Perhaps philosophy is more like this: still keep your butt and your dealer, but no wine; rather take an assortment of cereals—wheat on top, then beans, then barley, and, beneath the barley, lentils, then chickpeas, and other kinds of seeds as well. You come in wishing to buy some of the cereals. He has taken out a pinch of the wheat from where the wheat was and has given you a sample in your hand to examine. Now could you say by looking at that sample whether the peas were pure, the lentils tender, and the beans not completely empty?

Not at all.

Then neither could you learn the nature of all philosophy from the first thing someone says. For it is not really one substance like the wine to which you compare it, claiming that it is like the sample. No, we have seen that there is variation in it, for which a cursory examination will not do. If you buy bad wine you risk a couple of pence, but to rot in the common herd oneself, as you said in the beginning, is very serious. Besides, to insist on drinking the whole butt in order to buy half a pint is to cause loss to the wine-merchant with your unbelieving tasting. But in philosophy there would be no such loss. No, however much you drink, the butt is just as full and the wine-merchant will not suffer loss. For, in the words of the proverb, the more you draw the fuller it becomes. The case is the reverse of the butt of the Danaïdes that would not hold what was put into it but let it run away at once. Take some away from philosophy, however, and what is left increases.

But I want to tell you another, similar thing, about sampling philosophy, and do not think that I am being blasphemous about it if I say that it is like a deadly poison—hemlock, for example, or aconite, or some other such. Not even they, deadly though they are, will kill, if you scrape off a tiny piece with the tip of your nail and taste that. No, if the quantity, method of consumption, and mixture are wrong, you can take it and not die. You claimed, however, that the tiniest piece was quite enough to give you a complete knowledge of what the whole was like.

Granted, Lycinus. What next? Must we live a hundred years and have all that trouble? Is there no other way of studying philosophy?

No, Hermotimus. Nor need we complain if what you said at first is true: that life is short and art is long. And now I don’t understand why you are distressed if you cannot become a Chrysippus or a Plato or a Pythagoras today before sunset.

You hedge me round, Lycinus, and drive me into a corner, although I have done you no harm. Clearly you are doing this from spite, because I have made progress in my studies while you have neglected yourself—at your age too.

Do you know what? Take no notice of my ravings, but leave me to my silly chatter, and you go on your way as you are and finish what you decided to do in the first place.

You are so compulsive that you do not let me make any choice unless I try them all.

Well, you may be sure that I shall never say anything else. When you call me compulsive you seem to me to be blaming the innocent, as the poet says; Homer, Il., 11, 654. for I myself, as long as no other argument comes to your aid to release you from the compulsion, am at present a helpless captive. But look, the argument is going to bring much greater pressure to bear on you, but perhaps you will ignore that and blame me.

How? I should be surprised if it had anything left to say.

It says that to inspect and to investigate everything is not sufficient to give you the power to choose the best. No, the most important thing is still lacking.

I hesitate to tell you, Hermotimus, that even this is not enough. No, I think we deceived ourselves when we thought we had found safety: we have found no safety at all. We are like fishermen who often when they have let down their nets feel something heavy, and so haul in expecting a huge catch of fish; then when they are tired with their pulling they see a stone or a jar packed with sand. I am afraid we have hauled up something like that.

I don’t know what these nets of yours mean: you have certainly caught me in them.

Then try to get out. If anybody knows how to swim, you do—thanks to god’s help. Now, even if we go round all the sects making our tests, and eventually complete our enquiry, I don’t think it will even yet be certain whether any one of them has what we are looking for, or whether all alike are ignorant of it.

What do you mean? Not one of them?

It is debatable. Do you think it impossible that all are wrong, and that the truth may be something different, something which none of them has yet found?

How could that be possible?

In this way. Suppose our true number to be twenty. Now let someone take twenty beans in his hand, and then close it and ask any ten people how many beans he has in his hand. Suppose one man guesses seven, another five, another thirty, some other ten or fifteen, in short every one differently; nevertheless it is possible for someone by some chance to guess the truth, isn’t it?

Yes.

Yet it is not at all impossible for everyone to guess different numbers and for all these numbers to be wrong and untrue, and for not one of them to say that the man has twenty beans. Do you agree?

It is not impossible.

In the same way, then, all those who study philosophy are trying to find out what happiness is, and each one says it is something different—pleasure, beauty, and all the other things they say about it. Very likely one of these things is happiness, but it is not unlikely that it is something quite different from every one of them. We seem to have gone in the wrong direction, hastening to the end before we have found the beginning. We should first, I think, have ascertained that the truth has been discovered, and that one or other of the philosophers really has knowledge of it. Then the next step would be to find out whom to believe.

This is what you are saying, then, Lycinus, that even if we go through all philosophy, we shall not even then really be able to discover the truth.

From what you say we shall never find it or be philosophers. We shall have to give up philosophy and live a layman’s life. At least it follows from what you say that philosophy for a human being is impossible and unattainable. For you say that whoever is going to practise philosophy must first choose the best philosophy, and the choice would be correct in your view only if the truest were chosen after going through the whole field. Then you calculated the number of years required for each and went beyond all bounds, stretching it to cover several generations, so that the search for truth exceeded any man’s lifetime. Finally you show that even this is not beyond doubt when you say it is not certain whether any of the old philosophers found the truth or not.

Could you, Hermotimus, guarantee on oath that they have found it?

No, I could not.

Yet how many other things have I purposely omitted which call for long examination!

What sort of things?

Don’t you hear some of the Stoics or Epicureans or Platonists say that, while some of them know all the doctrines, others do not, although in other respects they are quite reliable?

True enough.

Then do you not think it a very laborious business to separate and differentiate those who know from those who do not know but say they know?

Very.

Then if you are going to know the best Stoic you must go and make trial of most of them if not all, and take the best as your teacher, first training yourself and acquiring the power of criticism in such matters, to prevent your preferring inadvertently an inferior one. Just think how much time it needs! I left this out on purpose not to annoy you, and yet in matters of this sort I think it is the one most important requirement in such matters—I mean where there is uncertainty and doubt. And this is the only sure and firm hope you have for truth and its discovery. There is no hope whatsoever apart from the ability to judge and separate the false from the true, and like assayers of silver to distinguish the sound and genuine metal from the counterfeit. Were you to come to your examination of the doctrines with some such power and skill, all would be well; if not, you can be sure that nothing will save you from being dragged by the nose by them all or from following a leafy branch in front of you as sheep do; you will be like water spilt on a table, running whithersoever someone pulls you by the tip of his finger, or indeed like a reed growing on a river bank, bending to every breath of wind, however slight the breeze that blows and shakes it.

So find a competent teacher to give you instruction in demonstration and the art of distinguishing matters in dispute, and you will certainly find an end to your difficulties. At once the best will be clear to you, truth and falsehood will be proved under the scrutiny of this art of demonstration, and you will make a sound choice, and having made your judgment you will practise philosophy, and you will have won your thrice-desired happiness and live with her, possessing all good things in one package.

Well done, Lycinus! What you say is far better and full of great hopes. We must look for a man, it seems, who will make us able to judge and to distinguish and able in the highest degree to prove a case. What follows will be easy now and no trouble, and it will not need much time. Now I am indeed grateful to you for finding this excellent short-cut for us.

Because, my good friend, even if we find someone who professes knowledge of the art of demonstration and the ability to teach it to another, we shall not, I fancy, believe him at once, but look for someone else who can determine if the first man is speaking the truth. And even if we find this one, we are still not clear whether our arbiter knows how to distinguish the man whose judgment is correct or not, and for him too I fancy we shall need another arbiter. For how could we ourselves know how to choose the one able to judge best? Do you see how this goes on to infinity and cannot stop and be arrested? For you will see that all the proofs you can find are disputable and have no certainty. Most of them try to compel our belief on a basis of assumptions equally open to dispute, while the rest tack the most obscure and quite unrelated speculations on to self-evident truths and then say that the latter prove the former, as if a man thought to prove the existence of gods because we see their altars. So, Hermotimus, we seem to have run round in a circle and come back to our starting-point and the self-same difficulty.

Look at what you have done to me, Lycinus. You have shown my treasure to be nothing more than ashes, and all these years and heavy toil are lost in all likelihood.

Well, Hermotimus, you will not be nearly so hurt if you remember that you are not the only one left outside the hoped-for blessings. No, all those who study philosophy are, as it were, wrangling over the shadow of an ass. Who could go through all that process I described? Even you yourself say that it is impossible. And now you seem to me to be acting like a man who wept and blamed fortune because he could not go up to heaven or dive deep into the sea off Sicily and come up at Cyprus, or fly like a bird from Greece to India in one day. His disappointment was due, I fancy, to expectations following a dream on some such subject or an invention of his imagination without prior enquiry whether his wishes could be fulfilled and were humanly possible. You too, my friend, have had many wonderful dreams, and the argument has poked you in the ribs and made you jump up out of your sleep. Then while your eyes are scarcely open you are angry with it, and you cannot easily shake off sleep for delight in what you have seen. Those who fabricate an unreal blessedness for themselves have just the same experience, surrounded by wealth, digging up treasure, kings, heaven-blest for some other reason—all this the goddess Wishing easily manages, great in her gifts and never saying “no,” whether you want to fly, to be as big as a Colossus, to discover whole mountains of gold; and if a slave interrupts their reverie with a question on day-to-day necessities—with what he is to buy bread, what he is to say to the landlord who has been waiting ever so long with a demand for the rent—they are so angry with him for taking all those good things away with his troublesome questions that they come near to biting off his nose.

But, my dear friend, do not feel like that towards me, if I, a friend, did not let you spend all your life in a dream, albeit a sweet one, digging up treasure, flying, inventing extravagant visions, and hoping for what was beyond reach, or if again I tell you to get up and carry out your daily tasks and adopt a course that will keep your mind in future on the trivalities of the common life. For what you have recently been working at and planning is no different from Hippocentaurs and Chimaeras and Gorgons and all the other images that belong to dreams and to poets and painters with their artistic licence—fancies that have never existed and can never exist. Nevertheless the vast majority of mankind believe them and they are enchanted when they see or hear things of this sort, because they are strange and monstrous.

You too have heard from some storyteller of a woman of surpassing beauty, beyond the Graces themselves or Heavenly Aphrodite; and, although you had not first asked whether he was telling the truth and whether this woman existed anywhere in the world, you fell in love with her at once, as they say Medea fell in love with Jason from a dream. But what above all brought you to this love—and has brought all who are in love with the same vision as you—was, I should guess, this: when he had told you about the woman and his first sketch had won your belief, he proceeded to fill in the details. You looked at nothing else, and so, when once you had let him get the first grip, he dragged you all by the nose and led you to the beloved by what he said was a straight path. The rest, I fancy, was easy: not one of you turned back to the entrance and enquired whether it was the true one and whether he had made a mistake and should not have entered; no, you followed in the steps of those who had made the journey before you, like sheep following their leader, although you should have considered at the entrance right at the beginning whether you ought to enter in there.

You will see better what I mean if you consider this analogy: suppose one of these daring poets were to say that there was once a man with three heads and six hands, and suppose that you facilely accepted this without asking if it were possible, just believing, he would at once follow it up by filling in the details appropriately—six eyes, six ears, three voices coming from three mouths, each taking food, and thirty fingers, unlike us with our ten on two hands; and, if he had to go to war, three hands held three shields—light, oblong, or round—, and three brandished axe, spear, and sword. Who would disbelieve these details now—details which are consistent with the first outline? It was there that you ought to have seen whether it was credible or acceptable thus. Once you admit the premises the rest comes flooding in; you will never stay its course, and disbelief is difficult now, for what follows is consistent in the way it follows the agreed premises. This has happened to you all. Because of your love and enthusiasm you made no enquiry into the conditions at each entrance. You go forward led by the consistency of what came after, not considering that things may be consistent and false. Suppose for instance you were to believe someone who said that twice five is seven and did not count for yourself, he will clearly go on to say that four times five is certainly fourteen, and so on, as long as he likes. This is what that marvellous geometry does—in the beginning it presents certain monstrous postulates and demands that we consent to them though they cannot exist—for instance points without parts, lines without breadth, and so on—and on these rotten foundations it erects its structure and claims to demonstrate truths, in spite of the fact that it starts from a false beginning.

Draw the comparison: you philosophers grant the premises of the various systems and then believe everything that follows, supposing that the consistency you find, false though it is, is a proof of its essential truth. Then some of you die in your hopes before they perceive the truth and condemn their deceivers, while others, even if they see too late that they have been deceived, are old men already, and hesitate to turn back out of shame, for fear that in their old age they have to acknowledge that they did not know that they were playing children’s games; so they stick to it out of shame, and praise their lot and turn as many as they can into the same course so that they may not be the only ones who are swindled, but that a multitude of others in the same state as themselves may be a consolation to them. They realise moreover this, that if they speak the truth they will no longer be revered above the many as now, nor receive the same honour. No, they would not be ready to speak the truth, knowing as they do the heights from which they will fall to the state of ordinary mortals. You will certainly find very few brave enough to admit that they have been deceived and to turn away others from a similar attempt. If, then, you meet such a one, call him a lover of truth, honest, and just, and, if you like, a philosopher; for to him alone I would not begrudge the name. As for the rest, either they have no knowledge of the truth, though they think they have, or they know it and hide it from cowardice and shame and the wish to be highly honoured.

However, in Athena’s name let us forget all that I have said and let it drop, let it pass into oblivion like all history before Euclid’s archonship. The year 403–402 B.C. when the democracy was reestablished in Athens and an amnesty went into effect. Let us assume that this philosophy of the Stoics and no other is right, and see whether it is attainable and possible, or if those who desire it labour in vain. For I hear that it makes wonderful promises of the happiness in store for those who attain its height, for they alone will take and possess every true good. You may know the answer to the next question better than I—have you ever met a Stoic, one of the top men, of a type that feels no pain, one who is not dragged down by pleasure, who is never angry, but rises above envy, despises wealth, and is perfectly happy? Our canon and measure of the virtuous life must be like that—for if he fall short in the least thing he is imperfect, even if he has more of everything—and if he is not like that, he is not yet happy.

I have never seen such a man.

Good for you, Hermotimus! You do not tell deliberate lies. Then what have you in view as a philosopher, when you see neither your teacher nor his teacher nor his predecessor even back to the tenth generation truly wise and therefore happy? For it would not be right for you to say that it is enough if you come near to happiness—that is of no use: a man standing by the door is as much outside the threshold and in the open as one a long way off, the difference being that the former will be more annoyed because he has a near view of what he cannot have. Then just to get near happiness (this I will grant you) you take all that trouble, wearing yourself out, and so much of your life has slipped away in torpor and weariness, slumped in sleeplessness; and you will labour on, as you say, for at least another twenty years, so that when you are eighty (have you a guarantee of living so long?) you may be one of those who are not yet happy—unless you think that you alone will reach and grasp in your pursuit that which very many good and far swifter men have pursued before you and failed to catch.

Well, catch it then, if you wish: grasp and hold all of it; but in the first place I do not see what good could ever be supposed to compensate for all these efforts. Then what time will you have left to enjoy it, old man as you will be, too far gone for pleasure, and with one foot in the grave, as they say? Unless, my noble friend, you are putting in training for a future life, so that you can live it better when you get there, knowing how to live like a man preparing and training himself for a better dinner for such a long time that before he knows it he is dead of hunger.

Moreover, you have never realised, I suppose, that virtue lies in action, in acting justly and wisely and bravely. While all of you (by “you” I mean the philosophers at the top) neglect these things, and are studying how to find and compose your wretched texts and syllogisms and problems. You spend most of your lives on this, and whoever wins in this race is your Conquering Hero. That, I fancy, is why you admire this teacher of yours, the old man, because he reduces his pupils to perplexity and knows how to question and quibble and cheat and throw into inextricable confusion. So you just throw away the fruit—which has to do with works—and busy yourselves with the husk, in your discussions throwing the leaves over each other. Isn’t that what you all do, Hermotimus, from dawn till dusk?

Yes, just that.

Then wouldn’t it be right to say that you forget the substance and hunt the shadow, or ignore the crawling serpent and hunt the slough? Yes, and that you are like a man pouring water into a mortar and braying it with an iron pestle who thinks that he is doing essential and productive work, not knowing that although you bray your arms off, as they say, water is still water?

Now here let me ask you if, leaving aside his talk, you would care to be like your teacher. Would you care to be so irritable, so mean, so quarrelsome, yes, and so fond of pleasure, even if people don’t think it? Why don’t you speak, Hermotimus? Shall I tell you what I heard the other day from a very old man who spoke in defence of some philosophy or other? Quite a number of young men keep him company to learn his wisdom, and he was in a temper as he demanded payment from one of his pupils, saying that it was overdue and that the day had gone by: the debt ought to have been paid sixteen days before on the last day of the month, according to the agreement.