Chapters 2
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1 01 - Charmides (Text 7) 38:15
Carmides, or Temperance, by Plato. Translated by Benjamin Jowett. Persons of the Dialogue. Socrates, who is the narrator. Carmides. Kerophon. Quidius. Scene. The palestra of Tareus, which is near the porch of the King Archon. Yesterday evening I returned from the army at Potidaea, and, having been a good while away, I thought that I would go and look at my old haunts. So I went into the palestra of Tareus, which is over against the temple adjoining the porch of the King Archon, And there I found a number of persons, most of whom I knew, but not all. My visit was unexpected, and no sooner did they see me entering than they saluted me from afar on all sides. And Caraphon, who is a kind of madman, started up and ran to me, seizing my hand and saying, How did you escape Socrates?
I should explain that an engagement had taken place at Potidae not long before we came away, the news of which had only just reached Athens. You see, I replied, that here I am. There was a report, he said, that the engagement was very severe and that many of our acquaintance had fallen. That, I replied, was not far from the truth. I suppose he said that you were present? I was. Then sit down, and tell us the whole story, which, as yet, we have only heard imperfectly. I took the place which he assigned to me by the side of Critias, the son of Calaisgros, and, when I had saluted him, and the rest of the company, I told them the news from the army, and answered their several inquiries. Then, when there had been enough of this, I, in my turn, began to make inquiries about matters at home.
About the present state of philosophy, and about the youth. I asked whether any of them were remarkable for beauty or sense or both. Critias, glancing at the door, invited my attention to some youths who were coming in and talking noisily to one another, followed by a crowd. Of the beauties, Socrates, he said, I fancy that you will soon be able to form a judgment. For those who are just entering are the advanced guard of the great beauty of the day, and he is likely to be not far off himself. Who is he, I said, and who is his father? Carmides, he replied, is his name. He is my cousin, and the son of my uncle Glaucon. I rather think that you know him, although he was not grown up at the time of your departure.
Certainly I know him, I said. For he was remarkable even then when he was still a child, and now I should imagine that he must be almost a young man. You will see, he said, in a moment what progress he has made, and what he is like. He had scarcely said the word when Carmides entered. Now you know, my friend, that I cannot measure anything, and of the beautiful I am simply such a measure as a white line is of chalk. For Almost all young persons are alike beautiful in my eyes. But at that moment, when I saw him coming in, I must admit that I was quite astonished at his beauty and stature. All the world seemed to be enamoured of him. Amazement and confusion reigned when he entered, and a troop of lovers followed him.
That grown-up men like ourselves should have been affected in this way was not surprising. But I observed that there was the same feeling among the boys. All of them, down to the very least child, turned and looked at him as if he had been a statue. Cariphon called me and said, What do you think of him, Socrates? Has he not a beautiful face? That he has, indeed, I said. But you would think nothing of his face, he replied, if you could see his naked form. He is absolutely perfect. And to this they all agreed. By Heracles, I said, there never was such a paragon, if he has only one other slight addition. What is that? said Critias. If he has a noble soul, and, being of your house, Critias, he may be expected to have this.
He is as fair and good within as he is without, replied Critias. Shall we ask him then, I said, to show us not his body but his soul, naked and undisguised? He is just of an age at which he will like to talk. That he will, said Critias, and I can tell you that he is a philosopher already, and also a considerable poet, not in his own opinion only, but in that of others. That, my dear Critias, I replied, is a distinction which has long been in your family, and is inherited by you from Solon. But why don't you call him and show him to us? For even if he were younger than he is, there could be no impropriety in his talking to us in the presence of you, who are his guardian and cousin. Very well, he said, that I will call him, and, turning to the attendant, he said, Call Carmides, and tell him that I want him to come and see a physician about the illness of which he spoke to me the day before yesterday.
Then again addressing me, he added, He has been complaining lately of having a headache when he rises in the morning. Now, why should you not make believe to him that you know a cure for the headache? There will be no difficulty about that, I said, if he comes. He will be sure to come, he replied. He came as he was bidden, and sat down between Critias and me. Great amusement was occasioned by every one pushing with might and mean at his neighbor in order to make a place for him next to them, until, at the two ends of the row, one had to get up, and the other was rolled over sideways. Now I, my friend, was beginning to feel awkward. My former bold belief in my powers of conversing with him had vanished.
And when Critias told him that I was the person who had the cure, he looked at me in such an indescribable manner, and was about to ask a question. And then all the people in the palestra crowded about us, and, oh rare, I caught a sight of the inwards of his garment, and took the flame. Then I could no longer contain myself. I thought how well Critias understood the nature of love, when, in speaking of a fair youth, he warned some one, Not to bring the fawn in the sight of the lion lest he devour him. For I felt that I had been overcome by a sort of wild-beast appetite. But I controlled myself, and when he asked me if I knew the cure of the headache I answered, but with an effort, that I did know.
And what is it? he said. I replied, That it was a kind of leaf which required to be accompanied by a charm, and if a person would repeat the charm at the same time that he used the cure, he would be made whole, but that without the charm the leaf would be of no avail. Then I will write out the charm from your dictation, he said. With my good will, I said, or without my good will? With your good will, Socrates, he said, laughing. Very good, I said. And are you quite sure that you know my name? I ought to know you, he replied, for there is a great deal said about you among my companions, and I remember when I was a child seeing you in company with my cousin Critias. That is very good of you, I said, and will make me more at home with you in explaining the nature of the charm.
I was thinking that I might have a difficulty about this, for the charm will do more, Carmides, than only cure the headache. I dare say that you may have heard eminent physicians say to a patient who comes to them with bad eyes, that they cannot cure his eyes by themselves, but that if his eyes are to be cured, his head must be treated. And then again they say that to think of curing the head alone, and not the rest of the body also, is the height of folly. And, arguing in this way, they apply their methods to the whole body, and try to treat and heal the whole and the part together. Did you ever observe that this is what they say? Yes, he said. And they are right. And you would agree with them?
Yes, he said, certainly I should. His approving answers reassured me, and I began by degrees to regain confidence, and the vital heat returned. Such, Carmides, I said, is the nature of the charm. Now I learned it when serving with the army of one of the physicians of the Thracian king, Samulxes. He was one of those who are said to give immortality. This Thracian told me that the Greek physicians are quite right in these notions of theirs, which I was mentioning, as far as they go. But, Simulxes, he added, our king, who is also a god, says further, that as you ought not to attempt to cure the eyes without the head, or the head without the eyes, so neither ought you to attempt to cure the body without the soul.
And this, he said, is the reason why the cure of many diseases is unknown to the physicians of Hellas, because they are ignorant of the whole, which ought to be studied also, for the part can never be well unless the whole is well. For all good and evil, whether in the body or in human nature, originates, as he declared, in the soul. And overflows from thence, as from the head into the eyes. And therefore, if the head and the body are to be well, you must begin by curing the soul. That is the first thing. And the cure, my dear youth, has to be effected by the use of certain charms. And these charms are fair words, and by them temperance is implanted in the soul, and where temperance is, there health is speedily imparted, not only to the head, But to the whole body.
And he who taught me the cure and the charm added a special direction. Let no one, he said, persuade you to cure the head until he has first given you his soul to be cured by the charm. For this, he said, is the great error of our day in the treatment of the human body, that physicians separate the soul from the body. And he added with emphasis, at the same time, making me swear to his words, Let no one However rich, or noble, or fair, persuade you to give him the cure without the charm. Now I have sworn, and I must keep my oath, and therefore if you will allow me to apply the Thracian charm first to your soul, as the stranger directed, I will afterwards proceed to apply the cure to your head.
But if not, I do not know what I am to do with you, my dear Carmides. Critias, when he heard this, said, The headache will be an unexpected benefit to my young relation if the pain in his head compels him to improve his mind. And I can tell you, Socrates, that Carmedes is not only preeminent in beauty among his equals, but also in that quality which is given by the charm. And this, as you say, is temperance, is it not? Yes, I said. Then, Let me tell you that he is the most temperate of human beings, and for his age inferior to none in any quality. Yes, I said, Carmides, and indeed I think that you ought to excel others in all good qualities. For if I am not mistaken there is no one present who could easily point out two Athenian houses, the alliance of which was likely to produce a better or nobler son than the two from which you are sprung.
There is your father's house which is descended from Critias, the son of Dropidas, whose family has been commemorated in the panegyrical verses of Anacreon, Solon, and many other poets, as famous for beauty and virtue and all other high fortune. And your mother's house is equally distinguished for Your maternal uncle, Pyrrolampes, never met with his equal in Persia at the court of the great king, or on the whole continent in all the places to which he went as ambassador, for stature and beauty. That whole family is not a whit inferior to the other. Having such ancestors you ought to be first in all things, and, as far as I can see, sweet son of Glaucon, your outward form is no dishonour to them."
And if you have temperance as well as beauty, as Critias declares, then blessed art thou, dear Carmides, in being the son of thy mother. And this is the question. If this gift of temperance is already yours, as Critias declares, and you are temperate enough, in that case you have no need of any charms, whether of Zemulxes or of Aboris the Hyperborean. And I may as well give you the cure of the head at once. But if you are wanting in these qualities, I must use the charm before I give you the medicine. Please, therefore, to inform me whether you admit the truth of what Critias has been saying about your gift of temperance, or are you wanting in this particular? Carmides blushed, and the blush heightened his beauty, for modesty is becoming in youth.
He then said, Very ingenuously, that he really could not say at once either yes or no in answer to the question which I had asked. For, said he, if I affirm that I am not temperate, that would be a strange thing to say of myself, and also I should have to give the lie to Critias and many others who think that I am temperate, as he tells you. But on the other hand, if I say that I am, I shall have to praise myself, which would be ill manners. And therefore I have no answer to make to you. I said to him, That is a natural reply, Carmides, and I think that you and I may as well inquire together whether you have this quality about which I am asking or not, and then you will not be compelled to say what you do not like, neither shall I be a rash practitioner of medicine.
Therefore, if you please, I will join with you in the inquiry, but I will not press you if you would rather not. There is nothing which I should like better, he said, and, as far as I am concerned, you may proceed in the way which you think best. I think I said that I had better begin by asking you, What is temperance? For you must have an opinion about this. If temperance abides in you she must give some intimation of her nature and qualities, which may enable you to form some notion of her. Is not that true? Yes, he said. That, I think, is true. And, as you speak Greek, I said, you can surely describe what this appears to be which you have within you. Certainly, he said. In order, then, that I may form a conjecture whether you have temperance abiding in you or not, tell me, I said, what, in your opinion, is temperance?
At first he hesitated, and was very unwilling to answer. Then he said that he thought temperance was doing things orderly and quietly, such things, for example, as walking in the streets, and talking, or anything else of that nature. In a word, he said, I should answer that, in my opinion, temperance is quietness. Are you right, Carmides? I said. No doubt the opinion is held that the quiet are the temperate. But let us see whether they are right who say this, and first tell me whether you would not acknowledge temperance to be of the class of the Honourable and Good. Yes. But which is best when you are at the writing-masters, to write the same letters quickly or quietly? Quickly. And to read quickly or slowly?
Quickly again. And in playing the lyre or wrestling, Quickness or cleverness are far better than quietness and slowness? Yes. And the same holds in boxing and the pancratium? Certainly. And in leaping and running and bodily exercises generally, quickness and agility are good. Slowness and inactivity and quietness are bad? That is evident. Then I said, in all bodily actions not quietness but the greatest agility and quickness is noblest and best? Yes, certainly. And is temperance a good? Yes. Then, in reference to the body, not quietness but quickness will be the higher degree of temperance if temperance is a good? True, he said. And which, I said, is better, facility in learning or difficulty in learning?
Facility. Yes, I said, and facility in learning is learning quickly, and difficulty in learning is learning quietly and slowly? True. And is it not better to teach one another quickly and energetically rather than quietly and slowly? Yes. And to call to mind and to remember quickly and readily, that is also better than to remember quietly and slowly? Yes. And is not shrewdness a quickness or cleverness of the soul, and not a quietness? True. And is it not best to understand what is said, whether at the writing-masters, or the music-masters, or anywhere else, not as quietly as possible, but as quickly as possible? Yes. And when the soul inquires, And, in deliberations, not the quietest, as I imagine, and he who with difficulty deliberates and discovers, is thought worthy of praise, but he who does this most easily and quickly.
That is true, he said. And, in all that concerns either body or soul, swiftness and activity are clearly better than slowness and quietness. That, he said, is the inference. Then temperance is not quietness, nor is the temperate life quiet upon this view. For the life which is temperate is supposed to be the good. And of two things one is true. Either never, or very seldom, do the quiet actions in life appear to be better than the quick and energetic ones. Or Granting ever so much that of the nobler sort of actions there are as many quiet as quick and vehement ones, still, even if we admit this, temperance will not be acting quietly any more than acting quickly and vehemently, either in walking, talking, or anything else.
Nor will the quiet life be more temperate than the unquiet, seeing that temperance is reckoned by us in the class of good and honourable, and the quick. Have been shown to be as good as the quiet. I think, he said, Socrates, that you are right in saying that. Then, once more, Carmides, I said, fix your attention and look within. Consider the effect which temperance has upon yourself, and the nature of that which has the effect. Think over that, and, like a brave youth, tell me, what is temperance? After a moment's pause, in which he made a real manly effort to think, he said, My opinion is, Socrates, that temperance makes a man ashamed or modest, and that temperance is the same as modesty. Very good, I said.
And did you not admit just now that temperance is honourable? Yes, certainly, he said. And the temperate are also good? Yes. And can that be good which does not make men good? Certainly not. And you would infer that temperance is not only honourable but also good? That is my opinion. Well, I said, and surely you would agree with Homer when he says, Modesty is not good for a needy man? Yes, he said, I agree to that. Then I suppose that modesty is and is not good? That is plain. But temperance, whose presence makes men only good and not bad, is always good? That appears to me to be as you say. Then the inference is that temperance cannot be modesty, if temperance is a good, and if modesty is as much an evil as a good.
All that, Socrates, appears to me to be true. But I should like to know what you think about another definition of temperance, which I just now remember to have heard from someone who said, that temperance is doing our own business. Was he right to affirm that? You young monster, I said, this is what Critias, or some philosopher, has told you. Someone else, then, said Critias, for certainly I have not. But what matter, said Carmides, from whom I heard this? No matter at all, I replied, For the point is not who said the words, but whether they are true or not. There you are in the right, Socrates, he replied. To be sure, I said, yet I doubt whether we shall ever be able to discover their truth or falsehood, for they are a riddle.
What makes you think that, he said? Because, I said, he who uttered them seems to me to have meant one thing, and said another. Is the scribe, for example, to be regarded as doing nothing when he reads or writes? I should rather think that he was doing something. And does the scribe write or read, or teach you boys to write or read, your own names only, or did you write your enemies' names as well as your own and your friends? As much one as the other. And was there anything meddling or intemperate in this? Certainly not. And yet, if reading and writing are the same as doing, you were doing what was not your own business? But they are the same as doing. And the healing art, my friend, and building and weaving, and doing anything whatever which is done by art, all come under the head of doing?
Certainly. And do you think that a state would be well ordered by a law which compelled every man to weave and wash his own coat? And make his own shoes, and his own flask and striddle, and other implements, on this principle of every one doing and performing his own, and abstaining from what is not his own? I think not, he said. But, I said, a temperate state will be a well-ordered state. Of course, he replied. Then temperance, I said, will not be doing one's own business, at least not in this way, or not doing these sort of things? Clearly not. Then, as I was just now saying, he who declared that temperance is a man doing his own business had another and a hidden meaning, for I don't think that he could have been such a fool as to mean this.
Was he a fool who told you, Carmides? Nay, he replied, I certainly thought him a very wise man. Then I am quite certain that he put forth this as a riddle. He meant to say that there was a difficulty in a man knowing what is his own business. I dare say, he replied, and what, then, is the meaning of a man doing his own business? Can you tell me? Indeed, I cannot, he said, and I shouldn't wonder if he who said this had no notion of his own meaning. And in saying this he laughed slyly and looked at Critias. Critias had long been showing uneasiness, for he felt that he had a reputation to maintain with Carmides and the rest of the company. He had, however, hitherto managed to restrain himself, but now he could no longer forbear, and his eagerness satisfied me of the truth of my suspicion that Carmides had heard this answer about temperance from Critias, and Carmides, who did not want to answer himself, but to make Critias' answer, tried to stir him up.
He went on pointing out that he had been refuted, and at this Critias got angry, and, as I thought, was rather inclined to quarrel with him, just as a poet might quarrel with an actor who spoiled his poems in repeating them. So he looked hard at him and said, Do you imagine, Carmides, that the author of the definition of temperance did not understand the meaning of his own words, because you don't understand them? Why, at his age, I said, most excellent Critias, he can hardly be expected to understand. But you, who are older, and have studied, may well be assumed to know the meaning of them, and therefore, if you agree with him, and accept his definition of temperance, I would much rather argue with you.
Then with him, about the truth or falsehood of the definition. I entirely agree, said Critias, and accept the definition. Very good, I said, and now let me repeat my question. Do you admit, as I was just now saying, that all craftsmen make or do something? I do. And do they make or do their own business only, or that of others also? They make that of others also. And are they temperate, seeing that they make not for themselves or their own business only? Why not, he said? No objection on my part, I said, but there may be a difficulty on his who proposes as a definition of temperance doing one's own business, and then says that there is no reason why those who do the business of others should not be temperate.
Nay, said he, did I ever acknowledge that those who do the business of others are temperate. I said, those who make, not those who do. What? I asked. Do you mean to say that doing and making are not the same? No more, he replied, than making or working are the same. That I have learned from Hesiod, who says that work is no disgrace. Now do you imagine that if he had meant by working such things as you were describing, he would have said that there was no disgrace in them. In making shoes, for example, Or in selling pickles, or sitting for hire in a house of ill fame. That, Socrates, is not to be supposed. But, as I imagine, he distinguished making from action and work. And, while admitting that the making anything might sometimes become a disgrace, when the employment was not honourable, thought that work was never any disgrace at all.
For things nobly and usefully made He called works, and such makings he called workings and doings. And he must be supposed to have called such things only man's proper business, and what is hurtful not his business. And in that sense Hesiod and any other wise man may be reasonably supposed to call him wise who does his own work. O Critias, I said, No sooner had you opened your mouth than I pretty well knew that you would call that which is proper to a man, and that which is his own, good, and that the making of the good you would call doings, for I have heard particos drawing endless distinctions about names. Now I have no objection to your giving names any sense that you please, if you will only tell me what you mean by them.
Please then to begin again, and be a little plainer. Do you not mean that this doing or making, or whatever is the word which you would use of good actions, is temperance? I do, he said. Then not he who does evil, but he who does good, is temperate? Yes, he said, and you would agree to that. Never mind whether I agree or not, as yet we are only concerned with your meaning. Well, he answered. I mean to say that he who does evil and not good is not temperate, and that he is temperate who does good and not evil. For temperance I define in plain words to be the doing of good actions. And you may be very likely right in that, I said, but I am curious to know whether you imagine that temperate men are ignorant of their own temperance.
I do not imagine that, he said. And yet were you not saying, not so very long ago, that craftsmen might be temperate in doing another's work as well as their own? Yes, I was, he replied. But why do you refer to that? I have no particular reason, but I wish you would tell me whether a physician who cures a patient may do good to himself and good to another also. I think that he may. And he who does this does his duty. And does not he who does his duty act temperately or wisely? Yes, he acts wisely. But must the physician necessarily know when his treatment is likely to prove beneficial, and when not? Or must the craftsman necessarily know when he is likely to be benefited, and when not to be benefited, by the work which he is doing?
I suppose not. Then I said, he may sometimes do good or harm, and not know what he is himself doing, and yet in doing good, as you say, he has done temperately or wisely. Was not that your statement? Yes. Then, as would seem, in doing good, he may act wisely or temperately, and be wise or temperate, but not know his own wisdom or temperance. But that, Socrates, he said, is impossible, and therefore, if that is, as you imply, the necessary consequence of any of my previous admissions, I would rather withdraw them, and not be ashamed to confess that I was mistaken, than admit that a man can be temperate or wise who does not know himself. For self-knowledge would certainly be maintained by me to be the very essence of knowledge, and in this I agree with him who dedicated the inscription, Know thyself.
At Delphi. That word, if I am not mistaken, is put there as a sort of salutation which the God addresses to those who enter the temple, as much as to say that the ordinary salutation of Hail is not right, and that the exhortation, be temperate, would be a far better way of saluting one another. The notion of him who dedicated the inscription was, as I believe, that the God speaks to those who enter his temple, not as men speak. But when a worshipper enters, the first word which he hears is, Be temperate. This, however, like a prophet he expresses in a sort of riddle, for, Know thyself, and be temperate, are the same, as I maintain, and as the writing implies, and yet they may be easily misunderstood, and succeeding sages, who added, Never too much, or Give a pledge, and evil is nigh at hand, would appear to have misunderstood them, for they imagined that, Know thyself, was a piece of advice which the God gave, and not his salutation of the worshippers at their first coming in, and they wrote their inscription under the idea that they would give equally useful pieces of advice.
Shall I tell you, Socrates, why I say all this? My object is to leave the previous discussion In which I know not whether you or I are more right, but at any rate no clear result was attained, and to raise a new one in which I will attempt to prove, if you deny, that temperance is self-knowledge. Yes, I said, Critias, but you come to me as though I profess to know about the questions which I ask, and as though I could, if only I would, agree with you. Whereas the fact is that I am, as you are, an inquirer into the truth of your proposition, and when I have inquired I will say whether I agree with you or not. Please, then, to allow me time to reflect." Reflect, he said. I am reflecting, I replied, and discover that temperance or wisdom, if implying a knowledge of anything, must be a science, and a science of something.
Yes, he said. The science of itself. And is not medicine, I said, the science of health? True. And suppose I said that I were asked by you what is the use or effect of medicine, which is this science of health? I should answer that medicine is a very great use in producing health, which, as you will admit, is an excellent effect. Granted. And, if you were to ask me, what is the result or effect of architecture which is the science of building, I should say, houses, and so of other arts which all have their different results? Now I want you, Critias, to answer a similar question about temperance or wisdom, to which you ought to know the answer, if, as you say, wisdom or temperance is the science of itself.
Admitting this, I ask, what good work Worthy of the name does wisdom affect. Answer me that. That is not the true way of pursuing the inquiry, Socrates, he said, for wisdom is not like the other sciences, any more than they are like one another. But you proceed as if they were alike. For tell me, he said, what result is there of computation or geometry, in the same sense as a house is the result of building, or a garment of weaving, or any other work of any other art? Can you show me any such result of them? You cannot. That is true, I said, but still each of these sciences has a subject which is different from the science. I can show you that the art of computation has to do with odd and even numbers in their numerical relations to themselves and to each other.
Is not that true? Yes, he said. And the odd and even numbers are not the same with the art of computation? They are not. The art of weighing, again, has to do with lighter and heavier, but the art of weighing is one thing, and the heavy and the light another. Do you admit that? Yes. Now I want to know what is that which is not wisdom, and of which wisdom is the science? That is precisely the old error, Socrates, he said. You come asking in what wisdom differs from the other sciences, and then you carry on the inquiry as if they were alike. But that is not the case, for all the other sciences are of something else, and not of themselves, but that alone is a science of other sciences and of itself.
And of this, as I believe, you are very well aware, and that you are only doing what you denied that you were doing just now, leaving the argument and trying to refute me. And what if I am refuting you? How can you think that I have any other motive in this but what I should have in examining into myself? Which motive would be just a fear of my unconsciously fancying that I knew something of which I was ignorant? And at this moment I pursue the inquiry chiefly for my own sake, and perhaps in some degree also for the sake of my other friends, for is not the discovery of things as they truly are A common good to all mankind? Yes, certainly, Socrates, he said. Then I said, Be of good cheer, sweet sir, and give your opinion in answer to the question which I asked, without minding whether Critias or Socrates is the person refuted.
Attend only to the argument, and see what will come of the refutation. I think that you are right, he replied, and I will do as you say. Tell me, then, I said, What do you mean to affirm about wisdom? I mean, he said, that wisdom is the only science which is the science of itself and of the other sciences as well. But the science of science, I said, will also be the science of the absence of science. Very true, he said. Then the wise or temperate man, and he only, will know himself, and be able to examine what he knows or does not know, and see what others know, and think that they know, and do really know, and what they do not know, and fancy that they know when they do not. No other person will be able to do this, and this is the state in virtue of wisdom or temperance and self-knowledge, which is just knowing what a man knows, And what he does not know.
That is your view?" Yes, he said. and of Part One of Carmody's.
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2 02 - Charmides (Text 27) 26:41
Translated by Benjamin Jowett. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jeffrey Edwards. Then, I said, making an offering of the third or last argument to Zeus the Saviour, let us once more begin and ask, in the first place, whether this knowledge that you know and do not know, what you know, And do not know is possible, and in the second place whether, even if quite possible, such knowledge is of any use. That is what we must consider, he said. And here, Critias, I said, I hope that you will find a way out of a difficulty into which I have got myself. Shall I tell you the difficulty? By all means, he replied, Does not what you have been saying, if true, Amount to this, that there must be a science which is wholly a science of itself, and also of other sciences, and that the same is also the science of the absence of science.
True. But consider how monstrous this is, my friend. In any parallel case the impossibility will be transparent to you. How is that, and in what cases do you mean? In such cases as this. Suppose that there is a kind of vision which is not like ordinary vision, but a vision of itself and of other sorts of vision, and of the defect of them, which in seeing sees no colour, but only itself and other sorts of vision. Do you think that there is such a kind of vision? Certainly not. Or is there a kind of hearing which hears no sound at all, but only itself and other sorts of hearing, or the defects of them? There is not. Or, take all the senses. Can you imagine that there is any sense of itself and of other senses, but which is incapable of perceiving the objects of the senses?
I think not. Could there be any desire which is not the desire of any pleasure, but of itself and of all other desires? Certainly not. Or, Can you imagine a wish which wishes for no good, but only for itself and all other wishes? I should answer no. Or would you say that there is a love which is not the love of beauty but of itself and of other loves? I should not. Or did you ever know of a fear which fears itself or other fears but has no object of fear? I never did, he said. Or, of an opinion which is an opinion of itself and of other opinions, and which has no opinion on the subjects of opinion in general? Certainly not. But surely we are assuming a science of this kind, which having no subject matter is a science of itself and of the other sciences, for that is what is affirmed.
Now, this is strange if true. However, we must not as yet absolutely deny the possibility of such a science. Let us rather consider the matter. You are quite right. Well, then, this science of which we are speaking is a science of something, and is of a nature to be a science of something? Yes. Just as that which is greater is of a nature to be greater than something? Yes. Which is less if the other is to be conceived as greater? To be sure. And if we could find something which is at once greater than self, and greater than other great things, but not greater than those things in comparison of which the others are greater, then that thing would have the property of being greater and also less than itself?
That, Socrates, he said, is the inevitable inference. Or if there be a double, which is double of other doubles and of itself, they will be halves. That is true. And that which is greater than itself will also be less, and that which is heavier will also be lighter, and that which is older will also be younger, and the same of other things, that which has a nature relative to self will retain also the nature of its object. I mean to say, for example, that hearing is, as we say, of sound or voice. Is that true? Yes. Then if hearing hears itself, it must hear a voice, for there is no other way of hearing. Certainly. And sight also, my excellent friend, if it sees itself, must see a colour, for sight cannot see that which has no colour.
No. Then, do you see, Critias, that in several of the examples which have been recited, the notion of a relation to self is altogether inadmissible, and in other cases hardly credible. Inadmissible, for example, in the case of magnitudes, numbers, and the like. Very true. But, in the case of hearing, and the power of self-motion, and the power of heat to burn, this relation to self will be regarded as incredible by some, but perhaps not by others. And some great man, my friend, is wanted, who will satisfactorily determine for us whether there is nothing which has an inherent property of relation to self, Or, some things only and not others, and whether in this latter class, if there be such a class, that science which is called wisdom or temperance is included.
I altogether distrust my own power of determining this. I am not certain whether there is such a science of science at all, and, even if there be, I should not acknowledge this to be wisdom or temperance until I can also see whether such a knowledge would or would not do us any good. For I have an impression that temperance is a benefit and a good. And therefore, O son of Calaisgros, as you maintain that temperance or wisdom is a science of science, and also of the absence of science, I will request you to show in the first place, as I was saying before, the possibility, and in the second place the advantage of such a science. And then, perhaps, you may satisfy me that you are right in your view of temperance.
Critias heard me say this, and saw that I was in a difficulty, and as one person, when another yawns in his presence, catches the infection of yawning from him. So did he seem to be driven into a difficulty by my difficulty. But as he had a reputation to maintain, he was ashamed to admit before the company that he could not answer my challenge or decide the question at issue. And he made an unintelligible attempt to hide his perplexity. In order that the argument might proceed, I said to him, Well then, Critias, if you like, let us assume that there may be this science of science. Whether the assumption is right or wrong may be hereafter investigated. But, fully admitting this, will you tell me how such a science enables us to distinguish what we know or do not know, which, as we were saying, is self-knowledge or wisdom?
That is what we were saying? Yes, Socrates, he said. And that, I think, is certainly true. For he who has that science or knowledge which knows itself will become like that knowledge which he has, in the same way that he who has swiftness will be swift, and he who has beauty will be beautiful, and he who has knowledge will know. In the same way he who has that knowledge which is the knowledge of itself will know himself. I do not doubt, I said, that a man will know himself when he possesses that which has self-knowledge. But what necessity is there that, having this, he should know what he knows and what he does not know? Because, Socrates, they are the same. Very likely, I said, but I remain as stupid as ever, for still I fail to comprehend how this knowing what you know and do not know is the same as the knowledge of self.
What do you mean, he said? This is what I mean, I replied. I will admit that there is a science of science, but— Can this do more than determine that of two things one is, and the other is not science or knowledge? No, just that. Then is knowledge or want of knowledge of health the same as knowledge or want of knowledge of justice? Certainly not. The one is medicine, and the other is politics, but that of which we are speaking is knowledge pure and simple? Very true. And if a man knows only, and has only knowledge of knowledge, and has no further knowledge of health and justice, the probability is that he will only know that he knows something, and has a certain knowledge, whether concerning himself or other men.
True. But how will this knowledge or science teach him to know what he knows? Say that he knows health. Not wisdom or temperance, but the art of medicine has taught him that. And he has learned harmony from the art of music, and building from the art of building, neither from wisdom or temperance, and the same of other things. That is evident. But how will wisdom, regarded only as a knowledge of knowledge or science of science, ever teach him that he knows health, or that he knows building? That is impossible. Then he who is ignorant of this will only know that he knows, but not what he knows? True. Then wisdom, or being wise, appears to be not the knowledge of the things which we do or do not know, but only the knowledge that we know and do not know.
That is the inference. Then he who has this knowledge will not be able to examine whether a pretender knows or does not know that which he says that he knows. He will only know That he has a knowledge of some kind, but wisdom will not show him of what the knowledge is? Plainly not. Neither will he be able to distinguish the pretender in medicine from the true physician, nor between any other true and false possessor of knowledge. Let us consider the matter in this way. If the wise man, or any other man, wants to distinguish the true physician from the false, what is he to do? He will not talk to him about medicine. And that, as we are saying, is the only thing which the physician understands.
True. And he certainly knows nothing of science, for this has been assumed to be the province of wisdom. True. But then again, if medicine is a science, neither will the physician know anything of medicine. Exactly. The wise man will indeed know that the physician has some kind of science or knowledge, but when he wants to discover the nature of this he will ask, what is the subject matter? For each science is distinguished, not as science, but by the nature of the subject. Is not that true? Yes, that is quite true. And medicine is distinguished from other sciences as having the subject matter of health and disease? Yes. And he who would inquire into the nature of medicine must pursue the inquiry into health and disease, and not into what is extraneous.
True. And he who judges rightly will judge of the physician as a physician in what relates to these? He will. He will consider whether what he says is true, and whether what he does is right in relation to these? He will. But can anyone appreciate either without having a knowledge of medicine? He cannot. Nor any one but the physician, not even the wise man, as appears, for that would require him to be a physician as well as a wise man. Very true. Then, assuredly, Wisdom or temperance, if only a science of science, and of the absence of science or knowledge, will not be able to distinguish the physician who knows from one who does not know, but pretends or thinks that he knows, or any other professor of anything at all.
Like any other artist, he will only know his fellow in art or wisdom, and no one else. That is evident, he said. But then, what prophet, Critias, I said, is there any longer in wisdom or temperance, which yet remains if this is wisdom? If indeed As we were supposing at first the wise man had been able to distinguish what he knew and did not know, and that he knew the one and did not know the other, and to recognize a similar faculty of discernment in others, there would certainly have been a great advantage in being wise. For then we should never have made a mistake, but have passed through life the unerring guides of ourselves and of those who are under us, and we should not have attempted to do what we did not know.
But we should have found out those who knew, and confided in them. Nor should we have allowed those who were under us to do anything which they were not likely to do well. And they would be likely to do well just that of which they had knowledge. And the house or state which was ordered or administered under the guidance of wisdom would have been well ordered, and everything else of which wisdom was the Lord. For truth. Guiding and error having been expelled in all their doings, man would have done well, and would have been happy. Was not this, Critias, what we spoke of as the great advantage of wisdom, to know what is known and what is unknown to us? Very true, he said. And now you perceive, I said, that no such science is to be found anywhere?
I perceive, he said. May we assume, then, I said, that wisdom, viewed in this new light merely as a knowledge of knowledge and ignorance, has this advantage, that he who possesses such knowledge will more easily learn anything that he learns, and that everything will be clearer to him, because, in addition to the knowledge of individuals, he sees the science, and this also will better enable him to test the knowledge which others have of what he knows himself. Whereas the inquirer who is without this knowledge may be supposed to have a feebler and weaker insight. Are not these, my friend, the real advantages which are to be gained from wisdom? And are not we looking and seeking after something more than is to be found in her?
That is very likely, he said. That is very likely, I said. And, very likely too, we have been inquiring to no purpose. I am led to infer this because I observe that if this is wisdom some strange consequences would follow. Let us, if you please, assume the possibility of this science of sciences, and further admit and allow, as was originally suggested, that wisdom is the knowledge of what we know and do not know. Assuming all this, still, upon further consideration, I am doubtful, Critias, whether wisdom, if such as this, would do us any good. For, I think, we were wrong in supposing, as we were saying just now, that such wisdom, ordering the government of house or state, would be a great benefit.
How is that? he said. Why, I said, We were far too ready to admit the great benefits which mankind would obtain from their severally doing the things which they knew, and committing to others who knew the things of which they are ignorant. Were we not right, he said, in making that admission? I think not, I said. That is certainly strange, Socrates. By the dog of Egypt, I said, I am of your opinion about that, and that was in my mind when I said that strange consequences would follow, and That I was afraid we were on the wrong track. For however ready we may be to admit that this is wisdom, I certainly cannot make out what good this sort of thing does to us. What do you mean? he said. I wish that you could make me understand what you mean.
I dare say that what I am saying is nonsense, I replied, and yet if a man has any feeling of what is due to himself, he cannot let the thought which comes into his mind pass away unheeded and unexamined. I like that," he said. Here, then, I said, my own dream, whether coming through the horn or the ivory gate, I cannot tell. The dream is this. Let us suppose that wisdom is such as we are now defining, and that she has absolute sway over us. Then each action will be done according to the arts or sciences, and no one professing to be a pilot when he is not, or any physician or general, Or anyone else, pretending to know matters of which he is ignorant, will deceive or elude us. Our health will be improved, our safety at sea, and also in battle, will be assured.
Our coats and shoes, and all other instruments and implements, will be well made, because the workmen will be good and true. Ay, and if you please, you may suppose that prophecy, which is the knowledge of the future, will be under the control of wisdom. And that she will deter deceivers, and set up the true prophet in their place as the revealer of the future. Now I quite agree that mankind, thus provided, would live and act according to knowledge, for wisdom would watch and prevent ignorance from intruding on us. But we have not as yet discovered why, because we act according to knowledge, we act well and are happy, my dear Critias. Yet, I think, he replied, that you will hardly find any other end of right action if you reject knowledge.
And of what is this knowledge, I said? Just answer me that small question. Do you mean a knowledge of shoemaking? God forbid. Or of working in brass? Certainly not. Or in wool, or wood, or anything of that sort? No, I do not. Then I said, We are giving up the doctrine that he who lives according to knowledge is happy, for these live according to knowledge, and yet they are not allowed by you to be happy. But I think that you mean to confine happiness to particular individuals who live according to knowledge, such, for example, as the Prophet, who, as I was saying, knows the future. Yes, I mean him, but there are others as well. Yes, I said. Some one who knows the past and present as well as the future, and is ignorant of nothing.
Let us suppose that there is such a person, and, if there is, you will allow that he is the most knowing of all living men. Certainly he is. Yet I should like to know one thing more. Which of the different kinds of knowledge makes him happy, or do all equally make him happy? Not all equally, he replied. But which most tends to make him happy? The knowledge of what past, present, or future thing? May I infer this to be the knowledge of the game of drafts? Nonsense, about the game of drafts. Or of computation? No. Or of health? That is nearer the truth, he said. And that knowledge which is nearest of all, I said, is the knowledge of what? The knowledge with which he discerns good and evil. Monster, I said, you have been carrying me round in a circle, and all this time hiding from me the fact that the life according to knowledge is not that which makes men act rightly and be happy, not even if all the sciences be included, but that this has to do with one science only, that of good and evil.
4. Let me ask you, Critias, whether, if you take away this science from all the rest, medicine will not equally give health, and shoemaking equally produce shoes, and the art of the weaver clothes, whether the art of the pilot will not equally save our lives at sea, and the art of the general in war? Quite so. And yet, my dear Critias, none of these things will be well or beneficially done if the science of the good be wanting. That is true. But that science is not wisdom or temperance, but a science of human advantage, not a science of other sciences, or of ignorance, but of good and evil, and if this be of use, then wisdom or temperance will not be of use. And why, he replied, will not wisdom be of use?
For if we really assume that wisdom is a science of sciences, and has a sway over other sciences, surely she will have this particular science of the good under her control, and in this way will benefit us. And will wisdom give health, I said? Is not this rather the effect of medicine? Or does wisdom do the work of any of the other arts, and do not they do each of them their own work? Have we not long ago asseverated that knowledge is only the knowledge of knowledge, and of ignorance, and of nothing else? That is clear. Another art is concerned with health. Another. The art of health is different? Yes, different. Nor does wisdom give advantage, my good friend, for that again we have just now been attributing to another art.
Very true. How, then, can wisdom be advantageous giving no advantage? That, Socrates, is certainly inconceivable. You see, then, Critias, that I was not far wrong in fearing that I could have no sound notion about wisdom. I was quite right in depreciating myself, for that which is admitted to be the best of all things would never have seemed to us useless if I had been good for anything at an inquiry. But now I have been utterly defeated, and have failed to discover what that is to which the imposer of names gave this name of temperance or wisdom. And yet many more admissions were made by us than could be really granted, for we admitted that there was a science of science, although the argument said no, and protested against this, and we admitted further that this science knew the works of the other sciences, although this too was denied by the argument, because we wanted to show that the wise man had knowledge of what he knew and did not know.
Also, we nobly disregarded, and never even considered, the impossibility of a man knowing in a sort of way that which he does not know at all. For our assumption was that he knows that which he does not know, than which nothing, as I think, can be more irrational. And yet, after finding us so easy and good-natured, the inquiry is still unable to discover the truth. But It mocks us to a degree, and has gone out of its way to prove the inutility of that which we admitted only by a sort of supposition and fiction to be the true definition of temperance or wisdom, which result, as far as I am concerned, is not so much to be lamented, I said. But for your sake, Carmides, I am very sorry. That you, having such beauty and such wisdom and temperance of soul, should have no profit or good in life from your wisdom and temperance.
And still more am I grieved about the charm which I learned with so much pain, and to so little profit from the Thracian, for the sake of a thing which is nothing worth. I think indeed. That there is a mistake, and that I must be a bad inquirer, for I am persuaded that wisdom or temperance is really a great good, and happy are you if you possess that good. And therefore examine yourself, and see whether you have this gift, and can do without the charm. For if you can, I would rather advise you to regard me simply as a fool who is never able to reason out anything, and to rest assured that the more wise and temperate you are, The happier you will be. Carmody said, I am sure that I do not know, Socrates, whether I have or have not this gift of wisdom and temperance.
For how can I know whether I have that, the very nature of which even you and Critias, as you say, are unable to discover? Not that I believe you. And further, I am sure, Socrates, that I do need the charm. And, as far as I am concerned, I shall be willing to be charmed by you, daily, until you say that I have had enough. Very good, Carmides, said Critias. If you do this, I shall have a proof of your temperance, that is, if you allow yourself to be charmed by Socrates, and never desert him at all. You may depend on my following and not deserting him, said Carmides, if you, who are my guardian, command me. I should be very wrong not to obey you. And I do command you," he said. Then I will do as you say, and begin this very day.
You sirs, I said, what are you conspiring about? We are not conspiring, said Carmides. We have conspired already. And are you about to use violence without even going through the forms of justice? Yes, I shall use violence, he replied, since he orders me, and therefore you had better consider well. But the time for consideration has passed, I said, when violence is employed, and you, when you are determined on anything, and in the mood of violence, are irresistible. Do not you resist me, then, he said. I will not resist you, I replied. And of Carmides by Plato. Translated by Benjamin Jowett. Read by Jeffrey Edwards. Meta-coordinated and proof-listened by Anne Boulay.