And when the pleasure is the predominant element in the mixture, the slight tincture of pain tickles a man and makes him mildly impatient, or again an excessive proportion of pleasure excites him and sometimes even makes him leap for joy; it produces in him all sorts of colors, attitudes, and paintings, and even causes great amazement and foolish shouting, does it not?
Certainly.
And it makes him say of himself, and others say of him, that he is pleased to death with these delights, and the more unrestrained and foolish he is, the more he always gives himself up to the pursuit of these pleasures; he calls them the greatest of all things and counts that man the happiest who lives most entirely in the enjoyment of them.
Socrates, you have described admirably what happens
in the case of most people.
That may be, Protarchus, so far as concerns purely bodily pleasures in which internal and external sensations unite; but concerning the pleasures in which the soul and the body contribute opposite elements, each adding pain or pleasure to the other’s pleasure or pain, so that both unite in a single mixture—concerning these I said before that when a man is empty he desires to be filled, and rejoices in his expectation, but is pained by his emptiness, and now I add, what I did not say at that time, that in all these cases, which are innumerable,
of opposition between soul and body, there is one single mixture of pain and pleasure.
I believe you are quite right.
One further mixture of pain and pleasure is left.
What is it?
That mixture of its own feelings which we said the soul often experiences.
And what do we call this?
Do you not regard anger, fear, yearning, mourning, love, jealousy, envy, and the like as pains of the soul and the soul only?
I do.
And shall we not find them full of ineffable pleasures? Or must I remind you of the anger?Which stirs a man, though very wise, to wrath,And sweeter is than honey from the comb,Hom. Il. 18.108-109and of the pleasures mixed with pains, which we find in mournings and longings?
No, you need not remind me; those things occur just as you suggest.
And you remember, too, how people enjoy weeping at tragedies?
Yes, certainly.
And are you aware of the condition of the soul at comedies, how there also we have a mixture of pain and pleasure?
I do not quite understand.
Indeed it is by no means easy, Protarchus, to understand such a condition under those circumstances.
No at least I do not find it so.
Well, then, let us take this under consideration, all the more because of its obscurity; then we can more readily understand the mixture of pain and pleasure in other cases.
Please go on.
Would you say that envy, which was mentioned just now, was a pain of the soul, or not?
I say it is.
But certainly we see the envious man rejoicing in the misfortunes of his neighbors.
Yes, very much so.
Surely ignorance is an evil, as is also what we call stupidity.
Surely.
Next, then, consider the nature of the ridiculous.
Please proceed.
The ridiculous is in its main aspect a kind of vice which gives its name to a condition; and it is that part of vice in general which involves the opposite of the condition mentioned in the inscription at Delphi.
You mean Know thyself, Socrates?
Yes; and the opposite of that, in the language of the inscription, would evidently be not to know oneself at all.
Of course.
Protarchus, try to divide this into three.
How do you mean? I am afraid I can never do it.
Then you say that I must now make the division?
Yes, I say so, and I beg you to do so, besides.
Must not all those who do not know themselves be affected by their condition in one of three ways?
How is that?
First in regard to wealth; such a man thinks he is
richer than he is.
Certainly a good many are affected in that way.
And there are still more who think they are taller and handsomer than they are and that they possess better physical qualities in general than is the case.
Certainly.
But by far the greatest number, I fancy, err in the third way, about the qualities of, the soul, thinking that they excel in virtue when they do not.
Yes, most decidedly.
And of all the virtues, is not wisdom the one to which people in general lay claim, thereby filling themselves with strife and false conceit of wisdom?
Yes, to be sure.
And we should surely be right in calling all that an evil condition.
Very much so.
Then this must further be divided into two parts, if we are to gain insight into childish envy with its absurd mixture of pleasure and pain. How shall we divide it, do you say? All who have this false and foolish conceit
of themselves fall, like the rest of mankind, into two classes: some necessarily have strength and power, others, as I believe, the reverse.
Yes, necessarily.
Make the division, then, on that principle; those of them who have this false conceit and are weak and unable to revenge themselves when they are laughed at you may truly call ridiculous, but those who are strong and able to revenge themselves you will define most correctly to yourself
by calling them powerful, terrible, and hateful, for ignorance in the powerful is hateful and infamous—since whether real or feigned it injures their neighbors—but ignorance in the weak appears to us as naturally ridiculous.
Quite right. But the mixture of pleasure and pain in all this is not yet clear to me.
First, then, take up the nature of envy.
Go on.
Is envy a kind of unrighteous pain and also a pleasure?
Undoubtedly.
But it is neither wrong nor envious to rejoice in the misfortunes of our enemies, is it?
No, of course not.
But when people sometimes see the misfortunes of their friends and rejoice instead of grieving, is not that wrong?
Of course it is.
And we said that ignorance was an evil to every one, did we not?
True.
Then the false conceits of our friends concerning their wisdom, their beauty,
and their other qualities which we mentioned just now, saying that they belong to three classes, are ridiculous when they are weak, but hateful when they are powerful. Shall we, or shall we not, affirm that, as I said just now, this state of mind when possessed in its harmless form by any of our friends, is ridiculous in the eyes of others?
Certainly it is ridiculous.
And do we not agree that ignorance is in itself a misfortune?
Yes, a great one.
And do we feel pleasure or pain when we laugh at it?
Pleasure, evidently.
Did we not say that pleasure in the misfortunes of friends was caused by envy?
There can be no other cause.
Then our argument declares that when we laugh at the ridiculous qualities of our friends, we mix pleasure with pain, since we mix it with envy; for we have agreed all along that envy is a pain of the soul, and that laughter is a pleasure, yet these two are present at the same time on such occasions.
True.
So now our argument shows that in mournings and tragedies and comedies, not merely on the stage, but in all the tragedy and comedy of life, and in countless other ways, pain is mixed with pleasure.
It is impossible not to agree with that, Socrates, even though one be most eager to maintain the opposite opinion.
Again we mentioned anger, yearning, mourning, love, jealousy, envy, and the like,
as conditions in which we should find a mixture of the two elements we have now often named, did we not?
Yes.
And we understand that all the details I have been describing just now are concerned only with sorrow and envy and anger?
Of course we understand that.
Then there are still many others of those conditions left for us to discuss.
Yes, very many.
Now why do you particularly suppose I pointed out to you the mixture of pain and pleasure in comedy? Was it not for the sake of convincing you,
because it is easy to show the mixture in love and fear and the rest, and because I thought that when you had made this example your own, you would relieve me from the necessity of discussing those other conditions in detail, and would simply accept the fact that in the affections of the body apart from the soul, of the soul apart from the body, and of the two in common, there are plentiful mixtures of pain and pleasure? So tell me; will you let me off, or will you keep on till midnight? But I think I need say only a few words to induce you to let me off. I will agree to give you an account of all these matters
tomorrow, but now I wish to steer my bark towards the remaining points that are needful for the judgement which Philebus demands.
Good, Socrates; just finish what remains in any way you please.
Then after the mixed pleasures we should naturally and almost of necessity proceed in turn to the unmixed.
Very good.
So I will turn to them and try to explain them; for I do not in the least agree with those who say that all pleasures are merely surcease from pain, but, as I said, I use them as witnesses to prove that some pleasures are apparent, but not in any way real, and that there are others which appear to be both great and numerous, but are really mixed up with pains and with cessations of the greatest pains and distresses of body and soul.
But what pleasures, Socrates, may rightly be considered true?
Those arising from what are called beautiful colors, or from forms, most of those that arise from odors and sounds, in short all those the want of which is unfelt and painless, whereas the satisfaction furnished by them is felt by the senses, pleasant, and unmixed with pain.
Once more, Socrates, what do you mean by this?
My meaning is certainly not clear at the first glance,
and I must try to make it so. For when I say beauty of form, I am trying to express, not what most people would understand by the words, such as the beauty of animals or of paintings, but I mean, says the argument, the straight line and the circle and the plane and solid figures formed from these by turning-lathes and rulers and patterns of angles; perhaps you understand. For I assert that the beauty of these is not relative, like that of other things, but they are always absolutely beautiful by nature
and have peculiar pleasures in no way subject to comparison with the pleasures of scratching; and there are colors which possess beauty and pleasures of this character. Do you understand?
I am trying to do so, Socrates; and I hope you also will try to make your meaning still clearer.
I mean that those sounds which are smooth and clear and send forth a single pure note are beautiful, not relatively, but absolutely, and that there are pleasures which pertain to these by nature and result from them.
Yes, that also is true.
The pleasures of smell are a less divine class; but they have no necessary pains mixed with them, and wherever and in whatever we find this freedom from pain, I regard it always as a mark of similarity to those other pleasures. These, then, are two classes of the pleasures of which I am speaking. Do you understand me?
I understand.
And further let us add to these the pleasures of knowledge, if they appear to us not to have hunger for knowledge or pangs of such hunger as their source.
I agree to that.
Well, if men are full of knowledge and then lose it through forgetfulness, do you see any pains in the losses?
Not by their inherent nature, but sometimes there is pain in reflecting on the event,
when a man who has lost knowledge is pained by the lack of it.
True, my dear fellow, but just at present we are recounting natural feelings only, not reflection.
Then you are right in saying that we feel no pain in the loss of knowledge.
Then we may say that these pleasures of knowledge are unmixed with pain and are felt not by the many but only by very few.
Yes, certainly.
And now that we have fairly well separated the pure pleasures and those which may be pretty correctly called impure, let us add the further statement that the intense pleasures are without measure and those of the opposite sort have measure; those which admit of greatness and intensity and are often or seldom great or intense we shall assign to the class of the infinite, which circulates more or less freely through the body and soul alike,
and the others we shall assign to the class of the limited.
Quite right, Socrates.
There is still another question about them to be considered.
What is it?
What kind of thing is most closely related to truth? The pure and unadulterated, or the violent, the widespread, the great, and the sufficient?
What is your object, Socrates, in asking that question?
My object, Protarchus, is to leave no gap in my test of pleasure
and knowledge, if some part of each of them is pure and some part impure, in order that each of them may offer itself for judgement in a condition of purity, and thus make the judgement easier for you and me and all our audience.
Quite right.
Very well, let us adopt that point of view towards all the classes which we call pure. First let us select one of them and examine it.