4. This description of the exploitation of the problem by naughty boys recalls strikingly (even in the words used) Socrates’ explanation of why boys should not have access to dialectic (R. 539b). The image there is of a dog tearing around and shredding things to pieces, while here Socrates seems to be thinking of the spreading out or rolling together of dough (or perhaps wool). Cf. also the remarks on the feasts for young boys and late-learners in Sophist 252a–c.
5. Accepting the deletion of ta deonta.
6. See 12b ff.
7. See 16c.
8. Retaining eggignomena in the text at 26a3, and leaving out the colon after tauta.
9. Lit., “of the genesis of the third [kind]”: The third kind is described just below as a “coming-into-being,” lit. “genesis into [a?] being.” See further 53c–55d below, where the word for “genesis” is translated “(process of) generation.”
10. Adopting the insertion of hoti before polla at d4.
11. See 22a ff.
12. Reading mikton ekeino.
13. Accepting the correction of touto at 28a3 and retaining the mss. reading of estō.
14. Leaving out Burnet’s insertion of en tois.
15. Iliad xviii.108–9.
16. Inserting to before tounantion in 48c8.
17. Accepting the deletion of legomenon hupo tou grammatos at d2.
18. Accepting the transposition of kai to hikanon from d8 to after eilikrines in d7.
19. Accepting the interchange of mousikē in a3 with autēs aulētikē in a5.
20. Cf. 15a–16a and 16c ff.
21. Since the claim is that rhetoric persuades and does not use force.
22. See 11b–c, and, for the references just below, 20d–23b.
23. Cf. Iliad iv.452. The picture in Homer is not nearly as cheerful as Plato’s; it is the mixture of the uproar in a fierce battle that is there described.
24. See 11b.
25. For the house, see 61b.
26. Keeping the reading of the manuscripts.
27. In our mss this sentence ends with a hopelessly corrupt and meaningless phrase, which has therefore been omitted in the translation.
SYMPOSIUM
Translated by A. Nehamas and P. Woodruff.
This dialogue, Plato’s poetic and dramatic masterpiece, relates the events of a ‘symposium’ or formal drinking party held in honor of the tragedian Agathon’s first victorious production. To gratify Phaedrus (the passionate admirer of speeches and rhetoric in the dialogue named after him), who indignantly regrets the neglect by Greek poets and writers of the god of Love, the company agree to give speeches in turn, while they all drink, in praise of Love. ‘Love’ (Greek erôs) covers sexual attraction and gratification between men and women and between men and teenage boys, but the focus here is also and especially on the adult male’s role as ethical and intellectual educator of the adolescent that was traditional among the Athenians in the latter sort of relationship, whether accompanied by sex or not. There are six speeches—plus a seventh delivered by an uninvited and very drunk latecomer, the Athenian statesman and general Alcibiades. In his youth Alcibiades had been one of Socrates’ admiring followers, and he now reports in gripping detail the fascinating reversal Socrates worked upon him in the erotic roles of the older and the younger man usual among the Greeks in a relationship of ‘love’: Socrates became the pursued, Alcibiades the pursuer. Appropriately enough, all the speakers, with the interesting exception of the comic poet Aristophanes, are mentioned in Protagoras as among those who flocked to Callias’ house to attend the sophists gathered there (all experts on speaking): as he enters Callias’ house, Socrates spots four of the Symposium speakers—Phaedrus and Eryximachus in a crowd round Hippias, and Agathon and Pausanias (his lover) hanging on the words of Prodicus; Alcibiades joins the company shortly afterwards.
Socrates’ own speech is given over to reporting a discourse on love he says he once heard from Diotima, a wise woman from Mantinea. This Diotima seems an invention, contrived by Socrates (and Plato) to distance Socrates in his report of it from what she says. In any event, Diotima herself is made to say that Socrates can probably not follow her in the ‘final and highest mystery’ of the ‘rites of love’—her account of the ascent in love, beginning with love for individual young men, ending with love for the Form of Beauty, which ‘always is and neither comes to be nor passes away, neither waxes nor wanes’, and is ‘not beautiful this way and ugly that way, nor beautiful at one time and ugly at another, nor beautiful in relation to one thing and ugly in relation to another’ but is ‘just what it is to be beautiful’. In this way Plato lets us know that this theory of the Beautiful is his own contrivance, not really an idea of Socrates (whether the historical philosopher or the philosopher of the ‘Socratic’ dialogues). Readers will want to compare Diotima’s speech on Love with those of Socrates in Phaedrus, and also with Socrates’ discussion on friendship with the boys in the Lysis.
The events of this evening at Agathon’s house are all reported long afterward by a young friend of Socrates’ in his last years, Apollodorus. Apparently they had become famous among Socrates’ intimates and others who were interested in hearing about him. That, at any rate, is the impression Apollodorus leaves us with: he has himself taken the trouble to learn about it all from Aristodemus, who was present on the occasion, and he has just reported on it to Glaucon (Socrates’ conversation partner in the Republic). He now reports again to an unnamed friend who has asked to hear about it all—and to us readers of Plato’s dialogue.
J.M.C.
[172] APOLLODORUS: In fact, your question does not find me unprepared. Just the other day, as it happens, I was walking to the city from my home in Phaleron when a man I know, who was making his way behind me, saw me and called from a distance:
“The gentleman from Phaleron!” he yelled, trying to be funny. “Hey, Apollodorus, wait!”
So I stopped and waited.
[b] “Apollodorus, I’ve been looking for you!” he said. “You know there once was a gathering at Agathon’s when Socrates, Alcibiades, and their friends had dinner together; I wanted to ask you about the speeches they made on Love. What were they? I heard a version from a man who had it from Phoenix, Philip’s son, but it was badly garbled, and he said you were the one to ask. So please, will you tell me all about it? After all, Socrates is your friend—who has a better right than you to report his conversation? But before you begin,” he added, “tell me this: were you there yourself?”
[c] “Your friend must have really garbled his story,” I replied, “if you think this affair was so recent that I could have been there.”
“I did think that,” he said.
“Glaucon, how could you? You know very well Agathon hasn’t lived in Athens for many years, while it’s been less than three that I’ve been Socrates’ companion and made it my job to know exactly what he says [173] and does each day. Before that, I simply drifted aimlessly. Of course, I used to think that what I was doing was important, but in fact I was the most worthless man on earth—as bad as you are this very moment: I used to think philosophy was the last thing a man should do.”
“Stop joking, Apollodorus,” he replied. “Just tell me when the party took place.”
“When we were still children, when Agathon won the prize with his first tragedy. It was the day after he and his troupe held their victory celebration.”
“So it really was a long time ago,” he said. “Then who told you about it? Was it Socrates himself?”
“Oh, for god’s sake, of course not!” I replied. “It was the very same man [b] who told Phoenix, a fellow called Aristodemus, from Cydatheneum, a real runt of a man, who always went barefoot. He went to the party because, I think, he was obsessed with Socrates—one of the worst cases at that time. Naturally, I checked part of his story with Socrates, and Socrates agreed with his account.”
“Please tell me, then,” he said. “You speak and I’ll listen, as we walk to the city. This is the perfect oppor
tunity.”
So this is what we talked about on our way; and that’s why, as I said [c] before, I’m not unprepared. Well, if I’m to tell you about it too—I’ll be glad to. After all, my greatest pleasure comes from philosophical conversation, even if I’m only a listener, whether or not I think it will be to my advantage. All other talk, especially the talk of rich businessmen like you, bores me to tears, and I’m sorry for you and your friends because you think your affairs are important when really they’re totally trivial. Perhaps, [d] in your turn, you think I’m a failure, and, believe me, I think that what you think is true. But as for all of you, I don’t just think you are failures—I know it for a fact.
FRIEND: You’ll never change, Apollodorus! Always nagging, even at yourself! I do believe you think everybody—yourself first of all—is totally worthless, except, of course, Socrates. I don’t know exactly how you came to be called “the maniac,” but you certainly talk like one, always furious with everyone, including yourself—but not with Socrates!
APOLLODORUS: Of course, my dear friend, it’s perfectly obvious why I [e] have these views about us all: it’s simply because I’m a maniac, and I’m raving!
FRIEND: It’s not worth arguing about this now, Apollodorus. Please do as I asked: tell me the speeches.
APOLLODORUS: All right … Well, the speeches went something like this—but I’d better tell you the whole story from the very beginning, as Aristodemus [174] told it to me.
He said, then, that one day he ran into Socrates, who had just bathed and put on his fancy sandals—both very unusual events. So he asked him where he was going, and why he was looking so good.
Socrates replied, “I’m going to Agathon’s for dinner. I managed to avoid yesterday’s victory party—I really don’t like crowds—but I promised to be there today. So, naturally, I took great pains with my appearance: I’m going to the house of a good-looking man; I had to look my best. But let me ask you this,” he added, “I know you haven’t been invited to the dinner; how would you like to come anyway?” [b]
And Aristodemus answered, “I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Come with me, then,” Socrates said, “and we shall prove the proverb wrong; the truth is, ‘Good men go uninvited to Goodman’s feast.’1 Even Homer himself, when you think about it, did not much like this proverb; [c] he not only disregarded it, he violated it. Agamemnon, of course, is one of his great warriors, while he describes Menelaus as a ‘limp spearman.’ And yet, when Agamemnon offers a sacrifice and gives a feast, Homer has the weak Menelaus arrive uninvited at his superior’s table.”2
Aristodemus replied to this, “Socrates, I am afraid Homer’s description is bound to fit me better than yours. Mine is a case of an obvious inferior arriving uninvited at the table of a man of letters. I think you’d better figure out a good excuse for bringing me along, because, you know, I [d] won’t admit I’ve come without an invitation. I’ll say I’m your guest.”
“Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll think about what to say ‘as we proceed the two of us along the way.’ ”3
With these words, they set out. But as they were walking, Socrates began to think about something, lost himself in thought, and kept lagging behind. Whenever Aristodemus stopped to wait for him, Socrates would urge him [e] to go on ahead. When he arrived at Agathon’s he found the gate wide open, and that, Aristodemus said, caused him to find himself in a very embarrassing situation: a household slave saw him the moment he arrived and took him immediately to the dining room, where the guests were already lying down on their couches, and dinner was about to be served.
As soon as Agathon saw him, he called:
“Welcome, Aristodemus! What perfect timing! You’re just in time for dinner! I hope you’re not here for any other reason—if you are, forget it. I looked all over for you yesterday, so I could invite you, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. But where is Socrates? How come you didn’t bring him along?”
So I turned around (Aristodemus said), and Socrates was nowhere to be seen. And I said that it was actually Socrates who had brought me along as his guest.
[175] “I’m delighted he did,” Agathon replied. “But where is he?”
“He was directly behind me, but I have no idea where he is now.”
“Go look for Socrates,” Agathon ordered a slave, “and bring him in. Aristodemus,” he added, “you can share Eryximachus’ couch.”
A slave brought water, and Aristodemus washed himself before he lay down. Then another slave entered and said: “Socrates is here, but he’s gone off to the neighbor’s porch. He’s standing there and won’t come in even though I called him several times.”
“How strange,” Agathon replied. “Go back and bring him in. Don’t leave him there.”
But Aristodemus stopped him. “No, no,” he said. “Leave him alone. It’s [b] one of his habits: every now and then he just goes off like that and stands motionless, wherever he happens to be. I’m sure he’ll come in very soon, so don’t disturb him; let him be.”
“Well, all right, if you really think so,” Agathon said, and turned to the slaves: “Go ahead and serve the rest of us. What you serve is completely up to you; pretend nobody’s supervising you—as if I ever did! Imagine that we are all your own guests, myself included. Give us good reason to [c] praise your service.”
So they went ahead and started eating, but there was still no sign of Socrates. Agathon wanted to send for him many times, but Aristodemus wouldn’t let him. And, in fact, Socrates came in shortly afterward, as he always did—they were hardly halfway through their meal. Agathon, who, as it happened, was all alone on the farthest couch, immediately called: “Socrates, come lie down next to me. Who knows, if I touch you, I may [d] catch a bit of the wisdom that came to you under my neighbor’s porch. It’s clear you’ve seen the light. If you hadn’t, you’d still be standing there.”
Socrates sat down next to him and said, “How wonderful it would be, dear Agathon, if the foolish were filled with wisdom simply by touching the wise. If only wisdom were like water, which always flows from a full cup into an empty one when we connect them with a piece of yarn—well, [e] then I would consider it the greatest prize to have the chance to lie down next to you. I would soon be overflowing with your wonderful wisdom. My own wisdom is of no account—a shadow in a dream—while yours is bright and radiant and has a splendid future. Why, young as you are, you’re so brilliant I could call more than thirty thousand Greeks as witnesses.”
“Now you’ve gone too far, Socrates,” Agathon replied. “Well, eat your dinner. Dionysus will soon enough be the judge of our claims to wisdom!”4 [176]
Socrates took his seat after that and had his meal, according to Aristodemus. When dinner was over, they poured a libation to the god, sang a hymn, and—in short—followed the whole ritual. Then they turned their attention to drinking. At that point Pausanias addressed the group:
“Well, gentlemen, how can we arrange to drink less tonight? To be honest, I still have a terrible hangover from yesterday, and I could really use a break. I daresay most of you could, too, since you were also part of the celebration. So let’s try not to overdo it.” [b]
Aristophanes replied: “Good idea, Pausanias. We’ve got to make a plan for going easy on the drink tonight. I was over my head last night myself, like the others.”
After that, up spoke Eryximachus, son of Acumenus: “Well said, both of you. But I still have one question: How do you feel, Agathon? Are you strong enough for serious drinking?”
“Absolutely not,” replied Agathon. “I’ve no strength left for anything.”
[c] “What a lucky stroke for us,” Eryximachus said, “for me, for Aristodemus, for Phaedrus, and the rest—that you large-capacity drinkers are already exhausted. Imagine how weak drinkers like ourselves feel after last night! Of course I don’t include Socrates in my claims: he can drink or not, and will be satisfied whatever we do. But since none of us seems particularly eager to overindulge, perhaps it would not be a
miss for me [d] to provide you with some accurate information as to the nature of intoxication. If I have learned anything from medicine, it is the following point: inebriation is harmful to everyone. Personally, therefore, I always refrain from heavy drinking; and I advise others against it—especially people who are suffering the effects of a previous night’s excesses.”
“Well,” Phaedrus interrupted him, “I always follow your advice, especially when you speak as a doctor. In this case, if the others know what’s good for them, they too will do just as you say.”
[e] At that point they all agreed not to get drunk that evening; they decided to drink only as much as pleased them.
“It’s settled, then,” said Eryximachus. “We are resolved to force no one to drink more than he wants. I would like now to make a further motion: let us dispense with the flute-girl who just made her entrance; let her play for herself or, if she prefers, for the women in the house. Let us instead spend our evening in conversation. If you are so minded, I would like to [177] propose a subject.”
They all said they were quite willing, and urged him to make his proposal. So Eryximachus said:
“Let me begin by citing Euripides’ Melanippe: ‘Not mine the tale.’ What I am about to tell belongs to Phaedrus here, who is deeply indignant on this issue, and often complains to me about it:
“‘Eryximachus,’ he says, ‘isn’t it an awful thing! Our poets have composed hymns in honor of just about any god you can think of; but has a [b] single one of them given one moment’s thought to the god of love, ancient and powerful as he is? As for our fancy intellectuals, they have written volumes praising Heracles and other heroes (as did the distinguished Prodicus). Well, perhaps that’s not surprising, but I’ve actually read a book [c] by an accomplished author who saw fit to extol the usefulness of salt! How could people pay attention to such trifles and never, not even once, write a proper hymn to Love? How could anyone ignore so great a god?’
Complete Works Page 73