Complete Works

by Plato, Cooper, John M. , Hutchinson, D. S.

  Indeed, not even the same actors are used for tragedy and comedy. Yet [b] all these are imitations, aren’t they?

  They are.

  And human nature, Adeimantus, seems to me to be minted in even smaller coins than these, so that it can neither imitate many things well nor do the actions themselves, of which those imitations are likenesses.

  That’s absolutely true.

  Then, if we’re to preserve our first argument, that our guardians must be kept away from all other crafts so as to be the craftsmen of the city’s freedom, and be exclusively that, and do nothing at all except what contributes [c] to it, they must neither do nor imitate anything else. If they do imitate, they must imitate from childhood what is appropriate for them, namely, people who are courageous, self-controlled, pious, and free, and their actions. They mustn’t be clever at doing or imitating slavish or shameful actions, lest from enjoying the imitation, they come to enjoy the reality. Or haven’t you noticed that imitations practiced from youth become part [d] of nature and settle into habits of gesture, voice, and thought?

  I have indeed.

  Then we won’t allow those for whom we profess to care, and who must grow into good men, to imitate either a young woman or an older one, or one abusing her husband, quarreling with the gods, or bragging because she thinks herself happy, or one suffering misfortune and possessed by sorrows and lamentations, and even less one who is ill, in love, or in labor. [e]

  That’s absolutely right.

  Nor must they imitate either male or female slaves doing slavish things.

  No, they mustn’t.

  Nor bad men, it seems, who are cowards and are doing the opposite of what we described earlier, namely, libelling and ridiculing each other, using shameful language while drunk or sober, or wronging themselves and others, whether in word or deed, in the various other ways that are typical of such people. They mustn’t become accustomed to making [396] themselves like madmen in either word or deed, for, though they must know about mad and vicious men and women, they must neither do nor imitate anything they do.

  That’s absolutely true.

  Should they imitate metal workers or other craftsmen, or those who row in triremes, or their time-keepers, or anything else connected with ships? [b]

  How could they, since they aren’t to concern themselves with any of those occupations?

  And what about this? Will they imitate neighing horses, bellowing bulls, roaring rivers, the crashing sea, thunder, or anything of that sort?

  They are forbidden to be mad or to imitate mad people.

  If I understand what you mean, there is one kind of style and narrative that someone who is really a gentleman would use whenever he wanted to narrate something, and another kind, unlike this one, which his opposite by nature and education would favor, and in which he would [c] narrate.

  Which styles are those?

  Well, I think that when a moderate man comes upon the words or actions of a good man in his narrative, he’ll be willing to report them as if he were that man himself, and he won’t be ashamed of that kind of imitation. He’ll imitate this good man most when he’s acting in a faultless and [d] intelligent manner, but he’ll do so less, and with more reluctance, when the good man is upset by disease, sexual passion, drunkenness, or some other misfortune. When he comes upon a character unworthy of himself, however, he’ll be unwilling to make himself seriously resemble that inferior character—except perhaps for a brief period in which he’s doing something good. Rather he’ll be ashamed to do something like that, both because he’s unpracticed in the imitation of such people and because he can’t stand to shape and mold himself according to a worse pattern. He despises this [e] in his mind, unless it’s just done in play.

  That seems likely.

  He’ll therefore use the kind of narrative we described in dealing with the Homeric epics a moment ago. His style will participate both in imitation and in the other kind of narrative, but there’ll be only a little bit of imitation in a long story? Or is there nothing in what I say?

  That’s precisely how the pattern for such a speaker must be.

  [397] As for someone who is not of this sort, the more inferior he is, the more willing he’ll be to narrate anything and to consider nothing unworthy of himself. As a result, he’ll undertake to imitate seriously and before a large audience all the things we just mentioned—thunder, the sounds of wind, hail, axles, pulleys, trumpets, flutes, pipes, and all the other instruments, even the cries of dogs, sheep, and birds. And this man’s style will consist [b] entirely of imitation in voice and gesture, or else include only a small bit of plain narrative.

  That too is certain.

  These, then, are the two kinds of style I was talking about.

  There are these two.

  The first of these styles involves little variation, so that if someone provides a musical mode and rhythm appropriate to it, won’t the one who speaks correctly remain—with a few minor changes—pretty well within [c] that mode and rhythm throughout?

  That’s precisely what he’ll do.

  What about the other kind of style? Doesn’t it require the opposite if it is to speak appropriately, namely, all kinds of musical modes and all kinds of rhythms, because it contains every type of variation?

  That’s exactly right.

  Do all poets and speakers adopt one or other of these patterns of style or a mixture of both?

  Necessarily.

  [d] What are we to do, then? Shall we admit all these into our city, only one of the pure kinds, or the mixed one?

  If my opinion is to prevail, we’ll admit only the pure imitator of a decent person.

  And yet, Adeimantus, the mixed style is pleasant. Indeed, it is by far the most pleasing to children, their tutors, and the vast majority of people.

  Yes, it is the most pleasing.

  But perhaps you don’t think that it harmonizes with our constitution, because no one in our city is two or more people simultaneously, since each does only one job. [e]

  Indeed, it doesn’t harmonize.

  And isn’t it because of this that it’s only in our city that we’ll find a cobbler who is a cobbler and not also a captain along with his cobbling, and a farmer who is a farmer and not also a juror along with his farming, and a soldier who is a soldier and not a money-maker in addition to his soldiering, and so with them all?

  That’s true.

  It seems, then, that if a man, who through clever training can become anything and imitate anything, should arrive in our city, wanting to give a [398] performance of his poems, we should bow down before him as someone holy, wonderful, and pleasing, but we should tell him that there is no one like him in our city and that it isn’t lawful for there to be. We should pour myrrh on his head, crown him with wreaths, and send him away to another city. But, for our own good, we ourselves should employ a more austere and less pleasure-giving poet and storyteller, one who would imitate the speech [b] of a decent person and who would tell his stories in accordance with the patterns we laid down when we first undertook the education of our soldiers.

  That is certainly what we’d do if it were up to us.

  It’s likely, then, that we have now completed our discussion of the part of music and poetry that concerns speech and stories, for we’ve spoken both of what is to be said and of how it is to be said.

  I agree.

  Doesn’t it remain, then, to discuss lyric odes and songs? [c]

  Clearly.

  And couldn’t anyone discover what we would say about them, given that it has to be in tune with what we’ve already said?

  Glaucon laughed and said: I’m afraid, Socrates, that I’m not to be included under “anyone,” for I don’t have a good enough idea at the moment of what we’re to say. Of course, I have my suspicions.

  Nonetheless, I said, you know that, in the first place, a song consists of three elements—words, harmonic mode, and rhythm.

  Yes, I do know that. [d]

  As far as
words are concerned, they are no different in songs than they are when not set to music, so mustn’t they conform in the same way to the patterns we established just now?

  They must.

  Further, the mode and rhythm must fit the words.

  Of course.

  And we said that we no longer needed dirges and lamentations among our words.

  We did, indeed.

  [e] What are the lamenting modes, then? You tell me, since you’re musical.

  The mixo-Lydian, the syntono-Lydian, and some others of that sort.

  Aren’t they to be excluded, then? They’re useless even to decent women, let alone to men.

  Certainly.

  Drunkenness, softness, and idleness are also most inappropriate for our guardians.

  How could they not be?

  What, then, are the soft modes suitable for drinking-parties?

  The Ionian and those Lydian modes that are said to be relaxed.

  [399] Could you ever use these to make people warriors?

  Never. And now all you have left is the Dorian and Phrygian modes.

  I don’t know all the musical modes. Just leave me the mode that would suitably imitate the tone and rhythm of a courageous person who is active in battle or doing other violent deeds, or who is failing [b] and facing wounds, death, or some other misfortune, and who, in all these circumstances, is fighting off his fate steadily and with self-control. Leave me also another mode, that of someone engaged in a peaceful, unforced, voluntary action, persuading someone or asking a favor of a god in prayer or of a human being through teaching and exhortation, or, on the other hand, of someone submitting to the supplications of another who is teaching him and trying to get him to change his mind, and who, in all these circumstances, is acting with moderation and self-control, not with arrogance but with understanding, and is content with [c] the outcome. Leave me, then, these two modes, which will best imitate the violent or voluntary tones of voice of those who are moderate and courageous, whether in good fortune or in bad.

  The modes you’re asking for are the very ones I mentioned.

  Well, then, we’ll have no need for polyharmonic or multistringed instruments to accompany our odes and songs.

  It doesn’t seem so to me at least.

  Then we won’t need the craftsmen who make triangular lutes, harps, [d] and all other such multistringed and polyharmonic instruments.

  Apparently not.

  What about flute-makers and flute-players? Will you allow them into the city? Or isn’t the flute the most “many-stringed” of all? And aren’t the panharmonic instruments all imitations of it?26 Clearly.

  The lyre and the cithara are left, then, as useful in the city, while in the country, there’d be some sort of pipe for the shepherds to play.

  That is what our argument shows, at least.

  Well, we certainly aren’t doing anything new in preferring Apollo and [e] his instruments to Marsyas and his.27 By god, it doesn’t seem as though we are.

  And, by the dog, without being aware of it, we’ve been purifying the city we recently said was luxurious.

  That’s because we’re being moderate.

  Then let’s purify the rest. The next topic after musical modes is the regulation of meter. We shouldn’t strive to have either subtlety or great variety in meter. Rather, we should try to discover what are the rhythms of someone who leads an ordered and courageous life and then adapt the meter and the tune to his words, not his words to them. What these [400] rhythms actually are is for you to say, just as in the case of the modes.

  I really don’t know what to say. I can tell you from observation that there are three basic kinds of metrical feet out of which the others are constructed, just as there are four in the case of modes. But I can’t tell you which sort imitates which sort of life.

  Then we’ll consult with Damon as to which metrical feet are suited to [b] slavishness, insolence, madness, and the other vices and which are suited to their opposites. I think I’ve heard him talking about an enoplion, which is a composite metrical phrase (although I’m not clear on this), and also about dactylic or heroic meter, which he arranged, I don’t know how, to be equal up and down in the interchange of long and short. I think he called one foot an iambus, another a trochee, assigning a long and a short [c] to both of them. In the case of some of these, I think he approved or disapproved of the tempo of the foot as much as of the rhythm itself, or of some combination of the two—I can’t tell you which. But, as I said, we’ll leave these things to Damon, since to mark off the different kinds would require a long argument. Or do you think we should try it?

  No, I certainly don’t.

  But you can discern, can’t you, that grace and gracelessness follow good and bad rhythm respectively?

  Of course.

  Further, if, as we said just now, rhythm and mode must conform to the [d] words and not vice versa, then good rhythm follows fine words and is similar to them, while bad rhythm follows the opposite kind of words, and the same for harmony and disharmony.

  To be sure, these things must conform to the words.

  What about the style and content of the words themselves? Don’t they conform to the character of the speaker’s soul?

  Of course.

  And the rest conform to the words?

  Yes.

  Then fine words, harmony, grace, and rhythm follow simplicity of character—and [e] I do not mean this in the sense in which we use “simplicity” as a euphemism for “simple-mindedness”—but I mean the sort of fine and good character that has developed in accordance with an intelligent plan.

  That’s absolutely certain.

  And must not our young people everywhere aim at these, if they are to do their own work?

  They must, indeed.

  Now, surely painting is full of these qualities, as are all the crafts similar [401] to it; weaving is full of them, and so are embroidery, architecture, and the crafts that produce all the other furnishings. Our bodily nature is full of them, as are the natures of all growing things, for in all of these there is grace and gracelessness. And gracelessness, bad rhythm, and disharmony are akin to bad words and bad character, while their opposites are akin to and are imitations of the opposite, a moderate and good character.

  Absolutely.

  [b] Is it, then, only poets we have to supervise, compelling them to make an image of a good character in their poems or else not to compose them among us? Or are we also to give orders to other craftsmen, forbidding them to represent—whether in pictures, buildings, or any other works—a character that is vicious, unrestrained, slavish, and graceless? Are we to allow someone who cannot follow these instructions to work among us, [c] so that our guardians will be brought up on images of evil, as if in a meadow of bad grass, where they crop and graze in many different places every day until, little by little, they unwittingly accumulate a large evil in their souls? Or must we rather seek out craftsmen who are by nature able to pursue what is fine and graceful in their work, so that our young people will live in a healthy place and be benefited on all sides, and so that something of those fine works will strike their eyes and ears like a breeze that brings health from a good place, leading them unwittingly, from [d] childhood on, to resemblance, friendship, and harmony with the beauty of reason?

  The latter would be by far the best education for them.

  Aren’t these the reasons, Glaucon, that education in music and poetry is most important? First, because rhythm and harmony permeate the inner part of the soul more than anything else, affecting it most strongly and bringing it grace, so that if someone is properly educated in music and [e] poetry, it makes him graceful, but if not, then the opposite. Second, because anyone who has been properly educated in music and poetry will sense it acutely when something has been omitted from a thing and when it hasn’t been finely crafted or finely made by nature. And since he has the right distastes, he’ll praise fine things, be pleased by them, receive them into his soul, and, being nurtur
ed by them, become fine and good. He’ll [402] rightly object to what is shameful, hating it while he’s still young and unable to grasp the reason, but, having been educated in this way, he will welcome the reason when it comes and recognize it easily because of its kinship with himself.

  Yes, I agree that those are the reasons to provide education in music and poetry.

  It’s just the way it was with learning how to read. Our ability wasn’t adequate until we realized that there are only a few letters that occur in all sorts of different combinations, and that—whether written large or [b] small28—they were worthy of our attention, so that we picked them out eagerly wherever they occurred, knowing that we wouldn’t be competent readers until we knew our letters.

  True.

  And isn’t it also true that if there are images of letters reflected in mirrors or water, we won’t know them until we know the letters themselves, for both abilities are parts of the same craft and discipline?

  Absolutely.

  Then, by the gods, am I not right in saying that neither we, nor the [c] guardians we are raising, will be educated in music and poetry until we know the different forms of moderation, courage, frankness, high-mindedness, and all their kindred, and their opposites too, which are moving around everywhere, and see them in the things in which they are, both themselves and their images, and do not disregard them, whether they are written on small things or large, but accept that the knowledge of both large and small letters is part of the same craft and discipline?

  That’s absolutely essential.

  Therefore, if someone’s soul has a fine and beautiful character and his body matches it in beauty and is thus in harmony with it, so that both [d] share in the same pattern, wouldn’t that be the most beautiful sight for anyone who has eyes to see?

  It certainly would.

  And isn’t what is most beautiful also most loveable?

  Of course.

  And a musical person would love such people most of all, but he wouldn’t love anyone who lacked harmony?

  No, he wouldn’t, at least not if the defect was in the soul, but if it was only in the body, he’d put up with it and be willing to embrace the boy who had it. [e]