Kabanata Kabanata 10 · Many things pleased me in the order of our State, but there was（1）

nothing which I liked better than the regulation about poetry. The

division of the soul throws a new light on our exclusion of imitation.

I do not mind telling you in confidence that all poetry is an outrage

on the understanding, unless the hearers have that balm of knowledge

which heals error. I have loved Homer ever since I was a boy, and even

now he appears to me to be the great master of tragic poetry. But much

as I love the man, I love truth more, and therefore I must speak out:

and first of all, will you explain what is imitation, for really I do

not understand? ‘How likely then that I should understand!’ That might

very well be, for the duller often sees better than the keener eye.

‘True, but in your presence I can hardly venture to say what I think.’

Then suppose that we begin in our old fashion, with the doctrine of

universals. Let us assume the existence of beds and tables. There is

one idea of a bed, or of a table, which the maker of each had in his

mind when making them; he did not make the ideas of beds and tables,

but he made beds and tables according to the ideas. And is there not a

maker of the works of all workmen, who makes not only vessels but

plants and animals, himself, the earth and heaven, and things in heaven

and under the earth? He makes the Gods also. ‘He must be a wizard

indeed!’ But do you not see that there is a sense in which you could do

the same? You have only to take a mirror, and catch the reflection of

the sun, and the earth, or anything else—there now you have made them.

‘Yes, but only in appearance.’ Exactly so; and the painter is such a

creator as you are with the mirror, and he is even more unreal than the

carpenter; although neither the carpenter nor any other artist can be

supposed to make the absolute bed. ‘Not if philosophers may be

believed.’ Nor need we wonder that his bed has but an imperfect

relation to the truth. Reflect:—Here are three beds; one in nature,

which is made by God; another, which is made by the carpenter; and the

third, by the painter. God only made one, nor could he have made more

than one; for if there had been two, there would always have been a

third—more absolute and abstract than either, under which they would

have been included. We may therefore conceive God to be the natural

maker of the bed, and in a lower sense the carpenter is also the maker;

but the painter is rather the imitator of what the other two make; he

has to do with a creation which is thrice removed from reality. And the

tragic poet is an imitator, and, like every other imitator, is thrice

removed from the king and from the truth. The painter imitates not the

original bed, but the bed made by the carpenter. And this, without

being really different, appears to be different, and has many points of

view, of which only one is caught by the painter, who represents

everything because he represents a piece of everything, and that piece

an image. And he can paint any other artist, although he knows nothing

of their arts; and this with sufficient skill to deceive children or

simple people. Suppose now that somebody came to us and told us, how he

had met a man who knew all that everybody knows, and better than

anybody:—should we not infer him to be a simpleton who, having no

discernment of truth and falsehood, had met with a wizard or enchanter,

whom he fancied to be all-wise? And when we hear persons saying that

Homer and the tragedians know all the arts and all the virtues, must we

not infer that they are under a similar delusion? they do not see that

the poets are imitators, and that their creations are only imitations.

‘Very true.’ But if a person could create as well as imitate, he would

rather leave some permanent work and not an imitation only; he would

rather be the receiver than the giver of praise? ‘Yes, for then he

would have more honour and advantage.’

Let us now interrogate Homer and the poets. Friend Homer, say I to him,

I am not going to ask you about medicine, or any art to which your

poems incidentally refer, but about their main subjects—war, military

tactics, politics. If you are only twice and not thrice removed from

the truth—not an imitator or an image-maker, please to inform us what

good you have ever done to mankind? Is there any city which professes

to have received laws from you, as Sicily and Italy have from

Charondas, Sparta from Lycurgus, Athens from Solon? Or was any war ever

carried on by your counsels? or is any invention attributed to you, as

there is to Thales and Anacharsis? Or is there any Homeric way of life,

such as the Pythagorean was, in which you instructed men, and which is

called after you? ‘No, indeed; and Creophylus (Flesh-child) was even

more unfortunate in his breeding than he was in his name, if, as

tradition says, Homer in his lifetime was allowed by him and his other

friends to starve.’ Yes, but could this ever have happened if Homer had

really been the educator of Hellas? Would he not have had many devoted

followers? If Protagoras and Prodicus can persuade their contemporaries

that no one can manage house or State without them, is it likely that

Homer and Hesiod would have been allowed to go about as beggars—I mean

if they had really been able to do the world any good?—would not men

have compelled them to stay where they were, or have followed them

about in order to get education? But they did not; and therefore we may

infer that Homer and all the poets are only imitators, who do but

imitate the appearances of things. For as a painter by a knowledge of

figure and colour can paint a cobbler without any practice in cobbling,

so the poet can delineate any art in the colours of language, and give

harmony and rhythm to the cobbler and also to the general; and you know

how mere narration, when deprived of the ornaments of metre, is like a

face which has lost the beauty of youth and never had any other. Once

more, the imitator has no knowledge of reality, but only of appearance.

The painter paints, and the artificer makes a bridle and reins, but

neither understands the use of them—the knowledge of this is confined

to the horseman; and so of other things. Thus we have three arts: one

of use, another of invention, a third of imitation; and the user

furnishes the rule to the two others. The flute-player will know the

good and bad flute, and the maker will put faith in him; but the

imitator will neither know nor have faith—neither science nor true

opinion can be ascribed to him. Imitation, then, is devoid of

knowledge, being only a kind of play or sport, and the tragic and epic

poets are imitators in the highest degree.

And now let us enquire, what is the faculty in man which answers to

imitation. Allow me to explain my meaning: Objects are differently seen

when in the water and when out of the water, when near and when at a

distance; and the painter or juggler makes use of this variation to

impose upon us. And the art of measuring and weighing and calculating

comes in to save our bewildered minds from the power of appearance;

for, as we were saying, two contrary opinions of the same about the

same and at the same time, cannot both of them be true. But which of

them is true is determined by the art of calculation; and this is

allied to the better faculty in the soul, as the arts of imitation are

to the worse. And the same holds of the ear as well as of the eye, of

poetry as well as painting. The imitation is of actions voluntary or

involuntary, in which there is an expectation of a good or bad result,

and present experience of pleasure and pain. But is a man in harmony

with himself when he is the subject of these conflicting influences? Is

there not rather a contradiction in him? Let me further ask, whether he

is more likely to control sorrow when he is alone or when he is in

company. ‘In the latter case.’ Feeling would lead him to indulge his

sorrow, but reason and law control him and enjoin patience; since he

cannot know whether his affliction is good or evil, and no human thing

is of any great consequence, while sorrow is certainly a hindrance to

good counsel. For when we stumble, we should not, like children, make

an uproar; we should take the measures which reason prescribes, not

raising a lament, but finding a cure. And the better part of us is

ready to follow reason, while the irrational principle is full of

sorrow and distraction at the recollection of our troubles.

Unfortunately, however, this latter furnishes the chief materials of

the imitative arts. Whereas reason is ever in repose and cannot easily

be displayed, especially to a mixed multitude who have no experience of

her. Thus the poet is like the painter in two ways: first he paints an

inferior degree of truth, and secondly, he is concerned with an

inferior part of the soul. He indulges the feelings, while he enfeebles

the reason; and we refuse to allow him to have authority over the mind

of man; for he has no measure of greater and less, and is a maker of

images and very far gone from truth.

But we have not yet mentioned the heaviest count in the indictment—the

power which poetry has of injuriously exciting the feelings. When we

hear some passage in which a hero laments his sufferings at tedious

length, you know that we sympathize with him and praise the poet; and

yet in our own sorrows such an exhibition of feeling is regarded as

effeminate and unmanly (Ion). Now, ought a man to feel pleasure in

seeing another do what he hates and abominates in himself? Is he not

giving way to a sentiment which in his own case he would control?—he is

off his guard because the sorrow is another’s; and he thinks that he

may indulge his feelings without disgrace, and will be the gainer by

the pleasure. But the inevitable consequence is that he who begins by

weeping at the sorrows of others, will end by weeping at his own. The

same is true of comedy,—you may often laugh at buffoonery which you

would be ashamed to utter, and the love of coarse merriment on the

stage will at last turn you into a buffoon at home. Poetry feeds and

waters the passions and desires; she lets them rule instead of ruling

them. And therefore, when we hear the encomiasts of Homer affirming

that he is the educator of Hellas, and that all life should be

regulated by his precepts, we may allow the excellence of their

intentions, and agree with them in thinking Homer a great poet and

tragedian. But we shall continue to prohibit all poetry which goes

beyond hymns to the Gods and praises of famous men. Not pleasure and

pain, but law and reason shall rule in our State.

These are our grounds for expelling poetry; but lest she should charge

us with discourtesy, let us also make an apology to her. We will remind

her that there is an ancient quarrel between poetry and philosophy, of

which there are many traces in the writings of the poets, such as the

saying of ‘the she-dog, yelping at her mistress,’ and ‘the philosophers

who are ready to circumvent Zeus,’ and ‘the philosophers who are

paupers.’ Nevertheless we bear her no ill-will, and will gladly allow

her to return upon condition that she makes a defence of herself in

verse; and her supporters who are not poets may speak in prose. We

confess her charms; but if she cannot show that she is useful as well

as delightful, like rational lovers, we must renounce our love, though

endeared to us by early associations. Having come to years of

discretion, we know that poetry is not truth, and that a man should be

careful how he introduces her to that state or constitution which he

himself is; for there is a mighty issue at stake—no less than the good

or evil of a human soul. And it is not worth while to forsake justice

and virtue for the attractions of poetry, any more than for the sake of

honour or wealth. ‘I agree with you.’

And yet the rewards of virtue are greater far than I have described.

‘And can we conceive things greater still?’ Not, perhaps, in this brief

span of life: but should an immortal being care about anything short of

eternity? ‘I do not understand what you mean?’ Do you not know that the

soul is immortal? ‘Surely you are not prepared to prove that?’ Indeed I

am. ‘Then let me hear this argument, of which you make so light.’

You would admit that everything has an element of good and of evil. In

all things there is an inherent corruption; and if this cannot destroy

them, nothing else will. The soul too has her own corrupting

principles, which are injustice, intemperance, cowardice, and the like.

But none of these destroy the soul in the same sense that disease

destroys the body. The soul may be full of all iniquities, but is not,

by reason of them, brought any nearer to death. Nothing which was not

destroyed from within ever perished by external affection of evil. The

body, which is one thing, cannot be destroyed by food, which is

another, unless the badness of the food is communicated to the body.

Neither can the soul, which is one thing, be corrupted by the body,

which is another, unless she herself is infected. And as no bodily evil

can infect the soul, neither can any bodily evil, whether disease or

violence, or any other destroy the soul, unless it can be shown to

render her unholy and unjust. But no one will ever prove that the souls

of men become more unjust when they die. If a person has the audacity

to say the contrary, the answer is—Then why do criminals require the

hand of the executioner, and not die of themselves? ‘Truly,’ he said,

‘injustice would not be very terrible if it brought a cessation of

evil; but I rather believe that the injustice which murders others may

tend to quicken and stimulate the life of the unjust.’ You are quite

right. If sin which is her own natural and inherent evil cannot destroy

the soul, hardly will anything else destroy her. But the soul which

cannot be destroyed either by internal or external evil must be

immortal and everlasting. And if this be true, souls will always exist

in the same number. They cannot diminish, because they cannot be

destroyed; nor yet increase, for the increase of the immortal must come

from something mortal, and so all would end in immortality. Neither is

the soul variable and diverse; for that which is immortal must be of

the fairest and simplest composition. If we would conceive her truly,

and so behold justice and injustice in their own nature, she must be

viewed by the light of reason pure as at birth, or as she is reflected

in philosophy when holding converse with the divine and immortal and

eternal. In her present condition we see her only like the sea-god

Glaucus, bruised and maimed in the sea which is the world, and covered

with shells and stones which are incrusted upon her from the

entertainments of earth.

Thus far, as the argument required, we have said nothing of the rewards

and honours which the poets attribute to justice; we have contented

ourselves with showing that justice in herself is best for the soul in

herself, even if a man should put on a Gyges’ ring and have the helmet

of Hades too. And now you shall repay me what you borrowed; and I will

enumerate the rewards of justice in life and after death. I granted,

for the sake of argument, as you will remember, that evil might perhaps

escape the knowledge of Gods and men, although this was really

impossible. And since I have shown that justice has reality, you must

grant me also that she has the palm of appearance. In the first place,

the just man is known to the Gods, and he is therefore the friend of

the Gods, and he will receive at their hands every good, always

excepting such evil as is the necessary consequence of former sins. All

things end in good to him, either in life or after death, even what

appears to be evil; for the Gods have a care of him who desires to be

in their likeness. And what shall we say of men? Is not honesty the

best policy? The clever rogue makes a great start at first, but breaks

down before he reaches the goal, and slinks away in dishonour; whereas

the true runner perseveres to the end, and receives the prize. And you

must allow me to repeat all the blessings which you attributed to the

fortunate unjust—they bear rule in the city, they marry and give in

marriage to whom they will; and the evils which you attributed to the

unfortunate just, do really fall in the end on the unjust, although, as

you implied, their sufferings are better veiled in silence.

But all the blessings of this present life are as nothing when compared

with those which await good men after death. ‘I should like to hear

about them.’ Come, then, and I will tell you the story of Er, the son

of Armenius, a valiant man. He was supposed to have died in battle, but

ten days afterwards his body was found untouched by corruption and sent

home for burial. On the twelfth day he was placed on the funeral pyre

and there he came to life again, and told what he had seen in the world

below. He said that his soul went with a great company to a place, in

which there were two chasms near together in the earth beneath, and two

corresponding chasms in the heaven above. And there were judges sitting

in the intermediate space, bidding the just ascend by the heavenly way

on the right hand, having the seal of their judgment set upon them

before, while the unjust, having the seal behind, were bidden to

descend by the way on the left hand. Him they told to look and listen,

as he was to be their messenger to men from the world below. And he

beheld and saw the souls departing after judgment at either chasm; some

who came from earth, were worn and travel-stained; others, who came

from heaven, were clean and bright. They seemed glad to meet and rest

awhile in the meadow; here they discoursed with one another of what

they had seen in the other world. Those who came from earth wept at the

remembrance of their sorrows, but the spirits from above spoke of

glorious sights and heavenly bliss. He said that for every evil deed

they were punished tenfold—now the journey was of a thousand years’

duration, because the life of man was reckoned as a hundred years—and

the rewards of virtue were in the same proportion. He added something

hardly worth repeating about infants dying almost as soon as they were

born. Of parricides and other murderers he had tortures still more

terrible to narrate. He was present when one of the spirits asked—Where

is Ardiaeus the Great? (This Ardiaeus was a cruel tyrant, who had

murdered his father, and his elder brother, a thousand years before.)

Another spirit answered, ‘He comes not hither, and will never come. And

I myself,’ he added, ‘actually saw this terrible sight. At the entrance

of the chasm, as we were about to reascend, Ardiaeus appeared, and some

other sinners—most of whom had been tyrants, but not all—and just as

they fancied that they were returning to life, the chasm gave a roar,

and then wild, fiery-looking men who knew the meaning of the sound,

seized him and several others, and bound them hand and foot and threw

them down, and dragged them along at the side of the road, lacerating

them and carding them like wool, and explaining to the passers-by, that

they were going to be cast into hell.’ The greatest terror of the

pilgrims ascending was lest they should hear the voice, and when there

was silence one by one they passed up with joy. To these sufferings

there were corresponding delights.

On the eighth day the souls of the pilgrims resumed their journey, and

in four days came to a spot whence they looked down upon a line of

light, in colour like a rainbow, only brighter and clearer. One day

more brought them to the place, and they saw that this was the column

of light which binds together the whole universe. The ends of the

column were fastened to heaven, and from them hung the distaff of

Necessity, on which all the heavenly bodies turned—the hook and spindle

were of adamant, and the whorl of a mixed substance. The whorl was in

form like a number of boxes fitting into one another with their edges

turned upwards, making together a single whorl which was pierced by the

spindle. The outermost had the rim broadest, and the inner whorls were

smaller and smaller, and had their rims narrower. The largest (the

fixed stars) was spangled—the seventh (the sun) was brightest—the

eighth (the moon) shone by the light of the seventh—the second and

fifth (Saturn and Mercury) were most like one another and yellower than

the eighth—the third (Jupiter) had the whitest light—the fourth (Mars)

was red—the sixth (Venus) was in whiteness second. The whole had one

motion, but while this was revolving in one direction the seven inner

circles were moving in the opposite, with various degrees of swiftness

and slowness. The spindle turned on the knees of Necessity, and a Siren

stood hymning upon each circle, while Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos,

the daughters of Necessity, sat on thrones at equal intervals, singing

of past, present, and future, responsive to the music of the Sirens;

Clotho from time to time guiding the outer circle with a touch of her

right hand; Atropos with her left hand touching and guiding the inner

circles; Lachesis in turn putting forth her hand from time to time to

guide both of them. On their arrival the pilgrims went to Lachesis, and

there was an interpreter who arranged them, and taking from her knees

lots, and samples of lives, got up into a pulpit and said: ‘Mortal

souls, hear the words of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity. A new

period of mortal life has begun, and you may choose what divinity you

please; the responsibility of choosing is with you—God is blameless.’

After speaking thus, he cast the lots among them and each one took up

the lot which fell near him. He then placed on the ground before them

the samples of lives, many more than the souls present; and there were

all sorts of lives, of men and of animals. There were tyrannies ending

in misery and exile, and lives of men and women famous for their

different qualities; and also mixed lives, made up of wealth and

poverty, sickness and health. Here, Glaucon, is the great risk of human

life, and therefore the whole of education should be directed to the

acquisition of such a knowledge as will teach a man to refuse the evil

and choose the good. He should know all the combinations which occur in

life—of beauty with poverty or with wealth,—of knowledge with external

goods,—and at last choose with reference to the nature of the soul,

regarding that only as the better life which makes men better, and

leaving the rest. And a man must take with him an iron sense of truth

and right into the world below, that there too he may remain undazzled

by wealth or the allurements of evil, and be determined to avoid the

extremes and choose the mean. For this, as the messenger reported the

interpreter to have said, is the true happiness of man; and any one, as

he proclaimed, may, if he choose with understanding, have a good lot,

even though he come last. ‘Let not the first be careless in his choice,

nor the last despair.’ He spoke; and when he had spoken, he who had

drawn the first lot chose a tyranny: he did not see that he was fated

to devour his own children—and when he discovered his mistake, he wept

and beat his breast, blaming chance and the Gods and anybody rather

than himself. He was one of those who had come from heaven, and in his

previous life had been a citizen of a well-ordered State, but he had

only habit and no philosophy. Like many another, he made a bad choice,

because he had no experience of life; whereas those who came from earth

and had seen trouble were not in such a hurry to choose. But if a man

had followed philosophy while upon earth, and had been moderately

fortunate in his lot, he might not only be happy here, but his

pilgrimage both from and to this world would be smooth and heavenly.

Nothing was more curious than the spectacle of the choice, at once sad

and laughable and wonderful; most of the souls only seeking to avoid

their own condition in a previous life. He saw the soul of Orpheus

changing into a swan because he would not be born of a woman; there was

Thamyras becoming a nightingale; musical birds, like the swan, choosing

to be men; the twentieth soul, which was that of Ajax, preferring the

life of a lion to that of a man, in remembrance of the injustice which

was done to him in the judgment of the arms; and Agamemnon, from a like

enmity to human nature, passing into an eagle. About the middle was the

soul of Atalanta choosing the honours of an athlete, and next to her

Epeus taking the nature of a workwoman; among the last was Thersites,

who was changing himself into a monkey. Thither, the last of all, came

Odysseus, and sought the lot of a private man, which lay neglected and

despised, and when he found it he went away rejoicing, and said that if

he had been first instead of last, his choice would have been the same.

Men, too, were seen passing into animals, and wild and tame animals

changing into one another.

When all the souls had chosen they went to Lachesis, who sent with each

of them their genius or attendant to fulfil their lot. He first of all

brought them under the hand of Clotho, and drew them within the

revolution of the spindle impelled by her hand; from her they were

carried to Atropos, who made the threads irreversible; whence, without

turning round, they passed beneath the throne of Necessity; and when

they had all passed, they moved on in scorching heat to the plain of

Forgetfulness and rested at evening by the river Unmindful, whose water

could not be retained in any vessel; of this they had all to drink a

certain quantity—some of them drank more than was required, and he who

drank forgot all things. Er himself was prevented from drinking. When

they had gone to rest, about the middle of the night there were

thunderstorms and earthquakes, and suddenly they were all driven divers

ways, shooting like stars to their birth. Concerning his return to the

body, he only knew that awaking suddenly in the morning he found

himself lying on the pyre.

Thus, Glaucon, the tale has been saved, and will be our salvation, if

we believe that the soul is immortal, and hold fast to the heavenly way

of Justice and Knowledge. So shall we pass undefiled over the river of

Forgetfulness, and be dear to ourselves and to the Gods, and have a

crown of reward and happiness both in this world and also in the

millennial pilgrimage of the other.

The Tenth Book of the Republic of Plato falls into two divisions:

first, resuming an old thread which has been interrupted, Socrates

assails the poets, who, now that the nature of the soul has been

analyzed, are seen to be very far gone from the truth; and secondly,

having shown the reality of the happiness of the just, he demands that

appearance shall be restored to him, and then proceeds to prove the

immortality of the soul. The argument, as in the Phaedo and Gorgias, is

supplemented by the vision of a future life.

Why Plato, who was himself a poet, and whose dialogues are poems and

dramas, should have been hostile to the poets as a class, and

especially to the dramatic poets; why he should not have seen that

truth may be embodied in verse as well as in prose, and that there are

some indefinable lights and shadows of human life which can only be

expressed in poetry—some elements of imagination which always entwine

with reason; why he should have supposed epic verse to be inseparably

associated with the impurities of the old Hellenic mythology; why he

should try Homer and Hesiod by the unfair and prosaic test of

utility,—are questions which have always been debated amongst students

of Plato. Though unable to give a complete answer to them, we may

show—first, that his views arose naturally out of the circumstances of

his age; and secondly, we may elicit the truth as well as the error

which is contained in them.

He is the enemy of the poets because poetry was declining in his own

lifetime, and a theatrocracy, as he says in the Laws, had taken the

place of an intellectual aristocracy. Euripides exhibited the last

phase of the tragic drama, and in him Plato saw the friend and

apologist of tyrants, and the Sophist of tragedy. The old comedy was

almost extinct; the new had not yet arisen. Dramatic and lyric poetry,

like every other branch of Greek literature, was falling under the

power of rhetoric. There was no ‘second or third’ to Aeschylus and

Sophocles in the generation which followed them. Aristophanes, in one

of his later comedies (Frogs), speaks of ‘thousands of tragedy-making

prattlers,’ whose attempts at poetry he compares to the chirping of

swallows; ‘their garrulity went far beyond Euripides,’—‘they appeared

once upon the stage, and there was an end of them.’ To a man of genius

who had a real appreciation of the godlike Aeschylus and the noble and

gentle Sophocles, though disagreeing with some parts of their

‘theology’ (Rep.), these ‘minor poets’ must have been contemptible and

intolerable. There is no feeling stronger in the dialogues of Plato

than a sense of the decline and decay both in literature and in

politics which marked his own age. Nor can he have been expected to

look with favour on the licence of Aristophanes, now at the end of his

career, who had begun by satirizing Socrates in the Clouds, and in a

similar spirit forty years afterwards had satirized the founders of

ideal commonwealths in his Eccleziazusae, or Female Parliament (Laws).

There were other reasons for the antagonism of Plato to poetry. The

profession of an actor was regarded by him as a degradation of human

nature, for ‘one man in his life’ cannot ‘play many parts;’ the

characters which the actor performs seem to destroy his own character,

and to leave nothing which can be truly called himself. Neither can any

man live his life and act it. The actor is the slave of his art, not

the master of it. Taking this view Plato is more decided in his

expulsion of the dramatic than of the epic poets, though he must have

known that the Greek tragedians afforded noble lessons and examples of

virtue and patriotism, to which nothing in Homer can be compared. But

great dramatic or even great rhetorical power is hardly consistent with

firmness or strength of mind, and dramatic talent is often incidentally

associated with a weak or dissolute character.