by Plato
‘Thank you,’ said Simmias. ‘I will tell you my problem first and then Cebes shall tell you where he finds your theory (c) unacceptable. I think, just as you do, Socrates, that although it is very difficult if not impossible in this life to achieve certainty about these questions, at the same time it is utterly feeble not to use every effort in testing the available theories, or to leave off before we have considered them in every way, and come to the end of our resources. It is our duty to do one of two things: either to ascertain the facts, whether by seeking instruction or by personal discovery; or, if this is impossible, to select the best and most dependable theory that human (d) intelligence can supply, and use it as a raft to ride the seas of life – that is, assuming that we cannot make our journey with greater confidence and security by the surer means of a divine revelation. And so now, after what you have said, I shall not let any diffidence prevent me from asking my question, and so make me blame myself afterwards for not having spoken my mind now. The fact is, Socrates, that on thinking it over, and discussing it with Cebes here, I feel your explanation not altogether adequate.’
(e) ‘Your feeling is very likely right, my comrade,’ said Socrates, ‘but tell me where you think the inadequacies are.’
The attunement theory. Given that one accepts that there is something constantly ‘in’ the living body which brings it life, unity and perception, one is confronted with the following choice: either it will be some part of the individual distinct from the parts of the body, something which arrives when the body is in a condition apt for life and departs thereafter (whether intact and intelligent or not); or it will be some relation between the rest of the parts of the individual. Simmias understands the present theory as being of the latter type, and the ‘attunement’ (or ‘harmony’) as the lyre’s state of being ready to play – with all its parts standing in the correct relation to one another and the strings at the correct tension. Thus the soul would be the body’s state of being ready to live, with all its parts adequately ‘attuned’. This type of theory offers an obvious challenge, since it does not allow the soul to be an independent entity of the type which Socrates advocates, thus threatening the moral theory of the Phaedo as well as the theory of the soul’s immortality. The origin of the theory may be complex. That the soul is some kind of appropriate mixture of the physical forces hot, cold, wet and dry (86b) was a natural view for the Greek medical theorists to hold. Yet harmonic theory was particularly dear to the Pythagoreans, and the Pythagorean Echecrates (88d) had long adhered to a soul-harmony theory – in spite of the Pythagorean belief in an after-life. They did not have to understand the ‘harmony’ as Simmias does, and indeed the soul which Plato employs in the Timaeus is very much a harmony without in any sense being an ‘attunement’ of bodily elements. Since for Pythagoreans mathematical entities were the primary reality, it makes sense that the lyre’s harmony should have been an external and independent force attracted almost magically into the material lyre as soon as it was ready to be played. In criticizing the doctrine at De Anima 407b27–8, Aristotle implies that the theory was a popular one, without specifying any particular advocates of it.
‘What I mean is this,’ said Simmias. ‘You might say the same thing about tuning the strings of a musical instrument: that the attunement is something invisible and incorporeal and splendid and divine, and located in the tuned instrument, 86(a) while the instrument itself and its strings are material and corporeal and composite and earthly and closely related to what is mortal. Now suppose that the instrument is broken, or its strings cut or snapped. According to your theory the attunement must still exist – it cannot have been destroyed; because it would be inconceivable that when the strings are broken the instrument and the strings themselves, which have a mortal nature, should still exist, and the attunement, which (b) shares the nature and characteristics of the divine and immortal, should exist no longer, having predeceased its mortal counterpart. You would say that the attunement must still exist somewhere just as it was; and that the wood and strings will rot away before anything happens to it. I say this, Socrates, because, as I think you yourself are aware, this is very much the kind of thing that we take the soul to be;110 the body is held together at a certain tension between the extremes of hot and cold, and dry and wet, and so on, and our soul is a balance or attunement of these same extremes, when they are (c) combined in just the right proportion. Well, if the soul is really an adjustment, obviously as soon as the tension of our body is lowered or increased beyond the proper point, the soul must be destroyed, divine though it is; just like any other attunement, either in music or in any product of the arts and crafts, although in each case the physical remains last considerably longer until they are burnt up or rot away. Find (d) us an answer to this argument, if someone insists that the soul, being a balance of physical constituents, is the first thing to be destroyed by what we call death.’
Cebes’ problem. Cebes accepts the notion that the soul is an independent part of the individual, and a long-lasting part at that. He rightly points out that something long-lasting does not have to be imperishable. And he raises the crucial issue that the same body may not after all last a man’s lifetime since parts are constantly expended and replaced, so that the more enduring soul could last longer without lasting beyond death.
Socrates opened his eyes very wide – a favourite trick of his – and smiled. ‘Really,’ he said, ‘Simmias’s criticism is quite justified, so if any of you are more resourceful than I am, you had better answer him; it seems to me that he is not handling the argument at all badly. (e) However, before we have the answer, I think we should hear what criticisms Cebes has to make in his turn, so that we may have time to decide what to say; when we have heard him, we can either agree with them if they seem to have hit the right note somewhere, or if not, we can then take on the defence of my account. Come on, Cebes,’ he said, ‘tell us what has been troubling you.’
‘Very well,’ said Cebes. ‘It seems to me that the argument is just where it was; I mean that it is open to the same criticism 87(a) that we made before. The proof that our soul existed before it took on this present shape is perfectly satisfying – convincing even, if that’s not too strong a word for you; I am not changing my position about that. But as for its still existing somewhere after we are dead, I think that the proof fails at this point. (b) Mind you, I don’t agree that soul is not stronger and more durable than body, as implied by Simmias’s objection; it seems to me to be far superior in all those ways. “Then why,” your theory might inquire, “are you still sceptical, when you can see that after a man dies even the weaker part of him continues to exist? Don’t you think the more durable part of him must logically survive as long?” Well, here is my answer; I want you to consider whether there is anything in what I say – because like Simmias I must have recourse to an illustration.
‘Suppose that an elderly tailor has just died. Your theory would be just like saying that the man is not dead, but still exists somewhere safe and sound; and offering as proof the fact that the cloak which he had made for himself and was wearing has not perished but is still intact. If anyone was sceptical, I suppose you would ask him which is likely to last (c) longer, a man or a cloak which is being regularly used and worn; and when he replied that the former was far more likely, you would imagine that you had proved conclusively that the man is safe and sound, since the less enduring object has not perished. But surely this is not so, Simmias – because I want your opinion too; anyone would dismiss such a view as silly. The tailor makes and wears out any number of cloaks, but although he outlives all the others, presumably he perishes (d) before the last one; and this does not mean that a man is lowlier or more frail than a cloak. I believe that this analogy could apply to the relation of soul to body; and I think that it would be reasonable to say of them in the same way that soul is a long-lived thing, whereas body is relatively feeble and short-lived. (e) But while one might admit that each soul wears out a number of bodies, especially
if it lives a great many years–because although the body is continually changing and disintegrating all through life, the soul never stops patching up what is worn away111 – even so, when the soul dies, it would still have to be in possession of its final garment, and must perish before it in this case only; and it’s when the soul has perished that the body at last reveals its natural frailty and quickly rots away. If you accept this view there is no justification yet for any confidence that after death our souls still exist 88(a) somewhere. Suppose that one conceded even more to the exponent of your case, granting not only that our souls existed before our birth, but also that some of them may still exist when we die, and go on existing, and be born and die again several times (soul having such natural vitality that it persists through successive incarnations); unless in granting this he made the further concession that the soul suffers no ill-effects in its various rebirths, and so does not, at one of its “deaths”, perish altogether;if hehadtoadmit that nobody knows which (b) of these “deaths” or separations from the body may prove fatal to the soul (because such insight is impossible for any of us) – on these terms, Socrates, no one has the right to face death with any but a fool’s confidence, unless he can prove that the soul is absolutely immortal and indestructible. Otherwise everyone must always feel apprehension at the approach of death for fear that in this particular separation from the body his soul may be finally and utterly destroyed.’ (c) Well, when we had heard them state their objections, we all felt very much depressed, as we told one another later. We had been quite convinced by the earlier part of the discussion, and now we felt that they had upset our convictions and destroyed our confidence not only in what had been said already, but also in anything that was to follow later, fearing that either we were incompetent judges, or these matters themselves are inherently obscure.112
Interlude, with comment from Echecrates.
ECHECRATES: You certainly have my full sympathy, Phaedo. After hearing your account I find myself faced with the same (d) misgiving. How can we believe in anything after that? Socrates’ argument was very convincing, and now it’s fallen into discredit. That theory that our soul is some sort of attunement has an extraordinary attraction for me, now as much as ever, and your account of it reminded me that I myself had come to the same conclusion. What I really need now is another proof, right from the beginning, to convince me that when a man dies his soul does not die with him. (e) Tell me, please, how did Socrates pick up the trail again? And did he show any sign of regret, like the rest of you, or did he come quietly to the rescue of the argument? And did he rescue it effectively or not? Tell us every detail as accurately as you can.
PHAEDO: I can assure you, Echecrates, that though Socrates often astonished me, I never admired him more than on this 89(a) particular occasion. That he should have been ready with an answer was, I suppose, nothing unusual; but what impressed me was first, the pleasant, kindly, appreciative way in which he received the young men’s thoughts, then his quick recognition of how the turn of the discussion had affected us; and lastly the skill with which he healed our wounds, rallied our scattered forces, and encouraged us to join him in pursuing the inquiry.
ECHECRATES: How did he do that?
Reasons for not mistrusting argument. The section is notable in that it brings the narrator into the story, thereby adding a personal touch and maintaining the focus upon the reactions of Socrates’ ordinary followers.
PHAEDO: I will tell you. I happened to be sitting to the right of his bed, on a footstool, and he was much higher than I was. (b) So he laid his hand on my head and gathered up the hair on my neck – he never missed a chance of teasing me about my hair – and said, ‘Tomorrow, I suppose, Phaedo, you will cut off this beautiful crop.’
‘I expect so, Socrates,’ I said.
‘Not if you take my advice.’
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Because I shall cut off mine today, and you ought to do the same,’ said Socrates, ‘that is, if our argument dies and we fail to bring it back to life again. What is more, if I were you, (c) and let the truth escape me, I should make a vow like the Argives113 never to let my hair grow again until I had defeated the argument of Simmias and Cebes in a return battle.’
‘But’, I objected, ‘not even Heracles can take on two at once.’114
‘You had better call upon me to be your Iolaus,’ he said, ‘while the daylight lasts.’115
‘Very well,’ I said, ‘but I am Iolaus appealing to Heracles, not Heracles to Iolaus.’
‘The effect will be just the same,’ he said. ‘But first there is one danger that we must guard against.’
‘What sort of danger?’ I asked.
‘Of becoming “misologic”,’ he said, ‘in the sense that (d) people become misanthropic. No greater misfortune could happen to anyone than that of developing a dislike for argument. “Misology” and misanthropy arise in just the same way. Misanthropy is induced by believing in somebody quite uncritically. You assume that a person is absolutely truthful and sincere and reliable, and a little later you find that he is shoddy and unreliable. Then the same thing happens again. (e) After repeated disappointments at the hands of the very people who might be supposed to be your nearest and most intimate friends, constant irritation finally makes you dislike everybody and suppose that there is no sincerity to be found anywhere. Have you never noticed this happening?’
‘Indeed, I have.’
‘Don’t you feel that it is reprehensible? Isn’t it obvious that such a person is trying to manage human relationships without a basic knowledge of humans? Otherwise he would 90(a) surely recognize the truth: that there are not many very good or very bad people, but the great majority are something between the two.’
‘How do you mean?’ I asked.
‘On the analogy of very large or small objects,’ he said. ‘Can you think of anything more unusual than coming across a very large or small man, or dog, or any other creature? Or one which is very swift or slow, ugly or beautiful, white or black? Have you never realized that extreme instances are few and rare, while intermediate ones are many and plentiful?’
‘Certainly.’
(b) ‘So you think that if there were a competition in wickedness, very few would distinguish themselves even there?’
‘Probably.’
‘Yes, it is probable,’ said Socrates. ‘However, you’ve led me into a digression. The resemblance between arguments and human beings lies not in what I said just now, but in what I said before: that when one believes that an argument is true without possessing skill in logic, and then a little later decides rightly or wrongly that it is false, and the same thing happens (c) again and again – you know how it is, especially with those who spend their time in arguing both sides;116 they end by believing that they are wiser than anyone else, because they alone have discovered that there is nothing stable or dependable either in things or in arguments, and that everything fluctuates just like the Euripus,117 and never stays at one point for any time.’
‘That is perfectly true,’ I said.
(d) ‘Well, then, Phaedo,’ he said, ‘supposing that there is a kind of argument which is true and valid and capable of having its truth ascertained, if anyone nevertheless, through his experience of these arguments which seem to the same people to be sometimes true and sometimes false, attached no responsibility to himself and his lack of skill, but was finally content, in exasperation, to shift the blame from himself to arguments, and spend the rest of his life loathing and decrying them, and so missed the chance of knowing the truth about reality; would it not be a pitiable thing?’
‘It would indeed be pitiable,’ I said.
(e) ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘that is the first thing that we must guard against; we must not let it enter our minds that there may be no health in argument. On the contrary we should recognize that we ourselves are still intellectual invalids, but that we must brace ourselves and do our best to become healthy – you and the others with a view to t
he rest of your lives too, but in my case in view of my death itself; because 91(a) at the moment I might easily handle this argument like a competitor instead of a philosopher. You know how, in an argument, people who have no real education care nothing for the facts of the case, and are only anxious to get their point of view accepted by the audience? Well, I feel that at this present moment I am nearly as bad as they are, apart from this: that my anxiety will be not to convince my audience (except incidentally) but to produce the strongest possible conviction in myself. This is how I weigh the position, my (b) dear fellow – see how out for profit I am! If my theory is really true, it’s best to believe it; while even if death is extinction, at any rate during this time before my death I shall be less likely to distress my companions by giving way to self-pity; and this ignorance of mine will not live on with me (that would be a bad thing)118 but will shortly come to an end.
‘That, my dear Simmias and Cebes, is the spirit in which I am prepared to approach the argument. As for you, if you (c) will take my advice you will think very little of Socrates, and much more of the truth. If you think that anything I say is true, you must agree with me; if not, oppose it with every argument that you have. You must not allow me, in my enthusiasm, to deceive both myself and you, and, like a bee, to leave my sting behind when I fly away.
Socrates replies to Simmias’s theory that the soul may be a kind of attunement. The theory is (i) incompatible with the Theory of Recollection, (ii) inadequate in so far as there are degrees of attunement but not of soul,119 (iii) inconsistent with the fact that our souls can be well or badly ‘tuned’ themselves, and (iv) inconsistent with the soul’s role as leader of the body.