself. He was one of those who had come from heaven, h^v

'^

lived in an orderly regime in his former life, participating in virt^^ , ^

d habit, without philosophy. And, it may be said, not the least number those who were caught in such circumstances came from heaven i cause they were unpracticed in labors. But most of those who q„

~

from the earth, because they themselves had labored and had see^ 4.1 labors of others, weren't in a rush to make their choices. On just

ty,.

account, and due to the chance of the lot, there was an exchange evils and goods for most of the souls. However, if a man, whe^ 1 comes to the life here, always philosophizes in a healthy way and th

e lot for his choice does not fall out among the last, it's likely, on o basis of what is reported from there, that he will not only be hanvN here but also that he will journey from this world to the other ^^ back again not by the underground, rough road but by the smootv. one, through the heavens.

"He said that this was a sight surely worth seeing: how each of 4-1^ 20 a several souls chose a life. For it was pitiable, laughable, and won(Jgj.r.

to see. For the most part the choice was made according to the haK- nation of their former life. He said he saw a soul that once belong^j Orpheus choosing a life of a swan, out of hatred for womankind; dije t his death at their hands, he wasn't willing to be born, generated

j^^

woman. He saw Thamyras' soul choosing the life of a nightingale, a v^j he also saw a swan changing to the choice of a human life; oth musical animals did the same thing. The soul that got the twentieth 1

b chose the life of a lion; it was the soul of Ajax, son of Telamon, ^^^ shunned becoming a human being, remembering the judgment of ^v arms. And after him was the soul of Agamemnon; it too hated v mankind as a result of its sufferings and therefore changed to the Ijfg - an eagle. Atalanta's soul had drawn one of the middle lots; she saw \u great honors of an athletic man and couldn't pass them by but tooV

c them. After this soul he saw that of Epeius, son of Panopeus, going jj^.

the nature of an artisan woman. And far out among the last he saw \}.

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Book X / 619b-621d socbates

soul of the buffoon Thersites, clothing itself as an ape." And by 620 c chance Odysseus' soul had drawn the last lot of all and went to choose; from memory of its former labors it had recovered from love of honor; it went around for a long time looking for the life of a private man who minds his own business; and with effort it found one lying somewhere^ neglected by the others. It said when it saw this life that it would have d done the same even if it had drawn the first lot, and was delighted to choose it. And from the other beasts, similarly some went into human lives and into one another—the unjust changing into savage ones, the just into tame ones, and there were all kinds of mixtures.

"When all the souls had chosen lives, in the same order as the lots they had drawn, they went forward to Lachesis. And she sent with each the demon he had chosen as a guardian of the life and a fulfiller ofwhat e was chosen. The demon first led the soul to Clotho—under her hand as it turned the whirling spindle—thus ratifying the fate it had drawn and chosen. After touching her, he next led it to the spinning of Atropos,

thus making the threads irreversible.^* And from there, without turning around, they went under Necessity's throne. And, having come 621 a out through it, when the others had also come through, all made their way through terrible stifling heat to the plain of Lethe.^^ For it was barren of trees and all that naturally grows on earth. Then they made their camp, for evening was coming on, by the river of Carelessness whose water no vessel can contain. Now it was a necessity for all to drink a certain measure of the water, but those who were not saved by prudence drank more than the measure. As he drank, each forgot

everything. And when they had gone to sleep and it was midnight, b there came thunder and an earthquake; and they were suddenly carried from there, each in a different way, up to their birth, shooting like

stars.20 But he himself was prevented from drinking the water.

However, in what way and how he came into his body, he did not know; but, all of a sudden, he recovered his sight and saw that it was morning and he was lying on the pyre.

"And thus, Glaucon, a tale was saved and not lost;2i ^nd it could save us, if we were persuaded by it, and we shall make a good c crossing of the river of Lethe and not defile our soul. But if we are per- suaded by me, holding that soul is immortal and capable of bearing all

evils and all goods, we shall always keep to the upper road and practice justice with prudence in every way so that we shall be friends to our- selves and the gods, both while we remain here and when we reap the rewards for it like the victors who go about gathering in the prizes. And d so here and in the thousand year journey that we have described we shall fare well."22

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