“Wherefore,” he said, “it necessarily follows from all this, that some
such opinion as this should be entertained by genuine philosophers, so
that they should speak among themselves as follows: ‘A by-path, as it
were, seems to lead us on in our researches undertaken by reason,’
because as long as we are encumbered with the body, and our soul is
contaminated with such an evil, we can never fully attain to what we
desire; and this, we say, is truth. For the body subjects us to
innumerable hindrances on account of its necessary support, and moreover
if any diseases befal us, they impede us in our search after that which
is; and it fills us with longings, desires, fears, all kinds of fancies,
and a multitude of absurdities, so that, as it is said in real truth, by
reason of the body it is never possible for us to make any advances in
wisdom. 30. “For nothing else but the body and its desires occasion
wars, seditions, and contests; for all wars amongst us arise on account
of our desire to acquire wealth; and we are compelled to acquire wealth
on account of the body, being enslaved to its service; and consequently
on all these accounts we are hindered in the pursuit of philosophy. But
the worst of all is, that if it leaves us any leisure, and we apply
ourselves to the consideration of any subject, it constantly obtrudes
itself in the midst of our researches, and occasions trouble and
disturbance, and confounds us so that we are not able by reason of it to
discern the truth. It has then in reality been demonstrated to us, that
if we are ever to know any thing purely, we must be separated from the
body, and contemplate the things themselves by the mere soul. And then,
as it seems, we shall obtain that which we desire, and which we profess
ourselves to be lovers of, wisdom, when we are dead, as reason shews,
but not while we are alive. 31. For if it is not possible to know any
thing purely in conjunction with the body, one of these two things must
follow, either that we can never acquire knowledge, or only after we are
dead; for then the soul will subsist apart by itself, separate from the
body, but not before. And while we live, we shall thus, as it seems,
approach nearest to knowledge, if we hold no intercourse or communion at
all with the body, except what absolute necessity requires, nor suffer
ourselves to be polluted by its nature, but purify ourselves from it,
until God himself shall release us. And thus being pure, and freed from
the folly of body, we shall in all likelihood be with others like
ourselves, and shall of ourselves know the whole real essence, and that
probably is truth; for it is not allowable for the impure to attain to
the pure. Such things, I think, Simmias, all true lovers of wisdom must
both think and say to one another. Does it not seem so to you?”
“Most assuredly, Socrates.”
32. “If this then,” said Socrates, “is true, my friend, there is great
hope for one who arrives where I am going, there, if any where, to
acquire that in perfection for the sake of which we have taken so much
pains during our past life; so that the journey now appointed me is set
out upon with good hope, and will be so by any other man who thinks that
his mind has been as it were purified.”
“Certainly,” said Simmias.
“But does not purification consist in this, as was said in a former part
of our discourse, in separating as much as possible the soul from the
body, and in accustoming it to gather and collect itself by itself on
all sides apart from the body, and to dwell, as far as it can, both now
and hereafter, alone by itself, delivered as it were from the shackles
of the body?”
“Certainly,” he replied.
33. “Is this then called death, this deliverance and separation of the
soul from the body?”
“Assuredly,” he answered.
“But, as we affirmed, those who pursue philosophy rightly, are
especially and alone desirous to deliver it, and this is the very study
of philosophers, the deliverance and separation of the soul from the
body, is it not?”
“It appears so.”
“Then, as I said at first, would it not be ridiculous for a man who has
endeavoured throughout his life to live as near as possible to death,
then, when death arrives, to grieve? would not this be ridiculous?”
“How should it not?”
“In reality then, Simmias,” he continued, “those who pursue philosophy
rightly study to die; and to them of all men death is least formidable.
Judge from this. Since they altogether hate the body and desire to keep
the soul by itself, would it not be irrational if, when this comes to
pass, they should be afraid and grieve, and not be glad to go to that
place, where on their arrival they may hope to obtain that which they
longed for throughout life; but they longed for wisdom; and to be freed
from association with that which they hated? 34. Have many of their own
accord wished to descend into Hades, on account of human objects of
affection, their wives and sons, induced by this very hope of there
seeing and being with those whom they have loved; and shall one who
really loves wisdom, and firmly cherishes this very hope, that he shall
no where else attain it in a manner worthy of the name, except in Hades,
be grieved at dying, and not gladly go there? We must think that he
would gladly go, my friend, if he be in truth a philosopher; for he will
be firmly persuaded of this, that he will no where else but there attain
wisdom in its purity: and if this be so, would it not be very
irrational, as I just now said, if such a man were to be afraid of
death?”
“Very much so, by Jupiter,” he replied.
35. “Would not this then,” he resumed, “be a sufficient proof to you,
with respect to a man whom you should see grieved when about to die,
that he was not a lover of wisdom but a lover of his body? and this same
person is probably a lover of riches and a lover of honour, one or both
of these.”
“It certainly is as you say,” he replied.
“Does not then,” he said, “that which is called fortitude, Simmias,
eminently belong to philosophers?”
“By all means,” he answered.
“And temperance also, which even the multitude call temperance, and
which consists in not being carried away by the passions, but in holding
them in contempt, and keeping them in subjection, does not this belong
to those only who most despise the body, and live in the study of
philosophy?”
“Necessarily so,” he replied.
36. “For,” he continued, “if you will consider the fortitude and
temperance of others, they will appear to you to be absurd.”
“How so, Socrates?”
“Do you know,” he said, “that all others consider death among the great
evils?”
“They do indeed,” he answered.
“Then do the brave amongst them endure death, when they do endure it,
through dread of greater evils?”
“It is so.”
“All men, therefore, except philosophers, are brave through being afraid
and fear; though it is absurd that any one should be brave through fear
and cowardice.”
“Certainly.”
“But what, are not those amongst them who keep their passions in
subjection, affected in the same way? and are they not temperate through
a kind of intemperance? and although we may say, perhaps, that this is
impossible, nevertheless the manner in which they are affected with
respect to this silly temperance resembles this; for, fearing to be
deprived of other pleasures, and desiring them, they abstain from some,
being mastered by others. And though they call intemperance the being
governed by pleasures, yet it happens to them that, by being mastered by
some pleasures, they master others; and this is similar to what was just
now said, that in a certain manner they become temperate through
intemperance.”
“So it seems.”
37. “My dear Simmias, consider that this is not a right exchange for
virtue, to barter pleasures for pleasures, pains for pains, fear for
fear, and the greater for the lesser, like pieces of money; but that
that alone is the right coin, for which we ought to barter all these
things, wisdom; and for this, and with this every thing is in reality
bought and sold, fortitude, temperance, and justice, and, in a word,
true virtue subsists with wisdom, whether pleasures and fears, and every
thing else of the kind, are present or absent; but when separated from
wisdom, and changed one for another, consider whether such virtue is not
a mere outline, and in reality servile, possessing neither soundness nor
truth; but the really true virtue is a purification from all such
things, and temperance, justice, fortitude, and wisdom itself, are a
kind of initiatory purification. 38. And those who instituted the
mysteries for us appear to have been by no means contemptible, but in
reality to have intimated long since that whoever shall arrive in Hades
unexpiated and uninitiated shall lie in mud, but he that arrives there
purified and initiated, shall dwell with the gods. ‘For there are,’ say
those who preside at the mysteries, ‘many wand-bearers, but few
inspired.’ These last, in my opinion, are no other than those who have
pursued philosophy rightly: that I might be of their number, I have, to
the utmost of my ability, left no means untried, but have endeavoured to
the utmost of my power. But whether I have endeavoured rightly and have
in any respect succeeded, on arriving there I shall know clearly, if it
please God, very shortly, as it appears to me.
39. “Such then, Simmias and Cebes,” he added, “is the defence I make,
for that I, on good grounds, do not repine or grieve at leaving you and
my masters here, being persuaded that there, no less than here, I shall
meet with good masters and friends. But to the multitude this is
incredible. If however I have succeeded better with you in my defence
than I did with the Athenian judges, it is well.”
When Socrates had thus spoken, Cebes, taking up the discussion said,
“Socrates, all the rest appears to me to be said rightly, but what you
have said respecting the soul will occasion much incredulity in many
from the apprehension that, when it is separated from the body, it no
longer exists any where, but is destroyed and perishes on the very day
in which a man dies, and that immediately it is separated and goes out
from the body, it is dispersed and vanishes like breath or smoke, and is
no longer any where; since, if it remained any where united in itself,
and freed from those evils which you have just now enumerated, there
would be an abundant and good hope, Socrates, that what you say is true.
40. But this probably needs no little persuasion and proof, that the
soul of a man who dies, exists, and possesses activity and
intelligence.”
“You say truly, Cebes,” said Socrates, “but what shall we do? Are you
willing that we should converse on these points, whether such is
probably the case or not?”
“Indeed,” replied Cebes, “I should gladly hear your opinion on these
matters.”
“I do not think,” said Socrates, “that any one who should now hear us,
even though he were a comic poet, would say that I am talking idly, or
discoursing on subjects that do not concern me. If you please, then, we
will examine into it. Let us consider it in this point of view, whether
the souls of men who are dead exist in Hades, or not. This is an ancient
saying, which we now call to mind, that souls departing hence exist
there, and return hither again, and are produced from the dead. 41. And
if this is so, that the living are produced again from the dead, can
there be any other consequence than that our souls are there? for surely
they could not be produced again if they did not exist; and this would
be a sufficient proof that these things are so, if it should in reality
be evident that the living are produced from no other source than the
dead. But, if this is not the case, there will be need of other
arguments.”
“Certainly,” said Cebes.
“You must not, then,” he continued, “consider this only with respect to
men, if you wish to ascertain it with greater certainty, but also with
respect to all animals and plants, and, in a word, with respect to every
thing that is subject to generation, let us see whether they are not all
so produced, no otherwise than contraries from contraries, wherever they
have any such quality, as for instance the honourable is contrary to the
base, and the just to the unjust, and so with ten thousand other things.
42. Let us consider this, then, whether it is necessary that all things
which have a contrary should be produced from nothing else than their
contrary. As for instance, when any thing becomes greater is it not
necessary that, from being previously smaller, it afterwards became
greater?”
“Yes.”
“And if it becomes smaller, will it not, from being previously greater,
afterwards become smaller?”
“It is so,” he replied.
“And from stronger, weaker? and from slower, swifter?”
“Certainly.”
“What then? if any thing becomes worse, must it not become so from
better? and if more just, from more unjust?”
“How should it not?”
“We have then,” he said, “sufficiently determined this, that all things
are thus produced, contraries from contraries?”
“Certainly.”
“What next? is there also something of this kind in them, for instance,
between all two contraries a mutual twofold production, from one to the
other, and from that other back again? for between a greater thing and a
smaller there is increase and decrease, and do we not accordingly call
the one to increase, the other to decrease?”
“Yes,” he replied.
43. “And must not to be separated and commingled, to grow cold and to
grow warm, and every thing in the same manner, even though sometimes we
have not names to designate them, yet in fact be every where thus
circumstanced of necessity, as to be produced from each other, and be
subject to a reciprocal generation?”
“Certainly,” he replied.
“What then?” said Socrates, “has life any contrary, as waking has its
contrary, sleeping?”
“Certainly,” he answered.
“What?”
“Death,” he replied.
“Are not these, then, produced from each other, since they are
contraries, and are not the modes by which they are produced twofold,
intervening between these two?”
“How should it be otherwise?”
“I then,” continued Socrates, “will describe to you one pair of the
contraries which I have just now mentioned, both what it is and its mode
of production; and do you describe to me the other. I say that one is to
sleep, the other to awake; and from sleeping awaking is produced, and
from awaking sleeping, and that the modes of their production are the
one to fall asleep, the other to be roused. 44. Have I sufficiently
explained this to you or not?”
“Certainly.”
“Do you then,” he said, “describe to me, in the same manner, with
respect to life and death? Do you not say that life is contrary to
death?”
“I do.”
“Yes.”
“And that they are produced from each other?”
“What then, is produced from life?”
“Death,” he replied.
“What, then,” said he, “is produced from death?”
“I must needs confess,” he replied, “that life is.”
“From the dead, then, O Cebes, living things and living men, are
produced.”
“It appears so,” he said.
“Our souls, therefore,” said Socrates, “exist in Hades.”
“So it seems.”
“With respect, then, to their mode of production, is not one of them
very clear? for to die surely is clear? is it not?”
“Certainly,” he replied.
“What then shall we do?” he continued; “shall we not find a
corresponding contrary mode of production, or will nature be defective
in this? Or must we discover a contrary mode of production to dying?”
“By all means,” he said.
“What is this?”
“To revive.”
“Therefore,” he proceeded, “if there is such a thing as to revive, will
not this reviving be a mode of production from the dead to the living?”
“Certainly.”
“Thus, then, we have agreed, that the living are produced from the dead,
no less than the dead from the living: but, this being the case, there
appears to me sufficient proof that the souls of the dead must
necessarily exist somewhere, from whence they are again produced.”
45. “It appears to me, Socrates,” he said, “that this must necessarily
follow from what has been admitted.”
“See now, O Cebes,” he said, “that we have not agreed on these things
improperly, as it appears to me: for if one class of things were not
constantly given back in the place of another, revolving as it were in a
circle, but generation were direct from one thing alone into its
opposite, and did not turn round again to the other, or retrace its
course, do you know that all things would at length have the same form,
be in the same state, and cease to be produced?”
“How say you?” he asked.
“It is by no means difficult,” he replied, “to understand what I mean;
if, for instance, there should be such a thing as falling asleep, but no
reciprocal waking again produced from a state of sleep, you know that at
length all things would shew the fable of Endymion to be a jest, and it
would be thought nothing at all of, because every thing else would be in
the same state as him, namely, asleep. And if all things were mingled
together, but never separated, that doctrine of Anaxagoras would soon be
verified, ‘all things would be together.’ 46. Likewise, my dear Cebes,
if all things that partake of life should die, and after they are dead
should remain in this state of death, and not revive again, would it not
necessarily follow that at length all things should be dead, and nothing
alive? for if living beings are produced from other things, and living
beings die, what could prevent their being all absorbed in death?”
“Nothing whatever, I think, Socrates,” replied Cebes, “but you appear to
me to speak the exact truth.”
“For, Cebes,” he continued, “as it seems to me, such undoubtedly is the
case, and we have not admitted these things under a delusion, but it is
in reality true that there is a reviving again, that the living are
produced from the dead, that the souls of the dead exist, and that the
condition of the good is better, and of the evil, worse.”
47. “And indeed,” said Cebes, interrupting him, “according to that
doctrine, Socrates, which you are frequently in the habit of advancing,
if it is true, that our learning is nothing else than reminiscence,
according to this it is surely necessary that we must at some former
time have learned what we now remember. But this is impossible, unless
our soul existed somewhere before it came into this human form; so that
from hence also the soul appears to be something immortal.”
“But, Cebes,” said Simmias, interrupting him, “what proofs are there of
these things? remind me of them, for I do not very well remember them at
present.”
48. “It is proved,” said Cebes, “by one argument, and that a most
beautiful one, that men, when questioned, if one questions them
properly, of themselves describe all things as they are: however, if
they had not innate knowledge and right reason, they would never be able
to do this. Moreover, if one leads them to diagrams, or any thing else
of the kind, it is then most clearly apparent that this is the case.”
“But if you are not persuaded in this way, Simmias,” said Socrates, “see
if you will agree with us on considering the matter thus. For do you
doubt how that which is called learning is reminiscence?”
“I do not doubt,” said Simmias, “but I require this very thing of which
we are speaking, to be reminded; and indeed, from what Cebes has begun
to say, I almost now remember, and am persuaded; nevertheless, however,
I should like to hear now how you would attempt to prove it.”
“I do it thus,” he replied: “we admit surely that if any one be reminded
of any thing, he must needs have known that thing at some time or other
before.”
“Certainly,” he said.
49. “Do we then admit this also, that when knowledge comes in a certain
manner it is reminiscence? But the manner I mean is this; if any one,
upon seeing or hearing, or perceiving through the medium of any other
sense, some particular thing, should not only know that, but also form
an idea of something else, of which the knowledge is not the same, but
different, should we not justly say, that he remembered that of which he
received the idea?”
“How mean you?”
“For instance; the knowledge of a man is different from that of a lyre.”
“How not?”
“Do you not know, then, that lovers when they see a lyre, or a garment,
or any thing else which their favourite is accustomed to use, are thus
affected; they both recognise the lyre, and receive in their minds the
form of the person to whom the lyre belonged? This is reminiscence: just
as any one, seeing Simmias, is often reminded of Cebes, and so in an
infinite number of similar instances.”
“An infinite number indeed, by Jupiter,” said Simmias.
“Is not then,” he said, “something of this sort a kind of reminiscence?
especially when one is thus affected with respect to things which, from
lapse of time, and not thinking of them, one has now forgotten?”
“Certainly,” he replied.
50. “But what?” he continued, “does it happen, that when one sees a
painted horse or a painted lyre, one is reminded of a man, and that when
one sees a picture of Simmias one is reminded of Cebes!”
“Certainly.”
“And does it not also happen, that on seeing a picture of Simmias one is
reminded of Simmias himself?”
“It does indeed,” he replied.
“Does it not happen, then, according to all this, that reminiscence
arises partly from things like, and partly from things unlike?”
“It does.”
“But when one is reminded by things like, is it not necessary that one
should be thus further affected, so as to perceive whether, as regards
likeness, this falls short or not of the thing of which one has been
reminded?”
“It is necessary,” he replied.
“Consider, then,” said Socrates, “if the case is thus. Do we allow that
there is such a thing as equality? I do not mean of one log with
another, nor one stone with another, nor any thing else of this kind,
but something altogether different from all these, abstract equality; do
we allow that there is any such thing or not?”
“By Jupiter, we most assuredly do allow it,” replied Simmias.