Plato at the Googleplex

by Rebecca Goldstein

  Oh, didn’t I mention that? she said airily, so that I knew she’d just been waiting for the right moment to drop it in. Yes, he was in a cute little white toga, together with some very authentic-looking sandals, like something they might have worn to watch triple-A-grade Christians being fed to the lions.

  I think that was the Romans, I said to Cheryl.

  Whatever, she said. Anyway, that was his getup. And I think it’s a pretty clever piece of marketing. It was probably his publisher’s idea, but I’m surprised that they were able to get Plato to go along with it. They’re clearly trying to brand him.

  Lucky thing we’re so near San Francisco, I told him. You can get away with anything here. Look at that guy over there, the one with the dreads. There’s a philosopher-king for you.

  Perhaps, Plato said. I would have to question him.

  The guy we were looking at not only had dreads but was wearing a super-sized Grateful Dead T-shirt, and of course jeans. He was probably a decade or two older than your average Googler, but it was obvious he hadn’t used the extra years to put any maturity between himself and the young ones. Of course, I’m not one to judge people by their appearances, Rhonda, but from how this guy looked I would have said he had graduated high school with three friends tops, all of them in the computer club with him, and that he had some super-obscure hobby he was obsessed with, like collecting ancient musical instruments or making origami rocket ships that could break the sound barrier, and that, if he noticed women at all, he tried to impress them with how many decimal places of pi he had memorized.

  Does his unusual hair arrangement indicate adherence to a particular religious code? Plato asked.

  You mean like Rastafarian? I doubt it. Probably more like a religious adherence to not caring how he looks.

  Ah, then a philosopher! he said,17 and again I couldn’t for the life of me tell if he was being serious or hilarious. All I know was that he was staring at the guy as if actually contemplating whether he was a candidate for the position of philosopher-king.

  Don’t make eye contact! I warned him, but it was too late. The potential philosopher-king was already making a beeline straight for us, pumping his arms and moving really fast. Don’t worry, I said to Plato, I’ll get rid of him for you.

  But when the guy asked if he could join us, Plato said that he would be delighted, and he proceeded to make room for this guy by taking my bag off of the seat, where I had purposely put it. I’m supposed to protect my authors, but what can you do when they sabotage you like that?

  I’m Marcus, this guy introduced himself. He had a pile of sushi on his plate that could have fed Tokyo and its environs.

  Well, Marcus, this is Plato, I said, who’s a writer and a philosopher and who is going to be speaking to you all very soon, and is just relaxing now, so we shouldn’t tire him out with any needless chitchat. As you can see, he’s a foreigner.

  Sure, Marcus said. I’m really looking forward to your talk, Plato. I’ve read everything you’ve written.

  Really? I said. So did you read the one about philosopher-kings?

  Well, of course, Marcus responded, looking at me like I was yesterday’s sushi. Who hasn’t read the Republic?

  Naturally, I was embarrassed, and looked daggers at Marcus. I have so many authors to take care of, I explained to Plato, that if I were going to read everything they write I wouldn’t have time to take care of them.

  That stands to reason, he said, smiling at me with not the slightest hint of taking offense. I already told you he has impeccable manners. And I think Marcus is exaggerating my readership, he went on. I do not write for everyone. Sometimes I wonder whether I write for anyone.

  Of course, I hear that sort of thing from a lot of my writers who can get a bit despairing about their readership, especially nowadays when they can actually read the reader reviews on Amazon. That’s my number one piece of advice I give to authors. Whatever you do, don’t read your Amazon reviews. Second piece of advice, after they ignore my first piece of advice, just remember that anonymity brings out the nasty in people, especially people who haven’t gotten out of their pajamas and slippers in several days, which is how I tell my authors to picture their meanest reviewers.

  Just give me the gist of it, Plato, I said. You know, like how you would on The Colbert Report. Five words or less.

  He thought for a few moments and then he said, counting off on his fingers for each word: The. Perfect. State. Defines. Justice.

  Okay. I’ll bite, I said, you know the way Colbert says. Which is the perfect state? California? I guess a case can be made for Hawaii, too.

  I heard Marcus snickering, but Plato wasn’t paying any attention to him, which I thought showed good sense. The perfect state, he said, is the one that is ruled by those who have the knowledge to rule, and that knowledge is philosophical knowledge, just as the fundamental question of what constitutes justice is philosophical. Since these most abstract questions are philosophical questions, requiring a philosopher’s insight, and the person who has this insight into the nature of justice will not allow himself to be corrupted by the perquisites of power, I arrived at the view that until a philosopher acquires political power, or, alternatively, someone who already has political power can be made into a philosopher, there can be no justice in the state (Republic 610c).

  Well, that’s a new idea, I said.

  When I first proposed it, it was new, he answered. Now, not so new.18

  And how did that work out for you? I asked him.

  Not so well, he said.

  Book didn’t sell? I asked sympathetically.

  Oh no, far worse, he answered. It led to the greatest fiasco of my life.

  Well, somebody can’t just come out and make a dramatic statement like that and not elaborate, so I asked him what had happened.

  An opportunity opened up, he said, which allowed me to try and put my views about justice into practice. I had a friend whose name was Dion, who had studied with me at the Academy,19 the quickest of all the students I have ever taught.20 He came from the city of Syracuse, and he was very well connected there. In fact, his wife’s brother was the tyrant of Syracuse.

  This, of course, took me by surprise. Syracuse? I said. They have tyrants running Syracuse?

  At this Marcus couldn’t contain himself. It’s another Syracuse,21 he said, with a smirk nasty enough to rot the sushi on his plate, of which, by the way, there wasn’t much left, since he’d been scarfing it down the whole time he was listening. My sense was that he was resenting all the attention that Plato was paying to me, a mere media escort and him a potential philosopher-king.

  Oh, okay, I said. You know, my brother-in-law is in politics, too. Nothing as important as a tyrant. He got himself elected to the school board in Freemont. Although I have to say Leon can be a bit of a tyrant at home. My sister doesn’t have an easy time of it.

  I could hear Marcus snickering again, but Plato simply explained to me that where he comes from they use the word “tyrant” somewhat differently. For us, he said, “tyrant” strictly means someone who seizes control through irregular means, arrogating the legitimate transfer of power.22 Tyrants, at least so far as the semantics of our term goes, need not behave as oppressors and tormentors who abuse their power. In fact, when tyrants first appear, at least as I have observed, they more often than not present themselves—and may even initially be—a spokesperson on behalf of the people against the abuses of the powerful few, who have accumulated a disproportionate amount of capital and power.

  You mean like the 1 percent versus the 99 percent, I said.

  Yes, exactly, Plato said. The 99 percent have often some champion whom they set over them and nurse into greatness (Republic 656c–d), Plato said, going into lecturing mode. These professor types can be counted on to do that. You ask them a question and out pops a lecture. Anyway, he went on for a bit explaining that tyrants are first okay and actually protectors of the people but gradually get rid of all those who can restrain them, and
so end up demonstrating that tyranny is the worst possible form of government (Republic 656c–d), as this particular tyrant of Syracuse apparently did.

  Nasty piece of work? I asked him.

  As all must turn nasty if there is nothing to restrain their insatiable appetite for power. He was so jealous of his power and suspicious that someone might possibly usurp his supremacy that he kept his son, Dionysius II, completely uneducated so that he could never pose as a rival (Seventh Letter 332c–d). Then the elder Dionysius died quite suddenly, whether of natural causes or not, and the son, as unprepared as a slave for leadership, assumed his place. My friend Dion, who at that time felt that he exerted some beneficial influence over his nephew, saw this as an opportunity to put the ideas of the Academy into effect. He implored me to come to Syracuse to take charge of the education of the younger Dionysius (ibid. 328c).

  You were going to turn the one who already had political power into a philosopher, Marcus said, entirely unnecessarily, as if only to get himself back into the conversation.

  That was the general idea, Plato said, his soft voice managing to convey a strong dose of dryness. Or failing that, at least to convince the one who had political power to consult philosophers for advice. Though I must say it took some convincing for Dion to get me to take on the project. First of all, the education of the younger Dionysius ought to have been undertaken long before. He was eighteen when he assumed power, and that is entering rather late in the project of molding character. Young men of that age have sudden impulses and often quite contradictory ones (Seventh Letter 328b). And the young man’s character was, to begin with, a weak one. To use a metaphor of mine I had once thought to put to political use, the ore of his soul was not of the gold required for true leadership, nor of the silver that makes for a good soldier, but was of the less precious metal, bronze (Republic 414c–415d).23 I also knew that there was much intrigue in the court, schemers who wanted to exploit the weakness and lack of self-discipline and self-knowledge of the new ruler. Still, there was Dion, a man of the utmost probity and noblest disposition, imploring me to come to Syracuse and undertake the great experiment about which we had so often spoken, shrinking the long hours between dusk and dawn to what seemed mere moments, carried away out of time by our vision of what could be, so that we watched together in amazement as the sun rose over honey-yielding Mount Hymettus. And it seemed to me that for the sake of my own self-respect, I ought to see whether some of my ideas could be realized (Seventh Letter 328c). But I was a soul divided. I had written that, on the one hand, the philosopher keeps quiet and minds his own business, content if he himself shall live his life in purity and free from injustice and take his departure finally with fair hope and in a spirit of graciousness and kindness. In that case he will have performed not the least of achievements before he departs (Republic 496d–e).

  Were you thinking of your other friend there? I asked him gently. You know, the one who didn’t get to have his free meals in the what-do-you-call-it?

  The Prytaneum, he said. And I was. I was thinking very much of Socrates when I wrote those words. But then, on the other hand, I had also written that such a philosopher will not have performed the greatest achievement either, if he doesn’t find a state that fits him. For in the state that fits him he himself will attain greater proportions and, along with his private salvation, will save the community as well (Republic 497a). Dion’s summons, therefore, fell heavily on me. I was urged by a sense of shame in my own eyes that I should not always seem to myself a kind of argument pure and simple, never willing to set my hand to anything that was an action (Seventh Letter 328c).

  So how did that work out for you, I asked him, to prod him back to the story line.

  I barely escaped with my life, he said. It was a grim statement, but he didn’t say it grimly. He only raised his eyebrows slightly.

  Well, look, don’t blame yourself too much, I said to him. You know, the best-laid plans and all that. And the royals can be a handful. Believe me, I know. I had Fergie for her last two books. Anyway, at least you didn’t end up getting executed like your poor friend, I said, and then immediately felt bad that I had, since he got that stricken look again. And I’ve got to give you credit, too, I said. At least you got yourself outside of your ivory tower for a little bit, and from the sound of it you got yourself a real adventure. I really hope you worked all this into your new book. The thing I don’t understand, though, is why you harp so much on philosophers, as if they possess the secret of saving the whole world. You sort of remind me of an orthodontist who thinks that the whole secret of living a good life is having perfectly aligned teeth. No offense, Marcus, I added, since on top of all of his other charms he has a perfectly hideous set of teeth. In fact, come to think of it, that’s probably unconsciously what made me think of orthodontists.

  What do you mean? Marcus said.

  Never mind, I said. Forget it.

  But for some reason it was Plato who grabbed hold of the orthodontia thing and wouldn’t let it go.24

  But if you were to want your teeth to be perfectly aligned, he said, to whom would you go?

  There’s nothing wrong with my alignment, I answered him.

  No, of course not, he said, but just bear with me a moment. I’m trying to see if I might offer you an answer as to why I, as you say, harp on philosophers.

  Oh, okay, I said.

  So let’s say, just hypothetically speaking, he said, that there were something the matter with the way your teeth lined up with one another. To whom would you go to get this problem corrected?

  I’d probably go to Dr. Kolodny, I answered him.

  And what is it that makes Dr. Kolodny the right person to correct this problem? he asked.

  He’s one of the best orthodontists in the Bay Area, I answered. Both my kids had their braces put on by him, and he did a beautiful job. Jason and Valerie both have smiles to die for. I took out some pictures of the two of them—and you know how gorgeous they both are—and Plato looked at them and complimented their teeth, while Marcus didn’t even deign to look.

  And is it because of what Dr. Kolodny knows that you brought your children to him? he asked me. I didn’t exactly see where he was going with all this, but he seemed so intent on his questions that I was willing to answer what seemed brain-dead obvious.

  Well, yeah, I answered.

  And what is it that Dr. Kolodny knows? he asked.

  He knows bites, I answered. Meanwhile Marcus was grinning like the conversation wasn’t at all about his bad teeth but about something entirely different about which he, Mr. Philosopher-King, was in the know and I wasn’t.

  So when it is a matter of fixing the alignment of teeth, Plato continued, then you seek the person who has the right sort of knowledge to remedy the situation. The person who knows bites—who knows, in other words, what a good bite is and what must be done to a less-than-good bite to change it into a good bite.

  I was figuring that Plato, with his good breeding, was simply trying to give a very broad hint to Marcus, so I said, If you want, Marcus, I can give you Dr. Kolodny’s phone number.

  Marcus reared up at this. He didn’t mind Plato hinting around, but he wasn’t going to take it from me. Listen, he said, are you trying to imply that there’s something wrong with my teeth?

  Nothing that Dr. Kolodny couldn’t fix, I said soothingly.

  Because when it comes to teeth and the matter of their alignment, Plato jumped right in, there is a right way and there is a wrong way, and the person who is the expert is the one who not only knows the right way but knows how to change the wrong way into the right way.

  My teeth work just fine, Marcus said, and in some sense he was right, since he’d managed to get all that food down in record time, while Plato had barely touched his fruit salad and Greek yogurt.

  But you are not, like Dr. Kolodny, an expert on teeth alignment, Plato said softly.

  Look, they’re my teeth, and they feel just fine to me, said Marcus.

 
; I was pretty sure that Plato and I were both on the same page here, so I said, Maybe they just feel fine to you because they’re the only teeth you’ve ever had. You don’t even know what it feels like to have a perfect bite.

  A perfect bite? Marcus spit out. Maybe it’s because I’m just a software engineer and not a mathematician like you, Plato, not to speak of whatever the hell it is that you are, Cheryl, but I have to say I’m dubious of any claims about perfection, including when it comes to bites. When you’ve got teeth that are fully functional, which my teeth happen to be, then the only reason to mess with them is for some trivial matter of aesthetics.

  To answer your first question, I said to Marcus, I’m a media escort, hired by an author’s publicist to make the author’s book tour, in any given city, go as smoothly as possible no matter what unforeseen obstacles there are. And to answer your second question, I wouldn’t pooh-pooh aesthetics so much. Out in the real world, there’s nothing trivial about aesthetics. And I think Plato here agrees with me.

  If I’m not mistaken, Marcus said in his gotcha sort of way, Plato once wrote that beauty is a short-lived tyranny.

  At this Plato looked almost as stricken as when he was speaking about his friend the felon. When people quote things back to me that I have supposedly written, he said, looking down at his beautiful hands folded on the table in front of him, then I regret ever having taken stylus to papyrus. That’s what he said, Rhonda, and I figured it was just part of the whole toga shtick. I have never committed my true philosophical views to writing (Seventh Letter 241c–d), he continued, which I have to say, considering all the money that his publisher seems to have committed to him, sending him on a twelve-city tour, not to speak of the whole branding thing, was pretty bizarre.25 As for that particular line, I don’t remember ever having written anything like it in any of my philosophical works, he said.26

  And does that include your philosophical views on orthodontia? Marcus asked snidely. I was in an awkward position here. I’m supposed to run interference for my authors and protect them from nudniks like Marcus, but Plato had invited the guy to sit down and now seemed oblivious to his obnoxiousness.