Complete Works
Page 97
FRIEND: I do agree.
SOCRATES: And do you agree that all virtuous people want all good things, or not?
FRIEND: I agree.
SOCRATES: Well now, you yourself said that wicked people love profits, [c] both small and large.
FRIEND: I did.
SOCRATES: So according to your argument, all people would be greedy, both the virtuous and the wicked.
FRIEND: Apparently.
SOCRATES: So, therefore, it is not a correct reproach, if someone reproaches another as being greedy—for it turns out that he who makes this reproach is greedy himself.
1. The Greek words for “seasons and soils” rhyme.
2. Omitting all’ in d4.
3. Anacreon and Simonides were lyric poets of the sixth and early fifth centuries.
4. Herms were statues with full heads of Hermes, the god of travellers, on rectangular pillars, often placed along roadways.
5. The local districts into which Attica was divided.
6. A mythical golden age when Cronus, the father of Zeus, ruled.
7. A ritual in the Panathenaic procession.
RIVAL LOVERS
Translated by Jeffrey Mitscherling. In preparing this translation we have consulted, in addition to Burnet’s edition, that of Antonio Carlini, Platone: Alcibiade, Alcibiade Secondo, Ipparco, Rivali (Turin, 1964).
Socrates encounters a young man who is keen to learn something about everything and who sneers at his rival, a young man whose strength is not knowledge but athletic discipline. The young polymath supposes that in pursuing universal general knowledge he is pursuing philosophy. Socrates rejects this conception of philosophy. Since no generalist can master a number of subjects to the same standard as a specialist can master his speciality, no one with general knowledge can ever excel in any field, but must be like the pentathlete who may win overall but be only a runner-up in each individual competition. No generalist can therefore ever claim any right to authority, not even over mere workmen—as the true philosopher must. For Socrates, philosophy is essentially a discipline of authority—the authority to evaluate, improve, and discipline oneself and others, an authority based on justice, good sense, and self-knowledge.
The dialogue’s charming setting and amusing touches invite comparison with Plato’s Charmides, where the Socratic ideal of self-control and good sense through self-knowledge is shown to involve subtleties that need exploring in a deeper philosophical investigation. Elsewhere Plato argued that the (very few) people who are capable of intelligent self-control and authority over others should enjoy a highly focused and disciplined education (Republic 521c–535a; Laws 965a–968a); the wide learning favored by the young polymath of Rival Lovers is rejected (Laws 817e–819a). The author of Rival Lovers also agrees with Plato in recognizing only one kind of authority, whether practiced by politician, king, head of household, or master of slaves (Statesman 258a–259d).
Standing on the other side of these issues was Aristotle, a student of Plato who embraced a research project to search for the general principles of every branch of knowledge, including those of humble workmen (Parts of Animals 639a1–12; Metaphysics 982a8–983a10). Aristotle held (especially in his lost dialogue On Justice) that there are many kinds of authority and justice, which differ according to the context in which they are exercised (Politics 1278b30– 79a21; Eudemian Ethics 1231b27–40; Nicomachean Ethics 1160b22–61a9). “Those who think it is the same thing to be able to be a politician, a king, a head of a household, or a master of slaves, are mistaken” (Politics 1252a7–9).
There was probably a lively debate along these lines within the Academy while Aristotle was still a member, and Rival Lovers might have been a contribution to that debate in the years before Plato’s death in 347 B.C. Or else it might be a diatribe aimed by one of his former Academic colleagues against Aristotle’s way of thinking, written after he began teaching in the Lyceum in Athens, in which case it dates from the last third of the fourth century. It was probably someone familiar with Rival Lovers who gave the nicknames “Pentathlete” and “Runner-up” to Eratosthenes of Cyrene, an accomplished scholar and polymath who studied philosophy in Athens in the early third century B.C.
A note on the title: in an ancient list of the works of Plato, the title is Rival Lovers (and the word for ‘rival lover’ introduces the young polymath at 132c), but the manuscripts carry the title Lovers, as do many editions and translations.
D.S.H.
I walked into the school of Dionysius the grammarian and saw there [132] some extremely attractive young men of good family; their lovers were there too. Two of the boys happened to be arguing about something, but I couldn’t quite make out what it was. They appeared, however, to be arguing about Anaxagoras or Oenopides; in any event, they appeared to [b] be drawing circles and holding their hands at angles to depict certain astronomical inclinations, and they were very serious about it.1 And I—I’d sat down next to the lover of one of them—I nudged him with my elbow and asked him what it could be that the boys were arguing about so seriously and said, “It must be something important and admirable for them to be putting such serious effort into it.”
“What?!” he said. “Important and admirable? Those guys are just babbling about things up in the sky and talking philosophical nonsense.”
Astonished at his reply, I asked him, “Young man, does the pursuit of [c] philosophy seem to you to be contemptible? Why do you speak of it so harshly?”
And the other one—a rival lover of the boy, you see, happened to be sitting next to him—the other one heard my question and his reply and said, “You’re wasting your time, Socrates, asking him whether he thinks philosophy is a contemptible pursuit. Don’t you realize that he’s spent his whole life wrestling, stuffing himself and sleeping? How could you expect him to give any answer other than that philosophy is contemptible?”
Of the two lovers, this one spent all his time pursuing the liberal studies,2 [d] while the other, the one he’d just insulted, spent all his time on athletics. And it seemed to me that I ought to leave off questioning the one I’d just asked—as he didn’t claim to be any good with words, but only with deeds—and instead direct my questions to the one who claimed to be the wiser, on the chance that I might somehow be able to benefit from him. So then I said, “My question was addressed to everybody, and if you think you can give a better answer, then I’ll ask you the same thing: do you think the pursuit of philosophy is admirable, or not?” [133]
At about this point in our conversation, the two boys overheard us and fell silent, and, putting aside their argument, came over to listen to us. Now, I don’t know what their lovers were feeling, but I was struck senseless—as always happens to me when I’m around beautiful young men. It did seem to me, however, that the other lover was struggling no less than I was. And yet he did manage to answer me, and in a very self-important manner. [b] “Socrates,” he said, “if I ever came to regard philosophy as contemptible, I would no longer consider myself a human being, nor anybody else who felt that way!” As he said this he gestured toward his rival and raised his voice so that his young favorite would be sure to get the message.
“So,” I said, “you think philosophy is an admirable pursuit.”
“Certainly,” he said.
“Well then,” I said, “do you think it’s possible for someone to know whether a thing is admirable or contemptible unless he first knows what it is?”
“No,” he said.
[c] “So you know what philosophy is,” I went on.
“Certainly,” he said.
“What is it, then?” I asked.
“What else but what Solon says it is? He says somewhere, ‘I continue to learn many things as I grow old.’3 And I agree with him that someone who wants to pursue philosophy, whether young or old, should always be learning one thing or another in order to learn as many things as possible in life.”
Now at first I thought there was something to this, but after I thought it over a bit
I asked him if he thought philosophy consisted in learning many things.
[d] “Precisely that,” he said.
“And do you believe,” I went on, “that philosophy is only admirable, or that it’s also good?”
“It’s also good,” he said, “of course it is.”
“Do you regard this property as something peculiar to philosophy, or do you think it belongs to other things as well? For example, do you believe athletics to be not only admirable but also good, or don’t you?”
[e] Very sarcastically, he gave me two answers: “To him I would say that it is neither. But with you, Socrates, I agree that it is both admirable and good, for I believe this to be correct.”
Then I asked him, “And do you think athletics consists in doing lots of exercise?”
“Indeed,” he said, “just as I think philosophy consists in learning many things.”
And then I said, “Do you think that athletes desire anything other than what will bring about their good physical condition?”
“Just that,” he said.
“And is it true,” I went on, “that it’s by doing lots of exercise that one gets into good physical condition?”
“Obviously,” he said, “for how could anyone get into good physical [134] condition by doing only a little exercise?”
It seemed to me appropriate at this point to get the athlete going, so that he might offer me some assistance drawn from his experience in athletics. So I asked him, “How can you sit there so quietly, my friend, with this man saying these things? Does it seem to you too that people get into good physical condition by exercising a lot, or by exercising moderately?”
“As far as I’m concerned, Socrates,” he said, “I thought even a pig would know, as they say, that it’s moderate exercise that produces good physical [b] condition, so why shouldn’t a man who doesn’t sleep or eat know this, somebody who’s out of shape and scrawny from sitting around meditating?” The boys were amused by what he said, and they snickered, while the other lover blushed.
And I said, “Well then, do you now grant that it’s neither lots of exercise nor a little, but a moderate amount, that produces good physical condition? Or do you want to fight out the argument against the two of us?”
Then he said, “With him I would very happily fight it out, and I’m sure [c] that I would be able to support the claim I made, even if my position were far weaker than it is—for he’s no competition. But there’s no need to compete with you about my opinion. I agree that it’s not lots of athletics but a moderate amount that produces good physical condition in people.”
“And what about food?” I said. “A moderate amount or a lot?”
He agreed about food as well.
And then I also made him agree that with everything else concerning [d] the body the moderate is the most beneficial, neither a large nor a small amount; and he agreed with me about that.
“And what about the soul?” I said. “Does it benefit most from having moderate or immoderate amounts of things administered to it?”
“Moderate amounts,” he said.
“And isn’t learning something that’s administered to the soul?”
He agreed.
“And so a moderate amount of learning is beneficial, but not a great deal of learning?”
He agreed.
“Now suppose we wanted to ask which exercises and which foods are [e] moderate for the body; who would be the right man to ask?”
All three of us agreed that it would be either a doctor or an athletic trainer.
“And who would we ask about the moderate amount of seed to sow?”
The farmer, is what we agreed this time.
“And what about sowing and planting the seeds of learning in the soul? Suppose we wanted to ask which ones and how many were moderate; who would be the right man to ask?”
[135] At this point we all found ourselves completely at a loss. So I asked them, in fun, “Since we’re all at a loss, would you like it if we asked these boys here? Or perhaps we’re ashamed to do that, like the suitors in Homer, who didn’t expect anybody else to be able to string the bow?”4
At this point they seemed to me to be losing enthusiasm for the argument, so I tried a different approach, and I said, “What would you guess are the main sorts of subjects that a philosopher needs to learn, since he doesn’t need to learn them all, or even a lot of them?”
[b] The wiser one now took up the question and said, “The most admirable and proper sorts of learning are those from which one derives the most fame as a philosopher, and one acquires the most fame by appearing to be an expert in all the skills, or if not in all of them, in most of the really important ones, learning as much of them as is proper for a free man—that is, their theory, not their actual practice.”
[c] “Do you mean,” I said, “something like in the building trade? You can buy a workman for five or six minas, but a master architect will cost you thousands of drachmas, and indeed there are few of them in all of Greece. Do you perhaps mean something like that?” He agreed that what I said was something like what he meant.
Then I asked him if it wasn’t impossible to learn even two of the skills so thoroughly, let alone several important ones.
“You mustn’t think I’m saying, Socrates,” he replied, “that the philosopher [d] needs to understand each skill as thoroughly as the man who makes it his profession. He needs to understand it only as far as is reasonable for a free and educated man, so that he can follow the explanations offered by the tradesman better than everyone else present, and can add his own opinion; that way, he always appears to be the most accomplished and the wisest of those present whenever the skills are discussed or practiced.”
[e] But since I still wasn’t sure what he meant, I asked him, “Am I understanding what sort of man you suppose the philosopher to be? It seems to me that you mean someone like the pentathlon athletes who compete against runners or wrestlers. They lose to the latter in their respective sports and are runners-up behind them, but they place first among the other athletes and defeat them. Perhaps you’re suggesting something along [136] those lines, that philosophy produces this result in those who devote themselves to it. In knowledge of the skills, they rank behind those who place first, but as runners-up they remain superior to the rest; and so a man who has studied philosophy becomes a strong competitor in all subjects. You seem to be describing someone like that.”
“You appear to me, Socrates,” he said, “to have just the right conception of the philosopher, when you compare him with the pentathlete. He is just the sort of man not to be enslaved to any one thing, nor to have worked anything out in such detail that, by concentrating on only that [b] one thing, as do the tradesmen, he is left behind in all the others, but has touched on everything to a moderate extent.”
After he’d offered this answer, I was eager to know exactly what he meant, so I asked him whether he supposed that good people were useful or useless.
“Useful, surely, Socrates,” he said.
“So, if good people are useful, then bad people are useless?”
He agreed.
“Well then, do you think that philosophers are useful men, or not?”
He agreed that they were useful, and he added that he held them to be [c] extremely useful.
“Let’s see, then. Supposing what you’re saying is true, when are these people, these runners-up, of any use to us? For it’s obvious that the philosopher is inferior to each of the skilled professionals.”
He agreed.
“And what about you?” I went on. “If it happened that you, or one of your friends about whom you cared a great deal, were to become sick, and you were looking for a cure, would you call that runner-up, the philosopher,5 to your house, or would you call the doctor?”
“I’d call both,” he said. [d]
“No, don’t tell me you’d call both of them; tell me which you’d rather call first.”
“No one would have any doubt,” he sa
id, “about calling the doctor first.”
“Well then, on a ship in stormy weather, to whom would you rather entrust you and your possessions, the pilot or the philosopher?”
“I would prefer the pilot.”
“And isn’t it the same in every other case, that as long as there’s a tradesman, the philosopher is of no use?”
“So it appears,” he said. [e]
“Then isn’t the philosopher actually useless to us? For surely we always have tradesmen. We agreed, however, that good men are useful, and bad men useless.”
He was forced to agree.
“So what follows? Should I question you further, or would that be rude?”
“Ask whatever you like.”
“All I’m trying to do,” I said, “is sum up what’s been said. It was [137] something like this: we agreed that philosophy is admirable,6 that philosophers are good, that good men are useful, and that bad men are useless; on the other hand, we agreed that philosophers are of no use whenever there are tradesmen, and that tradesmen are always to be found. Isn’t that what we agreed?”
“It is indeed,” he said.
“We agreed then, it seems, at least according to your argument, that if [b] philosophy consists, as you suggest, in knowledge of skills, then philosophers are bad and useless, as long as there are men with skills.
“But no, my friend, philosophers are not like that, and philosophy does not consist in stooping to a concern with skills nor in learning many things,7 but in something quite different—in fact, I thought that was actually dishonorable, and that people who pursued the skills were called vulgar. But we’ll be able to see more clearly whether what I say is true if you will [c] answer this: who understands how to discipline horses properly, those who make them better8 horses, or someone else?”
“Those who make them better.”
“And as it is with horses, so it is with every other animal?”