Observe, then, Protarchus, what the doctrine is which you are now to accept from Philebus, and what our doctrine is, against which you are to argue, if you do not agree with it.
Shall we make a brief statement of each of them?
By all means.
Very well: Philebus says that to all living beings enjoyment and pleasure and gaiety and whatever accords with that sort of thing are a good; whereas our contention is that not these, but wisdom and thought and memory and their kindred, right opinion and true reasonings,
are better and more excellent than pleasure for all who are capable of taking part in them, and that for all those now existing or to come who can partake of them they are the most advantageous of all things. Those are pretty nearly the two doctrines we maintain, are they not, Philebus?
Yes, Socrates, exactly.
And do you, Protarchus, accept this doctrine which is now committed to you?
I must accept it; for our handsome Philebus has withdrawn.
And must the truth about these doctrines be attained by every possible means?
Yes, it must.
Then let us further agree to this:
To what?
That each of us will next try to prove clearly that it is a condition and disposition of the soul which can make life happy for all human beings. Is not that what we are going to do?
It is.
Then you will show that it is the condition of pleasure, and I that it is that of wisdom?
True.
What if some other life be found superior to these two?
Then if that life is found to be more akin to pleasure, both of us are defeated, are we not, by the life which has firm possession of this superiority,
but the life of pleasure is victor over the life of wisdom.
Yes.
But if it is more akin to wisdom, then wisdom is victorious and pleasure is vanquished? Do you agree to that? Or what do you say?
Yes, I at least am satisfied with that.
But how about you, Philebus? What do you say?
I think and always shall think that pleasure is the victor. But you, Protarchus, will make your own decision.
Since you entrusted the argument to me, Philebus, you can no longer dictate whether to make the agreement with Socrates or not.
True; and for that reason I wash my hands of it and now call upon the goddess The goddess of Pleasure, Ἡδονή personified. herself to witness that I do so.
And we also will bear witness to these words of yours. But all the same, Socrates, Philebus may agree or do as he likes, let us try to finish our argument in due order.
We must try, and let us begin with the very goddess who Philebus says is spoken of as Aphrodite but is most truly named Pleasure.
Quite right.
My awe, Protarchus, in respect to the names of the gods is always beyond the greatest human fear. And now I call Aphrodite by that name which is agreeable to her; but pleasure I know has various aspects, and since, as I said, we are to begin with her, we must consider and examine what her nature is. For, when you just simply hear her name, she is only one thing, but surely she takes on all sorts of shapes which are even, in a way, unlike each other. For instance, we say that the man
who lives without restraint has pleasure, and that the self-restrained man takes pleasure in his very self-restraint; and again that the fool who is full of foolish opinions and hopes is pleased, and also that the wise man takes pleasure in his very wisdom. And would not any person who said these two kinds of pleasure were like each other be rightly regarded as a fool?
No, Socrates, for though they spring from opposite sources, they are not in themselves opposed to one another;
for how can pleasure help being of all things most like pleasure, that is, like itself?
Yes, my friend, and color is like color in so far as every one of them is a color they will all be the same, yet we all recognize that black is not only different from white, but is its exact opposite. And so, too, figure is like figure; they are all one in kind but the parts of the kind are in some instances absolutely opposed to each other,
and in other cases there is endless variety of difference; and we can find many other examples of such relations. Do not, therefore, rely upon this argument, which makes all the most absolute opposites identical. I am afraid we shall find some pleasures the opposites of other pleasures.
Perhaps; but why will that injure my contention?
Because I shall say that, although they are unlike, you apply to them a different designation. For you say that all pleasant things are good. Now no argument contends
that pleasant things are not pleasant; but whereas most of them are bad and only some are good, as we assert, nevertheless you call them all good, though you confess, if forced to it by argument, that they are unlike. Now what is the identical element which exists in the good and bad pleasures alike and makes you call them all a good?
What do you mean, Socrates? Do you suppose anyone who asserts that the good is pleasure will concede, or will endure to hear you say, that some pleasures are good
and others bad?
But you will concede that they are unlike and in some instances opposed to each other.
Not in so far as they are pleasures.
Here we are again at the same old argument, Protarchus, and we shall presently assert that one pleasure is not different from another, but all pleasures are alike, and the examples just cited do not affect us at all, but we shall behave and talk just like the most worthless
and inexperienced reasoners.
In what way do you mean?
Why, if I have the face to imitate you and to defend myself by saying that the utterly unlike is most completely like that which is most utterly unlike it, I can say the same things you said, and we shall prove ourselves to be excessively inexperienced, and our argument will be shipwrecked and lost. Let us, then, back her out, and perhaps if we start fair again we may come to an agreement.
How? Tell me.
Assume, Protarchus, that I am questioned in turn by you.
What question do I ask?
Whether wisdom and knowledge and intellect and all the things which I said at first were good, when you asked me what is good, will not have the same fate as this argument of yours.
How is that?
It will appear that the forms of knowledge collectively are many and some of them are unlike each other; but if some of them
turn out to be actually opposites, should I be fit to engage in dialectics now if, through fear of just that, I should say that no form of knowledge is unlike any other, and then, as a consequence, our argument should vanish and be lost, like a tale that is told, and we ourselves should be saved by clinging to some irrational notion?
No, that must never be, except the part about our being saved. However, I like the equal treatment of your doctrine and mine. Let us grant that pleasures are many and unlike and that the forms of knowledge are many and different.
With no concealment, then, Protarchus, of the difference between my good and yours, but with fair and open acknowledgement of it, let us be bold and see if perchance on examination they will tell us whether we should say that pleasure is the good, or wisdom, or some other third principle. For surely the object of our present controversy is not to gain the victory for my assertions or yours, but both of us must fight for the most perfect truth.
Yes, we must.
Then let us establish this principle still more firmly
by means of an agreement.
What principle?
The principle which gives trouble to all men, to some of them sometimes against their will.
Speak more plainly.
I mean the principle which came in our way just now; its nature is quite marvellous. For the assertions that one is many and many are one are marvellous, and it is easy to dispute with anyone who makes either of them.
You mean when a person says that I, Protarchus,
am by nature one and that there are also many of me which are opposites of each other, asserting that I, the same Protarchus, am great and small and heavy and light and countless other things?
Those wonders concerning the one and the many which you have mentioned, Protarchus, are common property, and almost everybody is agreed that they ought to be disregarded because they are childish and easy and great hindrances to speculation; and this sort of thing also should be disregarded,
when a man in his discussion divides the members and likewise the parts of anything, acknowledges that they all collectively are that one thing, and then mockingly refutes himself because he has been compelled to declare miracles—that the one is many and infinite and the many only one.
But what other wonders do you mean, Socrates, in relation to this same principle, which are not yet common property and generally acknowledged?
I mean, my boy, when a person postulates unity which is not the unity of one of the things which come into being and perish, as in the examples we had just now. For in cases of a unity of that sort, as I just said, it is agreed that refutation is needless. But when the assertion is made that man is one, or ox is one, or beauty is one, or the good is one, the intense interest in these and similar unities becomes disagreement and controversy.
How is that?
The first question is whether we should believe that such unities really exist; the second, how these unities, each of which is one, always the same, and admitting neither generation nor destruction, can nevertheless be permanently this one unity; and the third, how in the infinite number of things which come into being this unity, whether we are to assume that it is dispersed and has become many, or that it is entirely separated from itself—which would seem to be the most impossible notion of all being the same and one, is to be at the same time in one and in many. These are the questions, Protarchus, about this kind of one and many,
not those others, which cause the utmost perplexity, if ill solved, and are, if well solved, of the greatest assistance.
Then is it now, Socrates, our first duty to thresh this matter out?
Yes, that is what I should say.
You may assume, then, that we are all willing to agree with you about that; and perhaps it is best not to ask Philebus any questions; let sleeping dogs lie.
Very well; then where shall we begin this great and vastly complicated battle about the matters at issue? Shall we start at this point?
At what point?
We say that one and many are identified by reason, and always, both now and in the past, circulate everywhere in every thought that is uttered. This is no new thing and will never cease; it is, in my opinion, a quality within us which will never die or grow old, and which belongs to reason itself as such. And any young man, when he first has an inkling of this, is delighted,
thinking he has found a treasure of wisdom; his joy fills him with enthusiasm; he joyously sets every possible argument in motion, sometimes in one direction, rolling things up and kneading them into one, and sometimes again unrolling and dividing them; he gets himself into a muddle first and foremost, then anyone who happens to be near him, whether he be younger or older or of his own age;
he spares neither father nor mother nor any other human being who can hear, and hardly even the lower animals, for he would certainly not spare a foreigner, Apparently foreigners are considered among the lower animals. if he could get an interpreter anywhere.
Socrates, do you not see how many we are and that we are all young men? Are you not afraid that we shall join with Philebus and attack you, if you revile us? However—for we understand your meaning—if there is any way or means of removing this confusion gently from our discussion
and finding some better road than this to bring us towards the goal of our argument, kindly lead on, and we will do our best to follow for our present discussion, Socrates, is no trifling matter.
No, it is not, boys, as Philebus calls you; and there certainly is no better road, nor can there ever be, than that which I have always loved, though it has often deserted me, leaving me lonely and forlorn.
What is the road? Only tell us.
One which is easy to point out, but very difficult to follow for through it all the inventions of art have been brought to light. See this is the road I mean.
Go on what is it?
A gift of gods to men, as I believe, was tossed down from some divine source through the agency of a Prometheus together with a gleaming fire; and the ancients, who were better than we and lived nearer the gods, handed down the tradition that all the things which are ever said to exist are sprung from one and many and have inherent in them the finite and the infinite. This being the way in which these things are arranged,
we must always assume that there is in every case one idea of everything and must look for it—for we shall find that it is there—and if we get a grasp of this, we must look next for two, if there be two, and if not, for three or some other number; and again we must treat each of those units in the same way, until we can see not only that the original unit is one and many and infinite, but just how many it is. And we must not apply the idea of infinite to plurality until we have a view of its whole number
between infinity and one; then, and not before, we may let each unit of everything pass on unhindered into infinity.
The gods, then, as I said, handed down to us this mode of investigating, learning, and teaching one another; but the wise men of the present day make the one
and the many too quickly or too slowly, in haphazard fashion, and they put infinity immediately after unity; they disregard all that lies between them, and this it is which distinguishes between the dialectic and the disputatious methods of discussion.
I think I understand you in part, Socrates, but I need a clearer statement of some things.
Surely my meaning, Protarchus, is made clear in the letters of the alphabet, which you were taught as a child;
so learn it from them.
How?
Sound, which passes out through the mouth of each and all of us, is one, and yet again it is infinite in number.
Yes, to be sure.
And one of us is no wiser than the other merely for knowing that it is infinite or that it is one; but that which makes each of us a grammarian is the knowledge of the number and nature of sounds.
Very true.
And it is this same knowledge which makes the musician.
How is that?
Sound is one in the art of music also, so far as that art is concerned.
Of course.
And we may say that there are two sounds, low and high, and a third, which is the intermediate, may we not?
Yes.
But knowledge of these facts would not suffice to make you a musician, although ignorance of them would make you, if I may say so, quite worthless in respect to music.
Certainly.
But, my friend, when you have grasped the number and quality of the intervals of the voice in respect to high and low pitch, and the limits of the intervals,
and all the combinations derived from them, which the men of former times discovered and handed down to us, their successors, with the traditional name of harmonies, and also the corresponding effects in the movements of the body, which they say are measured by numbers and must be called rhythms and measures—and they say that we must also understand that every one and many should be considered in this way—
when you have thus grasped the facts, you have become a musician, and when by considering it in this way you have obtained a grasp of any other unity of all those which exist, you have become wise in respect to that unity. But the infinite number of individuals and the infinite number in each of them makes you in every instance indefinite in thought and of no account and not to be considered among the wise, so long as you have never fixed your eye upon any definite number in anything.
I think, Philebus, that what Socrates has said is excellent.
So do I; it is excellent in itself, but why has he said it now to us,
and what purpose is there in it?
Protarchus, that is a very proper question which Philebus has asked us.
Certainly it is, so please answer it.
I will, when I have said a little more on just this subject. For if a person begins with some unity or other, he must, as I was saying, not turn immediately to infinity, but to some definite number; now just so, conversely, when he has to take the infinite first,
he must not turn immediately to the one, but must think of some number which possesses in each case some plurality, and must end by passing from all to one. Let us revert to the letters of the alphabet to illustrate this.
How?
When some one, whether god or godlike man,—there is an Egyptian story that his name was Theuth—observed that sound was infinite, he was the first to notice that the vowel sounds in that infinity were not one, but many, and again that there were other elements which were not vowels but did have a sonant quality,
and that these also had a definite number; and he distinguished a third kind of letters which we now call mutes. Then he divided the mutes until he distinguished each individual one, and he treated the vowels and semivowels in the same way, until he knew the number of them and gave to each and all the name of letters. Perceiving, however, that none of us could learn any one of them alone by itself without learning them all, and considering that this was a common bond which made them in a way all one,
he assigned to them all a single science and called it grammar.
I understand that more clearly than the earlier statement, Protarchus, so far as the reciprocal relations of the one and the many are concerned, but I still feel the same lack as a little while ago.
Do you mean, Philebus, that you do not see what this has to do with the question?
Yes; that is what Protarchus and I have been trying to discover for a long time.
Really, have you been trying, as you say,
for long time to discover it, when it was close to you all the while?
How is that?
Was not our discussion from the beginning about wisdom and pleasure and which of them is preferable?
Yes, of course.
And surely we say that each of them is one.
Certainly.
This, then, is precisely the question which the previous discussion puts to us: How is each of them one and many, and how is it that they are not immediately infinite, but each possesses a definite number, before the individual phenomena become infinite?
Philebus, somehow or other Socrates has led us round and plunged us into a serious question. Consider which of us shall answer it. Perhaps it is ridiculous that I, after taking your place in entire charge of the argument, should ask you to come back and answer this question because I cannot do so, but I think it would be still more ridiculous if neither of us could answer.
Consider, then, what we are to do. For I think Socrates is asking us whether there are or are not kinds of pleasure, how many kinds there are, and what their nature is, and the same of wisdom.
You are quite right, son of Callias; for, as our previous discussion showed, unless we can do this in the case of every unity, every like, every same, and their opposites, none of us can ever be of any use in anything.
That, Socrates, seems pretty likely to be true. However, it is splendid for the wise man to know everything, but the next best thing, it seems, is not to be ignorant of himself. I will tell you why I say that at this moment. You, Socrates, have granted to all of us this conversation and your cooperation for the purpose of determining what is the best of human possessions. For when Philebus said it was pleasure and gaiety and enjoyment and all that sort of thing, you objected and said it was not those things, but another sort,
and we very properly keep reminding ourselves voluntarily of this, in order that both claims may be present in our memory for examination. You, as it appears, assert that the good which is rightly to be called better than pleasure is mind, knowledge, intelligence, art, and all their kin; you say we ought to acquire these, not that other sort. When those two claims were made and an argument arose, we playfully threatened that we would not let you go home
until the discussion was brought to some satisfactory conclusion. You agreed and put yourself at our disposal for that purpose. Now, we say that, as children put it, you cannot take back a gift once fairly given. So cease this way of meeting all that we say.
What way do you mean?
I mean puzzling us and asking questions to which we cannot at the moment give a satisfactory answer. Let us not imagine that the end of our present discussion is a mere puzzling of us all, but if we cannot answer, you must do so; for you gave us a promise. Consider, therefore, whether you yourself must distinguish the kinds of pleasure and knowledge or will let that go, in case you are able and willing to make clear in some other way the matters now at issue among us.
I need no longer anticipate anything terrible, since you put it in that way; for the words in case you are willing relieve me of all fear. And besides, I think some god has given me a vague recollection.
How is that, and what is the recollection about?
I remember now having heard long ago in a dream, or perhaps when I was awake, some talk about pleasure and wisdom to the effect that neither of the two is the good, but some third thing, different from them and better than both.
However, if this be now clearly proved to us, pleasure is deprived of victory for the good would no longer be identical with it. Is not that true?
It is.
And we shall have, in my opinion, no longer any need of distinguishing the kinds of pleasure. But the progress of the discussion will make that still clearer.
Excellent! Just go on as you have begun.
First, then, let us agree on some further small points.
What are they?
Is the nature of the good necessarily perfect
or imperfect?
The most perfect of all things, surely, Socrates.
Well, and is the good sufficient?
Of course; so that it surpasses all other things in sufficiency.
And nothing, I should say, is more certain about it than that every intelligent being pursues it, desires it, wishes to catch and get possession of it, and has no interest in anything in which the good is not included.
There is no denying that.
Let us, then, look at the life of pleasure and the life of wisdom separately and consider and judge them.
How do you mean?
Let there be no wisdom in the life of pleasure and no pleasure in the life of wisdom. For if either of them is the good, it cannot have need of anything else, and if, either be found to need anything,
we can no longer regard it as our true good.
No, of course not.
Shall we then undertake to test them through you?
By all means.
Then answer.
Ask.
Would you, Protarchus, be willing to live your whole life in the enjoyment of the greatest pleasures?
Of course I should.
Would you think you needed anything further, if you were in complete possession of that enjoyment?
Certainly not.
But consider whether you would not have some need of wisdom and intelligence and
power of calculating your wants and the like.
Why should I? If I have enjoyment, I have everything.
Then living thus you would enjoy the greatest pleasures all your life?
Yes; why not?
But if you did not possess mind or memory or knowledge or true opinion, in the first place, you would not know whether you were enjoying your pleasures or not. That must be true, since you are utterly devoid of intellect, must it not?
Yes, it must.
And likewise, if you had no memory you could not even remember that you ever did enjoy pleasure, and no recollection whatever of present pleasure could remain with you; if you had no true opinion you could not think you were enjoying pleasure at the time when you were enjoying it, and if you were without power of calculation you would not be able to calculate that you would enjoy it in the future; your life would not be that of a man, but of a mollusc or some other shell-fish like the oyster.
Is that true, or can we imagine any other result?
We certainly cannot.
And can we choose such a life?
This argument, Socrates, has made me utterly speechless for the present.
Well, let us not give in yet. Let us take up the life of mind and scrutinize that in turn.
What sort of life do you mean?
I ask whether anyone would be willing to live possessing wisdom and mind and knowledge and perfect memory of all things,
but having no share, great or small, in pleasure, or in pain, for that matter, but being utterly unaffected by everything of that sort.
Neither of the two lives can ever appear desirable to me, Socrates, or, I think, to anyone else.
How about the combined life, Protarchus, made up by a union of the two?
You mean a union of pleasure with mind or wisdom?
Yes, I mean a union of such elements.
Every one will prefer this life to either of the two others—yes, every single person without exception.
Then do we understand the consequences of what we are now saying?
Certainly. Three lives have been proposed,
and of two of them neither is sufficient or desirable for man or any other living being.
Then is it not already clear that neither of these two contained the good for if it did contain the good, it would be sufficient and perfect, and such as to be chosen by all living creatures which would be able to live thus all their lives; and if any of us chose anything else, he would be choosing contrary to the nature of the truly desirable, not of his own free will, but from ignorance or some unfortunate necessity.
That seems at any rate to be true.
And so I think we have sufficiently proved that Philebus’s divinity is not to be considered identical with the good.
But neither is your mind the good, Socrates; it will be open to the same objections.
My mind, perhaps, Philebus; but not so, I believe, the true mind, which is also divine; that is different. I do not as yet claim for mind the victory over the combined life, but we must look and see what is to be done about the second place;
for each of us might perhaps put forward a claim, one that mind is the cause of this combined life, the other that pleasure is the cause and thus neither of these two would be the good, but one or the other of them might be regarded as the cause of the good. On this point I might keep up the fight all the more against Philebus and contend that in this mixed life it is mind that is more akin and more similar than pleasure to that, whatever it may be, which makes it both desirable and good; and from this point of view
pleasure could advance no true claim to the first or even the second place. It is farther behind than the third place, if my mind is at all to be trusted at present.
Certainly, Socrates, it seems to me that pleasure has fought for the victory and has fallen in this bout, knocked down by your words.
And we can only say, as it seems, that mind was wise in not laying claim to the victory; for it would have met with the same fate. Now pleasure, if she were to lose the second prize, would be deeply humiliated in the eyes of her lovers; for she would no longer appear even to them so lovely as before.
Well, then, is it not better to leave her now and not to pain her by testing her to the utmost and proving her in the wrong?
Nonsense, Socrates!
Nonsense because I spoke of paining pleasure, and that is impossible?
Not only that, but because you do not understand that not one of us will let you go yet until you have finished the argument about these matters.
Whew, Protarchus! Then we have a long discussion before us, and not an easy one, either, this time. For in going ahead to fight mind’s battle for the second place, I think I need a new contrivance—other weapons, as it were, than those of our previous discussion, though perhaps some of the old ones will serve. Must I then go on?
Of course you must.
Then let us try to be careful
in making our beginning.
What kind of a beginning do you mean?
Let us divide all things that now exist in the universe into two, or rather, if you please, three classes.
Please tell us on what principle you would divide them.
Let us take some of the subjects of our present discussion.
What subjects?
We said that God revealed in the universe two elements, the infinite and the finite, did we not?
Certainly.
Let us, then, assume these as two of our classes, and a third, made by combining these two.
But I cut a ridiculous figure, it seems, when I attempt a division into classes and an enumeration.
What do you mean, my friend?
I think we need a fourth class besides.
Tell us what it is.
Note the cause of the combination of those two and assume that as the fourth in addition to the previous three.
And then will you not need a fifth, which has the power of separation?
Perhaps; but not at present, I think. However, if we do need a fifth,
you will pardon me for going after it.
Of course.
First, then, let us take three of the four and, as we see that two of these are split up and scattered each one into many, let us try, by collecting each of them again into one, to learn how each of them was both one and many.
If you could tell me more clearly about them, I might be able to follow you.
I mean, then, that the two which I select are the same which I mentioned before, the infinite and the finite. I will try to show that the infinite is, in a certain sense, many; the finite can wait.
Yes.
Consider then. What I ask you to consider is difficult and debatable; but consider it all the same. In the first place, take hotter and colder and see whether you can conceive any limit of them, or whether the more and less which dwell in their very nature do not, so long as they continue to dwell therein,
preclude the possibility of any end; for if there were any end of them, the more and less would themselves be ended.
Very true.
But always, we affirm, in the hotter and colder there is the more and less.
Certainly.
Always, then, the argument shows that these two have no end; and being endless, they are of course infinite.
Most emphatically, Socrates.
I am glad you responded, my dear Protarchus,
and reminded me that the word emphatically which you have just used, and the word gently have the same force as more and less. For wherever they are present, they do not allow any definite quantity to exist; they always introduce in every instance a comparison—more emphatic than that which is quieter, or vice versa—and thus they create the relation of more and less, thereby doing away with fixed quantity. For, as I said just now, if they did not abolish quantity, but allowed it and measure to make their appearance in the abode of the more and less,
the emphatically and gently, those latter would be banished from their own proper place. When once they had accepted definite quantity, they would no longer be hotter or colder; for hotter and colder are always progressing and never stationary; but quantity is at rest and does not progress. By this reasoning hotter and its opposite are shown to be infinite.
That appears to be the case, Socrates; but, as you said, these subjects are not easy to follow. Perhaps, however,
continued repetition might lead to a satisfactory agreement between the questioner and him who is questioned.
That is a good suggestion, and I must try to carry it out. However, to avoid waste of time in discussing all the individual examples, see if we can accept this as a designation of the infinite.
Accept what?
All things which appear to us to become more or less, or to admit of emphatic and gentle
and excessive and the like, are to be put in the class of the infinite as their unity, in accordance with what we said a while ago, if you remember, that we ought to collect all things that are scattered and split up and impress upon them to the best of our ability the seal of some single nature.
I remember.
And the things which do not admit of more and less and the like, but do admit of all that is opposed to them—first equality and the equal, then the double, and anything which is a definite number or measure in relation to such a number or measure—
all these might properly be assigned to the class of the finite. What do you say to that?
Excellent, Socrates.
Well, what shall we say is the nature of the third class, made by combining these two?
You will tell me, I fancy, by answering your own question.
Nay, a god will do so, if any god will give ear to my prayers.
Pray, then, and watch.
I am watching; and I think, Protarchus, one of the gods has this moment been gracious unto me.
What do you mean, and what evidence have you?
I will tell you, of course. Just follow what I say.
Say on.
We spoke just now of hotter and colder, did we not?
Yes.
Add to them drier and wetter, more and less, quicker and slower, greater and smaller, and all that we assigned before to the class which unites more and less.
You mean the class of the infinite?
Yes. Mix with that the second class, the offspring of the limit.
What class do you mean?
The class of the finite, which we ought just now to have reduced to unity, as we did that of the infinite. We have not done that, but perhaps we shall even now accomplish the same end, if these two are both unified and then the third class is revealed.
What third class, and what do you mean?
The class of the equal and double and everything which puts an end
to the differences between opposites and makes them commensurable and harmonious by the introduction of number.
I understand. I think you mean that by mixture of these elements certain results are produced in each instance.
Yes, you are right.
Go on.
In cases of illness, does not the proper combination of these elements produce health?
Certainly.
And in the acute and the grave, the quick and the slow, which are unlimited, the addition of these same elements creates a limit and establishes the whole art of music in all its perfection, does it not?
Excellent.
And again in the case of cold and hot weather, the introduction of these elements removes the excess and indefiniteness and creates moderation and harmony.
Assuredly.
And thence arise the seasons and all the beauties of our world,
by mixture of the infinite with the finite?
Of course.
There are countless other things which I pass over, such as health, beauty, and strength of the body and the many glorious beauties of the soul. For this goddess, This goddess may be Μουσική (in which case ἐγγενομένη the reading of T and G, would be preferable to ἐγγενόμενα above), not music in the restricted modern sense, but the spirit of numbers and measure which underlies all music, and all the beauties of the world; or the goddess may be mentioned here in reference (and opposition) to the goddess Pleasure (12 B); she is the nameless deity who makes Pleasure and all others conform to her rules. my fair Philebus, beholding the violence and universal wickedness which prevailed, since there was no limit of pleasures or of indulgence in them, established law and order, which contain a limit. You say she did harm;
I say, on the contrary, she brought salvation. What do you think, Protarchus?
What you say, Socrates, pleases me greatly.
I have spoken of these three classes, you observe.
Yes, I believe I understand; I think you mean that the infinite is one class and the finite is another class among existing things; but what you wish to designate as the third class, I do not comprehend very well.
No, because the multitude which springs up in the third class overpowers you and yet the infinite also comprised many classes,
nevertheless, since they were sealed with the seal of the more and less, they were seen to be of one class.
True.
And the finite, again, did not contain many classes, nor were we disturbed about its natural unity.
Of course not.
No, not at all. And as to the third class, understand that I mean every offspring of these two which comes into being as a result of the measures created by the cooperation of the finite.
I understand.
But we said there was, in addition to three classes, a fourth to be investigated. Let us do that together. See whether you think that everything which comes into being must necessarily come into being through a cause.
Yes, I do; for how could it come into being apart from a cause?
Does not the nature of that which makes or creates differ only in name from the cause, and may not the creative agent and the cause be properly considered one?
Yes.
And, again, we shall find that, on the same principle, that which is made or created differs in name only from that which comes into being, shall we not?
We shall.
And the creative agent always naturally leads, and that which is created follows after it as it comes into being?
Certainly.
Then the cause and that which is the servant of the cause for the purpose of generation are not the same.
Of course not.
Did not the things which come into being and the things out of which they come into being furnish us all the three classes?
Certainly.
And that which produces all these, the cause, we call the fourth, as it has been satisfactorily shown to be distinct from the others?
Yes, it is distinct.
It is, then, proper, now that we have distinguished the four, to make sure that we remember them separately by enumerating them in order.
Yes, certainly.
The first, then, I call infinite, the second limit or finite, and the third something generated by a mixture of these two. And should I be making any mistake if I called
the cause of this mixture and creation the fourth?
Certainly not.
Now what is the next step in our argument, and what was our purpose in coming to the point we have reached? Was it not this? We were trying to find out whether the second place belonged to pleasure or to wisdom, were we not?
Yes, we were.
And may we not, perhaps, now that we have finished with these points, be better able to come to a decision about the first and second places, which was the original subject of our discussion?
Perhaps.
Well then; we decided that the mixed life of pleasure and wisdom was the victor, did we not?
Yes.
And do we not see what kind of life this is, and to what class it belongs?
Of course we do.
We shall say that it belongs to the third class; for that class is not formed by mixture of any two things, but of all the things which belong to the infinite, bound by the finite; and therefore this victorious life would rightly be considered a part of this class.
Quite rightly.
Well then, what of your life, Philebus, of unmixed pleasure? In which of the aforesaid classes may it properly be said to belong? But before you tell me, please answer this question.
Ask your question.
Have pleasure and pain a limit, or are they among the things which admit of more and less?
Yes, they are among those which admit of the more, Socrates; for pleasure would not be absolute good if it were not infinite in number and degree.
Nor would pain, Philebus, be absolute evil; so it is not the infinite which supplies any element of good in pleasure; we must look for something else. Well, I grant you that pleasure and pain are in the class of the infinite but to which of the aforesaid classes, Protarchus and Philebus, can we now without irreverence assign wisdom, knowledge, and mind? I think we must find the right answer to this question, for our danger is great if we fail.
Oh Socrates, you exalt your own god.
And you your goddess, my friend. But the question calls for an answer, all the same.
Socrates is right, Philebus; you ought to do as he asks.
Did you not, Protarchus, elect to reply in my place?
Yes; but now I am somewhat at a loss, and I ask you, Socrates, to be our spokesman yourself, that we may not select the wrong representative and so say something improper.
I must do as you ask, Protarchus; and it is not difficult. But did I really, as Philebus said, embarrass you by playfully exalting my god, when I asked to what class mind and knowledge should be assigned?
You certainly did, Socrates.
Yet the answer is easy; for all philosophers agree—whereby they really exalt themselves—that mind is king of heaven and earth. Perhaps they are right. But let us, if you please, investigate the question of its class more at length.
Speak just as you like, Socrates. Do not consider length, so far as we are concerned you cannot bore us.
Good. Then let us begin by asking a question.
What is the question?
Shall we say, Protarchus, that all things and this which is called the universe are governed by an irrational and fortuitous power and mere chance, or, on the contrary, as our forefathers said, are ordered and directed by mind and a marvellous wisdom?
The two points of view have nothing in common, my wonderful Socrates. For what you are now saying seems to me actually impious. But the assertion that mind orders all things is worthy of the aspect of the world, of sun, moon, stars, and the whole revolving universe; I can never say or think anything else about it.
Do you, then, think we should assent to this and agree in the doctrine of our predecessors,
not merely intending to repeat the words of others, with no risk to ourselves, but ready to share with them in the risk and the blame, if any clever man declares that this world is not thus ordered, but is without order?
Yes, of course I do.
Then observe the argument that now comes against us.
Go on.
We see the elements which belong to the natures of all living beings, fire, water, air, and earth—or, as the storm-tossed mariners say, land in sight—
in the constitution of the universe.
Certainly and we are truly storm-tossed in the puzzling cross-currents of this discussion.
Well, here is a point for you to consider in relation to each of these elements as it exists in us.
What is the point?
Each element in us is small and poor and in no way pure at all or endowed with the power which is worthy of its nature. Take one example and apply it to all. Fire, for instance, exists in us and also in the universe.
Of course.
And that which is in us is small, weak, and poor, but that which is in the universe is marvellous in quantity, beauty, and every power which belongs to fire.
What you say is very true.
Well, is the fire of the universe nourished, originated, and ruled by the fire within us, or, on the contrary, does my fire, and yours, and that of all living beings derive nourishment and all that from the universal fire?
That question does not even deserve an answer.
True; and you will, I fancy, say the same of the earth which is in us living creatures and that which is in the universe, and concerning all the other elements about which I asked a moment ago your answer will be the same.
Yes. Who could answer otherwise without being called a lunatic?
Nobody, I fancy. Now follow the next step. When we see that all the aforesaid elements are gathered together into a unit, do we not call them a body?
Of course.
Apply the same line of thought to that which we call the universe. It would likewise be a body, being composed of the same elements.
Quite right.
Does our body derive, obtain, and possess from that body, or that body from ours, nourishment and everything else that we mentioned just now?
That, Socrates, is another question not worth asking.
Well, is this next one worth asking? What will you say to it?
What is it?
Shall we not say that our body has a soul?
Clearly we shall.
Where did it get it, Protarchus, unless the body of the universe had a soul, since that body has the same elements as ours, only in every way superior?
Clearly it could get it from no other source.
No; for we surely do not believe, Protarchus, that of those four elements, the finite, the infinite, the combination,
and the element of cause which exists in all things, this last, which gives to our bodies souls and the art of physical exercise and medical treatment when the body is ill, and which is in general a composing and healing power, is called the sum of all wisdom, and yet, while these same elements exist in the entire heaven and in great parts thereof, and area moreover, fair and pure, there is no means of including among them that nature which is the fairest and most precious of all.
Certainly there would be no sense in that.
Then if that is not the case, it would be better to follow the other line of thought and say, as we have often said, that there is in the universe a plentiful infinite and a sufficient limit, and in addition a by no means feeble cause which orders and arranges years and seasons and months, and may most justly be called wisdom and mind.
Yes, most justly.
Surely reason and mind could never come into being without soul.
No, never.
Then in the nature of Zeus you would say that a kingly soul
and a kingly mind were implanted through the power of the cause, and in other deities other noble qualities from which they derive their favorite epithets.
Certainly.
Now do not imagine, Protarchus, that this is mere idle talk of mine; it confirms the utterances of those who declared of old Anaxagoras and probably some now unknown precursors. that mind always rules the universe.
Yes, certainly.
And to my question it has furnished the reply
that mind belongs to that one of our four classes which was called the cause of all. Now, you see, you have at last my answer.
Yes, and a very sufficient one and yet you answered without my knowing it.
Yes, Protarchus, for sometimes a joke is a restful change from serious talk.