_Socrates._ I cannot help feeling, Phaedrus, that writing is
unfortunately like painting; for the creations of the painter have the
attitude of life, and yet if you ask them a question they preserve a
solemn silence. And the same may be said of speeches. You would imagine
that they had intelligence, but if you want to know anything, and put a
question to one of them, the speaker always gives one unvarying answer.
And when they have been once written down, they are tumbled about
anywhere among those who may or may not understand them, and know not to
whom they should reply, to whom not; and if they are maltreated or
abused, they have no parent to protect them; and they cannot protect or
defend themselves. _Phaedrus._ That again is most true. _Socrates._ Is
there not another kind of word or speech far better than this, and
having far greater power--a son of the same family, but lawfully
begotten? _Phaedrus._ Whom do you mean, and what is his origin?
_Socrates._ I mean an intelligent word graven in the soul of the
learner, which can defend itself, and knows when to speak and when to be
silent. _Phaedrus._ You mean the living word of knowledge which has a
soul, and of which the written word is properly no more than an image?
_Socrates._ Yes, of course, that is what I mean.--_Plato, Phaedrus, 275
D, 276, Dr. Jowett's translation._