by Plato
‘Quite true.’
(c) ‘Would you not expect a compound or a naturally composite object to be liable to break up where it was put together? And ought not anything which is really incomposite to be the one thing of all others which is not affected in this way?’90
‘That seems to be the case,’ said Cebes.
‘Is it not extremely probable that what is always constant and invariable is incomposite, and what is inconstant and variable is composite?’
‘That is how it seems to me.’
‘Then let us return to the same examples which we were (d) discussing before. Does that actual nature of things – their true being which we try to describe in our discussions91 – remain always constant and invariable, or not? Does equality itself or beauty itself or any other thing as it is in itself ever admit change of any kind? Or does each one of these entities, being uniform and self-contained, remain always constant and invariable, never admitting any alteration in any respect or in any sense?’
‘They must be constant and invariable, Socrates,’ said Cebes.
‘Well, what about the many instances of beauty – such as (e) men, horses, clothes, and so on – or of equality, or any other things which have the same name as those others?92 Are they constant, or are they, on the contrary, scarcely ever in the same relation in any sense either to themselves or to one another?’
‘You’re right again about them, Socrates; they are never free from variation.’
‘And these latter things you can touch or see or perceive by your other senses, but those constant entities you cannot 79(a) possibly apprehend except by the workings of the mind; such things are invisible to our sight.’
‘That is perfectly true,’ said Cebes.
‘So you think that we should assume two classes of things that may be such-and-such, one visible and the other invisible?’
‘Yes, we should.’
‘The invisible being invariable, and the visible never being the same?’
‘Yes, let’s assume that too.’
‘Well, now,’ said Socrates, ‘are we not part body, part (b) soul?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Then to which class do we say that the body would have the closer resemblance and relation?’
‘That’s obvious to anybody – to the visible.’
‘And the soul, is it visible or invisible?’
‘Invisible to men, at any rate, Socrates,’ he said.
‘But surely we have been speaking of things visible or invisible to our human nature. Do you think that we had some other nature in view?’
‘No, human nature.’
‘What do we say about the soul, then? Is it visible or invisible?’
‘Not visible.’93
‘Invisible, then?’
‘Yes.’ (c)
‘So soul is more like the invisible, and body more like the visible?’
‘Inevitably, Socrates.’
‘Did we not say some time ago that when the soul uses the instrumentality of the body for any inquiry, whether through sight or hearing or any other sense (because using the body means using the senses), it is drawn away by the body into the realm of the variable, and loses its way and becomes confused and dizzy, as though it were tipsy, through contact with that kind of thing?’
‘Certainly.’
(d) ‘But when it investigates by itself, it passes into the realm of the pure and everlasting and deathless and changeless; and being of a kindred nature, when it is once independent and free from interference, consorts with it always and strays no longer, but remains constant and invariable when busied with them, through contact with things of a similar nature. And this condition of the soul we call Wisdom.’
‘An excellent description, and perfectly true, Socrates.’
‘Very well, then; in the light of all that we have said, both now and before, to which class do you think that the soul (e) bears the closer resemblance and relation?’
‘I think, Socrates,’ said Cebes, ‘that even the most slow-witted person, approaching the subject in this way, would agree that the soul is in every possible way more like the invariable than the variable.’
‘And the body?’
‘Like the other.’
‘Look at it in this way too. When soul and body share the 80(a) same place, nature teaches the one to serve and be subject, the other to rule and govern. In this relation, which do you think resembles the divine and which is like what’s mortal?94 Don’t you think that it is the nature of the divine to rule and direct, and that of the mortal to be subject and serve?’
‘I do.’
‘Then which does the soul resemble?’
‘Obviously, Socrates, soul resembles the divine, and body the mortal.’
‘Now, Cebes,’ he said, ‘see whether this is our conclusion (b) from all that we have said. The soul is most like that which is divine, immortal, intelligible, uniform, indissoluble, and ever self-consistent and invariable, whereas body is most like that which is human, mortal, multiform, unintelligible, dissoluble, and never self-consistent. Can we adduce any conflicting argument, my dear Cebes, to show that this is not so?’
‘No, we cannot.’
‘Very well, then; in that case is it not natural for body to disintegrate rapidly, but for soul to be quite or very nearly indissoluble?’95
‘Certainly.’ (c)
‘Of course you know that when a person dies, although it is natural for the visible and physical part of him, which lies here in the visible world and which we call his corpse, to decay and fall to pieces and be dissipated, none of this happens to it immediately; it remains as it was for quite some time, particularly so if death takes place when the body is in attractive condition and the weather is also fine. Indeed, when the body is dried and embalmed, as in Egypt,96 it remains almost intact for an incredible time; and even if the rest of the body (d) decays, some parts of it – the bones and sinews and anything else like them – are practically everlasting. That is so, is it not?’
‘Yes.’
(e) ‘But the soul, the invisible part, which goes away to a place that is, like itself, glorious, pure, and invisible – the true Hades or unseen world97 – into the presence of the good and wise God (where, if God so wills, my soul must shortly go) – will it, if its very nature is such as I have described, be blown to bits and destroyed at the moment of its release from the body, as most people claim? Far from it, my dear Simmias and Cebes.
Reflections after the similarity argument concerning the fate of those souls which have and which have not separated themselves from bodily concerns.
‘The truth is much more like this: if at its release the soul is pure and does not drag along with it any trace of the body, because it has never willingly associated with it in life; if it has shunned it and isolated itself because that is what it always practises – I mean doing philosophy in the right way and really getting used to facing death calmly; wouldn’t you call 81(a) this “practising death”?’
‘Most decidedly.’
‘Very well; if this is its condition, then it departs to the place where things are like itself – invisible, divine, immortal and wise;98 where, on its arrival, happiness awaits it, and release from uncertainty and folly, from fears and gnawing desires, and all other human evils; and where (as they say of the initiates in the Mysteries) it really spends the rest of time with divine beings. Shall we adopt this view, Cebes, or some other?’
‘This one, by all means,’ said Cebes.
(b) ‘But, I suppose, if at the time of its release the soul is tainted and impure; because it has always associated with the body and cared for it and loved it, and has been so beguiled by the body and its passions and pleasures that nothing seems real to it but those physical things which can be touched and seen and eaten and drunk and used for sexual enjoyment, making it accustomed to hate and fear and avoid what is invisible and obscure to our eyes, but intelligible and comprehensible by (c) philosophy – if the soul is in this st
ate, do you think that it will be released just by itself, uncontaminated?’
‘Not in the least,’ he said.
‘On the contrary, it will, I imagine, be permeated by the corporeal, which fellowship and intercourse with the body will have ingrained in its very nature through constant association and long practice.’
‘Certainly.’
‘And we must suppose, my dear fellow, that the corporeal is heavy, oppressive, earthly and visible. So the soul which is tainted by its presence is weighed down and dragged back into the visible world, through fear (as they say) of Hades or (d) the invisible, and hovers about tombs and graveyards. The shadowy apparitions which have actually been seen there are the ghosts of those souls which have not got clear away, but still retain some portion of the visible; which is why they can be seen.’99
‘That seems likely enough, Socrates.’
‘Yes, it does, Cebes. Of course these are not the souls of the good, but of inferior people, and they are compelled to wander about these places as a punishment for their bad conduct in the past. (e) They continue wandering until at last, through craving for the corporeal, which unceasingly pursues them, they are imprisoned once more in a body. And as you might expect, they are attached to the same sort of character or nature which they have developed during life.’100
‘What sort do you mean, Socrates?’
‘Well, those who have cultivated gluttony or assault101 or drunkenness, instead of taking pains to avoid them, are likely to assume the form of donkeys and other perverse animals; 82(a) don’t you think so?’
‘Yes, that is very likely.’
‘And those who have deliberately preferred a life of injustice, suppression, and robbery with violence become wolves and hawks and kites; unless we can suggest any other more likely animals.’
‘No, the ones which you mention are exactly right.’
‘So it is easy to imagine into what sort of animals all the other kinds of soul will go, in accordance with their conduct during life.’
‘Yes, certainly.’
‘I suppose that the happiest people, and those who reach the best destination, are the ones who have cultivated the goodness of an ordinary citizen,102 so-called “temperance” (b) and “justice”, which is acquired by habit and practice, without the help of philosophy and reason.’
‘How are these the happiest?’
‘Because they will probably pass into some other kind of social and disciplined creature like bees, wasps and ants; or even back into the human race again, becoming decent citizens.’
‘Very likely,’
‘But no soul which has not practised philosophy, and is not absolutely pure when it leaves the body, may attain to the (c) divine nature; that is only for the lover of learning. This is the reason, my dear Simmias and Cebes, why true philosophers abstain from all bodily desires and withstand them and do not yield to them. It is not because they are afraid of financial loss or poverty, like the average man who thinks of money first; nor because they shrink from dishonour and a bad reputation, like lovers of prestige and authority.’103
‘No, those would be unworthy motives, Socrates,’ said Cebes. (d) ‘They would indeed,’ he agreed. ‘And so, Cebes, those who care about their souls and do not devote themselves to the body dissociate themselves firmly from these othersand refuse to accompany them on their haphazard journey; they believe that it is wrong to oppose philosophy with her offer of liberation and purification, so they turn and follow her wherever she leads.’
‘What do you mean, Socrates?’
(e) ‘I will explain,’ he said. ‘Every seeker after wisdom knows that up to the time when philosophy takes it over his soul is a helpless prisoner, chained hand and foot in the body, compelled to view reality not directly but only through its prison bars, and wallowing in utter ignorance. And philosophy can see the ingenuity of the imprisonment, which is 83(a) brought about by the prisoner’s own active desire, which makes him first accessory to his own confinement. Well, philosophy takes over the soul in this condition and by gentle persuasion tries to set it free. She points out that observation by means of the eyes and ears and all the other senses abounds with deception, and she urges the soul to refrain from using them unless it is necessary to do so, and encourages it to collect and concentrate itself in isolation, trusting nothing (b) but its own isolated judgement upon realities considered in isolation, and attributing no truth to any other thing which it views through another medium in some other thing;104 such objects, she knows, are sensible and visible but what she herself sees is intelligible and invisible. Now the soul of the true philosopher feels that it must not reject this opportunity for release, and so it abstains as far as possible from pleasures and desires and griefs, because it reflects that the result of giving way to pleasure, fear, pain, or desire is not as (c) might be supposed the trivial misfortune of becoming ill or wasting money through self-indulgence, but the last and worst calamity of all, which the sufferer does not take into account.’
‘What is that, Socrates?’ asked Cebes.
‘When anyone’s soul feels a keen pleasure or pain it cannot help supposing that whatever causes the most violent emotion is the plainest and truest reality; which it is not. It is chiefly visible things that have this effect, isn’t it?’
‘Quite so.’
‘Is it not on this sort of occasion that soul passes most (d) completely into the bondage of body?’
‘How is that?’
‘Because every pleasure or pain has a sort of rivet with which it fastens the soul to the body and pins it down and makes it corporeal, accepting as true whatever the body certifies. (e) The result of agreeing with the body and finding pleasure in the same things is, I imagine, that it cannot help coming to share its character and its diet, so that it can never get clean away to the unseen world, but is always saturated with the body when it sets out, and so soon falls back again into another body, where it takes root and grows. Consequently it has no share of fellowship with the pure and uniform and divine.’
‘Yes, that is perfectly true, Socrates,’ said Cebes.
‘It is for these reasons, Cebes, that true philosophers exhibit self-control and courage; not for the reasons that most people do.105 Or do you think it’s for the same reasons?’
‘No, certainly not,’ 84(a)
‘No, indeed. A philosopher’s soul will take the view which I have described. It will not first expect to be set free by philosophy, and then allow pleasure and pain to reduce it once more to bondage, thus condemning itself to an endless task, like Penelope,106 when she worked to undo her own weaving; no, this soul brings calm to the seas of desire107 by following Reason and abiding always in her company, and by contemplating the true and divine and unambiguous, and (b) drawing inspiration from it; because such a soul believes that this is the right way to live while life endures, and that after death it reaches a place which is kindred and similar to its own nature, and there is rid for ever of human ills. After such a training, my dear Simmias and Cebes, the soul can have no grounds for fearing that on its separation from the body it will be blown away and scattered by the winds, and so disappear into thin air, and cease to exist altogether.’
The objections of Simmias and Cebes. Simmias feels that Socrates’ theory of the soul’s immortality is inconsistent with an attractive Pythagorean doctrine which views the soul as an attunement, for an instrument’s harmony – its condition of being ‘tuned’ – is gone as soon as the instrument is broken. Cebes feels that Socrates has proved that the soul is more enduring than the body, but not that it is completely impervious to the forces of destruction. In this section we are expected to ponder a great deal over what the soul really is like, and what sort of relationship it should have with the body–whether, for instance, it ‘harmonizes’ the body, whether it arranges for its perpetual renewal, and whether it can in fact be worn out by such tasks.
(c) There was silence for some time after Socrates had said this. He himself, to judge from h
is appearance, was still pondering the account which he had just given, and so were most of us; but Simmias and Cebes went on talking in a low voice. When Socrates noticed them, he said, ‘Why, surely you don’t feel my account inadequate? Of course it is still open to a number of doubts and objections, if you want to examine it in detail. (d) If it is something else that you two are considering, never mind; but if you feel any difficulty about our discussion, don’t hesitate to put forward your own views, and point out any way in which you think that my account could be improved; and by all means make use of my services too, if you think I can help at all to solve the difficulty.’
‘Very well, Socrates,’ said Simmias, ‘I will be quite open with you. We have both been feeling difficulties for some time, and each of us has been urging the other to ask questions. We are anxious to have your answers, but we did not like to trouble you, for fear of upsetting you in your present misfortune.’
When Socrates heard this he laughed gently and said, ‘I am surprised at you, Simmias. (e) I shall certainly find it difficult to convince the outside world that I do not regard my present lot as a misfortune if I cannot even convince you, and you are afraid that I am more irritable now than I used to be. Evidently you think that I have less insight into the future than a swan; because when these birds feel that the time has come for them to die, they sing more loudly and sweetly than they have sung 85(a) in all their lives before, for joy that they are going away into the presence of the god whose servants they are. It is quite wrong for human beings to make out that the swans sing their last song as an expression of grief at their approaching end;108 people who say this are misled by their own fear of death, and fail to reflect that no bird sings when it is hungry or cold or distressed in any other way; not even the nightingale or swallow or hoopoe, whose songs are supposed to be a lament. In my opinion neither they nor the swans sing because they are sad. I believe that the swans, belonging as they do to (b) Apollo, have prophetic powers and sing because they know the good things that await them in the unseen world; and they are happier on that day than they have ever been before. Now I consider that I am in the same service as the swans, and dedicated to the same god; and that I am no worse endowed with prophetic powers by my master than they are, and no more disconsolate at leaving this life. So far as that fear of yours is concerned, you may say and ask whatever you like, for as long as the eleven officers of the Athenians permit.’109