Protagoras and Meno

by Plato

  ‘That's nonsense, Prodicus,’ said Protagoras. ‘I'm quite certain Simonides meant the same thing by “hard” as the rest of us – not “bad” but something that isn't easy; something that takes a lot of trouble and effort.’

  ‘Well, actually, Protagoras,’ I said, ‘that's what I think Simonides means, too; and I suspect Prodicus here knows full well that's what he means – if you ask me he's just messing with you, and testing to see if you'd be able to defend your claim. After all, it becomes perfectly obvious Simonides doesn't mean “bad” when he says “hard” with the very next thing he [e] says – he says:

  only god could have that prize.

  ‘Obviously he can't be saying that “bein' good” is something bad and the next moment say this is something “only god could have”, and hand “that prize” exclusively to god! On that view, Prodicus would be making Simonides out to be some sort of scoundrel – not at all what we'd expect of a man from Ceos.

  ‘Look, I'd be happy to tell you what I think Simonides is really getting at in the song – if you'd like to find out how I measure up as a “critic of poetry”, as you put it – or I'll happily [342 a] listen to what you have to say, if that's what you'd prefer.’

  Protagoras, when he heard this suggestion, just said, ‘Whatever you like, Socrates’. But Prodicus and Hippias absolutely insisted I go on, and so did everyone else.

  ‘All right then,’ I said. ‘Let me try to explain to you what I think is going on in the song.

  ‘The thing is, in all of Greece, people have been doing philosophy the longest, and studying it the most, in Crete and in [b] Sparta, 61 and there are more sophists in those cities than anywhere else on earth. It's just that they claim not to have any interest in it and put on this big show of being morons – rather like the sophists Protagoras was talking about earlier – because they don't want anyone to figure out that it's really their philosophical expertise that gives them the upper hand over other Greeks. They want people to think that their superiority rests on fighting battles and being manly, because they reckon that if people realized what really gave them their edge – philosophy – then everyone would start trying to get good at it. As it is, by keeping it a closely guarded secret, they've completely fooled those people in the other cities who try to adopt “Spartan” customs. Those people, in their attempts to imitate the Spartans, [c] go around bashing each other's ears and tying leather straps around their fists and doing lots of physical training and wearing little thigh-length coats – as if those are the things that make the Spartans the most powerful nation in Greece! The Spartans, meanwhile, when they feel like consulting their sophists without restriction, and are getting a bit sick and tired of meeting with them in secret, drive out all the foreigners, including the Sparto-philes and any other foreigners who happen to be in town, and that way they can get together with their sophists without any outsiders finding out about it. And that's why* they don't allow [d] any of their young men to travel to other cities (just like the Cretans) – to make sure they don't unlearn all the things they've taught them. And in these cities it isn't just the men who pride themselves on the quality of their education; the women are just the same.

  ‘You'll see that what I'm saying is true – i.e. that Spartans really are given a superior education in philosophical discourse – if you just think about the following: if anyone goes and has a conversation with even the most mediocre Spartan, for most of the discussion they'll find he comes across as someone pretty [e] ordinary, but then – at some unexpected point in the argument – he'll fire in some really unforgettable quip, like some kind of ace marksman, something dense and tightly packed – something that makes the person he's talking to suddenly look no smarter than a child.

  ‘Now there are people around today who've noticed exactly what I'm talking about, and there were also people who realized it in the past – i.e. that being Spartan is much more about doing lots of philosophy than doing lots of physical training – because they knew that the ability to produce those sorts of pithy one-liners is the mark of a person of the highest intellectual [343 a] development. Thales from Miletus was one of these people, and Pittacus from Mytilene, and Bias the Mysian, and our own Solon, and Cleobulus from Lindos, and Myson from Chenae, and the Spartan Chilon was spoken of as the seventh member of the group.62 All these people were imitators, admirers and students of Spartan culture, and anyone can spot that that's the style of their philosophy – tight, memorable maxims in every case. And it was this same group who got together and presented the “first fruits” of their philosophy as an offering to [b] Apollo at his temple in Delphi; they inscribed those proverbs everyone's always quoting: KNOW THYSELF and NOTHING TOO MUCH.

  ‘Why am I telling you all this? Well, to make the point that this was the form philosophy took back in those early days – a kind of Spartan-style pithiness. And a classic example was this saying of Pittacus’, which circulated privately and was highly regarded by intellectuals: BEIN' GOOD IS HARD. Now Simonides, who had philosophical pretensions of his own, [c] realized that if he could knock down this saying, like someone knocking out a world-famous wrestler, and get the better of it, he'd win that kind of fame himself among his contemporaries. So the entire song is composed as a response to that particular saying and for that purpose – as a deliberate ploy to knock it off its perch. That's what I think.

  ‘So let's all take a close look at the song together and see if what I'm saying is right.

  ‘Now, straight off, the very first part of the song seems crazy, if he just wanted to say “it's hard to become a good man”: if that was all he meant, why on earth would he have thrown in the [d] phrase “I'll give you that”? There seems no point whatsoever in the phrase being thrown in, unless you take Simonides' words as forming a direct, hostile response to Pittacus' saying – i.e.

  Pittacus says:

  BEIN' GOOD IS HARD

  and Simonides, arguing against him, is saying “No!…

  Really and truly, good

  is a hard thing

  for a man to become,

  I'll give you that, [Pittacus].”

  ‘He's not saying “really-and-truly-good“; that's not what he means the “really and truly” to go with – as if he thinks some people are really good while some [e] people are good but… not really! That would clearly just be silly, and not something Simonides would ever say. No, we have to take the “really and truly” as going with the whole of what follows63 – so that it's as if he'd just mentioned Pittacus' saying, just as if we had Pittacus himself making his claim, and then Simonides responding, with the one of them saying:

  “Listen people, BEIN' GOOD IS HARD,”

  and then the other responding:

  [344 a] “No, Pittacus, not right. Being good isn't hard. Becoming a good man (I'll give you that), straight as a die in hands and feet and mind, built without a single fault, that's what's hard, really and truly.”

  ‘That way, throwing in the “I'll give you that” seems to have some point to it, and likewise the “really and truly” (taken in the right way, as going with the whole sentence).64 And everything that follows supports my interpretation. In fact, there are any number of things you could say about each and every line of the song to show just how well put together it is – the fact [b] is, it's an extremely stylish, meticulously crafted piece. But it would take a long time to go through it in that kind of detail. Let's just run through its general outline and basic point, and show that it's definitely meant as a refutation of Pittacus' saying, from start to finish.

  ‘Look at the next thing he says, just a few words further on: it's as if his argument went like this: that “becoming a good man is what's hard, really – though possible, at least, for a while – but having become a good man, to remain in that state – to be a good man (which is what you're talking [c] about, Pittacus) – that's impossible, 65 and superhuman; the fact is,

  only god could have that prize;

  but a man, there ain't no way

&n
bsp; he can help bein' bad,

  when a real tough break

  beats every move he makes,

  and takes him down…”66

  ‘All right, so, in the case of, say, sailing a ship, who is it that “a tough break that beats every move you make” can “take down”? Obviously not someone who knows nothing about sailing. Because he's just down for the count all along, isn't he? Now you can't knock someone over if they're already lying down. If someone's standing up, sure, then you can knock them over, thereby causing them to lie down; but not if they're lying down all along. Likewise, “a tough break that beats every move [d] you make” could “take down” someone who's got plenty of moves but not someone who's got no moves to make in the first place – a captain, say, might be left with “no more moves to make” if he's caught by a heavy storm, a farmer might be left “with no more moves” if he's hit by nasty weather, or a doctor… you get the idea. The point is, someone who's good is in a position to become bad – a view backed up by another poet as well, the one who said that

  even a man who's good is sometimes bad,

  and sometimes good –

  [e] but someone who's bad is not in any position to become bad; he's just bad all along, necessarily. So the claim is, “someone who's got plenty of moves he can make – i.e. has knowledge and is good – when a real tough break beats every move he makes and takes him down, there ain't no way he can help bein' bad. But you, Pittacus, you claim that “bein' good is hard.” Wrong. Becoming good is hard (I'll give you that) – hard, but possible – bein' good, on the other hand, is impossible:

  ‘Cause any man's good

  when he's doin' well;

  but any man who's doin' real bad, turns bad.67

  [345 a] ‘So, in the case of reading and writing, what counts as “doing well” – what sort of “doing well” makes a person good at reading and writing? Learning it, obviously. And what kind of “doing well” makes someone a good doctor? Learning, obviously – learning how to look after patients. But if he's “doin' real bad, he turns bad”. So who, exactly, is in a position to become a bad doctor? Clearly, someone who's (a) a doctor, and (b) a good doctor. In that case, he's also in a position to become a bad doctor. But as for those of us who know nothing about medicine, there's no way that by “doing badly” we could ever transform into doctors, or carpenters for that matter, or [b] anything else of the sort. And if you aren't in any position to become a doctor by “doing badly”, then it goes without saying that you're in no position to become a bad doctor either. Likewise, a good man could also become a bad man, at some point, either with the passing of time, or as a result of excessive strain or illness, or through some other accident – remember, there's only one thing that counts as “doing badly”: losing your knowledge68 – but a bad man can't become bad. He's bad to begin with. If he's going to become bad, first he's got to become good.

  ‘So it turns out this part of the song is driving at the same point – that being a good man – i.e. permanently good – just [c] isn't possible, but it is possible to become a good man; and of course that same person can also become bad. “And the people who are the best the longest are the ones the gods love.”69

  ‘So all those claims are aimed at Pittacus; and the later lines of the song make it even more obvious. He says:

  That's why I ain't gonna throw away

  the time I'm given,

  my dole of livin’,

  on an empty hope,

  searchin' in vain for somethin' there cannot be:

  a man completely blame-and-blemish-free;

  at least, not among us mortal folks

  who earn our bread

  from the wide, wide land.

  (If I do find one, though,

  I'll let y'all know.)

  ‘You can see how violently he's laying into Pittacus' saying at [d] every point of the song.70

  So long as he does no wrongin' wilfully

  I gonna give my praise

  and love to any man.

  Even the gods don't fight no battle

  against necessity.

  ‘These lines are making exactly the same point. Simonides wasn't so unsophisticated as to say he praises anyone who doesn't wilfully do anything bad – as if he thinks anybody ever wilfully does things that are bad! I mean, I pretty much think that [e] no one who knows anything believes that people ever make mistakes wilfully or do things that are wrong, or bad for them, wilfully. Smart people know full well that when you do things that are wrong, or bad for you, you always do so without meaning to. Simonides is no exception; he isn't saying he praises anyone-who-doesn't-do-bad-things-wilfully; he means the “wilfully” to go with the “I'm going to give my praise.”71 He was thinking, you see, that very often a decent man has to force himself to be affectionate towards someone and praise them – [346 a] like, say, if his mother or father is cruel to him, or his country, or something like that (it happens all the time). Nasty people (he thought), when they get into a situation like that, are actually glad to see their parents' or their country's bad behaviour, and they criticize it, and bring it to everyone's attention, and denounce it – because then they can ignore their obligations without being criticized themselves, without people reproaching them for their neglect – and that means they criticize all the [b] more, and add on gratuitous reasons for quarrelling on top of the ones we can't avoid. Good people, on the other hand, try to be tactful and force themselves to find something nice to say, and if they ever get angry with their parents or their country, when they've been badly treated, they calm themselves down and make up with them, by forcing themselves to show affection to their own, and give them praise. Simonides likewise, I bet, was thinking that plenty of times he'd praised or eulogized some dictator, say, or someone like that, not out of choice but out of “necessity”.

  [c] ‘So this is what he's saying to Pittacus: “Listen, Pittacus, I'm not criticizing you because I think criticizing people is fun; the fact is, for me, it's good enough if a man's not bad; if he's

  … not too out-a-hand,

  and has the sense of right

  that does a city good – a solid guy.

  I ain't gonna pick no fault

  with a man like that…

  “(because I'm not someone who enjoys finding fault with people).

  After all, ain't there a limitless supply

  of dumbass fools?”

  ‘He means, if you do enjoy criticizing people, you can criticize them to your heart's content.

  The way I see it,

  anything's all right,

  if there ain't no shame in it.72

  ‘He's not saying that as if he were saying “Anything's white if [d] there's no black in it” – because that would just be completely absurd – no; he's saying that personally, he's prepared to accept even the middle ground; that's enough for him not to criticize. “I'm not looking for a man who's completely blame-and-blemish-free,” he said, “at least not among all us mortal folks who earn our bread from the wide, wide land; if I do find one, though, I'll let you know.” He means, “If I was that fussy, I'd never praise anyone at all! No, I'm happy if a man is averagely good – i.e. as long as he doesn't do anything bad”:

  so long as he does no wrongin’

  ‘– and you've got to put a comma in here, right before the “wilfully” –

  , wilfully

  I gonna give my praise

  and love to any man

  ‘(notice how here he's gone into Mytilenian slang – “I gonna

  give my praise” – that's because he's speaking directly to Pittacus). “There are people, on the other hand, that I praise and love against my will. So if you'd been saying things that were even half-way reasonable and true, Pittacus, there's no [347 a] way I'd be criticizing you. But as it is, since in fact you're extremely wrong about things that are really important, and yet people think that you're right – that's why I'm criticizing you.”

  ‘So there you go, Prodicus and Protagoras,’ I said
. ‘That's what I think Simonides was meaning to say when he wrote the song.’

  And Hippias said, ‘Well, I think that's a very fine explanation [b] of the song you've given us, Socrates. Having said that, it happens I have a little theory about it of my own, a rather nice one – which I'll be happy to explain to you all, if you're interested…’

  ‘Yeah, sure, Hippias,’ said Alcibiades, ‘only, some other time. Right now what should happen is that Protagoras and Socrates should do what they agreed to do – if Protagoras wants to ask anything else, Socrates should provide answers; or if he's ready to do the answering, Socrates should ask some questions.’

  And I said, ‘I'm happy to leave it up to Protagoras; whichever he prefers. But if it's all right with him, let's not bother with any more songs or poems – what I'd really like to do, Protagoras, is [c] go back to the things I asked you about at the start and come to some conclusion by looking into them with your help. In any case, I've always felt that discussions about poetry are exactly like those parties thrown by low-class, vulgar people – they do the same: they aren't capable of entertaining each other over their drinks just with their own company, with the sound of their own voices and their own ideas – because of their lack of sophistication – so they drive up the price of flute-girls by [d] paying out a lot of money to get a “voice” in from somewhere else – the sound of the flute – and then rely on that “voice” for entertaining one another. But at parties where decent, classy people are drinking together, educated people, you won't find any flute-girls, or dancing-girls, or harp-girls. No. You'll find they're quite capable of entertaining one another just with their own company, without any of that kind of silly, adolescent nonsense, relying on the sound of their own voices, taking turns to speak and to listen to one another in an orderly fashion – even if they drink a whole lot of wine. The same applies to [e] meetings like this one here: as long as the people taking part are the sort of people most of us claim to be, then they shouldn't need any outside voice, not even the voice of poets and songwriters – who can't be asked anything about what they're saying, and usually when people bring them into a discussion you get some people saying the poet means one thing and others saying he means something else, when really they're discussing something they have no way of proving one way or the other. No, they don't bother with those sorts of discussions; they just engage with one another through their own ideas, [348 a] making their own claims, and testing and defending them in turn.