Plato

1. Compte rendu de F. Pelosi, Plato: on Music, Soul and Body, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2010, 228 p.

COLLOBERT, Catherine — 2013-03-24T11:06:30Z

Cet ouvrage constitue la version révisée d'une thèse de doctorat soutenue à la Scuola Normale Superiore de Pise, et traduite en anglais. Composé de quatre chapitres, l'ouvrage se propose d'abord d'examiner le rôle que Platon attribue à la musique dans l'éducation, pour ensuite analyser la relation que la musique entretient avec l'âme et le corps. F. Pelosi étudie la conception platonicienne de la musique et envisage son importance pour comprendre non seulement la relation corps-esprit chez Platon, mais également certains thèmes principaux de la philosophie platonicienne (p. 2). L'auteur se concentrera néanmoins essentiellement, comme nous le verrons, sur la philosophie de l'esprit de Platon et ses implications dans sa conception de l'éducation. Il entend remettre en question le dualisme communément admis en montrant l'importance cognitive des sens dans la philosophie platonicienne de la musique. Selon Pelosi, celle-ci repose sur l'idée que l'âme est dépendante du corps dans sa réception de la musique.

Le premier chapitre s'appuie, sans surprise, sur les Lois et la République pour examiner l'éducation musicale de la sensibilité. Commençant par la réception de la musique chez l'enfant où la réception de la musique est passive, l'A. s'interroge sur les difficultés que pose la notion de mouvement dans l'interaction entre l'âme et la musique telle qu'elle apparaît dans les Lois (790c-d). Le mouvement que produit la musique est tantôt positif lorsqu'il est facteur de régulation tantôt négatif lorsqu'il est facteur de déséquilibre. La sensation est ici ce à travers quoi l'âme se trouve ordonnée ou désordonnée du fait de la passivité essentielle de l'enfant dont l'âme est totalement malléable. C'est cette malléabilité sur laquelle insiste Socrate dans la République (377a).

Cependant, la mousikê dont il est ici question n'est pas la musique pure, mais les histoires racontées aux enfants, qui agissent à l'instar de la musique pure sur les éléments non rationnels de l'âme pour former cette dernière. L'A. s'attarde ici sur le vocabulaire physique employé par Platon (p. 20) et notamment celui du contact (Rep., 401d) par où l'on comprend que la musique participe dans un premier temps non de l'acquisition d'une capacité rationnelle, mais d'une habitude, comme le souligne l'A. Bien que non mobilisée à ce stade, la raison n'en est pas moins « préparée » en quelque sorte pour accomplir le temps venu sa fonction de manière appropriée, c'est-à-dire sa fonction morale. Pelosi tente ici de comprendre pourquoi le processus éducatif est présenté sur la forme d'une modification matérielle et non d'un mécanisme intellectuel (p. 22). On ne voit pourtant pas pourquoi cette présentation (401d-402a) confirme l'absence de conscience de la part de l'enfant des effets négatifs que peuvent avoir les histoires qui lui sont racontées. Même dans l'hypothèse d'un mécanisme intellectuel, l'enfant n'est pas nécessairement conscient des dommages créés sur son âme par des scènes de violence, par exemple. Il peut ne pas comprendre que ces scènes ne l'inciteront pas à rejeter la violence le moment venu. En outre, comme le remarque Pelosi lui-même, il s'agit d'une image, en l'occurrence d'une analogie qu'il n'interroge pourtant pas en tant que telle, mais qu'il considère littéralement. Il est toutefois pertinent de parler de l'éducation de l'enfant en termes de conditionnement de la sensibilité (p. 22), comme il fait en procédant à une courte intrusion dans la conception tripartite de l'âme. L'A. ne lève pas vraiment la perplexité que soulève chez lui le passage 441e-442a où les discours sont dits nourrir la partie rationnelle (442a1) ; ce qui est quelque peu regrettable puisque l'affirmation va à l'encontre de l'analyse proposée précédemment. La musique ici n'éduque pas seulement la sensibilité, mais également la raison. Il aurait sans doute fallu s'interroger ici sur l'expression même ἐπιτείνουσα καὶ τρέφουσα et examiner s'il est possible de « tendre » et de nourrir la raison en s'adressant à la sensibilité, autrement dit, de manière indirecte et comme par « ricochet ». Un conditionnement de la sensibilité n'est pas incompatible avec le fait que les logoi s'impriment dans la partie rationnelle sans être analysés ou compris. Les Lois sont à cet égard plus explicites puisqu'il n'y est question que de sensibilité, et sont donc plus pertinentes pour défendre l'affirmation de l'A, comme il le souligne lui-même (p. 26).

C'est avec la question de l'enchantement que débute l'analyse qui fait de la musique « une forme de psychothérapie et de psychagogie » (p. 27). Il me semble cependant maladroit ici de comprendre l'enchantement de la musique en le comparant à l'enchantement que produit Socrate par ses discours, puisque c'est la raison qui est enchantée plus que la sensibilité, même si les deux sont sans doute touchées. La première partie de ce chapitre se termine rapidement sur un examen de la choreia qui a pour but d'instiller la vertu dans l'âme (p. 28). La seconde partie traite de la théorie de l'êthos et de la mimêsis musicale. Il est reconnu, comme le remarque l'A., que Platon se situe dans la lignée de la doctrine de Damon fondée sur le concept d'êthos musical. Cette doctrine repose sur l'idée générale que la musique, à travers l'harmonie et le rythme, reproduit des qualités morales. Cette théorie sera mise à mal par les formalistes et son principal représentant E. Hanslick, mais plus près de Platon, par l'épicurien Philodème de Gadara. Il est cependant dommage que Pelosi ne confronte pas véritablement ici la doctrine formaliste à celle de l'êthos d'autant qu'à la fin de ce chapitre (p. 59), il y est question de la musique absolue telle qu'elle est envisagée dans les Lois, et qui joue un rôle essentiel dans la théorie formaliste et sa défense par Hanslick.

Avant d'examiner les Lois, l'A. se concentre sur le livre III de la République où Glaucon, en tant que mousikos, présentent les différentes harmonies et leurs contenus éthiques respectifs pour n'en retenir que deux : dorienne et phrygienne parce qu'elles expriment la première le courage et la seconde la tempérance (p. 35). On pourrait regretter que l'A. ne distingue pas clairement les concepts d'expression et de représentation dans le contexte de la théorie musicale platonicienne (la distinction est mentionnée, mais rapidement (p. 31) pour ne plus être considérée par la suite). Les deux termes semblent être utilisés de façon synonyme. Ainsi il est affirmé que la musique représente des états psychiques. Il est certes possible que pour Platon la musique ait une fonction à la fois expressive et représentative, mais cela aura mérité dans le contexte de cette partie consacrée à la mimêsis musicale une investigation plus approfondie. Il s'agit néanmoins d'une présentation d'ensemble de la théorie musicale platonicienne intéressante quant au rôle des harmonies et à l'interaction musique-âme.

Le chapitre 2 intitulé « Moving to music: a therapy for the rational soul » considère l'impact de la musique sur l'âme rationnelle en analysant différents processus par lesquels la musique intervient sur l'âme. L'A. s'appuie sur le Timée et en particulier le passage 47c-e auquel est consacré un examen serré pour comprendre le rôle thérapeutique de la musique sur l'âme. En explicitant les concepts d'affinité et de contact, par l'origine musicale de l'âme rationnelle, l'A. démontre la possibilité d'un tel rôle. C'est en ce sens qu'il faut comprendre que la musique permet à l'âme de restaurer le désordre inhérent à sa condition d'âme incarnée. Une comparaison entre Timée 47a-e et Rép. 527d-531c permet à l'A. de montrer rapidement la fonction essentielle de la sensibilité dans le développement de la rationalité. Un autre rapprochement est établi brièvement avec le Phédon, qui présente des affirmations similaires à celles du Timée sur le caractère désastreux de l'union de l'âme avec le corps (p. 84). Cela donne l'occasion à Pelosi d'élaborer sur cette union et les problèmes qu'elle pose en étudiant la psychogonie du Timée. Il nous propose notamment une description des lieux dans lesquels se trouvent les différentes parties de l'âme, qui ne sauraient être pris pour des métaphores. Bien qu'une telle affirmation ne soit pas sans difficultés, dont l'une est que l'âme bien qu'immatérielle est divisée en parties qui occupent un lieu — que Pelosi ne soulève pas —, elle permet néanmoins de comprendre l'interaction des dimensions psychique et physique de l'être humain, et au-delà, le rôle d'harmonisation de la partie rationnelle de l'âme par la musique. Ce dernier point constitue l'objet de la seconde partie de ce chapitre : « Music for thinking ». L'A. entend montrer ici que la musique permet la restauration des facultés cognitives en produisant un mouvement psychique approprié (p. 91). Or cette restauration est possible non par l'intermédiaire des sens mais du noûs, comme le souligne l'A. (p. 95) ; ce qui remet en question le rôle joué par la sensibilité dans la réception de la musique tel qu'il apparaît dans les Lois et la République. Remarquons que dans le Timée l'âme rationnelle intervient de manière prépondérante dans la perception (p. 99). Un rapprochement avec le Théétète permet de comprendre cette intervention : « we see and hear with the soul, through eyes and ears » (p. 99-100). Bien que cette conception instrumentale des sens ne soit pas propre au Timée ou au Théétète, cela signifie néanmoins que la musique atteint l'âme rationnelle par l'intermédiaire des sens, et, par conséquent, c'est elle qui est éduquée, non la sensibilité. La musique qui n'atteint que les sens produit un plaisir corporel et non intellectuel. Il y a place cependant selon Pelosi pour un plaisir qui implique à la fois la sensibilité et la raison (p. 102). Si les Lois défendent en effet cette possibilité, il n'est pas certain que le Timée n'envisage pas le plaisir musical d'un point de vue strictement intellectuel, dépourvu par conséquent de tout moment émotif, contrairement à ce que soutient l'A. que le passage qu'il cite ne semble pas appuyer. En 80b, il y est question de la joie du sage (εὐφροσύνη) par opposition au plaisir de l'insensé (ἡδονὴ), mais la joie n'est pas ici nécessairement sensible et, en outre, le produit d'une mobilisation de la sensibilité. Pelosi indique d'ailleurs que le Timée présente deux niveaux de réception de la musique, l'une élémentaire (p. 106), l'autre, on peut le déduire, complexe, qui se caractérise par la saisie de l'harmonie divine (p. 107). N'est-ce pas précisément cette saisie intellectuelle jointe à l'harmonie de l'âme rationnelle elle-même qui produisent la joie qui est par conséquent purement rationnelle ? Le chapitre se termine sur un examen du Philèbe pour éclaircir l'idée d'harmonie musicale comme synthèse d'opposés.

Le chapitre trois est consacré à l'éducation musicale de la rationalité et traite de la science harmonique telle qu'elle est exposée au livre VII de la République. Dans la première partie, l'A. se concentre sur l'harmonie comme base de l'éducation des futurs dialecticiens, qui diffère de l'éducation musicale exposée au livre III. Après une exposition du rôle des mathemata dans la conversion de l'âme, l'A. examine en particulier les sciences sœurs depuis les Pythagoriciens : l'astronomie et l'harmonie. La relation entre le caractère sensible et intelligible de ces sciences est mise en perspective avec la nécessité d'aller au-delà du sensible et d'abandonner par conséquent l'observation sensible au profit des problèmes (cf. 530b6-7). Mais précise Pelosi, il ne s'agit pas de faire totalement abstraction des phénomènes. Platon ne défend donc pas une science aprioriste, puisque l'astronomie repose sur une espèce de va et vient entre le sensible et l'intelligible (p. 128). La deuxième partie du chapitre traite de la science de l'harmonie. L'A. met en regard la conception platonicienne de l'harmonie avec celle des pythagoriciens, notamment le fragment 1 d'Archytas auquel Platon semble faire référence. Pelosi présente ensuite la critique de la conception empiriste de l'harmonie. Le point fondamental, me semble-t-il, n'est pas tant que les empiristes prennent pour fondement de la science la perception, bien que ce soit en effet une dimension importante de la critique, mais plutôt et, par conséquent, que l'étude de l'harmonie — la critique vaut également pour l'astronomie — ne saurait être sa propre fin. Elle n'est en effet qu'un moyen, une propédeutique à la science la plus haute : la dialectique (cf. 531d). Le Philèbe est convoqué pour comprendre la critique de l'empirisme en relation à la définition de la musique comme stochastikê technê (56a3-7). Suit un examen détaillé de la critique des pythagoriciens (p. 139-fine) qui permet à l'A. de déduire la conception platonicienne qui consiste selon les termes de l'A. d'aller au delà de la dimension sonore de l'harmonie pour atteindre la dimension numérique. La question que pose pertinemment Pelosi est alors de comprendre la relation entre « listening to music and going beyond listening to understand the intelligible structures of music? » (p. 150), réponse qui serait faite au chapitre suivant.

Le chapitre quatre qui clôt l'ouvrage est intitulé « Music in the body and soul ». La première partie de ce chapitre, qui en comporte deux, traite des phénomènes acoustiques et des mécanismes de perception avec un retour d'abord très rapide sur la République puis sur le Timée. Ce dernier traite abondamment du son, de la perception auditive et de ses mécanismes. L'A. examine le passage 67a7-c3 dont il propose une traduction et un commentaire serré. La définition platonicienne du son est discutée en relation d'abord avec les conceptions du son qu'on trouve chez les Présocratiques, ensuite avec l'une des objections de Théophraste (De Sen. 91). Le processus de perception de l'écoute tel que décrit en Timée 67b est analysé comme le résultat d'un mouvement à la fois dans le corps et dans l'âme (p. 162). L'A. revient à la définition du son telle qu'on la trouve en Timée 80a-b où distinction est faite entre sons aigu et grave, rapide et lent qu'il confronte au fragment 1 d'Archytas. Un autre passage (79e10-80b5) permet à Pelosi d'approfondir la question de la qualité du son dans sa relation au mouvement du son dans le corps. Il propose différentes interprétations de cette relation, qui présentent chacune des difficultés pour comprendre la notion d'accord en offrant une solution intéressante sur le mouvement du son dans le corps (p. 178-9). La seconde partie « The musicality of the psychic structure » s'appuie sur le Phédon en vue de l'examen de la théorie de l'âme-harmonie. L'A. soutient que la critique de l'âme-harmonie que conduit Socrate dans ce dialogue nous permet de comprendre sa reformulation dans d'autres dialogues, et notamment dans la République. Cette théorie repose sur l'affirmation selon laquelle l'âme est au corps ce que l'harmonie est à l'âme (p. 181). La faiblesse de la théorie telle qu'elle est développée par Simmias est qu'elle reconnaît une dépendance de l'âme au corps, que désavoue Socrate. Le problème essentiel de la théorie de Simmias, comme le souligne Pelosi, est qu'elle repose sur une conception matérialiste de l'harmonie, plus précisément qu'elle fait dépendre l'âme du corps et pose l'antériorité du corps sur l'âme. Platon propose une autre entente de l'harmonie de l'âme dans la République. Nous trouvons en effet dans ce dialogue l'idée que la structure de l'âme s'apparente à une harmonie. Il faut cependant noter qu'à la différence de la théorie proposée par Simmias, l'âme doit être harmonisée pour être une structure harmonique. La différence ne repose donc pas uniquement sur une harmonie matérielle et une harmonie psychique, même si l'A. souligne cette différence avec raison (p. 184). En outre s'il est vrai que dans le Gorgias et le Lachès, il y est question de consonance et de dissonance entre les actes et les discours et non entre les parties de l'âme, nous avons pourtant une autre conception de l'harmonie dont l'absence résulte d'un conflit entre les paroles et les actes. Il s'agit en effet d'harmoniser ces derniers de sorte que les premières se reflètent dans les seconds. Dans la République, la justice résulte de l'harmonisation des trois parties de l'âme, comme le note l'A. Mais il faudrait ajouter que l'âme est harmonie si et seulement si elle est juste. C'est ainsi qu'est dépassée la contradiction à laquelle aboutissait Simmias selon laquelle une âme vicieuse ne peut pas exister (93b-94b). Pelosi termine son investigation avec le Timée en revenant à l'examen de la psychogonie pour s'attarder sur la question de la division harmonique à laquelle procède le démiurge dans la création de l'âme humaine (p. 191-2). Cela fait de l'âme rationnelle, comme le note l'A., le produit d'une « composition harmonique de différents éléments » (p. 194).

L'objectif de cet ouvrage de comprendre comment la conception platonicienne de la musique permet de saisir de façon plus large les relations âme-corps a été atteint, nous semble-t-il. Il s'agit d'une étude de synthèse du phénomène musical tel que le comprend Platon, et qui jette une lumière intéressante et neuve sur sa « philosophie de l'esprit ».

Catherine Collobert (Université d'Ottawa)

2. Compte rendu de J. B. Kennedy,The Musical Structure of Plato's Dialogues, Durham, Acumen, 2011, 318 p.

COLLOBERT, Catherine — 2013-03-24T11:06:26Z

Cet ouvrage, composé de huit chapitres et de neuf appendices (qui contiennent des précisions utiles sur la méthode proposée), présente une thèse originale et controversée selon laquelle une structure musicale sous-tend les dialogues platoniciens, et en permet une plus riche compréhension. J. B. Kennedy s'appuie sur deux dialogues, le Banquet et l'Euthyphron pour la démontrer. Avant d'introduire sa méthodologie, il prend soin de tracer l'origine de ce type d'interprétation pour en défendre la pertinence. C'est l'objet du chapitre 1 intitulé « The nature and history of philosophical allegory ». Il s'ouvre immédiatement sur l'affirmation fondamentale de l'interprétation défendue par l'auteur : « there is a musical scale embodied in each of Plato's dialogues. Symbolic passages at regular intervals are used to mark successive notes » (p. 1). C'est à une ancienne tradition d'interprétation que l'A. entend ici revenir, celle de la tradition allégoriste qu'il présente en procédant à une revue rapide de la littérature sur le sujet. L'A. doit donc défendre la possibilité que Platon allégorise et que se trouve dans les dialogues une sympathie à l'égard de la pratique de l'allégorie. Cependant, le fait que l'allégorie soit un thème des dialogues comme il est affirmé, et que les dialogues sont une forme supérieure de littérature (p. 8) ne sauraient constituer des arguments en faveur de l'allégorie : toute littérature n'est pas nécessairement allégorique et discuter même de façon récurrente d'une pratique ne signifie pas que l'on est un défenseur et un utilisateur de cette pratique. L'A. établit un lien entre la pratique du secret chez les Pythagoriciens (l'allégorie étant un moyen de masquer des doctrines qui pouvaient représenter un danger pour ses défenseurs — comme l'attestent les différentes persécutions des Pythagoriciens, des athées, et de Socrate lui-même —) et les références aux Pythagoriciens présentes dans les dialogues pour conclure au pythagorisme de Platon et en conséquence à la pratique platonicienne de l'allégorie. L'A. s'appuie ici notamment sur les travaux de Sayre (1983), Kahn (1996, 2001) et Dillon (2003) pour défendre l'idée d'une ontologie non écrite de nature pythagoricienne (« quasi-pythagorean ontology », p. 17). Le soutien qu'apportent ces travaux à la thèse de l'A. n'est cependant pas très clair. Les affinités que Platon peut avoir avec le pythagorisme, comme le reconnaissent ces trois auteurs, ne fait toutefois pas de Platon un pythagoricien masqué. Il faudrait ici plus d'arguments que n'en apporte l'A. et notamment un examen des divergences avec les Pythagoriciens présentes dans les dialogues. Les lectures allégoriques de Platon n'ont pas manqué d'apparaître dans l'Antiquité tardive et la Renaissance, dont certaines suggèrent l'existence de doctrines pythagoriciennes cachées dans les dialogues. Cependant, le lien entre pratique de l'allégorie et doctrines pythagoriciennes est mis à mal dans la lecture allégorique chrétienne de Platon, qui voit Platon plutôt comme l'annonciateur du message chrétien. En outre, on ne voit pas bien pourquoi il faudrait rapprocher l'existence d'une tradition ésotérique chrétienne avec la pratique de l'ésotérisme chez Platon. L'A. semble ici vouloir montrer que la pratique de l'allégorie est une pratique dominante attestée par différentes traditions ; ce qui légitimerait le fait d'inclure Platon dans cette tradition. Ce premier chapitre se termine sur une présentation des interprétations stichométriques de l'ouvrage d'Edmund Spencer, Epithalamion écrit en 1595, par A.K. Hieatt (1960) et Fowler (1964).

Le second chapitre « Introducing the dialogues' musical structure » présente la méthode utilisée pour mettre au jour la structure musicale et stichométrique des dialogues, qui montre la présence récurrente de symboles musicaux à intervalles réguliers. L'A. précise que cette structure est devenue illisible du fait de l'absence d'uniformité des lignes et des colonnes sur les copies tardives, puis avec l'édition d'Henri Estiennes (p. 32). On ne comprend cependant pas ce que l'A. veut dire ici car si cette structure était apparente, le lecteur pouvait aisément lire, sans déchiffrement intense, la doctrine soi-disant cachée.

Le symbolisme musical de Platon est, selon l'A., une caractéristique essentielle du pythagorisme de Platon. Chaque dialogue présente une gamme à douze tons qui se divisent en demi-tons et quart de tons, l'intervalle minimal. Il s'agit donc en suivant cette gamme de diviser le dialogue en douze parties ; chaque partie correspondant à un ton est divisée en quatre sous-parties (quart de ton). L'A. distingue ensuite les intervalles consonants et dissonants en fonction de sa relation à la douzième note. Les notes 3, 4, 6, 8 et 9 sont consonantes, 5, 7, 10 et 11 dissonantes. Les autres notes de la gamme sont plus ou moins neutres : ni consonante ni dissonante. Précisons que la gamme à douze tons n'est pas habituelle, les gammes utilisées étaient en effet à huit tons (deux tétracordes) : tel est le cas des gammes dorienne, myxolidienne, lydienne, phrygienne, etc. distinguées en fonction de la première note de la gamme et du premier intervalle ton ou demi-ton avec essentiellement trois intervalles consonants : la quarte, la quinte et l'octave (que renferme la tétraktys). Nous rencontrons une allusion à la gamme à douze tons dans un passage du Timée (35a-36b) sur la formation de l'âme du monde, que l'A. aurait pu utilement citer (qui progresse selon le facteur 3 et non 2 comme dans la gamme à huit tons). Les appendices 1 et 2 visent à défendre l'existence de la gamme à douze tons dans les dialogues. L'A. y affirme d'abord le caractère novateur de Platon en matière musicale, qui critique dans la République les théories musicales défendues par les Pythagoriciens, comme l'A. le reconnaît lui-même (p. 254). Il est dommage que l'A. n'examine pas cette dissension et ne tente pas de montrer comment elle peut se concilier avec un Platon pythagoricien. L'appendice 2 analyse des passages dans lesquels Théon de Smyrne soutient l'appartenance pythagoricienne de Platon et des passages de Thrasylle qui atteste de l'existence d'une gamme à 12 tons. L'un des deux pythagoriciens a reconnu selon l'A. l'existence d'allégories musicales chez Platon. On peut toutefois s'interroger sur la fiabilité et la crédibilité des témoins ici, qui semblent plus ou moins agir pourtant comme arguments d'autorité pour notre auteur.

On aurait aimé ici plus de précisions sur la distinction entre note consonante et note dissonante dans la mesure où cette distinction est déterminante dans l'argumentation générale : « The underlying consonance and dissonance of the musical notes accounts for the peculiar structure of Plato's dialogues » (p. 38). Notes dissonantes et notes consonantes renvoient à des passages du texte qui présentent des affirmations disharmonieuses et harmonieuses. C'est ainsi selon l'A. que la structure narrative reflète la structure musicale (p. 41). Par exemple, les deux passages où Diotime fait l'éloge de la beauté se trouvent aux notes 8.0 et 9.0 (notes consonantes). À l'inverse, le passage situé à la note 7.1 (note dissonante) présente les vertus et les vices d'Éros. Il n'est pas clair ici pourquoi les vertus d'Éros sont sur une note dissonante, même si comme le soutient l'A. « the opposing elements are permanently harnessed together, but they remain an unhappy combination of positive and negative » (p. 44). Une note neutre aurait pu tout aussi bien convenir à la nature du passage, à moins que Platon ne veuille nous faire comprendre la nature essentiellement disharmonieuse d'Éros, mais ce n'est pas ce qui semble être affirmé dans ce dialogue, pas plus que dans le Phèdre.

L'A. expose ensuite sa méthode pour compter les lignes et ainsi diviser le texte. Il prend soin de préciser que l'exactitude ne saurait être absolue du fait de la corruption toujours possible du texte. Il prétend cependant pouvoir déterminer les passages corrompus grâce à la stichométrie. Le chapitre se termine sur des réponses à des objections possibles. L'A. se défend de soutenir l'existence de doctrines non écrites avec raison, puisque, selon lui, les dialogues par leur structure même contiennent des doctrines bien que non apparentes et pythagoriciennes.

Le chapitre trois « Independant lines of evidence » se propose de valider pour l'ensemble des dialogues la division en douze parties en montrant que les discours de Socrate comme de ses interlocuteurs possèdent un rapport de 12. Par exemple, le discours d'Eryximaque et d'Aristophane constituent un douzième du Banquet, celui de Socrate trois douzième. Dans le Ménéxène, le long discours de Socrate occupe les deux douzième du dialogue (p. 53). Le nombre douze joue un rôle dans l'architecture générale des dialogues et de nombreux exemples sont donnés pour illustrer ce rôle. L'A. montre en outre que des affirmations concordantes (sur la sagesse et la justice du philosophe) dans différents dialogues se trouvent aux mêmes endroits dans ces dialogues, c'est-à-dire à peu près au centre. Nous trouvons ainsi une parenté de structure, reflet d'une parenté thématique entre les dialogues.

Le chapitre quatre examine en détail la structure du Banquet et soutient la thèse originale selon laquelle certains passages de ce dialogue « contain a repeated cluster of symbols that can be understood only by comparing them to the theory of musical harmony expounded in Eryximachus' speech » (p. 62). Cette théorie repose sur la principale affirmation que la musique est l'art d'harmoniser les opposés. C'est sur la base de cette théorie que l'A. interprète le Banquet et y découvre des symboles pythagoriciens (p. 63). On aimerait ici que l'A. soit plus précis sur les symboles. Par exemple, il est possible que le terme ameletêtos ait « a symbolic import », mais en quoi est-il pythagoricien (p. 67)? Il aurait été en outre intéressant pour la thèse même de l'A. de confronter la théorie musicale proposée par Eryximaque (médecin) avec celle des pythagoriciens et montrer plus en détail que Platon fait sienne cette théorie. La mention d'un passage des Lois (664e8-a2) est trop rapide pour constituer ici un argument tout comme la réaction d'Alcibiade (p. 62-3). Le discours des symposiastes est ainsi composé de moments d'opposition et d'harmonie qui se situent respectivement à des notes et quart de ton dissonants et consonants.

Ce qui est vrai des discours l'est de l'ensemble du dialogue : les différentes voix des intervenants se trouvent harmonisées dans le Banquet (et dans tout dialogue), ce qui est l'objet du cinquième chapitre intitulé « Making the Symposium's musical structure explicit ». L'A. distingue donc entre les discours harmonieux, disharmonieux et neutres : à la première catégorie appartient le discours d'Aristophane, à la seconde celui d'Alcibiade, et à la dernière le discours de Phèdre. Le discours de Pausanias qui défend un « esthétisme décadent » selon les termes de l'A. (p. 87) est légèrement dissonant. La note 2 où apparaît ce discours a pourtant été qualifiée de neutre au chapitre deux (p. 35). Mais Pausanias « platonise » (qu'on me permette l'expression) à la note 3 (note consonante) lorsqu'il affirme que la poursuite du bien est cruciale pour la vertu (p. 95). Le discours d'Agathon sur la note dissonante 5 appartient selon l'A. à la rhétorique sophistique (p.119). Il faudrait sans doute nuancer l'affirmation selon laquelle s'interroger sur la nature d'éros et de ses effets est « a sophistic jingle » (p. 118). Socrate reprendra dans son discours cette question et fera part de son accord avec Agathon sur la méthode (201d-e) — ce que souligne d'ailleurs l'A. (p. 127) —, mais le contenu sera évidemment réfuté. Le discours de Socrate qui s'étend de la note 6 à la note 9 est ainsi un mélange de consonances et de dissonances. Le discours d'Alcibiade (note 10 à 11) est dissonant à l'exception de deux passages. Il est ici curieux que le passage qui voit en Socrate un musicien soit dissonant d'autant que l'A. s'appuie sur ce passage pour soutenir son interprétation d'ensemble (p. 63). Il est vrai que Socrate est ici comparé à un joueur de flûte — instrument dionysiaque associé à la démesure et condamné pour cette raison dans la République. Les images qui sont ici mobilisées ne sont-elles pas négatives qu'en apparence ? ainsi le silène qui cache une intériorité harmonieuse, cette beauté qu'Alcibiade a précisément su voir en Socrate ?

Le chapitre six consacré à l'Euthyphron défend l'existence d'une même structure musicale qui s'étend à l'ensemble des dialogues. L'A. recourt au même schéma d'analyse qui lui permet de soutenir que l'Euthyphron n'est pas un dialogue aporétique, mais qu'il s'achève sur une définition de la piété. Les éléments doctrinaux sont placés comme dans le Banquet sur des notes consonantes (p. 221). La note 9 joue selon l'A. un rôle prépondérant et est associée au climax de l'argumentation — rôle identique dans le Banquet. De même à la note 10.3, l'A. établit un parallèle entre la demande d'Alcibiade à Socrate d'être son amant et celle de Socrate à Euthyphron qui demande à ce dernier d'être son maître. Nous avons dans les deux cas un refus de la part de celui qui est sollicité. Cependant, si la première demande est sincère, la seconde l'est sans doute moins et l'ironie de Socrate est patente.

Le chapitre sept « Extracting doctrine from structure » introduit la stichométrie pour justifier la possibilité de doctrines cachées que révèlerait la structure. Il s'attache pour cela à montrer que la doctrine du juste milieu défendue par Aristote est déjà présente chez Platon mais de manière voilée ou cachée. On trouve la présence parfois allusive de cette doctrine dans les dialogues grâce à la stichométrie. Cette présence se trouvant environ à la seconde moitié du dialogue (autour de 61%). Cependant l'A. nous prévient que l'argument qu'il entend établir est conditionnel et qu'il faut être prudent quant à la mise au jour d'allusions dans le texte, qui ne peuvent être que probables (p. 242).

Toutefois une question demeure : si, comme l'affirme l'A. à de multiples reprises, la structure narrative reflète la structure musicale, que nous révèle de plus la structure musicale que ce qui est à « la surface » du texte ? Si en effet le texte montre clairement qu'il y a accord et harmonie qu'ajoute le fait que cet accord décelable par conséquent dans le texte soit à une note consonante ? La musique ne fait ici que refléter un contenu visible : le texte est en accord avec la musique. La musique n'exprime pas ce qui n'est pas dans le texte, autrement dit, elle ne fonctionne pas comme un supplément de sens qu'il faudrait mettre au jour et qui serait éventuellement le sens véritable uniquement accessible à ceux capables de voir. Ce qui est à la surface du texte est aussi ce qui est sous la lettre du texte : les deux coïncident. Cette coïncidence que ne manque pas de mettre en évidence l'A. tout au long de son analyse du Banquet comme de l'Euthyphron s'accorde mal (sans jeu de mots) avec l'intention première que l'A. décèle chez Platon, qui est d'introduire dans le texte des doctrines cachées.

L'A. aborde cette question au dernier chapitre qui conclut sur les implications de la structure musicale dans l'interprétation des dialogues. Ces implications sont de taille puisque nombre de problèmes épineux se trouvent ainsi résolus notamment ceux de l'anonymat et de l'intention. Platon parle de sa propre voix aux notes consonantes : « Consonant notes are associated with harmonious, positive or more Platonic ideas ». C'est ce qui permet à l'A. d'affirmer « That this passage is lodged at a dissonant note shows that its [Diotima's character] doctrines are not Platonic »). Le discours d'Aristophane, sur une note consonante, est de ce fait platonisant. Pourtant, la définition d'Éros sera réfutée par Diotime, comme l'A. le reconnaît (p. 141). Cette réfutation est cruciale pour conduire à la contemplation du Beau selon Diotime (la partie de ce discours sur une note consonante est platonicien). Il est en outre affirmé que la première partie du discours de Diotime (sur une note dissonante) est anti-platonicien. Pourtant ce discours généalogique sur Éros explicite la nature du désir comme manque, qui est centrale dans les dialogues.

Le traitement de la réfutation me semble en outre problématique. Le fait que la réfutation soit toujours sur une note dissonante ne saurait indiquer dans tous les cas que Platon est en désaccord avec la réfutation menée. Ainsi lorsque Diotime réfute Agathon (note dissonante), Platon est-il en désaccord ? Il ne le semble pas, selon le traitement du discours d'Agathon par l'A. lui-même. De même Platon est-il en désaccord avec la réfutation d'Euthyphron menée par Socrate dans le dialogue éponyme ? Ici encore pas selon les analyses de l'A. La seconde question celle de l'intention est laissée en suspens, l'A. reconnaissant que des doutes légitimes demeurent (p. 247).

Le problème essentiel de la thèse générale est celui de l'existence de doctrines platoniciennes. L'A. renoue avec la tradition d'un Platon dogmatique possédant un corps de doctrines dont l'ensemble forme un platonisme pythagoricien dont on regrette cependant qu'il ne soit pas plus approfondi et justifié. Il s'agit néanmoins d'une lecture stimulante qui soulève de nombreux problèmes relativement à la question du platonisme. Ce travail mérite d'être salué pour son originalité.

Catherine Collobert (Université d'Ottawa)

3. Review of Moore, Kenneth Royce. Plato, Politics and a Practical Utopia.London: Continuum. 2012. ISBN 978-1-4411-5317-3

FUTTER, Dylan — 2013-03-24T11:06:24Z

In Plato, Politics and a Practical Utopia Kenneth Royce Moore offers a working model of Magnesia, the city of Plato's Laws. His method is to treat the “second-best city” “as if it were a real polis of the ancient world” (p. 82). Moore's conclusion is that Plato has created a “fairly large city”, with some unusual institutional features, but one that is “strangely practical” and firmly grounded in reality (p. ix).

The Laws is often said to be a long and rambling work showing “various signs of incompleteness”. [1] Unlike its primary text, Moore's book is short (136 pages) and readable. After a general introduction to the polis and its theory up until the time of Plato, the main elements of Magnesia's social and political organization are analysed. Chapter 2 handles the economy, chapter 3 the military, chapter 4 the judiciary, and chapter 5 the structure of government. Chapter 6 rounds things off by inviting the reader on an imaginative “tour” of the city. The whole is a useful overview of the Magnesian polity.

Some problems with organisation should be mentioned. Chapter 1 is entitled “The Development of the Polis and its Re-Development Under Plato”. It covers the following topics in sequence: a general history of the polis (pp. 2-6); the dramatic setting of the Laws (p. 6); Plato's likely “inspiration” for writing the dialogue (p. 6); reasons for the location of Magnesia (p. 7); the Cretan and Spartan constitutions (pp. 8-10); and the role of myth in the founding of the city (pp. 10-11). The result is a somewhat disconnected series of topics shoehorned into a slightly artificial rubric. Organizational problems reoccur to some extent in succeeding chapters.

There are also some infelicities in copy-editing and style. Glen Morrow is referred to as Glen Marrow (viii). Sentences are repeated nearly verbatim at different points within the text (bits of chapter 1, p. 10, repeated in chapter 2, n. 99; bits of p. 34 repeated on p. 83; etc). Quoting and idea attribution are not transparently clear. For instance, Morrow is quoted in support of the view that the guardians of the laws (nomophylakes) add a “monarchical element in the city” (p. 88). This seems a puzzling claim. What must be understood is that Morrow is responding to Aristotle's objection that there is “no monarchical element in Plato's state” (1960, p. 525; cf. Pol. 1265b 28ff., 1266a 2ff.). He argues, in defence of Plato, that “monarchical” should be interpreted broadly as a “recognized center or source of authority” (ibid. p. 526). None of this can be readily understood by the reader: the attribution is misleading (see also p. 28, p. 30; cf. Morrow 1960, p. 192).

Moore's book is historical in orientation and tends to avoid discussion of philosophical and hermeneutic questions. This may seem objectionable. First, it is unclear how Moore's conception of Plato's second city as a “practical utopia” squares with his general methodology of treating Magnesia as if it were a “real polis of the ancient world” (p. 82). He seems to hold that Magnesia would be practicable if it corresponded in certain dimensions with known city-states of antiquity (p. 39). But should we expect this sort of correspondence of a practical utopia? Secondly, the author's handling of the relation between the Republic and the Laws is somewhat problematic. Moore assumes without argument that Republic articulates Plato's ideal city, the Laws, his second-best city. He also takes for granted that the city of Republic is an impossible ideal (p. 2). Both assumptions are questionable. As others have noted, the Republic falls short of the Athenian's best city, which requires complete communism of property and family (Laws 739a3-740c3). [2] And Socrates goes to substantial trouble in arguing that his Kallipolis could be realized (471e4-540d3). [3] Reasonable responses to these concerns may be given. But since Moore does not consider his position to be controversial, he does not provide such responses.

A further concern arises from Moore's handling of the literary dimensions of Plato's text. The Laws is formally speaking a direct dialogue. It represents a conversation between three individuals with discernible personalities. Moore almost entirely neglects the dialogical form of the Laws. This seems inevitable given the nature of his project: treating the text as though it were an exercise in urban planning, written at a time when “the prospect of founding a colony was not purely hypothetical” (p. 13). Now, at the level of the drama, the city of the Laws is clearly intended to be practicable. The Cretan Clinias enjoins his interlocutors to assist him in constructing “an imaginary community” for possible use as a “framework for the future state” which the Cnossians are attempting to found (703d1-5). On the other hand, at the level of the author, it can seem that the point of the Laws is to show the impossibility of constructing a virtuous society without someone like Socrates. The dramatic date of the Laws is prior to the Peloponnesian War and the Athenian Stranger, a pre-Socratic figure. [4] The Athenian's recommendation that the Nocturnal Council undertake inquiries into the unity of the virtues, goodness and beauty (963 ff.) may suggest that Plato is leading “his readers to ask whether the pre-Socratic philosophy on which the Athenian [relies] is adequate to support his political project” (Zuckert 2009, 56). The neglected literary features of Plato's Laws and more general questions of Platonic interpretation are relevant to the very feasibility of Moore's study.

Dylan FUTTER
University of the Witwatersrand
Johannesburg, South Africa

[1] Bobonich 2002, p. 114; cf. Schofield 2010, p. 12.

[2] See Bononich 2006 and Laks 1990.

[3] See Laks 1990, pp. 214-216 on Socrates' conception of possibility.

[4] Zuckert 2009, p. 51 ff.

Bobonich, C. 2002. Plato's Utopia Recast: His Later Ethics and Politics. New York: Oxford University Press.

Bobonich, C. 2006. “Plato on Utopia”. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. (Fall 2008 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL : http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2008/entries/plato-utopia/.

Bobonich, C. 2010. Plato's Laws: a Critical Guide. Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press.

Laks, A. 1990. “Legislation and Demiurgy: On the Relationship between Plato's ‘Republic' and ‘Laws'”. Classical Antiquity 9 (2): 209-229.

Morrow, G. 1960. Plato's Cretan City: A Historical Interpretation of the Laws. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Schofield, M. 1999. “The Laws' Two Projects”. In C. Bobonich ed. 2010.

Zuckert, C. 2009. Plato's Philosophers: The Coherence of the Dialogues. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

4. Review of McPherran, M. L. (ed), Plato's Republic: a critical guide. Cambridge, 2010.

ARAUJO, Carolina — 2013-03-24T11:06:21Z

Cambridge University Press presents its new series of scholarly guides dedicated to specific philosophical works and the Republic is the first work of Plato to receive a volume. The 273 pages constitute a remarkable piece of contemporary scholarship, both when it comes to the valuable (although unevenly distributed) contribution to the present state of Platonic studies, and when it comes to the (poor) cooperative and dialogical work this scholarship is able to produce. As is now customary in the academy, this volume brings together papers presented in a conference – in this case the Thirteenth Annual Arizona Colloquium in Ancient Philosophy; but if the purpose of such an enterprise is to keep the community informed about agreements and disagreements in the recent analysis conducted by experts in the field, this book falls short. Obviously, when some of the best and most serious international scholars were brought together to discuss one single book, agreement could not to be expected. However, what we see is that disagreement is not present either, or worse, what is noticed is the lack of dialogue itself. The model of a guide – an assistant companion to a philosophical journey that would present information and arguments in a structured way – is itself misleading, as well as its general organization in chapters, since, in the words of the editor, this is “a series of reflective essays rather than providing systematic and comprehensive descriptive coverage of that text” (p. 2).

The book opens with G. R. F. Ferrari's (Socrates in the Republic) insightful description of the Republic as an internally narrated dialogue, which would contrast Socrates' character, in for example his sincere hesitation or reluctance to speak, to Plato's calculated composition strategy. This composition strategy would consist in a conscious shift from the “inquisitorial dialectic of Book 1 to the didactic-cum-investigative dialectic of Books 2–10” (p. 28). This conclusion has an evident connection to R. Barney's defense of ring composition as a philosophical method in the following chapter (Platonic ring-composition and Republic 10). According to Barney, the Republic is constituted by five themes – (A) katabasis and return; (B) death; (C) the challenge and the answer; (D) the city and (E) poetry and the arts – ordered as concentric circles according to their first presentation and their (sometimes complex) resolution, all of them “united to the inner dialectical core” (p. 43). When Ferrari's reader is confronted with Barney's claim that the ring composition is a proper form of the method of arguments to and from first principles, she cannot help but ask how the change in the persona of Socrates might explain the differences between presentation and resolution of themes; or if concentric circles would be compatible with a change between inquisitorial and didactical dialectic. Unfortunately not a single line is devoted to an attempt to weave the two hypotheses or to explain why they are incompatible.

Next we find J. Annas' comparative reading of the Republic and the Atlantis myth (The Atlantis story: the Republic and the Timaeus), an analysis that simply takes for granted (i.e. from her previous work) the argumentative role of the city in the Republic as only an illustrative device to show that virtue is to be pursued whether recognized or not. If the reader wonders why she is supposed to accept this, all she can find are challenges to Annas' position, for example in the contributions of R. Kamtekar and Z. Hitz, and not a single word of response. Indeed R. Kamtekar's interesting analysis (Ethics and politics in Socrates' defense of justice) claims that the account of justice in the city ensures that the justice in the soul remains connected to the justice of actions, answering to Sach's notorious charge of fallacy in the Republic. While this point of view still maintains the general thesis that Plato's ultimate goal is to subordinate politics to ethics, it is far from Annas' position, quoted by Kamtekar, according to which the Republic is “no serious matter for political discussion” (p. 66). A similar solution to the political concern in the Republic is suggested by Z. Hitz (Degenerate regimes in Plato's Republic). If, one the one hand, Hitz claims that for Plato the political theory is submitted to moral theory, inasmuch as the choice of lives are made by individuals; on the other hand, she sees in the argument of the degenerated regimes in Books 8 and 9 a different function of reason which Plato could not have addressed through a simply ethical approach. According to it, reason is not only the part of the soul that produces virtue or, when neglected, shadows of virtue, but it is also an organizing principle, responsible for the definition and the structure of all the regimes, and this allows Hitz to conclude that “attribution of the dominant ends of ‘wealth' and ‘liberty' to the regimes ought to be understood as involving a critical judgment” (p. 121). This structural understanding of reason would clearly have consequences for Plato's account of the tripartition of the soul, the psychic justice and the different choices of life standards, but this is not Hitz's concern.

We have to wait for M. McPherran's chapter (Virtue, luck, and choice at the end of the Republic) to bring some light to the problem of life standards, more specifically to the necessity and contingency in the choice of lives as it is described in the myth of Er. McPherran claims that, despite all the defense of justice and knowledge throughout the Republic, Plato's attempt succumbs in face of the evidence provided by its ending myth that the important choices are made in a state of lack of freedom, since Lachesis order the lots attribution, and of relative ignorance, since the choice is presented as an automatic reaction to the suffering experienced in one's previous incarnation, in a kind of causal chain which shows that reason is not the only and maybe not the most important agent of choice. If Plato's intention was “to keep the gods clear of responsibility of our wrongdoing and consequent suffer” (p. 135), and to prove that the justice is good by itself, the Republic would eventually provide only instrumental reasons for being just, based on the pain connected to injustice, while reason would still have to prove its contribution to happiness. This problem of the rational soul in book X is also addressed by C. Shields (Plato's divided soul) in its apparent contradiction with the city-modeled tripartition. Claiming that the tripartition is neither necessary nor exhaustive and that the soul cannot be considered an aggregate of independent parts, Shields suggests that they should be understood as aspectual parts, i.e., properties or features of the soul that would allow Plato to explain the phenomenological datum of internal strife. This device, argues Shield, would never compete with Plato's thesis that the soul is essentially one and rational. Needless to say, the aporia with which McPherran ends his chapter is deepened by Shield's claim about the rationality of the soul and Plato's defense of knowledge as a condition for right choice and happiness seems to be undermined by this series of isolated arguments. Unfortunately the situation does not seem to improve with N. Smith's courageous approach (Return to the cave) to the problem of the happiness of a philosopher who must rule. Making the point that the return to the cave is just because it generates psychic harmony, Smith argues that not being immediately willing to do so reveals an epistemic fault in the individuals who have contemplated the good and hence a extraordinary kind of injustice, connected with the excessive happiness of the rational part of their soul. However, the consequence of this bright solution is highly controversial: those who must return to the cave are not yet philosopher-kings, but only philosophers, and this is not due to the city but to an educational deficiency in them, that would only be overcome by fifteen years of political apprenticeship. This overview shows that the connection between justice, happiness and reason is challenged in various ways by different contributions to this volume, and the reader still wonders if this different challenges can be unified in one strong argument against Plato's most important claim.

Another example of lack of dialogue is the parallel between Lesher's and Benson's conclusions about the divided line. Reviewing the occurrences of sapheneia in Greek Literature since Homer, J. H. Lesher (The meaning of “saphēneia” in Plato's Divided Line) claims that the criterion of differentiation between the stages of the line should be understood as “full, accurate and sure awareness of an object” (p. 171) rather than clarity in thought or expression. Of course this raises some problems about the two upper sections of the line, whose difference, according to Lesher, would then be between visible shapes and intelligible realities. This is exactly the thesis challenged by H. Benson (Plato's philosophical method in the Republic: the Divided Line (510b–511d)), who claims that the difference between the two upper sections of the line is about the complete or incomplete employment of the method of hypothesis: dianoetic thought confines itself to what he calls the “proof stage”, while dialectic embraces both the proof and the confirmation stages. Going much further than simply stating the difference between philosophy and mathematics, Benson's description of the two uses of the method of hypothesis suggests a confrontation between Socratic examination of the consistency of an interlocutor's beliefs – a refutation according to opinion that would still draw consequences that are not genuine – and Platonic dialectic, which would test the consistency of features of a Form and would hence arrive at conclusions that are neither contingent nor artificial. The fact that both Lesher and Benson do not offer direct arguments against each other thesis leaves the impression that the ancient quarrel between propositions and objects in Plato's theory of knowledge is still a matter of taking your pick.

Also evident and silent is the dispute about Platonic education. C. D. C. Reeve (Blindness and reorientation: education and the acquisition of knowledge in the Republic) understands books 2 and 3 as a proposal for the education of appetite and spirit, a thesis rejected thirty pages later by M. Schofield's remarks (Music all pow'rful) on how music in senso stretto develops the learning element in us (to philomathes), the same one that, once fully-fledged, turns into philosophy. Reeve emphasizes the role of objects in education, stressing the difference between reliable and unreliable paradigms, whose difference should not be considered metaphysical. However, to defend this position, he commits himself to a very disputable thesis, namely that “countenancing the good (…) is a precondition of countenancing any form” (p. 223). On the assumption that the form of the good should be understood as a principle of rational order and intelligibility, Reeve defends knowledge in restricted Platonic sense as a piecemeal infallible un-hypothetical cognition of a variety of Forms, acquired after the knowledge of the good, i.e., during the fifteen years that Smith has understood as a political, and not philosophical, apprenticeship (once more no word is to be found about the discrepancy between the two chapters). Schofield, in his turn, gives the volume an impressive end in defending the central importance of unconscious assimilation of right content in Plato's educational project, based mostly on the Damonian thesis that musical modes are expressions of thought and character, and on the perception of what he calls the audible structure, i.e., music's internal rational structure, which makes reason a condition for its full appreciation. These assumptions allow Schofield to defend musical mimesis as an effective character modeler, whose exceptional power can also be found in the description of justice in the soul as harmony: “learning to sing and play in such rhythms and modes will gradually shape the soul into concordant structures” (p. 238). The reader once again wonders about the rational structure and its precondition to knowledge: could music provide us the cognition of a rational structure of reality that would allow us to know Forms or would this be only possible by contemplating the Good?

This concise presentation aims both to show how inspiring are the theses addressed in the book and to share the frustration caused by the inability of the authors to transform a series of contributions into a dialogue, especially when all of them have as their theme one single work, and especially when this work is the Republic. What may appear to be only a question of what a book of scholarship is or should be is actually a Platonic question about academic practice and unity, be it in politics, in writing or in pursuing philosophy. A patchwork of doctrines recalls the bazaar of constitutions of a democratic state, and while we all must go there to choose the regime each of us would like to live in, this possibility of choice is only the point of departure for philosophy. Examining one's own premises and consequences under dialectical procedures is a condition for real community. No one says it is easy, but it is the property of beautiful things to be difficult.

Carolina Araujo
Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro
Capes/CNPq/Faperj

5. Review of Thomas L. Cooksey, Plato's Symposium: A Reader's Guide, Continuum, London-New York. 2010.

CANDIOTTO, Laura — 2013-03-24T11:06:19Z

The book consists of four chapters (1.Context; 2. Overview of Themes; 3. Reading the Text; 4. Reception and Influence) that offer the reader guidance in reading Plato's Symposium. Secondary literature is mostly in English. The line of interpretation may be defined as partly literary and partly thematic — being aware of the philosophical significance of the adopted style. The literary part contains a detailed description of the characters and the frame story; the thematic part comprises: frequent comparisons and parallelisms, philosophical thoughts from another time (up to the present) and other disciplines, particularly from a psychological perspective. Even though the text might have a didactic approach [1] it provides some interesting hermeneutic interpretations that I would like to underline:

1) The symposium as a literary device: it allows Plato to explore the power and nature of the erotic, and how it relates to issues of ethics, epistemology, and ontology. Moreover, it pretends to be the very representation of the nature of the philosopher. Cooksey reads the dialogue as a unit, taking a steep slope —though he does not really leave behind the slope already overcome— from the first encomia to those of Diotima and Alcibiades, which are interpreted simultaneously [2]. Plato conceived the Symposium as a tragic trilogy followed by a "satyr- play". The first installment of Plato's trilogy can be characterized as "Love and the individual", joining the encomia of Phaedrus and Pausanias into a contrasting pair that brings them together as dialectical complements to each other. The second installment might be called "Love and nature". Here Eryximachus and Aristophanes form a dialectical complement. The third and culminating installment of the trilogy might be called "Love in itself". Agathon and Socrates/Diotima form the dialectical complement. The "satyr play" of Alcibiades takes up the various themes developed during the course of the first three installments, translating them from the realm of the heroic and mythic into the living realm of humans.
In addition to this dramatic structure, Cooksey individualizes the larger narrative contexts represented by the roles played by Aristodemus, Apollodorus, and ultimately Plato.
According to Cooksey (a view developed by Despand 1985, by Chateau 2005, by Ortega y Gasset 1957 and by Bakhtin 1981) this fact makes the Symposium a unitary dialogue, where thanks to the philosophy tragedy and comedy are restored to wholeness.
Personally I think that this kind of interpretation is fundamental to contextualize the philosophical doctrines. On the one hand, to gather the intentions and aims of platonic writing, and on the other, to understand the philosophical meaning emerging from the text. There is not a dichotomy between style and content or an asymmetrical advantage of the content over the style: these two parts work together in order to explore the concept that arises from the text. This awareness is to be found in many of the studies carried out on Plato over recent years. Cooksey's work constitutes a worthy part of this hermeneutic vein. At this point, a most important observation is that, apart from what has been said about the one-on-one dialectical relationships of the trilogy, Cooksey conceives the “dialectic” in what I would call a contemporaneous way: the dialectic is not the contrast or the overcoming of a thesis by contradiction (as it was for Socrates and Hegel), but the participants' desire to achieve a mutual agreement on a dialogical composition, which is typical of a ‘democratic' and contemporaneous conception. I personally do not agree with the universalization of the ‘common research' as an agreement among the participants of the Socratic dialogue, even being one of its most characteristics aspects. This definition underlines a ‘democratic' conception of knowledge. I believe to be it an anachronism and a simplification of ancient Greek culture. Unfortunately all too often, I observe in this contemporary reading the limits of a text that is proposed as a reading guide instead of as a theoretical comparison. It is, however, true that this can bring students closer to the Greek world. Yet it should express that this inclination for contemporaneity is just a suggestion, not an addition to what has been written by Plato.
Nevertheless, from a theoretical point of view an update of the dialogue's form is very interesting., since the 'Socratic dialogue' is applied in several educational and formative contexts as an implementation. Moreover, these topics can't be adequately explained in an introductory book about the Symposium. Otherwise, there is a risk that the reader (in particular if inexperienced) would not be able to understand in what way it is indeed present in the platonic work and to what extent it constitutes an evolution from its ancient example.

2) A positive interpretation of Eryximachus: Cooksey points out an important step forward on the moral relativism of Phaedrus and Pausanias: “The transition to a moral "physics", grounded in a relationship with nature, ultimately pointing to a moral metaphysics, grounded in transcendent forms”. Eryximachus' encomium prepares the audience for the speech of Socrates/Diotima and the transcendental philosophy of Plato. After having emphasized the common points with Empedocles and Hippocrates, Cooksey underlines the resemblance with Plato's theory of the tripartition of the human soul [3] and the conception of health as the harmony between the parts.

3) Love is neither mortal nor immortal [4]: Cooksey underlines the fact that, from a purely ontological point of view, it is “hard” to imagine an intermediate position. However, from a psychological point of view, it looks right. Unfortunately, the author does not go deeply into the subject. Is it not true that the aim of Plato's philosophy is to find the “in-between” (metaxy)? A middle between the sensible and the intelligible? Does not the combined reading of the speech of Socrates/Diotima and Alcibiades underline the necessity of a union between human and divine? Presumably, Cooksey does not take any position on this subject because he regards the idea of Beauty as totally transcendental and ineffable, and this, therefore, leads him to perceive only the division, since he does not understand the intermediary role played by Eros from an ontological point of view.

4) The "ascent passage" [5]: as outlined in the previous paragraph, this passage regards the form of Beauty as not being limited by either the temporal or the spatial dimension, and seems to be also apart from the previous levels. The vision of the Beautiful would render all other measures of Beauty trivial: "Children, works of poetry, inventions, moral and political institutions are merely images or phantoms of virtues, mere approximations in their impure form, contingent on particular things." (p. 85). It seems to me, however, that Cooksey' interpretation does not account for the idea of the “big beautiful sea”— or at least, that was not its intention.
The author argues constantly about the secondary bibliography concerning three subjects: the ascent's doctrine regarding Plato's philosophy; the role of Diotima; and the relationship between the discourse of Socrates/Diotima with the five previous discourses. Cooksey [like Chen (1983)] does not interpret “the ascent” in terms of abstraction or generalization but as something comparable to the Zen Koans and capable of performing a similar function: the form of Beauty is beyond rational or empirical description. "We can only point at it; we do not have the means of saying what it is. Eros is a kind of orienting disposition." (p. 87). This marks a key point in the philosophical method proposed by Diotima. What I mean to say is that there is a discontinuity between the procedure and the grasp of Beauty, the vision of Beauty is neither insured nor guaranteed.
“This method can only prepare the lover/philosopher, put him in the proper place, the proper frame of mind, but it cannot by itself bridge the final gap." (p. 88). Cooksey understands it in a “kantianian” way, as the limits of reason, and conceives the grasp of Beauty as a mystical experience. The relationship between procedure and grasp is explained according to the words of Wittgenstein: “kicking away the ladder after we have climbed it.” We already know that this passage has been read for centuries in two different and opposing ways: as an expression of rationality capable of abstraction and generalization, on the one hand, and as a mystical abandonment of the rationality, on the other. These two interpretations are rooted in some representations of Plato's gnoseology regarding the dianoia and the nous. Cooksey places himself among the supporters of a mystical interpretation and uses a method based on suggestions and assonances quoting and commenting passages of Dante, Shakespeare and George Bernard Shaw.
The figure of Diotima is presented as a strong presence that is absent: "Her presence as a name signifies something real about her existence, but at the same time something outside or beyond a material appearance of the others." (p. 94). According to Cooksey, Diotima's presence is a symbol of the entire process of immortality and the ascent that she describes. I think this is a highly interesting aspect because it frames, within the same characters' selection, a particular philosophical meaning: the philosophy of the ineffable beauty that remains absent in the presence of itself.
The author associates the erotic metaphor with the act of reading and interpretation. Each speech is stimulated to give birth to the beauty of knowledge and the ascent up of the ladder of love; and is dramatized by the succession of narrators and narrative frames. Cooksey offers an interpretation that could be called “maieutic”. Furthermore, he shows how the narrative structure is represented by the philosophy stated by Socrates/Diotima: "(…) the nesting of narrative frames also reminds us that we are separated from Diotima's vision, that whatever we know about the beautiful is filtered by a succession of mediators." (pp. 95-96). It is only possible to grasp a phantom of Beauty, not Beauty itself.

5) Diotima and Alcibiades: while Diotima emphasizes the remote goals of the erotic, Alcibiades emphasizes its very tangible presence. Nevertheless, the erotic presence stated by Alcibiades underlines something that is placed outside the subjective control: an uncontrollable power.
I believe that Cooksey interprets love as a separation, even when it takes a corporeal appearance in Alcibiades' discourse. Cooksey – unlike Nussbaum (1986) –, argues that the idealized eroticism of Diotima is mapped onto the real eroticism of Alcibiades: his speech is not the "counter example" but the concrete example of Diotima's. According to Cooksey, the purpose of Plato – pursued by the discourse of Alcibiades – is to demonstrate that the metaphysical vision suggested by Diotima is to be present in everybody's daily life experience: "The steps in Alcibiades' account of his attempts to seduce Socrates echoes the stages of the erotic mysteries of Diotima, a concrete example of the five stages of love, especially the transitions between the stages." (p. 118).

6) Socratic philosophy: Cooksey places the desire for unattainable Beauty inside the Socratic philosophy as an enquiry. He thinks that Socrates offers a process, not a doctrine. "The erotic guide can facilitate and nurture, but it is the beloved who must experience the sudden revelation that takes the initiate to the fifth level (…)." (p. 123). Thus, he suggests a general interpretation that underlines the continuity between Socrates and Plato, which is to be found in the same writing, and is intended to encourage readers. He comes to this conclusion after considering the Socratic method as an endless tendency, a desire for an inaccessible wisdom and an absence of knowledge according to the interpretation of the "ascent passage" and that of Heidegger regarding Socrates as a "daimonic thinker." I not only do not agree, but consider that since it is possible to grasp the Idea, it should be investigated. But this would expose the whole interpretation of Cooksey as based on the separation, and therefore it is not taken into consideration. The subject of separation has been widely debated in the secondary bibliography about Plato. Since this is a review, I cannot argue about it any longer. Nevertheless, I would like to state that as far as I'm concerned, from that specific point in the Symposium (i.e. the 'ascent passage') the interpretation of the alleged platonic ‘dualism' could be called into question.

The author manages very cleverly to present a broad range of areas from ancient Greek philosophy to modern philosophy, but – probably because of the introductory nature of the text –; he doesn't go deeply into it. In this text, we find two strong points that deserve a specialist attention: the particular attention paid to the literary aspects of the dialogue – highlighting the philosophical meaning inherent to it – and the maieutic aspects that might lead to the understanding of the real aim of Plato's writing. To conclude, I would say that the text of Cooksey is presented as a passionate and stimulating introduction to the Symposium. However, caution must be applied, as there is a high risk of misinterpretation for those readers who are not familiarized with platonic texts and the secondary literature. Yet it would be reduced if the text of Cooksey were supported by other studies. On the whole, the text of Cooksey is a refreshing interpretation rather than an introduction. Furthermore, it is packed with interesting suggestions and comparisons about the Symposium.

Laura CANDIOTTO
Ca' Foscari University of Venice (Italy)
Department of Philosophy

[1] See the “discussion questions” proposed at the end of chapter 3, pp. 131-132.

[2] See paragraph 5.

[3] Republic 436a-445e, 545b-580a

[4] Symposium 203b-209e

[5] Symposium 209e-212a

1. « Topos » en question dans l'introduction du Sophiste (216a1-217a1)

NERCAM, Nathalie — 2013-03-24T11:06:17Z

Au début du Sophiste, Socrate demande au visiteur éléate ce qu'ont pensé des genres philosophe, sophiste et politique, « ceux » qui sont de ce lieu-là ». L'article a pour but d'éclairer cette dernière expression et en particulier son mot clef « topos ». Il est montré que les significations de ce terme, dans son contexte, sont multiples et que cette diversité, loin d'apporter la confusion, permet au contraire et précisément d'ouvrir les diverses perspectives du dialogue.

At the beginning of the Sophist, Socrates asks the Eleatic Visitor how the three kinds Philosopher, Sophist and Statesman, have been understood by “those who are in this place”. The purpose of this paper is to enlighten this periphrasis and specially its key-word “topos”. We have showed that, in its context, this word has four main meanings, and that this diversity, far from causing confusion, opens up the dialogue to various perspectives.

Les dialogues Sophiste et Politique répondent à une question formulée par Socrate au début du premier des deux ouvrages. A cette occasion, le philosophe athénien interpelle le visiteur éléate qui lui a été présenté par le géomètre Théodore, au moyen d'une périphrase dans laquelle « topos » est le terme principal : il demande au nouveau venu d'exposer les réflexions de « ceux qui sont de ce lieu-là » [1]. Diès, Chambry et Robin considèrent que Socrate vise ceux qui habitent le « pays » de l'étranger, à savoir Elée [2]. Il en va très semblablement pour Nestor Cordero [3].

L'objectif de cet article est de montrer que la signification du mot « topos » dans le contexte introductif du Sophiste n'est pas univoque, comme pourrait le laisser entendre la relative unanimité des traductions françaises [4]. La multiplicité de ses sens, loin d'être un handicap, est ce qui permet de relativiser le discours de l'étranger.

Pour le démontrer, on étudiera l'ironie très particulière que Platon accorde à Socrate face à Théodore. La plupart des commentateurs du Sophiste en prennent acte mais sans développer les problèmes qu'elle implique [5]. Or elle permet à Platon de jouer sur plusieurs plans de signification et d'ouvrir ainsi l'horizon du problème posé. C'est dans ce contexte que le mot « topos » prend de multiples significations. Notre étude a pour fin de les examiner après avoir fixé, dans une première partie, le cadre général de l'enquête.

1 Construction de la question.

La question posée en 217a1 conclut un bref dialogue entre Socrate et Théodore qui présente d'abord les circonstances de la rencontre. Elle est située au lendemain du Théétète, au même endroit, là où enseigne le grand mathématicien (216a1-2). Le géomètre décrit alors très brièvement le nouveau venu qui est son hôte mais qu'il ne nomme pas. L'anonyme est caractérisé par trois traits :

D'une part, il vient du « genos » d'Elée ce qui signifie d'abord qu'il appartient à la nation des Eléates (216a3).

D'autre part, il serait « ami des disciples de Parménide et de Zénon » (216a3-4) ce qui sous-entend qu'il connaît bien les positions philosophiques de ces deux penseurs [6].

Enfin le mathématicien déclare que son hôte est assurément tout à fait « philosophos » (216a4). Pour le géomètre, cette dernière qualité ferait autorité et semblerait presque suffire à présenter l'inconnu.

Si rendez-vous avait été pris entre Théodore et Socrate [7], la venue de cet étranger n'était pas quant à elle programmée. Or la veille, l'examen de la pensée de Parménide d'Elée avait été laissée en suspens [8]. Cette enquête est en conséquence à l'ordre du jour du Sophiste. L'arrivée de l'étranger éléate est donc providentielle. Ce nouveau venu est un véritable deus ex machina qui dans la trame continue et programmée des deux dialogues Théétète et Sophiste, semble comme tomber opportunément du ciel quand il s'agit d'étudier Parménide.

Cette situation fabriquée de toutes pièces est aussitôt prétexte à ironie. L'heureux concours de circonstances suscite en effet la réaction à la fois admirative et amusée de Socrate qui déclare : « Théodore, l'étranger que tu amènes, ne serait-il pas – même si tu l'ignores – un dieu, pour adopter le mot d'Homère » (216a5-6). En jouant sur l'étymologie du nom « Théodore », littéralement « don de dieu » [9], et sous couvert du grand poète, Socrate souligne le caractère exceptionnellement opportun de cette visite impromptue. Le ton est ainsi donné : l'ironie s'exerce dès le départ pour susciter la vigilance du lecteur et pour l'amener à participer au dialogue, en questionnant le texte [10]. Les interventions de Socrate sont alors construites à partir du thème homérique du chant XVII de l'Odyssée dans lequel le poète déclare que les dieux prennent « les traits de lointains étrangers et, sous toutes les formes, s'en vont de ville en ville inspecter les vertus des humains et leurs crimes » [11]. Socrate glose d'abord le mythe : « les hommes qui respectent la justice sont accompagnés par des dieux, mais c'est surtout le dieu des étrangers qui contrôle, chez les hommes, aussi bien les excès que la conduite bien réglée» [12] (216b1-3). Le propos dérive immédiatement : le dieu qui « contrôle » devient dieu qui « réfute », susceptible de critiquer « les faibles arguments » dont Socrate serait éventuellement coupable. Pour l'occasion, l'Athénien s'amuse donc à inventer un nouveau dieu, celui des philosophes, qualifié d'« élenchtique », manière indirecte de se moquer de lui-même, tout en mettant en question les causes de la venue de l'étranger, les finalités de son action et l'autorité qui semble l'imposer dans le cénacle de Théodore.

Platon a fait du géomètre l'austère contre point de l'ironiste. Le mathématicien reste en effet totalement insensible au courtois persiflage et précise très sérieusement que le visiteur étranger n'est ni un batailleur, ni un dieu mais bien un philosophe, et à ce titre, « un être divin », car « tous les philosophes le sont » ajoute-t-il (216b9-c1).

Cette réponse sentencieuse est l'occasion de creuser un peu plus la distance critique qui sépare les deux protagonistes. Socrate rebondit en effet sans quitter le ton de l'affable ironie (216c2-d4). Il reprend le premier terme de Théodore – genos - en l'appliquant au maître mot du géomètre – philosophos. La nation, la famille, la tribu, le « genre philosophe » auquel l'étranger appartiendrait n'est pas facile à distinguer du genre divin, déclare-t-il (216c2-4). Pour étayer cette assertion, il brode à nouveau sur le même passage de l'Odyssée : comme les dieux, les philosophes « prennent les apparences les plus diverses, en raison de l'absence de réflexion des autres, et en allant « de ville en ville », eux qui sont réellement et non faussement philosophes, regardent d'en haut la vie de ceux d'en bas » (216c4-5). Le thème de la « haute surveillance » est ainsi poursuivi sans discontinuité, les philosophes remplissant toujours des rôles d'observateur et peut-être même parfois de censeur. Socrate achève le portrait de ces grands hommes en renversant complètement le point de vue. D'en bas, les jugements portés sur ces êtres supérieurs sont aussi divers que peuvent l'être leurs apparences, puisqu'ils sont considérés parfois comme des politiques, parfois comme des sophistes et parfois même comme des fous. Au titre de « surveillant général de droit divin », le philosophe peut en effet facilement être assimilé à tous les donneurs de leçons et à tous les redresseurs de tort que sont parfois à leur façon tous les autres personnages. L'autorité sacrée et divine dont Théodore parait a priori ce providentiel étranger est ainsi mise en question.

Au delà de l'ironie, Socrate rend en fait problématique l'action philosophique elle-même. La variété d'apparences et de jugements manifeste en effet une réalité plus profonde : l'existence de relations et d'interactions entre les différents genres. Si le philosophe « agit », observe et juge, publiquement ou non, mais toujours selon ses propres motifs, il « pâtit » aussi, en étant jugé selon les critères des « autres ». Une réduction maladroite entraînerait l'opposition radicale entre un simple agir unilatéral, sans pâtir (comme du haut vers le bas) niant la multiplicité d'opinions qui s'exprime pourtant (du bas vers le haut). Socrate apprécierait au contraire l'action dans son double mouvement, d'agir et de pâtir et prendrait en considération la diversité des jugements. Prise au sérieux, celle-ci témoigne d'un enjeu peut-être même d'un conflit, a minima d'une difficulté quant à la définition précise de l'action philosophique, qui mérite en conséquence d'être soigneusement examinée.

Platon aurait donc posé en ce commencement du Sophiste, les termes d'une équation problématique. D'un côté, Théodore croit sans jamais douter qu'un philosophe est un être supérieur et admet ainsi de facto une hiérarchie de principe qui s'exprimerait dans les faits, sans soulever de difficulté. D'un autre côté, Socrate sous couvert d'ironie met la certitude du mathématicien en question et inscrit l'action philosophique parmi bien d'autres types d'action avec lesquelles elle interagit. A l'issue de ce rapide échange, l'étranger n'est plus a priori un être supérieur et divin. Il est devenu la véritable inconnue du problème soulevé par Socrate, peut-être philosophe, peut-être politique ou sophiste ou même fou.

Ainsi on écoutera l'anonyme éléate en lui accordant comme nous y convie Théodore une confiance sans réserve. Mais comme nous le rappelle Socrate, on réfléchira à deux fois avant de prononcer son jugement. Car la question posée vaut aussi pour le lecteur. Au fil du dialogue, il éprouvera ses propres qualités, peut-être de philosophe, de politique, de sophiste ou même de maniaque plus ou moins inspiré. Il faut donc soi-même se remettre en question. Cette épreuve commence dès la première étape introductive qui vient d'être étudiée. Elle conduit à demander : comment peut-on apprécier le discours de l'étranger ? Il va en définissant les genres se définir lui-même. Mais si le lecteur admet les propos tenus sans autre discussion, il demeurera alors enfermé dans le cercle herméneutique tracé par l'exposant lui-même, sans aucune distanciation. Il ne pensera pas mais ne fera qu'opiner. L'introduction du dialogue aurait justement pour vocation d'ouvrir cette boucle et Platon convierait le lecteur à relativiser le discours de l'inconnu en le rapportant à ses prolégomènes socratiques. Le problème est alors de savoir de quelle façon.

Socrate pose une première question dans laquelle se trouve le mot « topos »: « J'aimerais entendre l'étranger nous dire pour qui les tenaient les gens de ce lieu-là et de quels noms ils les nommaient » (217a1). Platon souligne immédiatement les difficultés inhérentes à cette requête, en faisant intervenir deux fois Théodore. La question est en effet particulièrement allusive. D'abord l'objet de l'examen n'est indiqué que par le pronom ταυθ' qui rappelle globalement tout ce qui fut dit précédemment. Socrate précise donc : il s'agit d'apprendre comment sophiste, politique et philosophe ont été considérés et appelés (217a2-3). Mais le trouble de Théodore provient d'une seconde difficulté plus implicite : s'il est clair que l'étranger est celui à qui, en personne, est adressée la question, il est plus difficile de déterminer de qui Socrate attend en fait des explications [13]. Du nouveau venu, il dit en effet vouloir apprendre ce qu'ont pensé et nommé « les gens de ce lieu-là ». On peut d'abord penser qu'à défaut de pouvoir préciser s'il est philosophe, sophiste ou politique, bref ne sachant à qui il a à faire, Socrate caractérise le nouveau venu grâce à son lieu d'origine. Mais cette interprétation est la ligne minimale de flottaison du commentaire. Il est en effet facile d'imaginer à la place du mot « topos », d'autres termes plus directs renvoyant à Elée. Le nom de la cité italique aurait suffi ou « genos » employé par Théodore ou encore toute autre formule du type « chez vous, les Eléates »… Aucune des hypothèses citées en exemple n'ayant été adoptée par Platon, il est nécessaire de demander en quoi l'emploi de « topos » relève d'un choix délibéré et peut-être savant. Pourquoi avoir opté pour une formule fastidieuse et ne pas avoir choisi pour alléger la phrase et rendre plus compréhensible la question, d'user d'un terme plus immédiatement compréhensible ?

Considérons les autres occurrences de ce mot dans des contextes similaires. Socrate l'emploie dans trois prologues introductifs. Dans Ménon (71a1) et dans Euthydème (271c4) les lieux sont ceux d'Athènes, dans Phèdre (230b4 et c1) le lieu est celui de la source au bord de l'Ilissos, longuement décrite par le philosophe. A chaque fois, « topos » constitue un des thèmes principaux, si ce n'est le thème majeur, de ces introductions [14]. Le contexte rapproché, c'est-à-dire le même paragraphe, permet sans hésiter de définir son sens général toujours spatial.

Sur ce principe, l'occurrence de l'introduction du Sophiste ne ferait sens que resituée dans l'ensemble du propos dans lequel elle apparaît (216c2-217a1). Or dans tout le paragraphe qui conduit finalement à la question, le philosophe athénien n'évoque jamais ni la cité éléate, ni le souvenir de Parménide ou de Zénon. Son discours est généraliste et vise tous les philosophes, d'où qu'ils viennent. Ceux-ci sont d'ailleurs décrits comme des nomades, d'une certaine façon apatrides, puisqu'ils vont « de ville en ville ». Leur port d'attache est indéterminé. « Topos » dans la question qui clôt ce développement devrait donc être entendu dans un sens général. Mais voilà qui pose problème.

L'expression dans laquelle le mot est employé, composée du pronom οἱ et de la préposition περὶ + accusatif, sous-entend le verbe « être » et signifie littéralement « ceux qui sont du côté de…». Platon aurait renforcé la valeur locative de « topos » en lui adjoignant un adverbe de même sens, ἐκεῖ qui signifie « là, là-bas ». Socrate parlerait donc de « ceux qui sont du côté de ce lieu là-bas » mais sans pour autant renvoyer à une adresse géographique précise. « Topos » désignerait alors une localisation qui n'en est pas une, une situation « générale ». L'interprétation est problématique, ce qu'a judicieusement remarqué Seth Benardete [15]. Une alternative est rendue possible par l'existence d'une construction grammaticale dont on trouve un modèle par exemple dans le Phédon [16]. Dans ce cas, la même formule οἱ περὶ + accusatif peut être traduite par : « ceux qui s'occupent de … ». Socrate demanderait alors à l'étranger ce qu'ont pensé des genres en question « ceux qui s'occupent de ce lieu là ». Mais « topos » renvoie alors à une réalité qu'il est bien difficile de définir précisément. L'interprétation est à nouveau aporétique. Dans les deux hypothèses exégétiques, le sens du mot reste donc au premier abord assez obscur.

Mais il apparaît par contre clairement que rapporter les propos de l'étranger à leur introduction socratique, c'est considérer l'inconnu éléate comme le porte-parole de « ceux qui sont ou/et qui s'occupent de ce lieu là ». Socrate « situe » ainsi l'étranger, en le renvoyant très littéralement à un « lieu ». « Topos » est donc ce par quoi le cercle herméneutique peut être ouvert, la clef des champs socratique du dialogue. Il est alors tout à fait logique que ce mot soit comme on vient de le constater une énigme. Car si Platon a rendu difficile sa compréhension immédiate, c'est justement pour que le lecteur trébuche et marque le pas : il doit s'arrêter sur « topos » car c'est le mot clef de la question initiale, celui qui désigne la distance critique qui permettra finalement d'apprécier le discours de l'inconnu. Selon le « lieu », la réponse au problème posé peut varier et selon la façon dont l'exégète interprète ce « lieu », l'appréciation de cette réponse peut varier elle aussi. Notre enquête doit donc maintenant considérer cette ouverture du dialogue sur de multiples possibles. A quel « topos » peut-on rapporter les propos de l'étranger et pour engager quel type de réflexion ?

2 Les significations possibles du mot « topos ».

« Ce lieu-là » : école éléatique.

Une première interprétation est étayée par les remarques de Nestor Cordero dans son article « L'invention de l'école éléatique, Platon Sophiste 242d » [17]. L'étranger utilise en effet une expression étrange qui fait écho aux propos liminaires de Théodore : « Issue de chez nous, la gent éléatique, qui commença par Xénophane et même avant, ne voit qu'unité dans ce qu'on nomme le tout et poursuit en ce sens l'exposé de ses mythes » (242d5-7). La formule « chez nous » désignerait plutôt Elée en tant qu'espace géopolitique. Mais la mention de Xénophane de Colophon au titre d'ancêtre est un anachronisme géographique flagrant dont Nestor Cordero a tiré l'enseignement. « L'ethos éléatique s'est développé à partir d'Elée mais toute référence exclusivement localiste qui ferait du mouvement une philosophie de terroir, de « chez nous, les Eléates » est à exclure » [18] déclare-t-il. Sur cette base, il distingue l'adjectif « éléate » : de la cité d'Elée et l'adjectif « éléatique » : du cercle intellectuel qui déclare l'unité de l'être et qui revendique notamment Parménide pour précurseur. Nestor Cordero discute ensuite la réalité historique de ce cercle. Nous reviendrons plus tard sur ce dernier point. Admettons pour l'instant l'existence de cette hypothétique « école » à laquelle Platon voudrait nous faire croire. En ce cas, le mot « topos » dans l'introduction du dialogue pourrait y renvoyer. « Ce lieu-là » ne désignerait plus le lieu de naissance de l'inconnu, tout en restant cependant un lieu d'origine, la source de son savoir, cette « école éléatique » qui défend en particulier des positions « monistes ».

L'ironie des propos introductifs de Socrate autorise pleinement cette interprétation car elle peut avoir pour cible Parménide, au titre de « Maître de vérité », titre dont Marcel Detienne a montré qu'il pouvait être accordé au penseur d'Elée [19]. Dans le dialogue qui porte son nom, il est dépeint comme un philosophe redoutable qui observe, réfute et expose. Platon semble ainsi avoir tiré les conséquences dernières dans l'ordre de l'action de l'œuvre de Parménide, qui en écrivant le Poème a rendu publique la parole de la Déesse, et délivré ainsi l'enseignement divin, en ouvrant une voie pédagogique. Le « Maître de Vérité » du Poème est ainsi devenu dans le dialogue platonicien une figure plus prosaïque, proche de celle du « maître d'école ». Socrate croiserait dans le Sophiste, les trois caractères qui selon Théodore définissent l'étranger, pour mettre ironiquement en question le « genos », le genre, « philosophos », philosophe, à la manière tout à la fois épique et pédagogique de Parménide, « le Maître ».

L'ironie de Socrate dans cette introduction s'exercerait alors pour flétrir les deux excès potentiels de ceux qui suivraient cet exemple, en le rigidifiant : en amont, l'abus d'autorité et en aval, l'excès de zèle. Dans le premier cas, le recours à la déesse permettrait d'asseoir un pouvoir exorbitant comme de droit divin qui rendrait confuse la distinction des genres, en particulier entre philosophe et politique. Dans le second cas, les principes du Poème en étant tenus pour acquis comme des lois logiques absolues seraient appliqués systématiquement et mécaniquement. Le philosophe ainsi armé aurait alors pour vocation de corriger les mortels à deux têtes comme peuvent le faire parfois et par ailleurs le politique et le sophiste. La confusion des genres serait à nouveau possible. Dans ces deux cas extrêmes, le discours n'a pour fin que l'autolégitimation, justifiant une prééminence acquise par l'entremise divine ou revendiquée par l'autorité de l'école.

« Topos » qui ne peut être entendu qu'en fonction de son contexte rapproché, doit donc être rapporté à ces deux extrema.

En amont, c'est la déesse qui commande. L'étranger appartiendrait alors à cette « école éléatique » fondée sur l'autorité de la parole divine et qui n'a pas, en conséquence, d'adresse précise. L'expression « ce lieu-là » renverrait alors à l'espace relationnel tissé par les prosélytes de la pensée de Parménide et comprenant tous ceux qui revendiquent où qu'ils se trouvent cette même philosophie. C'est un cercle, une sphère d'influence et de relations aux contours géographiques assez flous.

En aval, les disciples de Parménide et de Zénon auraient propagé dans la continuité et peut-être dans la contestation, un certain enseignement, issu en particulier des réflexions des deux premiers penseurs d'Elée. « Le lieu éléatique » n'est plus alors inconsistant mais désigne très concrètement une institution, peut-être à Elée, où l'on s'exerce au métier de philosophe, un centre d'apprentissage semblable, par exemple au lieu dans lequel professe Théodore à Athènes.

Dans cette hypothèse exégétique à double entrée, Socrate demanderait donc ce qu'ont pensé du philosophe, du sophiste, du politique et du fou les gens de « ce lieu-là » c'est-à-dire de cette « école éléatique », peut-être lieu institutionnel consacré, peut-être mouvement de pensée libre de toute localisation. C'est dans tous les cas, le lieu où fleurirait le « genos » éléatique : le « genre philosophe d'Elée ». Platon convierait alors le lecteur à rapporter à ce « topos » les discours du visiteur étranger. L'action pédagogique de celui-ci serait alors située entre deux bornes : d'un côté le « Maître de Vérité », philosophe divin de type Parménide, d'un autre côté, le « maître d'école », philosophe technicien, appliquant des règles et des méthodes précisément établies. Le lecteur relativiserait les propos tenus en comparant l'action pédagogique de l'étranger à celle de Parménide dans le dialogue qui porte son nom ou à celle de Socrate dans le Théétète.

« Ce lieu-là » : classe rhétorique.

Considérons maintenant une seconde hypothèse exégétique. Le dialogue Sophiste se déroule au lendemain du procès intenté par Mélétos contre le philosophe athénien [20]. Socrate est donc déjà politiquement condamné quand il rencontre l'étranger d'Elée. Ainsi la mise en scène platonicienne confronte, ironie du sort, d'une part un « philosophe » honoré par le géomètre Théodore et d'autre part un « philosophe » que la cité vient tout juste d'accabler pour menées subversives.

Le terme « sophiste » est alors directement au cœur du problème. Il s'appliqua pendant longtemps à nommer tous les «sages », tous ceux qui exerçaient un art. Spécifié au cours du V° siècle pour désigner des intellectuels d'un nouveau genre, spécialistes de la parole et du logos, ce mot a rapidement perdu son prestige, en prenant des connotations péjoratives [21]. Ce nouveau contexte est celui du dialogue. Face à un « vrai philosophe », qui, gratifié par l'éloge, paraît tel un être divin, héros positif du géomètre Théodore, Platon campe un Socrate, pénalisé par le blâme public et qui prend sciemment l'apparence du sophiste en faisant entendre en permanence une ironie lourde de sous-entendus [22]. Elle n'épargne personne et vise aussi Socrate lui-même, « réfutateur » selon ses propres termes et objet des appréciations les plus diverses et contradictoires. Dans son cas, l'ironie par hyperbole est doublée par l'antithèse. Car Socrate qui n'a jamais fait que le tour d'Athènes est en effet aux antipodes de ce penseur itinérant qui va « de ville en ville ». De façon générale, son action est étrangère à la grande Geste héroïque en philosophie : c'est un antihéros qui accepte en particulier de pâtir de son « non savoir » au sein de la communauté des hommes à laquelle il prend part. Vis à vis du très sérieux et très pontifiant Théodore, l'antihéros Socrate se joue donc de tous et de lui-même.

Cette étrange situation s'imposait pour que le débat qui s'annonce soit effectivement et réellement ouvert, sans préjugé. Car celui qui « est » sophiste c'est-à-dire qui pâtit d'un jugement négatif, est le seul qui puisse se demander vraiment (et donc demander à d'« autres ») ce que peut bien être ce titre qui l'accable, et en quoi il est peut-être utile de savoir le porter. Il en va tout autrement pour le nom de « philosophe » qui honore et valorise, comme le répète assez Théodore. Pour celui qui « est » philosophe c'est-à-dire qui pâtit d'un jugement positif, la question de la définition des genres n'a aucune nécessité. Si Platon fait de Socrate un sophiste c'est parce qu'il fallait endosser cet habit pour mettre réellement en question tous les titres qui ne sont d'abord que des jugements prestigieux ou infâmants mais toujours discutables [23]. Le grand problème de l'action philosophique qui met en jeu la définition des genres ne pouvait être posé que par celui qui en pâtit vraiment, celui que la question anéantit, celui qui est en quelque façon « sophiste ».

En conséquence des points précédents, l'expression problématique « ceux qui sont et/ou s'occupent de ce lieu-là » pourrait avoir une connotation « sophistique ». Sur ce point, Nestor Cordero apporte à nouveau des éléments d'analyse décisifs. Dans l'article déjà cité, il conteste la réalité historique de cet « ethnos éléatique » dont parle le visiteur éléate au cours de son exposé. Ce cercle philosophique ne serait, écrit Nestor Cordero, qu'une « généralisation didactique, utile, profitable » mais sans réalité historique, un simple « cliché » [24]. Il aurait été établi à partir d'un classement d'origine sophistique comme Jaap Mansfeld l'a par ailleurs montré [25]. Sur cet exemple, l'étranger « range » en quelque sorte tous les philosophes « monistes » à « Elée ». Ce lieu n'est plus alors ni un espace géographique précis, ni l'adresse d'une éventuelle école, ni même le foyer d'un hypothétique mouvement de pensée. C'est un simple titre permettant d'ouvrir l'un des chapitres d'une histoire recomposée de la philosophie. Sur le modèle sophistique, l'étranger aurait donc utilisé le « lieu », en l'occurrence Elée, comme un outil rhétorique permettant de mémoriser et de classer tous les penseurs qui développent un même motif philosophique, en l'occurrence le « monisme ».

Dans la question introductive du Sophiste, l'expression ἐκεῖ τόπον pourrait avoir ce sens purement formel. « Topos » signifierait alors « la classe » dans laquelle sont rangés tous ceux qui s'occupent du sujet philosophique particulier évoqué par Socrate, « là », peu avant dans son discours. Il s'agirait en l'occurrence de la question : comment considérer et nommer les genres philosophe, politique, sophiste et peut-être même fou. Socrate viserait les spécialistes de ce problème. Or une remarque de Théodore rend possible cette interprétation. Il déclare que l'étranger affirme avoir « abondamment entendu parler de cette question et n'en avoir rien oublié » (217b4-8). La définition des genres serait donc effectivement un sujet traité par ceux dont le visiteur éléate a reçu un enseignement. La formule « ce lieu-là » pourrait alors renvoyer à la « classe » dans laquelle sont rangés tous ceux quels qu'ils soient, philosophes ou sophistes, d'Elée ou d'ailleurs, qui ont proposé de définir les genres précisément mis en cause [26].

Ainsi au commencement du dialogue, Platon donne à Socrate le rôle du sophiste. C'est en effet de ce dernier, dont le nom est devenu infâmant, que procède la mise en question des genres et des titres et c'est donc comme un sophiste que Socrate interpelle assez obscurément le visiteur étranger. En disant « topos », il reprend à son compte les procédés classificatoires des rhéteurs que l'étranger lui-même réemploie au cours de son exposé.

Par ce moyen, Platon convie le lecteur à rapporter les propos du visiteur anonyme à leur « lieu rhétorique » c'est-à-dire à l'ensemble des discours tenus sur le même sujet, pour apprécier comment l'étranger d'Elée prend part au combat idéologique qui affrontent les multiples conceptions concernant la définition des genres, pour mesurer le formalisme de ses propos, plus ou moins dégagés des stéréotypes et des procédés sophistiques, et pour déterminer finalement en quoi la dynamique intellectuelle de cet anonyme clôt complètement ou partiellement la question posée.

« Ce lieu-là » : niveau d'intelligibilité.

Il convient finalement de considérer le mot « topos » en fonction du problème de fond posé par Platon, au delà du jeu de masques qui marie le héros en philosophie et l'antihéros qui sait être sophiste. Rappelons qu'est mise en question l'action philosophique, le « faire » mais aussi les apparences, ainsi que la valeur, positive ou négative, qui peut être accordée à ce « faire » et à ce paraître. L'expression « ce lieu-là» n'aurait de signification qu'en étant rapporté à ce problème. On demanderait alors comment le Socrate des dialogues a lié « action philosophique » et « topos ». Cette vaste question qui mériterait une étude approfondie peut être réduite aux seules nécessités de ce commentaire, en examinant si ces liens existent de manière manifeste, et en les caractérisant globalement. L'examen est alors beaucoup plus rapide car on trouve dans le Phèdre, la réponse précise à cette dernière question. En effet lorsque Socrate examine la mania dans le mythe de l'attelage ailé [27], il ouvre en quelque sorte une enquête sur la relative rationalité des « actions », entendues dans le sens général de « conduites » [28].

Il présente de façon ordonnée onze types d'âme qui correspondent chacune à une certaine activité dans la cité [29]. Originairement, toutes ont suivi en cortège les dieux. Possédées par le divin, soumises à cette bonne mania, elles ont été guidées en direction de la réalité et de l'intelligibilité [30]. Elles se sont toutes dirigées vers un lieu, un « topos », dont Socrate chante les louanges. Il est littéralement exorbitant, « au dessus du ciel », hors tout. Les réalités intelligibles et la vérité y prennent place. C'est pourquoi la dynamique originelle des âmes quelles qu'elles soient, est toujours orientée vers ce lieu où elles trouvent ce dont elles ont besoin, ce qui comble leur désir [31]. Mais ces âmes en cohorte ont manqué l'objet de leurs élans, les unes un peu, les autres beaucoup. Selon la force de leur dynamique, elles ont atteint plus ou moins complètement ce lieu exorbitant et ont eu sur le réel une vue plus ou moins tronquée [32]. On peut alors les différencier en divers types qui correspondent précisément aux onze activités.

Tout être humain se souvient même confusément de la dynamique que son âme a réalisé [33]. Il cherche à satisfaire le grand désir essentiel d'accomplissement et d'intelligence et s'oriente, qu'il le sache ou non, en direction d'un lieu équivalent à ce lieu originel de réalité et de vérité. Mais les actions, toutes semblablement orientées, varient en onze types. Chacun d'entre eux est caractérisé par un certain degré et une certaine forme de désir correspondant à une relative intelligibilité et une relative intelligence permettant une représentation plus ou moins complète de la réalité et du lieu visés.

Ces principes que leur contexte mythographique, dans le Phèdre, pourraient pénaliser, sont très sérieusement déclinés par Socrate en particulier dans le Théétète, dialogue qui est attaché directement et contextuellement à l'introduction du Sophiste [34]. Socrate y déclare en effet , que le philosophe dont la pensée visite tout l'univers cherche à s'évader d'ici vers un « lieu pur de tout mal », en se rendant semblable à dieu, en devenant juste [35]. Toutes les données sont concordantes avec le Phèdre : la dynamique est clairement orientée vers la réalité, accomplie par le moyen d'une espèce de possession divine et consacrée par un « topos » qui relèverait d'une certaine façon de l'intelligible. L'âme du philosophe aurait su garder le souvenir du « lieu au dessus du ciel ».

A l'opposé, une conduite tortueuse pousse toujours le rhéteur au mensonge et à l'injustice. Il va, sans dieu, au tribunal ou à la salle du conseil, toujours vers des espaces étroits et artificiels. Sa dynamique vicieuse tourne en rond dans la cité, dans « ce lieu d'ici » où sévissent les maux [36]. L'extraordinaire « lieu au dessus du ciel » a été si peu entraperçu et si vite oublié que toute discussion portant sur la réalité donne le vertige à ce triste personnage et que de lieu il ne connaît que les cabinets d'injustice.

Dans les deux cas, un certain « topos » caractérise une certaine conduite. Le principe du Phèdre qui veut qu'à chaque type d'âme corresponde un lieu selon sa mania, est ainsi appliqué.

Du mythe de l'attelage, on peut donc retenir que pour Socrate, l'action est toujours orientée vers le « topos » de réalité et d'intelligibilité, car tout humain veut s'accomplir en tant que tel, en tant qu'être intelligent et intelligible. Mais la représentation de ce lieu exorbitant varie selon le degré d'intelligibilité propre au type d'action entreprise c'est-à-dire au type d'âme.

Dans l'introduction du Sophiste, l'occasion n'est pas à un long développement sur la mania, ni à la présentation de l'ordonnancement des actions, comme c'est le cas dans le Phèdre. L'ouverture du dialogue impose au contraire que toutes ces données soient évacuées pour que le visiteur étranger puisse prendre librement la parole à leur propos. Ainsi « philosophe », « politique », « sophiste » et « maniaque » sont posés en parallèle, comme à égalité et vides de contenu. Qu'en est-il pour le mot « topos » employé dans la question qui clôt cette présentation ?

Il pourrait renvoyer, comme le suggérait Seth Benardete, à ce « haut » lieu de justice qui est celui du Théétète [37]. Socrate déclare en effet que les philosophes dont le genre est difficile à distinguer du divin observent « de haut » la vie de ceux qui sont « en bas ». Cette « hauteur » pourrait correspondre au « lieu pur de tout mal » et Socrate attendrait alors de « ceux qui sont en ce lieu-là » une explication. Mais dans le Théétète, le philosophe dont Socrate traçait le portrait, cherchait à atteindre ce « topos », alors que dans le Sophiste, le philosophe évoqué ironiquement par le même Socrate, l'a déjà atteint. Il est déjà « en haut ». Le mouvement n'est plus ascendant mais accompli. Cet achèvement met justement en question l'action du personnage. Que peut-il faire désormais parmi les hommes, à part donner des leçons, puisque sa dynamique a déjà été réalisée ? Socrate ne pose pas cette question. Mais Platon laisse au lecteur le soin de la déduire. Elle met en cause l'accomplissement philosophique qui pourrait s'atteindre indépendamment des « autres ». Le philosophe serait alors un être proprement divin, au dessus de l'humanité. Or s'il est selon Socrate celui qui se souvient le mieux du lieu de réalité et de vérité et oriente son action vers un lieu du même type, il cherche, comme tous les « autres » à se réaliser vraiment et ce pendant toute sa vie. Il est à ce titre toujours en quête d'intelligibilité. Il est en ce cas impossible de supposer accomplie son action, indépendamment de l'accomplissement de toutes les autres. La « hauteur » dont parle Socrate au début du Sophiste ne peut donc correspondre au « lieu pur de tout mal » du Théétète que par dérision. Platon rirait de « ce lieu-là », éminence grise, pic enneigé de l'intelligence, duquel tomberaient comme des couperets les avis et les jugements des philosophes. Mais au delà de l'ironie, si l'on prend acte de la théorie de l'action illustrée dans le mythe de l'attelage, le visiteur étranger et ceux dont il est le porte-parole restent animés, comme tout un chacun, par un désir de réalité et de vérité qui les poussent vers l'intelligibilité, vers ce lieu supra céleste. Selon l'intensité de leur mania, il ont eu de la réalité une vue plus ou moins fragmentaire. Ils peuvent appartenir à l'un des onze types d'âme dénombrés par Socrate, peut-être philosophe, peut-être politique, peut-être sophiste, toujours possédés par une relative mania. Pour connaître le genre de l'étranger et des siens, il conviendrait donc du point de vue socratique, de déterminer l'intensité du désir qui motive leur conduite. Pour ce faire, « topos » est un critère pertinent puisque l'on pourrait mesurer le « niveau philosophique » d'un discours, en examinant la nature plus ou moins intelligible, vraie et réelle des représentations de « topos » qui y seraient proposées. Socrate convie donc l'étranger à répondre à la question à partir du « lieu » de ceux dont il a reçu des leçons, c'est à dire à partir de leur niveau maximal d'intelligibilité, et invite dans le même temps le lecteur à situer cette réponse précisément en fonction de ce « lieu », en considérant le sens qui a été donné explicitement ou non au mot « topos » par ceux qui furent les maîtres de l'étranger [38].

« Topos », mot crucial du problème posé par Socrate dans l'introduction du Sophiste (216a1-217a1) peut donc être interprété de façon plurielle. Il peut désigner : premièrement, une adresse géographique (le pays d'Elée), deuxièmement, une école philosophique (« l'école éléatique ») troisièmement, un classement rhétorique (la « classe » des spécialistes de la définition des genres) ou quatrièmement, un niveau d'intelligibilité (le seuil maximal d'une pensée discursive). Cette diversité même participe de l'ironie qui caractérise l'ensemble de l'introduction du dialogue. Pareille polysémie peut mettre en doute le sérieux d'une entreprise qui pourrait n'être que d'autolégitimation, « le » philosophe définissant l'ensemble de tous « les autres » genres. Pourtant cette multiplicité de sens n'est pas pénalisante, au contraire. Car l'ironie permet de donner à la question formulée par Socrate une pertinente ambiguïté, celle qui justement convient pour ouvrir un débat, en indiquant les différentes perspectives critiques possibles. La polysémie de « topos » invite ainsi le lecteur à relativiser les propos de l'étranger de trois façons : En les considérant dans le cadre de l'action pédagogique conduite qui peut être caractérisée en comparaison avec celle de Parménide dans le dialogue éponyme et avec celle de Socrate dans le Théétète. En les rapportant à l'ensemble des discours rhétoriques ou sophistiques tenus sur le même sujet pour mesurer sur ce point les continuités et les ruptures proposées par le visiteur éléate. En les examinant enfin selon les critères socratiques du Phèdre, pour déterminer le sens accordé à « topos » au cours de l'exposé afin d'apprécier son degré relatif d'intelligibilité et de déterminer ses limites.

Socrate reformule immédiatement sa première question et réduit alors considérablement le problème (217a2-4). Mais il attend toujours une réponse de la part de « ceux qui sont et/ou s'occupent de ce lieu-là ». « Topos » reste donc un critère d'appréciation pertinent. Cet article n'avait pas pour prétention de l'éclairer complètement et définitivement, mais avait pour but de montrer que son étude permet d'ouvrir des perspectives interprétatives qui viennent compléter les exégèses plus classiques du dialogue.

[1] « Oἱ περὶ τὸν ἐκεῖ τόπον » (217a1).

[2] DIES, 1925 : « A l'étranger précisément, j'aurais plaisir à demander, si ma question lui agrée, pour qui les tenaient les gens de son pays et de quels noms ils les appelaient ». ROBIN, 1950 : « En tous cas, j'aimerais, dans notre intérêt, s'il lui plaît, à apprendre de cet Etranger quelle idée, là-bas, dans son pays, on se faisait de cela, et quels noms on y appliquait ». CHAMBRY, 1969 : « Mais j'aimerais savoir de l'étranger, si ma question lui agrée, ce qu'en pensent les gens de son pays et comment il les nomment ». .

[3] Sa variante est plus lapidaire : « Voilà pourquoi, s'il lui plaît de me répondre, j'aimerais entendre l'étranger nous dire ce que l'on pense chez lui de ces individus, et comment ils les nomment » (CORDERO, 1993). Dans ses commentaires, Nestor Cordero marque une certaine distance par rapport à ses prédécesseurs comme nous le constaterons plus loin.

[4] Le consensus est tout aussi fort et de même nature dans les traductions anglophones. Exception faite des versions de William Cobb (« those in this area », COBB, 1990) et de Seth Benardete (« those in that region », BENARDETE, 1986) la traduction « his countrymen » (CAMPBELL, 1867 ; CORNFORD, 1935 ; ROSEN, 1983 ; DUERLINGER, 2005) l'emporte avec ses variantes (« the people where he comes from » WHITE, 1993 ; « the people who live over there » BRANN/KALKAVAGE/SALEM, 1996 ; « the people of his region », AMBUEL, 2007).

[5] On trouve par contre dans des études plus thématiques des éléments d'analyse décisifs. Ainsi dans son article « Le dialogue platonicien comme forme de pensée ironique », Stefania Nonvel Pieri définit l'ironie platonicienne comme « l'effort de faire valoir les contraires de façon non exclusive mais complémentaire et polaire » Cette définition trouve précisément à s'exemplifier dans l'introduction du Sophiste (NONVEL PIERI, 2001, p : 32).

[6] Sur ce point, Nestor Cordero a défendu une lecture différente du texte grec. Notre propos n'est pas ici d'en discuter mais de faire valoir une approche alternative dans laquelle les analyses de Nestor Cordero sans être ni exclusives, ni exclues, resteraient tout à fait possibles et fécondes. Voir : CORDERO, 1993, Annexe 1, p :281-284.

[7] Socrate conclut le Théétète en disant : « mais, pour demain, Théodore, ici encore prenons rendez-vous » (210d3-4).

[8] Théétète 184a1-b2.

[9] Dans le Cratyle, Socrate joue sur les noms en particulier ceux de Théophile (ami de dieu) et Mnésithée (qui se souvient de dieu). Cratyle, 394e4-7, 397b4-6.

[10] Sur cette interactivité, ce dialogue entre le texte et le lecteur, voir DESCLOS, 2001, p : 69-97.

[11] Odyssée, XVII, 483-487.

[12] Il mêle ainsi les passages XVII 483-487 et IX 270-271 de l'Odyssée (où Zeus est considéré comme le dieu des étrangers).

[13] Théodore ne demande pas à Socrate de qui il attend finalement une réponse. Mais la périphrase brouille complètement l'intelligibilité immédiate de la question et c'est bien cela qui conduit le géomètre à exiger une reformulation.

[14] Le prologue est très bref dans le cas du Ménon. Socrate prend prétexte de l'origine thessalienne de son interlocuteur pour dénoncer l'ignorance de ses propres concitoyens en ce qui concerne la vertu : « la sagesse a déserté ces lieux » déclare-t-il (71a1). Dans Euthydème, les deux sophistes dont la performance sera ensuite rapportée sont présentés à Criton par Socrate. Après les avoir identifiés, il s'agit de les localiser. Emigrants loin de Chios, puis exilés loin de Thurium, ils « passent désormais leur temps dans ces lieux-ci » (271c4). Leur dérive est telle qu'Athènes n'est même pas nommée ; aucun des espaces traversés par ces sophistes n'a, pour eux, jamais fait sens, ni suscité aucun attachement. Par contre l'expression περὶ τούσδε τοὺς τόπους est dénuée de toute ambiguïté : il s'agit « de ces lieux-ci» c'est-à-dire d'Athènes. Enfin l'introduction du Phèdre est toute entière consacrée à célébrer les charmes du lieu vers lequel les deux protagonistes ont conduit leurs pas : « lieu qui ne peut embaumer davantage tant le gattilier est en fleurs » (230b4) « lieu agréable et charmant, rafraichi par la brise » (230c1).

[15] Il écrit en effet : « Socrates could not have phrased his question more obscurely » (BENARDETE, 1986, p : II, 73).

[16] En Phédon 69c8, Socrate parle de « ceux qui s'occupent des initiations ». La construction est la même : οἱ περὶ τὰς τελετάς, pronom + préposition περὶ + accusatif sans verbe.

[17] CORDERO, 1991, p : 91-124.

[18] CORDERO, 1991, p : 98.

[19] Marcel Detienne a mis en évidence les parallèles existant entre Epiménide, le sage extatique et Parménide le philosophe de l'être. Proche du « Maître de Vérité » l'Eléate s'en distingue néanmoins parce qu'il prend en compte les doxai, « première ébauche d'une vérité objective, d'une vérité qui s'institue dans et par le dialogue » (DETIENNE, 1967, p : 202).

[20] Socrate conclut le dialogue Théétète par ces mots : « Pour l'instant donc, j'ai rendez-vous obligé au Portique du Roi, pour répondre à l'accusation que m'a intentée Mélétos » (Théétète, 210d1-4).

[21] En témoignent les écrits d'Alcidamas et d'Isocrate. Sur l'histoire du mot « sophiste » voir notamment CAPIZZI, 1986.

[22] Par cette ironie à double entrée, Socrate est tout à la fois un philosophe inspiré et un sophiste roué et se moque de toutes ces apparences. L'ironie n'est plus alors agressive et blessante mais tout au contraire source d'enseignement, point de départ d'une réflexion. Elle annule ses effets pervers. C'est pourquoi le visiteur éléate se rend avec bonne grâce à la prière finale de Socrate et commence avec le jeune Théétète le dialogue (217e3-5).

[23] Comme le note pertinemment Francis Wolff : « le Sophiste, c'est toujours l'autre » (WOLFF, 1991, p :36). Définir les genres est un enjeu complexe d'abord et avant tout de pouvoir, dans le cadre agonistique de Polis. C'est ainsi que Socrate dans le Timée, fait du sophiste un expert en discours qui n'a au fond pour seul défaut que d'aller de ville en ville, sans jamais participer aux débats et aux combats que livrent les vrais citoyens (Timée, 19cd). C'est pour Platon l'occasion de souligner face à Critias et à Timée, deux citoyens bien nés, honorés dans leurs patries respectives, qu'un sophiste est d'abord un métèque ou un étranger. C'est de ce point de vue social ou politique que sa parole est au premier chef suspecte. Pour se débarrasser des opinions a priori, voir l'article de Guiseppe Mazzara qui propose une interprétation « autre » du Sophiste, en lisant le dialogue à travers les catégories de Gorgias. Ce dernier est ainsi implicitement tenu pour un « philosophe » et non comme il est de convention pour un « sophiste » (MAZZARA, 1991).

[24] D'une part parce que le « monisme » n'apparaît qu'avec Melissos et d'autre part parce que rien ne permet de supposer dans les faits qu'un mouvement intellectuel se soit développé à partir de la pensée des philosophes d'Elée (CORDERO, 1991, p :124).

[25] MANSFELD, 1990, p :22-43.

[26] Francis Wolff rappelle que savoir si sophiste, politique et philosophe sont un, deux ou trois genres était un débat auquel avait pris part notamment Isocrate et Prodicos (WOLFF, 1991). C'est donc un « thème » ou un « sujet » connu à l'époque de Platon.

[27] Phèdre, 243e8-256e2.

[28] Dans le Sophiste, l'allusion à la mania et la référence au mythe via Homère font clairement signe en direction du Phèdre. Il y a bien comme une espèce de classement des arts et des sciences donc des « activités » dans le Philèbe (55b-63b). Mais comme l'a précisé très nettement Monique Dixsaut, il s'agit en fait « d'un tri » en vue d'un mélange à venir et en aucune façon d'un classement systématique (DIXSAUT, 2001, p :326). L'objectif n'est donc pas dans ce dernier dialogue de définir les « actions », pas même au titre de « conduites ». Or c'est précisément non point la finalité mais en tous cas le résultat obtenu dans le mythe du Phèdre.

[29] Phèdre 248c2-e4. Premier rang : l'ami du savoir (philosophe), de la Beauté, des Muses et d'Eros ; second : roi qui obéit à la loi ou qui guerroie et commande ; troisième : politique, économe et financier ; quatrième : gymnaste et médecin ; cinquième : devin et initié ; sixième : poète et art mimétique ; septième : artisan et cultivateur, huitième : sophiste et démagogue ; neuvième : tyran.

[30] Phèdre, 248a1, 248c3, 245b1-2, 246d6-247e8.

[31] Phèdre, 247c3-e7, 248b6-c1.

[32] Phèdre,247e8-248c2, 248a1-b6.

[33] Phèdre, 249e5-250b1.

[34] Théétète entre 176a4 et 177a8.

[35] Théétète,173e1-174a1, 176a7-b3.

[36] Théétète, 172e-173b, 176a4-7.

[37] Cornford indiquait la double référence à Théétète et à Phèdre mais en laissant le soin au lecteur de se rapporter à ces dialogues donc sans en tirer de conséquence quant à l'occurrence de « topos » (CORNFORD, 1935). Seth Benardete est plus précis qui cible ce mot mais qui ne renvoie qu'à Théétète et seulement en note sans développement (BENARDETE, 1986, p : II, 73, note 10). Il s'inscrirait ainsi dans une tradition exégétique que je dirais du « commentaire allusif », typiquement platonicienne puisqu'elle engage avec le lecteur attentif un dialogue dynamique.

[38] Monique Canto fait très pertinemment de la « prétention de savoir » un « lieu de confusion» (CANTO, 1986, p :29). « Topos » est en effet et littéralement ce vers quoi tend la dynamique d'une âme, axée vers l'intelligibilité. En conséquence ce qu'un être peut pré-tendre savoir, c'est bien au fond un « lieu » mais qui en étant le bout de sa conduite, reste toujours en partie confus, tout au moins dans son expression sociale.

PLATON : Dialogues, collection Guillaume Budé, Belles Lettres, Paris.

HOMERE : Odyssée IX et XVII, collection Guillaume Budé, Belles Lettres, Paris.

PARMENIDE, le Poème traduit par O'BRIEN D. et FRERE J., 1987, Etudes sur Parménide, tome I, sous la direction de Pierre AUBENQUE, Vrin, Paris.

Traductions et commentaires du Sophiste :

AMBUEL D., 2007, Image & paradigm in Plato's Sophist, Parmenides Publishing, Las Vegas.

BENARDETE S., 1986, Plato's Sophist, Part II of the Being of the Beautiful, translated and with commentary, The University of Chicago Press, Chicago.

BRANN E., KALKAVAGE P., SALEM E., 1996, Plato's Sophist or the Professor of Wisdom, Focus Publishing, Newbury Port.

CAMPBELL L., 1867, The Sophist and Politicus of Plato, with a revised text and English notes, Oxford.

CHAMBRY E., 1969, Sophiste, Politique, Philèbe, Timée, Critias, Garnier Flammarion, Paris.

COBB W. S., 1990, Plato's Sophist, Rowman & Littlefield publishers, Maryland.

CORDERO N. L., 1993, Platon Le Sophiste, Garnier Flammarion, Paris.

CORNFORD F. Mc D., 1935, Plato's theory of knowledge, Routledge, London.

DIES A., 1925, Platon Le Sophiste, Belles Lettres, Paris.

DUERLINGER J., 2005, A translation of Plato's Sophist, Peter Lang, New York.

ROBIN L., 1950, Platon, Oeuvres complètes, t. II, avec la collaboration de M. J. MOREAU, Gallimard, Paris.

ROSEN S., 1983, Plato's Sophist, the Drama of Original and Image, St Augustine's Press, Yale.

WHITE N.P., 1993, Plato Sophist, Hackett Publishing Company, Cambridge, Indianapolis.

Articles autour du Sophiste:

CANTO M., 1986, « Politiques de la réfutation. Entre chien et loup : le philosophe et le sophiste », p : 27-51, Positions de la Sophistique, colloque de Cerisy, 7-17 septembre 1984, édité par B. CASSIN, Vrin, Paris.

CAPIZZI A., 1986, « La confluence des Sophistes à Athènes après la mort de Périclès et ses connexions avec les transformations de la cité attique », p : 167-177, Positions de la Sophistique, colloque de Cerisy, 7-17 septembre 1984, édité par B. CASSIN, Vrin, Paris.

CORDERO N. L., 1991, « L'invention de l'école éléatique, Platon Sophiste 242d », p : 91-124, Etudes sur le Sophiste de Platon, sous la direction de P. AUBENQUE, Bibliopolis, Naples.

DESCLOS, M.L., 2001, “L'interlocuteur anonyme dans les dialogues de Platon », p : 69-97, La forme dialogue chez Platon, évolution et réception, textes réunis par F. COSSUTTA et M. NARCY, éditions Jérome Millon, Grenoble.

MANSFELD J., 1990, « Aristotle, Plato, and Preplatonic Doxography and Chronography », p : 22-83, Studies in the Historiography of Greek Philosophy , Van Gorcum, Maastricht, (première parution de l'article 1986).

MAZZARA G., 1991, « Quelques remarques sur Gorgias et les Gorgiens dans le Sophiste », p : 233-241, Argumentation, 5.

NONVEL PIERI S., 2001, « Le dialogue platonicien comme forme de pensée ironique », p : 21-48, La forme dialogue chez Platon, évolution et réception, textes réunis par F. COSSUTTA et M. NARCY, éditions Jérome Millon, Grenoble.

WOLFF F., 1991, « Le chasseur chassé, les définitions du Sophiste », p : 17-52, Etudes sur le Sophiste de Platon, sous la direction de P. AUBENQUE, Bibliopolis, Naples.

Dialectique :

DETIENNE M., 1967, Les maîtres de vérité dans la Grèce archaïque, Librairie François Maspero, Paris.

DIXSAUT M., 2001, Métamorphoses de la dialectique dans les dialogues de Platon, Vrin, Paris.

2. La « Guerre d'Elée » a-t-elle eu « lieu » ?

NERCAM, Nathalie — 2013-03-24T11:06:15Z

Dans la première partie du Théétète, Socrate présente l'opposition entre pluralisme et monisme sous la forme métaphorique de la Guerre de Troie. Cette dramaturgie particulière permet à Platon de faire valoir une question philosophique qui proviendrait de Parménide. La mise en image platonicienne interroge en fait la réalité et le sens de khôra/topos.

In the first part of Theaetetus, Socrates shows the opposition between pluralism and monism through the metaphoric form of the Trojan War. This particular dramatization allows Plato to make evident a question inherited from Parmenides. This platonic picture questions the reality and the meaning of khôra/topos.

De façon consensuelle, l'exégèse contemporaine considère que Platon a survalorisé un aspect secondaire de la pensée de Parménide : l'unité de l'être. Le philosophe d'Elée ne serait pas le défenseur encore moins le promoteur du « monisme » [1]. Jaap Mansfeld a montré que d'anciennes compilations issues probablement de la Première Sophistique avaient, avant Platon, classé les philosophes selon des critères particuliers et notamment en fonction du nombre de principes reconnus par chacun d'eux [2]. Il aurait donc été déjà admis au IV° siècle de présenter Parménide comme un tenant de l'unité. Nestor Cordero a précisé la façon dont Platon, dans le Sophiste, a adopté et transformé à ses propres fins, ces anciens schémas classificatoires [3]. On peut conduire une analyse semblable sur le Théétète, dialogue dans la première partie duquel Platon réemploie un classement d'origine très probablement doxographique dont Isocrate donne un exemple dans deux de ses discours. Cet article se propose de répondre à la double question : comment et pourquoi dans le Théétète, Platon a-t-il repris à son compte des classifications déjà établies avant lui ?

1. La « guerre d'Elée »

Par principe maïeutique, Socrate ne développe que des arguments appartenant au fond de connaissances de son jeune vis à vis. La démonstration du philosophe, dans la première partie du Théétète, pourrait donc reposer sur d'anciennes compilations connues de l'élève mathématicien. Or, comme l'a fait remarquer Jaap Mansfeld, un classement des philosophes est proposée par Isocrate dans le discours Sur l'échange où les théories présocratiques sont distribuées en fonction du nombre de réalités en chaque cas prises en compte [4]. Isocrate déclare : « l'un prétendait que les êtres sont en nombre infini, tandis qu'Empédocle n'en voyait que quatre avec la discorde et l'amour entre eux, Ion n'en comptait pas plus de trois, Alcméon deux seulement, Parménide et Melissos un, Gorgias absolument aucun » [5]. Le rhéteur avait déjà utilisé le même principe classificatoire dans l'Eloge d'Hélène. « Comment surpasserait-on, écrivait-il, Gorgias qui osa déclarer que rien n'existe de ce qui est, ou Zénon qui tente de présenter successivement la même thèse comme possible ou impossible, ou Melissos qui devant la masse infinie des réalités existantes s'efforça de découvrir une preuve que leur ensemble formait un tout unique ? » [6].

Platon dans la première partie du Théétète a adopté un classement semblable sur son principe à celui d'Isocrate : les anciens philosophes sont ordonnés en fonction du nombre de leurs principes. Mais si le rhéteur présente les théories philosophiques en leur diversité, il en va tout autrement dans l'exposé socratique [7]. En effet les penseurs grecs évoqués sont tous regroupés en deux ligues opposées. D'un côté, Héraclite, Empédocle, Protagoras et Epicharme sont assemblés en un vaste dispositif dont Homère est le stratège. Ils affirment tous d'une seule voix, la pluralité et la mobilité de toute réalité (152e2-7 et 180d8) et font le siège d'une citadelle défendue par « les Melissos » et « les Parménide » qui proclament au contraire l'unité et l'immobilité de l'être (180e2-4). La classification doxographique aurait ainsi été simplifiée, réduite en une confrontation schématique entre défenseurs de la thèse de « l'unité statique » et défenseurs de l'antithèse, « la multiplicité changeante ».

Isocrate cherchait à exposer en quelques lignes les principes qu'il attribuait aux divers philosophes. Le Socrate de Platon propose au jeune Théétète une métaphore poursuivie sur plus de vingt pages. Il donne en effet à l'opposition des thèses la forme de l'affrontement guerrier. Ainsi Parménide, seul face à l'armée des pluralistes (152e2) est semblable au héros troyen Priam (183e5). En 180e1-2, Socrate cite un vers du Poème pour illustrer le parti pris « des Melissos » et « des Parménide » qui combattent les « Homériques ». La métaphore de la guerre est développée au delà de ces trois allusions directes. En 165d, la discussion dans laquelle s'engage le jeune Théétète n'est qu'un « combat de parole » et en 179d4, le débat engagé autour de la thèse mobiliste est à nouveau considéré comme une « bataille ». Ce leitmotiv guerrier est par ailleurs diversement décliné : le conflit est aussi compétition chorale (179d7) puis jeu comme dans les palestres (181a2). En tous ces cas, le combat, l'agôn, est ouvert sous différentes formes, toutes consacrées par la Cité. Socrate ne décrit donc que la rivalité des théories entre elles et inscrit Parménide dans le champ de bataille des discours.

Isocrate caractérisait de façon lapidaire la réflexion de chaque philosophe. Dans le Théétète, lorsque Socrate désire percer la spécificité des vues d'un penseur particulier, en l'occurrence Protagoras, la métaphore du champ de bataille est abandonnée afin que le grand sophiste puisse se défendre en personne. Une apologie est alors longuement développée (165e7-168c5). S'il n'en va pas de même pour les défenseurs du camp opposé c'est parce que Socrate déclare explicitement ne pas disposer d'assez de temps pour examiner rigoureusement les positions de Melissos et de Parménide dont la complexité est à cette occasion soulignée (183e3-184b2). Les deux thèses monolithiques qui s'entrechoquent n'appartiennent donc à aucun individu singulier. Le conflit est celui des représentations idéologiques, images des idées philosophiques réduites en affirmations massives et partagées en deux camps schématiquement opposés.

Isocrate appréciait les théories philosophiques selon un même critère, le nombre de réalités. Elles étaient ainsi placées comme à équivalence en un rapide tour d'horizon. La dimension guerrière donnée au conflit dans le Théétète implique au contraire un camp vainqueur et un autre vaincu. Les slogans ne sont donc pas à égalité. De plus, la fresque épique est dépeinte ouvertement à la façon d'Homère, comme une nouvelle guerre de Troie. Or c'est justement le grand Aède qui dirige les troupes des « pluralistes/mobilistes ». La restitution métaphorique du combat serait donc de parti-pris. Platon ferait fonds sur un cercle historiographique bien connu : si guerre il y a, elle est toujours décrite par ceux qui en sont sortis vivants donc vainqueurs. En usant des mots et des images appartenant au camp des « Homériques », Socrate indiquerait ainsi que la thèse de ces derniers en l'emportant sur celle des « Eléatiques » constitue, à l'époque du jeune Théétète, la représentation idéologique dominante qui détermine le cadre et les termes du débat et qui définit en particulier les belligérants. Socrate aurait donc adopté le point de vue des « pluralistes » pour présenter la tendance « Parménide », vaincue sur le plan de l'opinion, cependant qu'en parallèle, dans le même ouvrage, il aurait produit une critique raisonnée de la thèse « pluraliste » dominante, mais défaite finalement par la démonstration. Dans ce jeu métaphorique, Platon croise donc les arguments. C'est ainsi qu'il use du principe unitaire pour assembler les « pluralistes » sous une même bannière. Ils triompheraient donc des « Eléatiques » dans « l'union », ce qui rend évidemment cette victoire très relative.

Après les avoir présentées, Isocrate disqualifiait les diverses thèses présocratiques, toutes finalement rejetées par le rhéteur au titre « d'artifice charlatanesque », les antiques penseurs affectant selon lui de confondre en paroles l'auditeur [8]. Pour Platon, ces vieilles querelles qui peuvent et doivent être dépassées, ne sont pas des jeux artificieux. Elles prennent même, sous couvert d'ironie et par métaphore interposée, une ampleur littéralement épique, comme s'il s'agissait d'un choc de civilisations.

Il convient d'ajouter enfin que la guerre de Troie est l'image de prédilection par laquelle les orateurs athéniens décrivent les conflits armés de leur temps [9]. Platon emprunterait donc à l'art oratoire, et le principe classificatoire, et la métaphore. Mais il appliquerait ces moyens à décrire un combat tout à fait singulier. Loin de présenter comme Isocrate le vaste panorama des anciennes thèses philosophiques sur le terrain neutre de sa page, Platon réduirait la multiplicité des théories à une simple opposition binaire dont la connotation guerrière transforme complètement l'appréhension. Ce duel polarise en effet tout le débat autour de la philosophie de Parménide. Si elle sort vaincu de l'épreuve du combat des opinions, on ne pourrait, selon Platon, avaliser cette défaite sans procéder à un examen sérieux des questions soulevées par l'ancien philosophe d'Elée.

2. Khôra dans la « Guerre d'Elée ».

Les enjeux principaux de cette guerre idéologique sont bien connus. La critique contemporaine reconnaît en général deux des mots d'ordre affichés sur les bannières du Théétète : pluralisme contre monisme, dynamisme contre statisme. La prise en compte du contexte épique dans lequel Platon situe ce débat, permet d'accorder à un troisième terme une importance que le seul examen des slogans ne permet pas toujours de soupçonner. Ce mot polémique est « khôra ».

Socrate résume en effet en une seule formule la position défendue par « les Melissos et les Parménide ». Ils soutiennent que « tout est un et se tient immobile en soi-même, n'ayant point de place (khôra) en laquelle se mouvoir » (180e3-4). La position des « Eléatiques » étant inverse à celle des « Homériques », il suit que pour ceux-ci, tout est multiple, en mouvement perpétuel et qu'il existe une place nécessaire à ce changement comme à cette multiplicité. On peut vérifier l'importance de khôra dans la thèse « pluraliste/mobiliste », en examinant les trois autres occurrences de ce mot. Ce sont les seules du dialogue. Khôra n'est donc employée dans cet ouvrage que pour décrire la réalité selon les « Homériques ». A leurs yeux, rien n'a de localisation propre dans un flux généralisé et supposé a priori. La couleur par exemple n'est ni dans l'œil, ni dans l'objet. Elle n'a pas même de place (χώραν, première occurrence en 153e1) où se ranger puisqu'elle est en mouvement permanent. Seules existent des forces actives et passives qui déterminent des sensations et des qualités. En 181c6 et toujours par la voix de Socrate, les mêmes « Homériques » définissent le mouvement. Il consiste soit à se déplacer d'une « place à une autre » (χώραν ἐκ χώρας, deuxième et troisième occurrences en 181c6 et c62) soit à tourner sur soi-même, soit enfin à s'altérer. Les trois types de changement se cumulant, la réalité est toujours dans un mouvement perpétuel et général. Selon les « Homériques », tout est donc en changement, en particulier de place en place (181c6) donc rien n'a de place assignée (153e1). Khôra serait en quelque sorte le support général de ces dynamiques dans quoi ou par quoi de multiples réalités se meuvent et s'altèrent. Elle pourrait à ce titre faire partie des grands thèmes du « combat de parole » engagée entre les « Eléatiques » et les « Homériques ».

En considérant la métaphore par laquelle Socrate présente le siège d'Elée, on peut confirmer l'hypothèse précédente et préciser quelques uns des caractères de cette problématique khôra. Remarquons tout d'abord que le mot appartient au vocabulaire de l'Iliade et de l'Odyssée et signifie l'espace de terre limité et occupé par quelqu'un ou quelque chose. Or le conflit des représentations est par image interposée, situé précisément devant la citadelle d'Elée, la nouvelle Troie. Il prend donc littéralement « place ». Cette khôra métaphorique, la cité « troyenne-éléate », est un singulier champ de bataille.

En effet aucun repère, ni chronologique, ni géographique n'est fixé car l'exposé de Socrate est bâti en dépit de toutes les distances. Protagoras d'Abdère côtoie Héraclite d'Ephèse, voisin d'Empédocle d'Agrigente et d'Epicharme de Syracuse. Ces divers personnages sont tous réunis en Asie Mineure devant la cité de Troie. Mais comme celle-ci représente Elée qui se trouve en grande Grèce, la scène se déroule à la fois à l'est et à l'ouest d'Athènes. La « place » que tient victorieusement l'armée homérique est donc multiple, éclatée dans les temps (d'Homère à Protagoras) et dans les lieux (des quatre coins de la Grèce). Ni l'ordre historique ni l'ordre géographique n'organisent cette mêlée dans laquelle espace et temps semblent confondus. Platon situe donc métaphoriquement le conflit dans une khôra proprement « mythologique » c'est-à-dire d'avant Hécatée, Hérodote et Thucydide.

Cette métaphore est riche d'enseignement car elle vaut comme illustration de ce qui est par ailleurs déclaré sur les bannières. Ainsi lorsque les « pluralistes/mobilistes » présupposent khôra, le lecteur est aussitôt renvoyé à cette étrange confusion dans laquelle Socrate place justement l'armée homérique par le moyen de l'image. La correspondance est cohérente. En effet, selon le principe défendu par les « pluralistes/mobilistes », khôra (comme toute chose) ne peut posséder aucune unité pas même sémantique et en conséquence, ne désigne qu'une réalité confuse, qu'illustre éloquemment le champ de bataille brossé par Socrate, mêlée des forces, des temps et des lieux. Parallèlement, les « Eléatiques » réfutent la multiplicité et le changement et n'accordent aucune réalité à ce qui est nommé khôra. Ce dernier point s'explique aisément si l'on considère la « place » métaphoriquement tenue par les « Homériques » et qui est précisément multiple donc sans réalité aux yeux des « Eléatiques ».

Le procédé de Platon qui prête à Socrate un savant double jeu, entre le sens des propositions et leur mise en forme littéraire, implique deux interrogations. Premièrement, la réalité dénotée par khôra peut être mise en question : par ce mot, la langue commune viserait non point un espace clairement distingué mais une unité syncrétique fusionnant notamment les dimensions temporelle et spatiale. Mais deuxièmement, la manière de dire la réalité est elle aussi en question. Car c'est l'art littéraire de Platon qui donne à khôra comme une patine archaïque. Le lieu illustré par la métaphore est à la fois une trouble réalité physique et une artificielle image rhétorique, ce qui met ainsi en question le rapport entre la(les) réalité(s) et la(les) manière(s) d'en parler.

La critique des « Eléatiques » serait alors et en quelque sorte soutenue par l'exemple, khôra restant dans le texte une notion problématique qui ne peut être abordée que par un incessant et implicite aller retour entre ce qui est dit et la manière de le dire. Mais la pure et simple négation de khôra, à défaut de diacritique et sans solution alternative, est insuffisante et donc perdante, sur le plan des représentations. Les défenseurs de l'« Eléatisme » seraient en effet contraints soit à se retirer d'un conflit dont ils n'acceptent pas le terrain et à être ainsi réduits à se taire, soit à participer au combat et ce faisant, à admettre d'être situés dans khôra. Platon présente ainsi la « vulgate éléatique » comme vaincue en quelque sorte dans et par khôra, terme à ce titre décisif dans le conflit des représentations.

3 Topos, soumis à la critique.

Les exégètes contemporains ont longuement débattu pour savoir si « l'un » était ou non le maître mot de la philosophie de Parménide mais n'ont jamais demandé ce qu'il en était au sujet de khôra. Les fragments du Poème permettent-ils de donner quelque réalité à la métaphore de Socrate ?

Le mot khôra n'y est jamais employé. Il existe par contre une occurrence de topos au vers 41 du fragment VIII. Faut-il considérer qu'au Vème siècle, les deux termes ont des sens différents ? La réponse est négative de l'avis unanime des critiques [10]. Ces deux mots désigneraient la situation relative où une chose se trouve comme le lieu particulier qu'elle occupe, topos renvoyant en général à un espace plus restreint que khôra. Tous les traducteurs du Poème s'accordent ainsi à donner à topos un sens globalement spatial. Il est le plus souvent traduit en français par « lieu » [11], parfois par « place » [12]. Aucun commentaire ne venant préciser ces traductions, elles relèveraient du sens commun et en réfèreraient en conséquence à une dimension d'espace assez floue et sans technicité particulière.

Considérons plus précisément le vers VIII-41 pour déterminer s'il présente ou non quelque analogie avec la position critique prêtée par Socrate aux « Eléatiques » dans le Théétète. La Déesse déclare que les mortels sont convaincus : « de naître et périr, être et ne pas être, changer de lieu et varier d'intensité lumineuse » [13].

Comme dans le Théétète, les opinions et les représentations dominantes transcrites dans la langue du mythe sont en question. Elles sont critiquées par la Déesse qui déclare en effet que les humains qui nomment les réalités s'égarent loin de la vérité. Cette errance a pu être interprétée de deux façons, soit les mortels ratent l'être qu'ils visent en le nommant, soit ils se perdent dans le vide, donnant des noms sans aucune réalité référentielle [14]. La critique de la Déesse s'exerce clairement à l'encontre de tous les noms et en particulier contre ceux des vers 40 et 41. En conséquence soit le sens de topos échappe aux humains, soit le mot lui-même est absurde et vide de toute signification. Dans tous les cas, topos est flétri par la critique de Parménide, tout comme l'est khôra par les « Eléatiques » dans le Théétète.

Le changement est le thème principal du vers en question. Deux verbes l'expriment : ἀλλάσσειν et ἀμείβειν qui signifient « changer » et « échanger » dans le sens de « remplacer » ou « succéder ». Dans la formule de la Divinité, il peut y avoir altération (le lieu change) comme déplacement (changer d'un lieu pour un autre). Ces changements dans l'espace sont reliés aux variations lumineuses. Parallèlement, entre « naître» et « périr », « être » et « ne pas être », il y a encore « changement » et « échange » d'un terme positif à son contraire. Vivre serait ainsi selon les mortels : changer de lieu, dans des lieux eux-mêmes changeant, passer du sein maternel à la lumière du jour puis de celle-ci à la pénombre de l'Hadès, transiter du néant à l'être et inversement de l'être au néant. Dans le vers VIII-41 du Poème, topos est donc associé étroitement au changement sous de multiples formes, comme l'est khôra dans le Théétète.

Les deux vers sont en leur forme marqués par un jeu d'assonances, de symétrie et de balancement à l'intérieur de chacun d'eux comme dans leur ensemble. Ces effets rhétoriques ajoutent au trouble conceptuel dénoncé par la Déesse. Ainsi comme dans le Théétète, c'est entre la réalité et la façon dont on peut la décrire que se noue le problème des mortels.

Notons enfin que dans ces multiples variations, le temps est toujours occulté tout en étant impliqué ; temps saisonnier qui fait varier la luminosité et les lieux, temps météorologique qui modifie tout l'environnement à un moment donné, temps enfin, nécessaire de manière générale à tout changement. Remarquons que le temps grec est mesuré très concrètement par le cadran solaire et le gnomon. Il est ainsi constaté de visu et in situ sur une surface éclairée. Dans ce dispositif, dominent lieu et lumière. Le vers 41 en réfèrerait ainsi indirectement à cette détermination particulière du temps.

La Déesse critique donc « topos » qui comme le mot « khôra » renvoie globalement pour l'opinion grecque à la localisation des choses. Elle l'associe étroitement à la notion de changement, tout en le dotant d'une dimension temporelle implicite mais déterminante. Elle fait enfin entendre qu'il existe de fait un rapport entre la réalité que l'on vise et la façon dont on en parle. Sur tous ces points, Platon dans le Théétète semble avoir assez scrupuleusement retenu la lettre et l'esprit du Poème. Khôra niée par les « Eléatiques » est sœur jumelle de topos disqualifié dans l'œuvre du philosophe d'Elée.

L'importance de cette critique aux yeux de Platon peut être complètement confirmée en examinant les lignes 172c2-177c6 qui forment le passage central de la première partie du Théétète dans laquelle Socrate présente « la Guerre d'Elée ». Le philosophe y abandonne temporairement le récit épique pour présenter deux paradigmes antagonistes qui illustrent deux types d'homme, d'une part le rhéteur tourné vers l'enquête judiciaire et d'autre part le physicien tourné vers l'examen du cosmos. Socrate fait ensuite valoir sa propre dynamique, celle de l'amélioration de soi, qui implique une orientation particulière vers la recherche du juste par l'imitation du divin. Dans tout ce passage, le mot khôra n'est pas employé. Mais le philosophe déclare vouloir fuir « le lieu d'ici » dans lequel le mal parcourt fatalement sa ronde (176a6-7). La critique de Parménide aurait donc porté ; Platon semble ici l'enregistrer presque littéralement en lui donnant toutefois la saveur particulière qui est celle de la philosophie socratique. Qu'est ce en effet que le « lieu d'ici » ? Il est lié à la nature mortelle et localise la sarabande des maux. Dans les versions françaises, il est traduit par « lieu d'ici-bas » ou « cette terre » ou encore « ce lieu-ci » [15]. Il renvoie ainsi à une réalité spatiale très générale, là où se trouve l'humaine nature et de ce point de vue en réfère directement au mot topos critiqué par la Déesse du Poème. Socrate cherche à s'en évader (176a-b). Or la Déesse ordonnait à Parménide de s'écarter du chemin qui est celui de l'opinion des mortels [16]. L'injonction était impérieuse. Le point de vue de Socrate n'est pas aussi autoritaire. Mais sur le fond, le philosophe d'Athènes obéit scrupuleusement à la consigne de la Divinité. Comme Parménide, le Socrate de Platon se détourne donc de topos. Mais il ajoute aussitôt chercher un « lieu pur de tout mal » qui semble comme au delà de la mort (177a5). Voilà qui dépasse de beaucoup la critique de Parménide mais qui est par contre précisément inscrit dans la dynamique socratique du Théétète. En effet comme on l'a précédemment constaté, en niant khôra, sans proposer d'alternative, les « Eléatiques » seraient enfermés dans le cercle de la métaphore guerrière. Pour sortir de cette impasse, il faut dégager positivement une nouvelle perspective. C'est peut-être ce qu'ont pu faire les physiciens et les rhéteurs en proposant des façons particulières et nouvelles d'appréhender le lieu, cosmologique et mathématique dans le premier cas, rhétorique et oratoire dans le second. Le fait est certain pour Isocrate qui emploie à plusieurs reprises dans ses discours, le mot topos dans le sens de « thème » ou de « sujet », signification fort éloignée de la confusion spatiotemporelle de khôra [17]. Mais de ces évolutions, Platon ne dit rien explicitement. Il met par contre en valeur la figure de Socrate dont Isocrate fut justement l'élève. Le philosophe athénien semble ainsi dépasser d'un même envol, d'une part les « Eléatiques », en outrepassant la critique du Poème contre topos, et d'autre part les modèles du rhéteur et du physicien qu'il pose comme deux paradigmes relatifs. Au delà de Parménide, Socrate cherche un lieu, et ce lieu dit « pur de tout mal » est comme au delà des réflexions du rhéteur et du physicien, peut-être parce que ceux-ci s'ignorant l'un, l'autre, ne peuvent jamais donner sur la réalité qu'un point de vue borgne, le lieu étant pour l'un rhétorique, pour l'autre, physique.

Tous ces éléments confirment l'importance accordée par Platon à la critique parménidienne. Elle a été positivement prise en compte en son implication majeure : le rejet de la confuse entité khôra/topos qu'exprime Socrate lorsqu'il désire s'évader hors de « ce lieu ci ». Mais la critique de Parménide a été aussi dépassée, le philosophe athénien cherchant un « lieu pur de tout mal » qui serait à ce titre débarrassé de toute confusion et de tout conflit.

Dans la première partie du Théétète, Platon reprend donc à son compte des classifications philosophiques déjà établies dont on connaît des exemples par Isocrate. Mais il simplifie et métaphorise ce classement sous la forme d'un duel épique : « Homériques » contre « Eléatiques ». La classification est ainsi polarisée autour de Parménide. Cette mise en image de la doxographie permet de mettre en question le « lieu ». Car les défenseurs de « l'Eléatisme » font directement écho à la critique que Parménide prononce contre topos dans le Poème, en contestant explicitement khôra admise par leurs opposants et Platon donne un relief particulier à cette contestation en situant métaphoriquement le débat aux portes d'une citadelle troyenne-éléate. Cette image littéraire fabriquée de toutes pièces peut renvoyer à une confusion des temps et des espaces, réelle ou présupposée, et désigne à la fois le lieu stratégique, site du duel, et le lieu rhétorique, sujet de la discussion. Mais l'art de la parole, ainsi requis pour présenter la complexité des divers problèmes posés par le « lieu » qu'il soit appelé khôra ou topos, serait, pour les résoudre, insuffisant. En dernière instance seul le philosophe Socrate ouvre une perspective positive, au delà du conflit des représentations, vers un topos dit « pur de tout mal ». Platon a donc sollicité les savants moyens du rhéteur pour faire du « lieu » sous ses multiples aspects, le sujet du débat c'est-à-dire, selon les propres termes d'Isocrate, le « lieu » du débat. Ainsi le « lieu » de la Guerre d'Elée, est justement le « lieu », enjeu du conflit. De cette étrange dialectique, seul Socrate aurait pu finalement démêler l'écheveau.

[1] Voir en particulier BARNES, 1979.

[2] MANSFELD, 1990.

[3] CORDERO, 1991.

[4] MANSFELD, 1990, p : 26.

[5] Sur l'échange, 268.

[6] Eloge d'Hélène, 3.

[7] Entre 152e et 183e.

[8] Eloge d'Hélène, 4.

[9] Voir en particulier Isocrate : Panégyrique, 81-84, Eloge d'Hélène, 67.

[10] Entre ces deux termes, écrit Luc Brisson, « la distinction n'existait pas, du moins pas à un autre niveau qu'à celui, plein d'imprécision du vocabulaire quotidien » (BRISSON, 1974, p : 213).

[11] COULOUBARITSIS, 1986 ; CASSIN, 1998 ; BOLLACK, 2006 ; CONCHE, 1996 ; BEAUFFRET, 1955.

[12] CORDERO, 1984 ; O'BRIEN/FRERE, 1987. «Place » encore en anglais par exemple pour COXON, 2009 et GALLOP, 1984.

[13] Γίγνεσθαί τε καὶ ὄλλυσθαι, εἶναί τε καὶ οὐχί, καὶ τόπον ἀλλάσσειν διά τε χρόα φανὸν ἀμείβειν.

[14] Dans l'interprétation la plus fréquente, comme par exemple celle de Denis O'Brien et de Jean Frère, la dénomination humaine est vide de sens. Mais à partir de l'analyse d'une citation du Poème tirée du Théétète, Monique Dixsaut a proposé une lecture alternative : la dénomination des mortels vise la réalité mais la manque. Le nom n'est pas complètement vide, il désigne quelque chose. Mais il demeure cependant insensé, la chose étant comprise de façon ambiguë (O'BRIEN/FRERE, 1987 ; DIXSAUT, 1987).

[15] Successivement : DIES, 1926 ; CHAMBRY, 1967 ; NARCY, 1994.

[16] Poème 27-28, I et 3-5, VI.

[17] Jacques Brunschwig, dans son introduction aux Topiques, relevait qu'avant Aristote seul Isocrate avait employé topos dans le sens « de « thème » ou de « sujet » (cf. l'anglais topics) donnant à un développement oratoire sa ligne directrice » (BRUNSCHWIG, 1967). Voir : Phillipe,109 ; Panathénaïque, 88 et 111 ; Eloge d'Hélène, 4 et 38.

ISOCRATE , Discours, établi et traduit par Georges MATHIEU et Emile BREMOND, Belles Lettres, Paris, 1929.

PLATON, Théétète, établi et traduit par Auguste DIES, Belles Lettres, Paris, 1926.

BARNES J., 1979, « Parmenides and the Eleatic One », p :1-21, Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie, N°61.

BEAUFFRET J., 1996, Parménide, le Poème, P.U.F., Paris (première édition 1955).

BOLLACK J., 2006, De l'étant au monde, Verdier, Paris.

BRISSON L., 1974, Le même et l'autre dans la structure ontologique du Timée de Platon, Klincksieck, Paris.

BRUNSCHWIG J., 1967, Topiques d'Aristote, Belles Lettres, Paris.

BURNYEAT M., 1990, The Theaetetus of Plato, with a translation of Plato's Theaetetus by M.J. LEVETT revised by Myles BURNYEAT, Hackett Publishing Company, Indianapolis/Cambridge.

CASSIN B., 1998, Parménide. Sur la nature ou sur l'étant, Seuil, Paris.

CHAMBRY E., 1967, Platon, Théétète, Flammarion, Paris.

CONCHE M., 1996, Parménide, le Poème : fragments, P.U.F., Paris.

COULOUBARITSIS L., 1990, Mythe et philosophie chez Parménide, Ousia, Bruxelles (première édition 1986).

CORDERO N., 1997, Les deux chemins de Parménide, Vrin/Ousia, Paris/Bruxelles (première édition 1984).

CORDERO N., 1991, « L'invention de l'école éléatique, Platon Sophiste 242d », p :93-124, Etudes sur le Sophiste de Platon, sous la direction de Pierre AUBENQUE, Bibliopolis, Napoli.

COXON A.H., 2009, The Fragments of Parmenides, revised and expanded edition, new translations by R. McKIRAHAN and a new preface by M. SCHOFIELD, Parmenides Publishing, Las Vegas/Zurich/Athens.

DIXSAUT M., 1987, « Platon et le logos de Parménide », p : 215-253, Etudes sur Parménide, sous la direction de Pierre AUBENQUE, Vrin, Paris.

GALLOP D., 1984, Parmenides of Elea, University of Toronto, Toronto.

NARCY M., 1994, Platon, Théétète, Flammarion, Paris.

O'BRIEN D. et FRERE J., 1987, Etudes sur Parménide, tome I, sous la direction de Pierre AUBENQUE, Vrin, Paris.

6. Virtue, Practice, and Perplexity in Plato's Meno

WIANS, William — 2013-03-24T11:06:12Z

Plato's Meno presents a deceptively simple surface. Plato begins by having his character Meno ask Socrates how virtue is acquired. Instead of having Socrates respond directly, Plato has him divert the conversation to the question of what virtue is. But Plato's Meno isn't accustomed to the rigors of Socratic inquiry, and so Plato allows him to force the discussion back toward a version of his original question. After a series of false starts and frustrations, Plato ends his dialogue with his characters unable to define virtue or to supply a persuasive answer as to how it is acquired.

The Meno has been called a perfect example of the essential points of Platonism. [1] If the dialogue is characteristic of Plato, however, it has as much to do with what it shows the reader about virtue as with what it tells. [2] Though the aggressively confident Meno certainly ends unable to define virtue, and Plato's Socrates is often said to do so, I shall argue that Plato is in no doubt as to what virtue is or the means by which virtue is acquired. I shall organize my argument around what we find in two key passages—and crucially, what we find missing. In them, Plato provides clues to the meaning of the whole, connecting the perplexity of the dialogue's two main characters with the most promising route toward the acquisition of virtue, a route that is surprisingly neglected over the course of the dialogue.

I shall also work to keep the authorial dimension in view. That is, rather than saying simply that Socrates says this or Meno says that, I shall emphasize that it is Plato who makes Socrates and Meno say what he, the author, wants to have said and be left unsaid at each point. [3] While the importance of the literary and dramatic aspects of Plato's philosophical dramas is now often noted, too many commentators persist in speaking of what Socrates and his interlocutors want, intend, or are feeling, rather than confining themselves to what Plato has them say. In doing so, they obscure the critical distance between an author and his creation and risk turning a carefully plotted philosophical dialogue into a psychological study of its characters. [4] Plato uses the dramatic structure of the Meno ultimately not to support but actually to counter the apparent failure of his characters, pointing the reader in the right direction even as he has Socrates' headstrong companion insist on pursuing the wrong way.

1.

Plato begins the dialogue abruptly:

MENO: Can you tell me, Socrates, whether virtue (aretê) is something teachable (didakton)? Or is it not teachable, but something acquired through practice (askêton)? Or is it neither acquired through practice nor something learned (mathêton), but comes to be present (paragignetai) in human beings by nature (phusei), or in some other way? (70a1-4) [5]

The Meno begins without the brilliant scene setting of the Protagoras and Gorgias or even the more prosaic prelude of the Euthydemus, dialogues typically dated close to the Meno. [6] Plato has Meno ask how a person acquires or comes to possess aretê, virtue or excellence. [7] He is made to name three possibilities, with a fourth alternative amounting to “none of the above” leaving room for the suggestion at the end of the dialogue that virtue is a theia moira, a divine allotment or “gift of the gods.”

The options would be familiar to Plato's audience. From the arrival of the Sophists in the mid-fifth century, the question of how aretê could be acquired was part of the current debate, as was the question of what aretê itself was. Sophists often claimed to be able to teach the virtue or excellence necessary to succeed in the public or political sphere and so made its acquisition an urgent need for ambitious young men. [8] The question was equally urgent for the founder of the Academy, as its prominence not just in the Meno but in the Protagoras, Laches, Euthydemus, Gorgias, and Republic indicates. [9]

Despite the intense interest surrounding the question of how virtue could be acquired, Plato's attention to the four options over the course of the dialogue is decidedly uneven. The dialogue concentrates on the first possibility, that virtue is teachable, almost to the exclusion of the others—so much so that many commentators speak as if “Is virtue teachable?” is the only question Meno asks. [10] The third option, that virtue is a natural endowment, surfaces briefly in the second half of the dialogue but is quickly dismissed (89a6-b7). The possibility that virtue is a gift of the gods is raised only at the dialogue's end. The second option, that virtue is acquired through practice (askêsis), is simply not considered. It is raised in the opening lines, never to be mentioned again.

The neglect of practice by so careful a writer is surprising. When Aristotle opens the second book of the Nicomachean Ethics with essentially the same list of possibilities (1103a14-26), he says that moral virtue is acquired (periginetai) through the formation of proper habits. Aristotle uses the term ethos and not askêsis in this passage; however, he uses askêsis in the Meno-like list of options by which one might attain happiness at NE I 9, 1099b9-11, and identifies askêsis with habituation at EE I 1, 1214a15-22. [11]

At least twice in the Meno, Plato passes over opportunities to raise the option of acquiring virtue by practice. Following the conclusion of the geometry lesson, Plato has Meno ask Socrates to return to his original question of how virtue is acquired. But the only possibilities Plato has Meno name are those of teaching and by nature (86c7-d2). Then at the dialogue's end, Plato has Socrates suggest and the by now compliant Meno agree that virtue is a gift of the gods. But again, teaching and by nature are the only other options named by Plato's characters. The possibility of acquiring virtue through practice seems entirely forgotten. [12]

Scholars have sought to account for the absence of an explicit discussion of practice in a variety of ways. Bluck and Sharples, less and more tentatively respectively, find an implicit rejection of practice in the criticisms of virtue as teachable in the second half of the dialogue. Castelnérac finds askêsis implicit in Socratic practices in the geometry lesson. Gonzalez and Hoerber (the latter using elaborate and sometimes obscure parallels between the three options and the structure of the dialogue as a whole) argue that Plato embraces all three. DesJardins finds senses in which all four options, including the theia moira, are implicitly endorsed as necessary for virtue's acquisition. Klein connects the omission of practice to flaws in Meno's character, but does not develop the connection systematically over the whole dialogue. [13]

Some scholars point to passages in other dialogues where Plato links practice or habit with an inferior kind of virtue. This is a demotic virtue practiced “without philosophy” (ethei aneu philosophias aretês; Rep. 619c7-d1), or “without philosophy or understanding” (aneu philosophias te kai nou; Phd. 82a11-b3; see also 68d2-69d3; 82b10-c8). Perhaps, it has been suggested, it was this sham virtue that Plato had in mind when he quietly dropped askêsis from consideration in the Meno. [14] Indeed, we shall discover that a similar deficiency of acting aneu nou figures in the Meno.

The most recent and also the most radical solution is Dominic Scott's. Calling it a mystery that after the opening lines practice “is never mentioned again in the dialogue either to be developed or dismissed,” Scott points to a manuscript (known as ‘F') in which only the first and third options (plus “none of the above”) are included to argue that acquiring virtue through practice may never have been part of Plato's Meno as originally written. [15]

The absence of practice in the Meno is indeed a puzzle. I shall argue that for reasons having everything to do with the point of the dialogue Plato allows his interlocutors to pass over the second option even at the cost of having his characters' inquiry fail. I shall proceed as follows. I will begin by working to clarify the differences between the four alternatives for acquiring virtue. I'll then turn to the dialogue's concluding speeches and the second of the two passages where the omission of practice is most conspicuous. Finally, I'll return to earlier parts of the dialogue in which Plato prepares for the failure of his characters. Making a case for an option that seems to have been forgotten will require a good deal of attention to several extended passages from the dialogue. But doing so will reveal a carefully plotted presentation that points the reader toward a true understanding of virtue and the sort of practice needed to acquire it.

2.

Meno has been criticized for presenting his opening options as if they were mutually exclusive. [16] Why Plato may have made him do so requires a closer look at the four alternatives eventually canvassed in the dialogue—Meno's original triad plus Socrates' concluding suggestion that virtue is a gift of the gods.

We may begin by observing that the four possible ways of acquiring virtue form a mutually exhaustive set of possibilities. At the broadest level, either one must work to acquire virtue, or no work is required. If no work is needed, then virtue is present in those who possess it either naturally (as Pindar might say, pointing to a patron's aristocratic origins), or supernaturally, as a gift from the gods. [17] Something arising naturally or supernaturally requires neither instruction nor practice. Examples not involving virtue can show why. A person born with normal color vision does not need to be told how to see red, and all the practice in the world won't make a person see red if she or he is born colorblind. Similarly, a supernatural gift such as clairvoyance is not (given an historical example such as Joan of Arc) something that is taught or trained, and might even be impaired by outside influences.

Turning to the other broad division, if virtue is something requiring effort to acquire, then (Meno's opening questions imply) one does so either by verbal instruction or by practice. If a subject is teachable, all the information essential to learning it can be conveyed by direct verbal means, as by a teacher to a student, whether by means of lectures or by some other form of instruction. Mathematical subjects provide a ready example (Socrates' exercise with the slave not withstanding; we shall consider it below). The teacher of geometry, for instance, can state explicitly all of the information a student needs to know: “Listen: I am about to define point, line, and plane”; or “Listen: I am about to state what is known as the Parallel Postulate.” [18]

Finally, if virtue is acquired by some sort of practice, then verbal instruction alone is not sufficient. Skills like carpentry or the ability to play the piano (Aristotle uses cithara playing as his example in NE II 1) cannot be acquired simply by reading a book or hearing a lecture. Here a certain amount of verbal instruction may be helpful or necessary (“This is a scroll saw. Use it for making irregular cuts” or “This white key is called middle C. Position yourself in front of it”). But such instruction must be supplemented by the learner's doing the very things that the expert can do—actually making a scroll cut or playing a cithera or sonata. Something acquired through practice cannot be finally or fully achieved without engaging in appropriate forms of action or behavior that necessarily go beyond the verbal.

This last point is crucial. The verb askeo implies practices by which one forms oneself, as through the formation of the proper habits. Similarly, Meno's term askêton implies that which is fully achieved or mastered through practice. [19] In a parallel vein, the verb paragignomai conveys the sense of being fully present or attained, or coming to full maturity, as with grain. Plato therefore intends Meno's question to be taken to ask for the sufficient condition by which aretê is fully and finally achieved, as opposed to asking for a list of necessary factors that may contribute in various degrees to its acquisition. This would help to explain why Plato has Meno imply that the options are mutually exclusive.

Given that there may be more than one necessary condition for something's attainment, it isn't surprising that there is often some overlap between instruction and practice: the piano teacher will want to make verbal comments, and the geometry student must do the homework. Nor would one want to deny that the “by nature” plays an important role in learning as well—one child has a natural aptitude for mathematics, another for music, and another for soccer or baseball. Nevertheless, there is an essential difference between what is didakton and what is askêton. The geometry teacher can simply point and say, “Look: you drew the wrong angle,” or “Look: you wrote the wrong expression.” The piano teacher, by contrast, must say both more and less: “Look: you keep missing that grace note. Try holding your wrist at a different angle,” or “Look: Beethoven wrote molto cantabile. Try playing with more expression.” The geometry teacher can say exactly what the correct angle or expression is, the piano teacher cannot. The piano student must learn for herself what it is by practicing. This implies two further points we shall consider in due course. First, the kind of practice that is necessary is in no way mindless. Second, everything that can be taught can be learned, but not everything that can be learned can be taught.

If all of this is correct, then the Meno's four options form a mutually exhaustive logical tree:

The distinction between teaching as verbal instruction and practice as essentially requiring mindful action beyond the verbal goes to the heart of whether virtue is teachable and raises larger questions of Socratic method and the precise nature of what is often called Socratic intellectualism. Pursuing these larger implications exceeds the scope of this paper, as does the question of Socratic practice in other dialogues. [20] But keeping the distinctions in mind, we may turn to the two passages in the Meno that omit the option of practice. [21]

3.

At the dialogue's end, Plato has Socrates raise and seem to endorse the idea that virtue comes to those who possess it as a divine allotment. Many commentators, finding no convincing alternative, conclude that this is Socrates' final considered position. [22] In fact, what Plato has Socrates say is highly qualified and conditional. Plato gives all but one of the last twenty-eight lines of the dialogue to Socrates. For ease of reference, I shall break these lines into seven numbered sections:

SOCRATES: (1) If then (ei de nun), in the whole of this discussion (en panti tô(i) logô(i) toutô(i)) we have sought and spoken well (kalôs ezêtêsamen kai elegomen), virtue would be neither by nature nor something teachable, but something that has come to be present (paragignomenê) through a divine allotment (theia moira) without intelligence (aneu nou) in those in whom it is present (paragignêtai)— (2) unless (ei mê) some one of the politic men were such that he could make (poiêsai) another politic as well. [23] (3) If there were, one could almost say that such a man would be among the living what Homer said Teiresias was among the dead, that “he alone of those in Hades understands (pepnutai), while the rest are fluttering shadows.” In the same way would such a man be here, a true thing among shadows with regard to virtue.

MENO: (4) You seem to me to speak very well (kallista dokeîs moi legein), Socrates.

SOCRATES: (5) From this reasoning, then (ek men toinun toutou toû logismoû), Meno, it appears to us (hêmin phainetai) that it is by divine allotment that virtue comes to be present (paragignomenê) in those in whom it is present (paragignetai). (6) But (de) we will know the clear truth (to saphes) about this when, before seeking in whatever way virtue comes to be present (paragignetai) in human beings, we first make the attempt to seek (epicheirêsômen zetein) what virtue is in itself. (7) But now it's time for me to go somewhere. You persuade your host Anytus of the same things you've been persuaded of, so that he may be more gentle (pra(i)oteros). For if you do persuade him, you will also benefit the Athenians. (99e4-100c2)

Rather than closing with anything like a straightforward endorsement of virtue as a theia moira, Plato ends the Meno with a remarkable—but largely unremarked—series of qualifications. [24] The ‘if' (ei) at the start of (1) is obvious but crucial—starting with the conclusion's first word, Plato makes everything that follows conditional (a qualification reinforced by the ‘unless' that begins (2) and the “If there were” at the start of (3)). The mindless quality of the divine gift should also put us on our guard: such virtue is aneu nou, just as was the inferior demotic virtue identified in the Phaedo and Republic. [25] Most importantly, by having Socrates refer to “the whole of this discussion,” Plato prompts the reader to recall the entire dialogue. In doing so, he takes the reader back to Meno's opening three options—as does the repetition throughout the passage of forms of paragignomai, the verb used at 70a3 when Meno first asked how virtue is acquired. [26]

This makes conspicuous a gap in Socrates' summary of the “whole discussion.” Plato has Socrates name only two of the three ways in which virtue might be acquired, by teaching and by nature. Plato asks that the whole inquiry be recalled, but anyone who does so would immediately notice that Plato's Socrates omits practice.

In fact, not everyone would notice. Meno does not notice. This, I take it, is the point of (4), the last speech Meno is given in the dialogue. Socrates had said, “if we have … spoken well (kalôs)” in saying that virtue is acquired neither by teaching nor by nature. Plato has Meno answer with the superlative: “You seem to me speak very well (kallista).” Meno's dialectical gifts are clearly limited, so one might be tempted to follow Hoerber in saying “any further reasoning would be beyond his ken.” Plato has shown at least twice that Meno's endorsement of a conclusion should not be taken at face value. The first is his misplaced enthusiasm for the mock Gorgianic definition of color at 76d. The second is his exclaiming at 89a4-5 (see also c7) that the claim that virtue is teachable is a kalos answer. That said, Meno's final line is correct as far as it goes: the dialogue has shown that neither teaching nor nature is sufficient to make one virtuous. [27] But blaming a character in a fictional dialogue misses the point. It is Plato who makes Meno overlook the omission of his own second option.

Why would Plato do that? Before answering that question—and it is the crucial question—we should notice two final qualifications. The conditional endorsement of the divine allotment is again underlined in (5), which begins: “From this reasoning, then, it appears to us….” In other words, if virtue is neither a natural endowment nor teachable, it would seem to be a divine gift. But the conclusion is valid only if all other mutually exhaustive options have been ruled out.

The final qualification is expressed in (6). With a de-clause at 100b4 answering the conditional men at 100b2 at the start of (5), Plato tells the reader that, however it might appear, the truth (to saphes) is not yet known. Socrates' call that they jointly seek (zêtein; 100b7) for what virtue is strongly suggests they did not do as well in what they had sought and said (99e4-5) as Meno supposed. Plato has Socrates insist (as he is made to do as well at the end of the Protagoras) that until virtue itself has been defined, a search for how it is acquired will be premature—a caution, let us note, as applicable to the final suggestion that virtue comes as a mindless theia moira as to the two options that have been explicitly ruled out. Though similar pleas to start over and return to the beginning are fairly common in the aporetic dialogues, Socrates' words in this context again serve to remind the attentive reader that not all the options posed at the dialogue's beginning have been explored.

The dialogue concludes with (7). On a vague pretext of having business elsewhere (poi; 100b8), Plato has Socrates instruct Meno to try to persuade Anytus of what he himself has just been persuaded of so as to make him more gentle (pra(i)oteros) and thus benefit the city. We needn't wonder at the outcome of that unwritten dialogue.

Meno's likely failure at persuading Anytus of anything is more than a sly joke at his expense. [28] If, contrary to all expectations, Meno were to make Anytus more gentle, he would succeed, to some degree at least, at what the Sophists promised: by making Anytus more gentle, he would begin to make him more virtuous. To see why we must ask how Meno would go about making Anytus gentler. How, for Plato, would anyone do so? In its general form, the question is easily answered. For Plato, a person can be made gentler by being refuted. This is the lesson Plato has Socrates deliver (without qualifications!) at the end of the Theaetetus: “But if you remain barren [after our present inquiry], you will be less coarse (barus) toward your associates and gentler (hêmeteros), modestly (sôphronôs) not supposing yourself to know what you do not know” (Tht. 210c2-4). [29] It is the special benefit conferred by the so-called Sophist of noble lineage, when Socrates compares an ordinary Sophist and the noble Sophist by contrasting a wolf to a dog, the wildest (agriôtaton) to the gentlest (hêmerôtatô(i) (Sophist 229e–231b). Being refuted has the potential to transform a belligerent opponent into a cooperative, or at least a non-oppositional, partner in inquiry (Republic I, 354a12; see also Rep. VI, 501e7-502a2; IX, 589c6-590d1). This is why the reader suspects Meno would fail. Though he seems to show some signs of gentleness by the end of the dialogue (a point we'll return to shortly), as expressed in (2) a person must be politic to make another so, which is to say, a person must be virtuous to instill virtue in another. [30]

Is Socrates the Teiresias-like politic man spoken of in (3) who by refuting others may make them more virtuous and so benefit the city? [31] This is a profound and essential question for any reader of the dialogues. In several dialogues—the Gorgias, the Apology, the Meno itself—Plato shows Socrates achieving practically the opposite result. Against the rare success of a Theaetetus stand Callicles, Charmides and Critias, Anytus, the Athenian jury, and the many nameless poets, politicians, and craftsmen stung by this ironic gadfly, who are reduced to an angry and resentful malevolence intimating violence. Why Plato shows Socrates humbling and gentling a few but antagonizing so many goes to the heart of Plato's depiction of and possibly changing attitude toward his teacher, and may lie behind his own decision not to philosophize in the agora but to found a learned community and write dialogues that afford the reader an insulating critical distance that a live interlocutor lacked. [32] Perplexity and aporia are naturally frustrating, so perhaps a natural or supernaturally endowed disposition toward virtue is a necessary condition for its acquisition after all. All that being said, Socrates is praised as pra(i)otaton at Phd. 116c5, and at Gorgias 521d6-8 Plato has Socrates call himself the only Athenian engaged in the true political art. But one must be precise here. Plato at Meno 100a1-2 does not write that there may be a politic person able to teach another to be politic. [33]

When the thrice-refuted Meno compares Socrates to a stingray, he begins by saying, “You do nothing but make yourself perplexed and make others perplexed as well” (tous allous poieis aporein; 80a1-2). [34] Plato doesn't allow Meno to realize the full significance of what he is saying. In his third and final attempt to define aretê, Meno was made to say that virtue was the ability to obtain (porizesthai) good things, which for Meno include gold, silver, and possessions (78c5; also c1). Plato has Socrates force Meno to admit that obtaining possessions must involve justice or self-control or piety if the way (poros) is to qualify as virtuous. If it does not, he continues, then the ‘not-getting'—the a-poria—is virtue when getting would be unjust. And so, Plato has Socrates ask, “Isn't this also virtue, the not-finding-a-way (ouk aretê kai autê estin, hê aporia)?” (78e5). Meno is correct to say that Socrates is perplexed and makes others perplexed as well. What Plato doesn't allow Meno to realize (at least before the geometry lesson) is that by inducing perplexity, Socrates benefits others and offers them an opportunity to become more virtuous. [35] This yields a pleasingly Socratic paradox: the way (poros) to virtue is a-poria.

Does Meno benefit from his own Socratically induced aporia? That, in essence, is what Socrates' final charge to Meno would assess. Plato repeatedly draws attention to the character defects of Socrates' interlocutor in the first third of the dialogue—Meno is over-confident (72a2-3), wanting to be told (73c8, 75b1, 81a7), argumentative (75c9), arrogant and demanding (76a8-10, 76b5-7, 76c3), careless and inattentive (79a11-12), vain and preening (80b1-4, c3-5). [36] Whether and how much Meno changes by the dialogue's end have long been a matter of scholarly contention, but even the most generous assessment finds relatively modest and probably unsustainable improvement. [37] But the question that should be asked is this: why doesn't Plato show Meno making more progress during the dialogue as a result of his perplexity? If Plato intended the Meno to serve as an exhibition of Socratic moral education (as he surely did), [38] his decision to allow the dialogue to end in apparent failure requires an explanation.

No answer to the question can ignore Plato's choice of Meno as Socrates' interlocutor. The historical Meno's downfall is documented by Xenophon (Anabasis 2.1.5, 2.2.1, 2.5.28-31, 2.6.21.29). According to Xenophon (who, it should be noted, is far from impartial), Meno was greedy and grasping and lacking in scruples—qualities Plato may be evoking in the discussion at 78c-e. In what Plato's original audience must have caught as a choice bit of black humor, the man whom Socrates calls the “hereditary guest-friend of the Great King” (78d2-3) traveled to Persia in 401 as a mercenary, where he suffered a terrible death at the King's hands. [39] Whatever benefit the historical Meno might have derived from the real Socrates would have been short-lived.

Better evidence for judging the improvement of Meno's character—by which I mean evidence internal to the Meno—comes from Plato's careful plotting of the dialogue. We should begin by noticing that Plato delays revealing Meno's full response to his own aporia for more than six Stephanus pages. As Meno's third attempt to define virtue breaks down, Plato has Socrates repeatedly urge Meno to return to the beginning (palin ex archês; 79c3-4, 79e1-2, 79e5). Instead of doing so, Meno is made to give voice to what many an interlocutor—not to say reader—has felt through his comparison with the stingray and the paradox of the learner (79e7-81d9), though even here, Socrates develops the formal paradox out of implications Plato has made Meno too indolent to recognize. [40] After agreeing to show (epideixomai; 82b2) Meno that learning is recollection and not teaching, Socrates leads one of Meno's attendant slaves into a state of aporia over how to construct a square double the area of a given square. [41] He forces the slave to admit he does not know how to solve the problem, even though he initially thought he did know (84a3-4). Plato has Socrates ask Meno to reflect on what he has just witnessed. Won't Meno admit the slave is better off (beltion echei) because of his perplexity (84b4-5)? Meno concedes that by making him perplexed, Socrates has done something useful (prourgon ti; 84b10). Only now, Socrates says, may the slave make progress, starting from this very perplexity and engaging in a joint inquiry (84c11-12).

It is important not to overstate the slave's progress. The slave's cognitive state remains as if in a dream, suggesting that little if anything of what he has recollected would count as knowledge. Much additional effort is required—in this life—before knowledge is obtained. [42] But perhaps because the slave has been shown a way (poros) forward—that he can learn without being taught—he seems willing to make that effort. Plato at least gives no hint of any lingering frustration. And so Plato ends the episode by having Socrates insist that perplexity benefits a person not just intellectually but morally as well:

SOCRATES: As for the other points, I would not altogether insist on my argument [in favor of recollection]. But that by believing one ought to search for what one does not know we would be better, more courageous, and less lazy than if we supposed we were neither able to discover nor ought to seek what we do not know—for that I would certainly do battle, as far as I am able, in both word and deed. (86b6-c3) [43]

Only at this point, after having Socrates emphasize the moral benefits of perplexity, does Plato reveal Meno's full response to his own aporia. In what counts as the second important passage in which the option of practice is conspicuously missing, Plato has Socrates invite Meno (once again) to join him in a cooperative search:

SOCRATES: Are you willing, then, since we agree that one ought to search for what one doesn't know, to try to search in common (epicheirêsômen koinê(i) zetein) for what virtue is?

MENO: By all means (panu men oun). But then again (ou mentoi), Socrates, I would most enjoy (hêdista) what I asked in the first place (to prôton), to examine and hear whether it's necessary to make the attempt as its being something teachable (hôs didakô(i)), or as by nature (hôs phusei), or as in whatever way (hôs tini pote tropô) virtue comes to be present (paragignomenês) in human beings?

SOCRATES: If I were master (êrchon), Meno, not only of myself but also of you, we wouldn't examine whether virtue is teachable or not teachable before we had first sought for what it is itself. But since you don't at all attempt to master yourself (sautoû oud' epicheireis archein)—so that you might be free—but instead attempt to be my master—and you do master me—I will submit to you. For what can I do? So it seems it's necessary to consider what sort of a thing something is when we don't yet know what it is. (86c5-e2)

In this exchange, Plato shows the reader that Meno will not change, and shows why. Like the slave, Meno at first seems willing to join in a cooperative inquiry (panu men oun, duplicating exactly the slave's words at 85b7). But he quickly falls back into old habits. He would rather enjoy (hêdista; cp. Gorg. 521d9-e1) hearing Socrates answer what Plato has him call his original question: is virtue acquired (paragignomenês) by teaching, by nature, or some other way? [44] As at the dialogue's end, Meno is made to forget practice, the very thing Meno needs to develop the self-control he lacks. [45] Plato immediately has Socrates chastise him for the lack of self-control his insistence reveals: Meno seeks to rule over others instead of trying to master himself. Nevertheless, Plato has Socrates submit. [46] In his aggressive, tell-or-be-told behavior, Meno reveals habits acquired from his teacher Gorgias. As is widely recognized, Plato uses Meno throughout the dialogue as a representative product of Gorgias's particular kind of education (71c9-d3, 73c6-8, 96d5-7). This may be seen as early as Meno's opening barrage of questions, which have been likened to the style of Gorgias. [47] If what Aristotle says about Gorgias at Pol. 1260a24-28 is true, Plato may intend Meno's swarm of virtues to reflect Gorgias's approach to definition through enumeration. An obvious instance is Meno's preference for the puffed up Gorgianic definition of color, which Socrates says is the kind of answer to which he has been habituated (sunêtheion; 76c4-d8). [48] Another is Meno's parroting of Gorgias's definition of virtue as the power to rule over others, first offered at 73c9-d1 and alluded to by Socrates at 86d7 in the passage just quoted (at Gorg. 452d-e, Gorgias says that the persuasion oratory provides gives one the power to rule over others and enables one to be free). The learner's paradox, which Socrates calls eristic (80e2), probably reflects Gorgias's fondness for skeptical and contentious argument, just as Meno's general manner in the first third of the dialogue reflects the essentially competitive rather than cooperative nature of Gorgias's craft. [49] A telling passage follows Meno's failed first attempt at definition and anticipates Socrates' submission to Meno at 86e. At 75a8-9, Plato has Socrates propose that, before defining virtue, Meno define shape and color “for practice” (meletê). But Meno, habituated as he is by a teacher who promised to deliver an answer to every question, refuses: “No, Socrates, you do it.” Here too Plato has Socrates chide him, saying that their conversation should display a gentler (pra(i)oteron) form than a disputatious encounter would (75d2-4). But already Plato has Socrates yield. [50] An often overlooked passage at the beginning of the dialogue sets Meno's Gorgias-derived habits as a frame for everything that follows. Instead of having Socrates respond directly to Meno's opening barrage of questions, Plato has him divert the discussion by lavishing ironic praise on Meno and his fellow Thessalians. It used to be, Socrates says, that Meno's countrymen were reputed for their wealth and horsemanship (traditional marks of aristocratic arête, recalling Meno's noble birth and connections; 71b6-7). But since Gorgias came to be among them, they are admired for wisdom (sophia) as well. Gorgias, Socrates says, has “habituated you in the habit” (ethos umâs ethiken) of answering questions boldly and authoritatively, in a manner proper to experts (70b6-c1), no doubt reflected in Meno's report that he has given countless speeches on the topic of acquiring virtue (80b2-3). [51] The ensuing dialogue shows the poverty of such habits. A final example of Meno's counter-productive habits emerges from a more extensive passage immediately prior to the episode with the slave and prefigures Meno's failure to join in a genuinely cooperative investigation. Just after having Socrates claim that all learning is recollection and that a person should be courageous in searching for knowledge, Plato has Socrates ask Meno if he is willing to take part in a cooperative search for the meaning of aretê (as he had already asked Meno to do at 80d3-4):

SOCRATES: One must not, then, be persuaded by the eristic argument (tô(i) eristikô(i) logô(i)); for it would make us lazy (argous) and sounds pleasing (hêdus) to men who are soft (tois malakois). But this one [recollection] makes us hard working and ready to seek (zêtêtikos). Trusting in this to be true, I am willing to seek with you for what virtue is.

MENO: Yes, Socrates. But how do you mean this, that we do not learn, but that what we call learning (mathêsis) is recollection? Can you teach me (didaxai) how this is so?

SOCRATES: And after I just said, Meno, that you are capable of anything (panourgos; cp. 80b8), you are now asking if I can teach you, I who say that it is not teaching, but rather recollection—so that I would immediately be shown to be contradicting myself.

MENO: No, by Zeus, Socrates, I didn't speak looking for that to happen, but just out of habit (hupo tou ethous). But if you can show me (endeizasthai) in any way that it is as you say, do show me (endeizai).

SOCRATES: Well, though it isn't easy, I'm willing to make the effort for your sake. (81d5-82a8)

This exchange precisely mirrors the passage at 86c-e omitting practice, and with it forms a pair of bookends around the geometry lesson. Both passages start with a request by Socrates for a cooperative inquiry, and cite similar moral benefits to be derived from doing so. In both, Meno offers a quick initial agreement. But in both, Meno immediately diverts the discussion to something he would find more pleasant. Socrates chides Meno in both cases for his willfulness, but in both Plato has him quickly submit. The difference in the present passage comes when Meno asks Socrates to explain the idea that all learning is recollection. Meno asks “Can you teach me how this is so?” (81e5). When Socrates accuses Meno of trying to trap him in a contradiction, Plato has Meno apologize, making him say that he was only speaking “out of habit” (hupo tou ethous; 82a5). To say that Meno did not intend to trap Socrates misses Plato's point. [52] Even if we imagine a red-faced Meno apologizing to Socrates, the young interlocutor still does not do what Socrates had asked. Instead of joining in a cooperative search, Plato has Meno ask Socrates to “show” him in some way (pôs endeixasthai) what he means. In other words, the sophistically trained young man wants to hear a sophistically styled exposition. Meno's long-inculcated preference for sophistic epideixeis (82b2) must be indulged. [53] Meno typifies the view that everything that can be learned can be taught (and received passively). Already in the opening lines of the dialogue Meno conflates teaching and learning, when Plato has him substitute mathêton for didakton. The same conflation can be seen in the passage where virtue as a natural endowment is ruled out (89c4), when Plato has Meno substitute didakton for Socrates' mathêton, again forgetting the option of practice. We shouldn't be surprised, then, when Meno falls back into old habits after the geometry lesson and demands that Socrates return to his opening question, even as he forgets to include the option of practice. Having Meno forget what he had previously said seems to be one way Plato exploits the irony of Meno's name, which is related to memory and remembering. [54] In one sense, Meno has a good memory (a quality often remarked on in the literature), having memorized various answers taught to him by Gorgias, and probably questions such as those in his opening barrage as well. [55] But Plato has Socrates remark that the ability to learn and having a good memory (eumathia kai mnêmê; 88a9) is beneficial only when guided by phronesis (88b4) and used with intelligence (meta nou; 88b7); otherwise, he says, they are harmful. Plato uses Meno's spotty ability to remember his own original three options to illustrate a soul that has learned and been trained (manthanomena kai katartuomena) without intelligence (aneu nou; 88b7-8) and so is harmed by it. Plato's Meno cannot define virtue because of the habits he has formed, unreflective habits of mind and character unguided by phronesis or nous. His failing is intellectual in that Plato has him indulge uncurious habits of answering confidently when he does not know, of relying on answers from others and lazily demanding to be told, of forgetting what he himself had said. It is a moral failing in that he lacks the andreia to pursue hard questions instead of pleasant answers, and the self-control to make himself change. Meno first seeks to defeat Socrates by repeating what he has memorized from Gorgias; soon, he demands new answers from Socrates in place of those he has been forced to abandon; eventually he attacks Socrates for his own perplexity. What he will not do is take full part in a joint inquiry. Instead, Plato has him force what should have been a shared investigation back into the channel he first laid out without recalling precisely what he had originally said, bullying into submission the one man capable of stinging him out of his complacency. Plato's Meno is doomed, not just as an intellectual inquirer, but as a moral agent as well. This is the philosophical point behind Plato's having Meno forget practice as a means of acquiring virtue. Virtue cannot be taught. But it can be learned through the appropriate kind of practice. No doubt, practice includes (as it does in Aristotle) the repetition of right actions leading to habituation (cf. NE II.1, 1103a14-1103b25). Many of Meno's bad habits and consequent behaviors—his laziness and lack of intellectual courage, his deficient self-control and general mindlessness—may be attributed to the lack of this sort of practice, even as they show the deficiencies of the habits inculcated in him by Gorgias. But at a deeper (or perhaps we could say, more Platonic) level the Meno points to the need for a kind of practice that involves prolonged submission to the perplexity provoked by Socratic questioning. This is the practice of Socratic philosophizing as a way of life. In his own way, the character Meno is allowed to express this. Plato has him speak more truly than he knows when he describes Socrates as the one who makes others perplexed and is always perplexed himself. Plato implies that only through prolonged association (sunousia) with a truly politic man will the hit-or-miss “virtue” that operates aneu nou be replaced with a mindful wisdom, the phronesis meta nou at the core of all the other virtues. Perhaps this is Plato's real point in quoting the first of the two passages from Theognis (95d5-e2), urging the young person to spend time in the company of noble men, especially given that the second passage (95e6-96a2) denies that virtue can be taught. A passage from the Gorgias also suggests the need for sustained contact. That dialogue ends with Socrates urging Callicles to practice virtue (askôn aretên), turning to politics only after practicing it in common with him (koinê(i) askêsantes; 527d1-4). The best life is to “practice justice and the rest of the virtues” (dikaiosunên kai tên allên aretên askountas; 527e4; see also 509d8-e2) with the one true practitioner of the political art. The importance of extended sunousia with Socrates is the non-metaphorical point of the midwife passage in the Theaetetus (see especially Tht. 150d2-151a5). Surely this is the life exemplified by Socrates' sustained examination of himself and others. [56] This is anything but the mindless practice of virtue criticized in the Republic and Phaedo and typified in the habits Meno acquired from Gorgias. One can fully acquire the virtues only by practicing them under the guidance of another in the full and continuing awareness of the insufficiency of one's own knowledge. For the author of the Meno, virtue both is and is acquired through the sustained practice of aporia. [57]

4.

Though the flaws in Meno's character have terrible—if not tragic—consequences, [58] they would certainly seem to be corrigible under the proper influence. Otherwise, no one once started on the wrong path could hope to reform and become virtuous. Should Socrates be faulted, then, for not doing more to save Meno from himself? [59] I hope it is clear by now that such a question is misdirected. The character Socrates does nothing more or less than what Plato wants him to do, and so for that reason is blameless. More importantly, there was nothing more that Plato needed to do. The historical Meno was past redemption, dead fifteen years or more at the hands of his hereditary guest friend the Great King when Plato chose to use him as a character in a dialogue on virtue and its acquisition. [60] Plato's concern—in the Meno as in all the dialogues—is for the reader. [61] The question he must have asked as he plotted out the dialogue was how could he rouse the reader from moral and intellectual complacency? How could he encourage the reader to share in the inquiry with “Socrates”—the real Socrates, too, of course was dead [62]—to share in the perplexity of one who knows he does not know? How, to ask the same question differently, could he prompt the reader to engage in the essential practice of reflection upon his or her own life? Only (he seems to have decided) by showing the failure of an interlocutor and the obstacle standing in the way of his—and therefore, the reader's—progress. This is the strategy Plato employs in perhaps a dozen dialogues, even at the risk of making Socrates sometimes seem a failure. Of the earlier of those roughly dozen, the Meno stands out as an artistic culmination. It heralds a mastery of literary form in the service of philosophic argument in that the failure of the inquiry follows directly from a character's refusal to engage in the very practice that was the answer to the central philosophical question. Neither the omission of practice by Meno following the geometry lesson nor Socrates' failure to mention practice at the end of the dialogue requires us to resort to a variant reading from an inferior manuscript to be explained. [63] In the dialogue's closing lines, Plato allows Socrates to treat Meno's reduced set of options as if they had been the only possibilities from the start. When virtue is shown not to be teachable, Plato makes Meno carelessly accept the ‘none-of-the-above' option—virtue as a mindless gift of the gods—as if it were the only remaining possibility, even as Plato places an ever-mindful Teiresias before Meno and the reader. Plato deliberately has his characters pass over the possibility of acquiring virtue through practice—an option waiting to be recognized by anyone who returns, as Plato hints that the reader should do, to the beginning “of the whole inquiry and discussion” with the ensuing failures and omissions of the discussion in mind. By letting the increasingly futile dialogue run to its end and then pointing the reader back to the beginning, Plato both tells a tale of failure and shows the route toward virtue's acquisition. The characters Meno and Socrates fail in their attempt to define virtue, and Plato's Socrates makes Meno only marginally better at best. But for the attentive reader, who may submit to the discipline Meno refuses to form, Plato cannot be said to have failed at all. The art of the Meno is that Plato illustrates essential lessons about virtue and its acquisition not just despite the failure of its characters, but by means of it. [64]

William WIANS
Merrimack College and Boston College

[1] “In the Meno . . . more that is characteristic of Plato is brought together in a smaller space than in any other dialogue.” J. S. Mill, Dissertations, 3.350; W. Pater, Plato and Platonism, 52s: “that most characteristic dialogue.” Both are quoted by E. S. Thompson, The Meno of Plato [Meno] (London: Macmillan, 1901; rpt. Garland Publishing, 1980), xxv.

[2] As Klein puts it “answers can be given in a written text by the very action it presents. . . . This also confers on the dialogues the quality of completeness as against their unfinished (aporetic) character in terms of the verbal argument.” Jacob Klein, A Commentary on Plato's Meno [Commentary] (University of North Carolina Press, 1965), 17.

[3] A point put bluntly by Kahn: Socrates is both “Plato's historical master and his literary puppet” (p. 35); Charles Kahn, “Did Plato Write Socratic Dialogues?” in H. Benson (ed.), Essays on the Philosophy of Socrates (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 35-52; originally in Classical Quarterly 31, 305-20. Sallis invokes an earlier series of commentators by saying “nothing is accidental in a Platonic dialogue”; John Sallis, Being and Logos (Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press International), 17 and note 7.

[4] Penner expresses precisely the essential literary quality of the dialogues I wish to emphasize: “Plato's dialogues are most extraordinarily finely crafted and plotted pieces of work” (my emphasis), in Terrence Penner, “The Death of the so-called ‘Socratic Elenchus',” in M. Erler and L. Brisson (eds.), Gorgias-Menon: Selected Papers from the Seventh Symposium Platonicum [Erler and Brisson (eds.), Gorgias-Menon] (Stuttgart: Academia Verlag, 2007), 3-19. The quotation is on p. 4. I would say that Plato makes the same point using an organic metaphor at Phdr. 264c2-5. The possibility that Plato could have been present for an actual conversation between the historical Meno and Socrates (see A. E. Taylor, Plato: The Man and his Works [Plato] [London: The Dial Press, 1936], 130) should not distract the reader from the literary character and especially the careful plotting of the dialogue as we have it.

[5] Translations are my own, made with an eye on those of Robert Sharples, Plato: Meno [Meno], (Oxford: Aris and Phillips, 2004; revised and updated edition of 1985), and George Anastaplo and Lawrence Berns, Plato's Meno (Newburyport: Focus Publishing, 2004). I have followed the text and line numbering in Sharples.

[6] Explanations for the Meno's abrupt opening are offered by Dominic Scott, Plato's Meno [Plato's Meno] (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 11-13; H. Tarrant, Recollecting Plato's Meno [Recollecting] (London: Duckworth, 2005), 17-20; Roslyn Weiss, Virtue in the Cave: Moral Inquiry in Plato's Meno [Cave] (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 18-19; Jill Gordon, Turning Toward Philosophy [Turning] (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999), 101; Francisco Gonzalez, Dialectic and Dialogue: Plato's Practice of Philosophical Inquiry [Dialectic] (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1998), 154; Alexander Nehamas, “Meno's Paradox and Socrates as Teacher” [“Socrates as Teacher”], Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 3 (1985): 1-30; Robert Sternfeld and Harold Zyskind, Plato's Meno: A Philosophy of Man as Acquisitive [Acquisitive] (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1978), 20-22; Klein, Commentary, 38; R. S. Bluck, Plato's Meno (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1961), 199; R. G. Hoerber, “Plato's Meno”, Phronesis 5 (1960): 78-102; and Taylor, Plato, 130 and 131-2, among others.

[7] Translating aretê into English is a standing problem. The two most common alternatives are virtue and excellence. W. K. C. Guthrie, The Sophists [Sophists] (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1971), 253, credits Socrates with giving the word its strong moral emphasis; see also Gregory Vlastos, Socrates: Ironist and Moral Philosopher (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991), 200. Indeed, one can see this in Plato's inductive move from the excellence of a well functioning body part to the (morally) excellent functioning of the soul at Rep. I, 353b2-e11. Because Plato in the Meno is most interested in aretê in the sense of moral virtue, virtue is the translation I prefer—though the character Meno is allowed to operate with the older sense of excellence in civic affairs; see further Bluck, Plato's Meno, 201-02.

[8] Plato's Protagoras promises to do precisely that at Protagoras 318e5-319a2, as does Plato's Hippias at Hippias Major 283c3-284a4. At 95c1-4, Meno denies that his teacher Gorgias claimed to teach aretê, a passage Dodds cites in arguing that Gorgias wasn't a Sophist: E. R. Dodds, Plato: Gorgias [Gorgias] (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1959), 6-7. But Meno does not contrast Gorgias with the Sophists so much as he contrasts his teacher with other Sophists (tôn allôn; 95c3). Otherwise, his reply to Socrates' question at 95b9-10 about Sophists as teachers of aretê would be a non sequitur. Note also that Plato's Gorgias promoted his instruction with a promise of public success (Gorgias 452d5-e4; see also Hippias Major 282b4-c5), and says that a student who comes to him not knowing what is just, noble, or good will learn these things from him (460a3-4; but see Dodds' further remarks on 216-17, and Bluck, Plato's Meno, 205-206).

[9] For surveys of the historical situation, see Tarrant, Recollecting, 11-17 and 20-23 (with special emphasis on Plato's sharing in the general Greek spirit of competitiveness); R. S. Slings, Plato's Clitophon [Clitophon] (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 106-108; Nehamas, “Socrates as Teacher,” 2-4; G. B. Kerferd, The Sophistic Movement (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 131-138; Kenneth Dover, Greek Popular Morality (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1974), 88-95; Guthrie, Sophists, 250-260; M. J. O'Brien, The Socratic Paradoxes and the Greek Mind [Paradoxes] (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1967), 144n27; Paul Shorey, “Phusis, Meletê, Epistêmê,” Transactions of the American Philological Association 40 (1909): 185-201; Thompson, Meno, 57-58.

[10] This tendency is very widespread. Among those cited elsewhere in this paper, those who speak this way include Edward Halper, “A Lesson from the Meno” [“Lesson”], in Erler and Brisson (eds.), Gorgias-Menon, 234-242; Sharples, Meno, 4; Gordon, Turning, 93-94; Garreth Matthews, Socratic Perplexity and the Nature of Philosophy [Perplexity] (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 43; J. M. Day (ed.), Plato's Meno in Focus [Meno in Focus] (London: Routledge, 1994), 1, 3, 19; K. V. Wilkes, “Conclusions in the Meno” [“Conclusions”], Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 61: 143-153 (page numbers cited as reprinted in Day); Thompson, Meno, xxvi and 57; Bluck, Plato's Meno, 4. Initially Nehamas, “Socrates as Teacher,” 2, represents Meno as asking whether aretê is “teachable, inborn, or acquired in some other way” (omitting practice). But by p. 4, this is reduced solely to the question of virtue's teachability. Both Sallis, Being and Logos, 94, and Sternfeld and Zyskind, Acquisitive, 20 and 51, are more careful, speaking of how virtue is acquired, though neither directly considers the option of practice.

[11] See also NE X 9, 1179b20-23.

[12] In at least one other passage practice could easily have been reintroduced. At 89a5-c7, Plato has Meno conclude that because a person is not made virtuous by nature, virtue must therefore be teachable, as if there is no third option. The omission of practice in this passage is noted by Scott, Plato's Meno, 18, and Thompson, Meno, 161. A further passage is noted by Bluck, Plato's Meno, 202, who thinks the quotation from Theognis at 95d “would certainly have brought the idea of askêsis to mind” (see also p. 396); I will eventually return to this passage.

[13] Bluck, Plato's Meno, 202-03 (“an explicit rejection of [practice] might have been a tedious and unnecessary encumbrance”); Sharples, Meno, 123; B. Castelnérac, “Comment aqcuérir la vertu? La tripartition phúsus, áskesis, máthêsis dans le Ménon,” in Erler and Brisson (eds.), Gorgias-Menon, 223-227; Gonzalez, Dialectic; 173; Hoerber, “Plato's Meno” (Hoerber's approach is criticized in R. S. Bluck, “Plato's Meno,” Phronesis 6: 94-101); Rosemary DesJardins, “Knowledge and Virtue: Paradox in Plato's Meno” [“Virtue”], Review of Metaphysics 39 (December 1985): 261-281; Klein, Commentary, 1965. For a cogent argument against finding an implicit rejection of practice in the explicit rejection of teaching, see Scott, Plato's Meno, 17n22.

[14] This is essentially the position of Taylor, Plato, 131 and 144-145. See also Bluck, Plato's Meno, 40-41; Thompson, Meno, 59 and 228-229.

[15] Scott, Plato's Meno, 16-18. Scott finds some additional support for his position in the spurious Platonic dialogue On Virtue (18n24), which resembles the Meno in some respects, but like F omits practice in its opening lines. But this pale Academic cribsheet, just four Stephanus pages long as compared to the Meno's thirty, lacks all of what makes the Meno a masterpiece—brilliant characterizations, philosophical depth, the irony, the sting—and begins with a didactic Socrates himself posing the reduced Meno-like alternatives for acquiring virtue. The omission of practice—along with so much else—strikes me as having little probative value. After noting points of interest in the dialogue for the history of later Platonism, Tarrant, Recollecting, 86-89, ultimately finds the dialogue itself “inimical to the spirit of Socratic inquiry” for similar reasons. For a more sympathetic reading of On Virtue, see M. Reuter, “Is Goodness Really a Gift from the Gods? Another Look at the Conclusion of Plato's Meno” [“Gift”], Phoenix 55 (2001): 77-97. Weiss, who devotes no separate consideration to practice in Weiss, Cave (but see note 57 below), endorses Scott's solution in R. Weiss, “Review of Dominic Scott, Plato's Meno,” Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2006.12.30.

[16] Scott, Plato's Meno, 16 and 17n22; Daniel Devereux, “Nature and Teaching in Plato's Meno” [“Nature and Teaching”], Phronesis 23: 118-126, especially 123-124; Hoerber, “Plato's Meno,” 83. O'Brien (Paradoxes, 107 and 140-48) sees their mutual exclusivity answered and reconciled in the Republic. DesJardins, “Virtue,” finds an implicit reconciliation in the Meno itself. Guthrie (Sophists, 254) claims “it is not likely that anyone believed aretê to be attainable solely by the bounty of nature or by personal effort or by another's instruction”. However, Slings (Clitophon, 108) argues that Plato's contemporary and rival Isocrates—like Meno, a student of Gorgias—did view the three options as mutually exclusive.

[17] See also Protag. 323c. Both Scott, Plato's Meno, 158, and Weiss, Cave, 137-38, note that things bestowed by nature require no effort to acquire (see also Thompson, Meno, 161, citing Bury). One might say with 89a-c in mind that the work comes later, in the effort to protect the naturally virtuous from corrupting influences. Tuche as a possible source of virtue can probably be assimilated to a theia moira as a supernatural source, but in any case is ruled out at 99a2-4. It is dismissed by Aristotle at NE I 9, cited above. Reuter, “Gift”, 80-81, offers a rather different classification of the options.

[18] At Gorg. 450c7-e1, Plato has Socrates divide “all the crafts” into two groups in response to Gorgias' assertion that rhetoric is “about speeches.” The first group is said to involve little or no speech to do its work. Painting and sculpture are the examples. Technai in the second group perform their work entirely through speech (dia logou pan perainousi). Arithmetic, logistikê, and geometry, Socrates says, rely on speech for all their activity and authority (pasa hê praxis kai to kuros; see also 451a8-c9, where astronomy replaces geometry). For more on this passage, see Dodds, Gorgias, 196-97.

[19] For the sense of askêton, see Bluck, Plato's Meno, 203.

[20] Forms of askeo play a significant role in the Gorgias, and of course the nature and effectiveness of Socrates' practices figure in many dialogues. As one less familiar example: at Cleitophon 407b6-7, Cleitophon is made to contrast what is askêton with that which can be taught. Interestingly, Cleitophon omits askêsis a few lines later when he states categorically that Socrates maintains that virtue is teachable, even as he criticizes Socrates for not teaching him what virtue is; 408b7.

[21] Under which of the four branches would anamnêsis fall? Recollection implies that at least some knowledge is innate relative to a soul's current incarnation. But if the definition of aretê is one of the items that can be recollected, this merely postpones the question of virtue's acquisition to an earlier point in the soul's existence, during which it “has seen” (eôrakuia) and “has learned” (memathêken; 81c6-7) all things, with no further description of the process involved. See further Tarrant, Recollecting, 39-43; Sharples, Meno, 148; Sallis, Being and Logos, 82-83; Klein, Commentary, 95. For an extended (and I think convincing) argument against the scholarly myth of a “theory” of recollection in Plato, see T. Ebert, “The Theory of Recollection in Plato's Meno,” in Erler and Brisson (eds.), Gorgias-Menon, 184-198, and Weiss, Cave, 63-76.

[22] See further Scott, Plato's Meno, 192-193, and Devereux, “Nature and Teaching,” 124. Recently P. Dimas, “Teachers of Virtue” [“Teachers”], Ancient Philosophy 27 (2007): 1-23, has argued that Socrates regards virtue as a “gift of the gods [representing] a necessary steppingstone in one's ascent toward the knowledge that comprises virtue” (p. 22), but that this knowledge is not presently known to anyone, including Socrates (Dimas does not say whether he thinks Plato knows what virtue is). Michael Forster, “Socrates' Profession of Ignorance” [“Profession”], Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 32 (2007): 1-35, argues that the historical Socrates believed that virtue was true belief obtained through divine inspiration, and cites the conclusion of the Meno as part of his evidence. Coming at the question from the perspective of later Academic debates, Reuter, “Gift”, explains the Meno's conclusion as expressing the Platonic position that good men come to rule their cities through an act of divine providence.

[23] My rendering of this last phrase closely follows the translation of Anastaplo and Berns.

[24] The qualifications are noted by Scott, Plato's Meno, 4; T. Brickhouse and N. Smith, Plato's Socrates (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 57-58; Day, Meno in Focus, 31; O'Brien, Paradoxes, 95. They are highlighted by Tarrant, Recollection, 72-75; Reuter, “Gift”, 93-94; Sallis, Being and Logos, 101-103 (in connection with the “curious” conclusion that virtue is a divine gift); and Klein, Commentary, 255-56.

[25] The mindlessness of such god-given virtue is emphasized by Klein, Commentary, 255-56, and Bluck, Plato's Meno, 434-36. Reuter, “Gift”, offers another explanation; see esp. pp. 87-89. Both he and Tarrant, Recollection, show that the later Platonic tradition took divine allotment or portion very seriously. I do so as well, provided that practice is recognized as needed for the “cultivation and development” (Reuter, “Gift”, 94) of this gift if virtue is to be fully attained.

[26] Even if one takes “the whole of this discussion” to refer back only to the announcement of the hypothetical method (86c8-d2) and the ensuing examination of the hypothesis that virtue is teachable, we shall see how the lead-in to that passage already points the reader back to Meno's opening questions.

[27] Hoerber, “Plato's Meno,” 91.

[28] Just as it is more than a reflection of Plato's pessimism, though it is that as well; see Scott, Plato's Meno, 216-218, and Gordon, Turning, 113-15.

[29] Hoerber, “Plato's Meno,” underlines the many parallels between the Meno and the Theaetetus. At NE II 1, 1103b18-19, Aristotle implies that a person becomes sophrôn and gentle (praos) simultaneously; see also I 13, 1103a8.

[30] Commenting on a different passage, Scott, Plato's Meno, 144, writes: “A true teacher is someone capable of making another like himself, i.e. knowledgeable or, in the context of the Meno, virtuous.”

[31] For an extended discussion of the identification of Socrates with Teiresias, see Dominic Scott, Recollection and Experience: Plato's Theory of Learning and Its Successors (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 48-50. See also the brief but suggestive comments of Reuter, “Gift,” 89, Weiss, Cave, 169; and Sternfeld and Zyskind, Acquisitive, 104.

[32] I thank Marina McCoy for insightful comments prompting much of what I say in this paragraph.

[33] In contrast to what is implied by Scott, Plato's Meno, 216-17; Reuter, “Gift”, 89; Sharples, Meno, 14 (see also 189); and Wilkes, “Conclusions.” See further Gordon, Turning, 113, and Bluck, Plato's Meno, 43. Plato consistently uses poiein rather than didaskein in connection with Socratic activities in the Meno. Thus, the Tieresias figure “could make” (poiêsai; 100a2 ) others more politic. See further note 56 below.

[34] Plato twice has Socrates confess his own aporia at the beginning of the dialogue (71b1-2 and 72a2), in contrast to Meno's confidence that there is no aporia in stating what virtue is (72a3). See also Laches 200e2-5. For the extent of Socrates' own aporia, see Matthews, Perplexity, chapters 3 and 4, and note his wonderful subtitle for chapter 5 dealing with the first half of the Meno: “The Self-Stinging Stingray.” If askêsis implies self-formation as suggested above, then Socrates's practice of perplexing others and himself would be consistent with this sense of the word.

[35] See also Sharples, Meno, 140; Klein, Commentary, 79. I thank Shane Ewegen for a stimulating discussion of this passage.

[36] The moral defects of Meno's character are emphasized by Weiss, Cave, 17-21; Gordon, Turning, 95-103; Klein, Commentary, 35-38.

[37] The question is widely debated. Among those who see an improvement in Meno are Scott, Plato's Meno, 209-213; Gordon 1999, 93-116; and Sternfeld and Zyskind, Acquisitive, 8-18. Nehamas is sympathetic towards Meno from the start. Those who deny any significant change include Weiss, Cave, 129-30; Sallis, Being and Logos, 94-95; Klein, Commentary, 184; and W. K. C. Guthrie, Plato: Protagoras and Meno (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1956), 11.

[38] Scott, Plato's Meno, 5-6. See also Christopher J. Rowe, Plato and the Art of Philosophical Writing [Art] (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 131-132.

[39] I thank John Lewis for a stimulating discussion of Plato's humor.

[40] Sallis, Being and Logos, 77-78, nicely connects the need for Socrates to do so to Meno's paradoxical “complex of ignorance and memory.”

[41] On the appropriateness of epideixis in relation to recollection at this point, see Sallis, Being and Logos, 91-93.

[42] See also Ebert, “Recollection,” 193; Rowe, Art, 133-34; Nehamas, “Socrates as Teacher,” 21-22.

[43] See also Halper, “Lesson,” 234: “the epistemic doctrine is also an ethical doctrine”; Weiss, Cave, 69; Gonzalez, Dialectic, 166; Wilkes, “Conclusions,” 215, 216-17. For Klein (Commentary, 201), this speech is proof of Socrates' own moral aretê. By contrast, Scott, Plato's Meno, 123, reads the passage as referring to a derivative sort of manliness in the intellectual sphere. While in the immediate context this may be correct, one should not forget Socrates' own exemplary courage as reported by Alcibiades in the Symposium nor overlook the strong connection between true courage (again exemplified by Socrates at Delium) and perplexity drawn in the Laches.

[44] On Meno's conflating an active joint investigation with passively hearing someone else's opinion, see Weiss, Cave, 51n9 and 127n1. I take the conflation as evidence against Gordon's argument that Meno has grasped the need for an active, joint inquiry coming out of the geometry lesson—though of course the reader may be meant to draw this lesson.

[45] See also Anastaplo and Berns, Plato's Meno, 51-52; Weiss, Cave, 128n3; Klein, Commentary, 184-85.

[46] I take Socrates' statement at 87b9 that it makes no difference whether one says ‘teachable' or ‘is recollected' to be part of his submission to Meno announced at 86d8 and thus Plato's way of alerting the reader to the limitations of what is to follow, rather than a pointer to a special kind of ‘maieutic' teaching equivalent to recollection. See also Weiss, Cave, 128-130; Wilkes, “Conclusions”, 212-13; Sallis, Being and Logos, 96-98; Klein, Commentary, 182-89. For the maieutic reading, see Scott, Plato's Meno, 144; Sharples, Meno, 162; Bluck, Plato's Meno, 20-22, 325-326.

[47] Gordon, Turning, 101; Nehamas, “Socrates as Teacher,” 2; Sternfeld and Zyskind, Acquisitive, 8.

[48] See further Gordon Turning, 100 on Plato's punning use of poroi and aporrai throughout this exchange. Ebert, “Recollection”, 196-97 finds a similar example in Meno's approval of Socrates' high-flown rhetoric at 86b1-5.

[49] See Aristotle, Soph. El. 34, 183b36-38; DK 82B3. At Gorg. 456b6-457b5, Plato has Gorgias repeatedly characterize his craft as a competitive art (agonia). See also Sharples, Meno, 142-143; Weiss, Cave, 52; Klein, Commentary, 62n21 and 88; Hoerber, “Plato's Meno,” 101. Though he has Socrates call it eristic, Plato clearly takes the paradox seriously in the Meno. See further Nehamas, “Socrates as Teacher,” 8-9.

[50] See also Hipp. Minor 364d2; Soph. 217d1-3. Scott notes the reference to practice, but citing his earlier argument in favor of manuscript F, says it would be incongruous for Socrates to mention practice here but no place later.

[51] See also Anastaplo and Berns, Plato's Meno, 48; Tarrant, Recollecting, 24; Gordon, Turning, 96-97; Sallis, Being and Logos, 67n3; Klein, Commentary, 41.

[52] Meno's lapse is excused in this way by both Weiss, Cave, 78n2, and Klein, Commentary, 96; see also Gonzalez, Dialectic, 166. Contrast my pairing of the two passages with the deflationary reading of Scott, Plato's Meno, 122-125.

[53] Also noted by Gonzalez, Dialectic, 172.

[54] For Plato's punning on Meno's name, see Weiss, Cave, 19n8; and Klein, Commentary, 43-46. On Meno's memory as a source of his ignorance, see Sallis, Being and Logos, 67-68, 75-76.

[55] Aristotle reports at Soph. El. 34, 183b36-184a1, that Gorgias made his pupils memorize both answers and questions designed to lead the respondent into refutations. See also Sharples, Meno, 137-138; Klein, Commentary, 71-72.

[56] Sunousia is a central theme of Kenneth M. Sayre, Plato's Literary Garden [Garden], University of Notre Dame Press, 1995. Another author of Socratic dialogues, Aeschines, gives the following words to Socrates in his Alcibiades: “I had no knowledge I could teach the man that would benefit him (ouden mathêma epistamenos, ho didaxas anthrôpon ôphelêsaim' an), but I thought that through my love I could make him better (beltiô poiêsai) by associating (sunousian) with him” (fragment 12 Nestle). But see Forster, “Profession,” 12-13, for a different reading of this passage.

[57] My position is anticipated by Halper (“Lesson”) who argues, as I do, that, although virtue cannot be taught, it can be learned, identifying virtue with Socratic inquiry. Gordon, Turning, 94, says that though virtue can't be taught “it can be induced by other means,” specifically by dialectical engagement, but does not relate this to practice (see especially her conclusion on p. 115). Similarly, both Gonzalez (Dialectic, 172-73) and Wilkes (“Conclusions”) link virtue and inquiry but gloss over practice. And though I agree with Weiss that perplexity is meant to lead to a recognition of the limitations on all human knowledge (and not just the limited knowledge of the perplexed individual) and is therefore crucial in acquiring virtue and the human wisdom Socrates speaks of in the Apology, I think she errs by making epimeleia (which she translates as diligence) something distinct from the opening option of practice; Weiss, Cave, 170.

[58] His fate might have seemed tragic if either Plato or Xenophon had shown Meno exhibiting some sign of inner struggle over the life he had chosen. But despite Jowett's calling him a “Thessalian Alcibiades” (cited by Klein, Commentary, 37, and already disputed by Thompson, Meno, xix), Meno as depicted by Plato lacks Alcibiades' great soul in turmoil, embracing both comic and tragic elements.

[59] Throughout her book, Weiss seems intent on defending Socrates against the charge of not caring sufficiently for Meno's welfare; see, for instance, Weiss, Cave, 127-30. In a similar vein, Dimas (“Teachers,” 18) argues that Socrates did not know what virtue is because it would have been immoral for Socrates not to tell Meno outright if he in fact knew it.

[60] The dramatic date of the Meno seems to be fixable with remarkable precision to early 402. See Sharples, Meno, 17; Bluck, Plato's Meno, 120-24. Meno the character in the dialogue cannot be blamed any more than Plato's character Socrates in that he too says only what Plato wants him to say. That does not mean, of course, that his moral and intellectual shortcomings aren't meant as a warning to the reader.

[61] Various commentators have made this point in different ways. See for instance Sayre, Garden, pp. 27-32, 59-64; Gordon, Turnings, Chp. 2, “Reader”; Sallis, Being and Logos, 17-22; Klein, Commentary, 3-10. Pierre Hadot draws a nice distinction between the intent of the dialogues as “forming” rather than “informing” the reader on pages 73-74 of What is Ancient Philosophy? translated by Michael Chase (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2002; originally published as Qu'est-ce que la philosphie antique? Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1995).

[62] Could this be the point of the enigmatic quotation of Pindar Fr. 127 at 81b8-c4, that among the dead those with great wisdom return to the earth as heroes? See further Klein, Commentary, 92-95.

[63] F's omission of askêsis can be explained as an ancient anticipation of the modern puzzlement over Plato's not directly addressing the option in the rest of the dialogue. My guess is that an ancient editor adopted the simple if crude solution of excising the puzzling term at its first and only appearance, though Reuter's explanation of its exclusion from On Virtue as the result of a certain prejudice (“Gift”, 86) is also plausible.

[64] It is a pleasure to thank Karen Newman for her perceptive reading of an earlier version of this paper and for stimulating discussions of its themes. I am grateful to Marina McCoy for searching comments on the paper's penultimate version. For other helpful comments I thank Fred Miller, Michael Brady, and John Lewis, and members of the audience at the 2009 meeting of the Ancient Philosophy Society, including Mitch Miller, Debra Nails, Jill Gordon, and especially Yancy Dominick, my commentator on that occasion. I am also grateful for comments from two anonymous referees.

5. Plato's Republics

TARRANT, Harold — 2013-03-24T11:06:10Z

Various ancient sources refer to the Platonic work that we know as Republic in the plural. Aristotle seems to have made it possible to refer to politeiai as ‘constitutions', actual or written, and therefore some of our texts are best explained as references to Plato's two written constitutions, Republic and Laws. One neglected reference that may perhaps be explained in this way occurs in the anonymous Antiatticista. A large number of references from the Alexandrian school of Platonism in late antiquity cannot be explained in that way, and should be understood with reference to the prevalent interpretation of the Republic, which gives equal weight to the internal (psychic) and external (civic) constitutions. The trickiest question is what it means in the titles of three commentaries dating from the early imperial era.

Introduction

The way that Plato's Republic was cited in antiquity has important consequences for our understanding of the history of its reception. In particular it has a bearing on the history of commentary on the work, on the interrelation between title and exegesis in late antiquity, and possibly even on the manuscript tradition since the important Parisinus Graecus 1807 (A) and dependent manuscripts placed ‘Republics or On Justice' at its commencement. [1] As we shall see, ancient titles were often not so much the definitive product of authorial intention as a convenient description for others referring to the work. The early absence of anything equivalent to the capital letter made it natural to think of many titles as being flexible, and it is well known that works like the Phaedo (On Soul) and Critias (Atlantikos) were regularly known by alternative titles in antiquity. There is a special problem that it was impossible to distinguish between Plato's Republic and his ‘constitution', usually the constitution outlined within the Republic.

Various ancient sources refer to the Platonic work that we know as Republic in the plural: not Politeia but Politeiai. There has been a certain amount of discussion as to why this should be so. [2] The tradition of a plural title involves both philosophers and grammarians, two groups who ought to have interacted in antiquity but might have done so only intermittently. The primary issue is whether the plural Politeiai was even used as a title before the fifth century AD. I begin with the evidence of a grammarian whose work has not been sufficiently pondered in this regard, and after a few extra lines on the grammatical tradition I move to the citations of the Republic by the philosophers, from Aristotle to late antiquity. Special attention must be paid to a number of citations of exegetical works on the Politeiai that appear to date from early imperial times.

1. The Antiatticist

It has recently come to my attention that there is a citation that uses the plural title in the anonymous Antiatticista, published in Bekker's 1814 Anecdota Graeca. [3] This text is a collection of linguistic forms (words, inflections, and words in certain meanings) that failed to meet the approval of atticizing grammarians bent on removing Koine influences. In this text, arranged roughly in alphabetic order, the author notes where such words have been used in Attic and other respected Greek literature. At p. 110.19 Bekker we read:

Οἰκοδομεῖν· Πλάτων Πολιτείαις.

The initial uncertainty as to his intention is whether he wishes to refer to the philosopher or the comic playwright, for he generally refers to Plato's Republic (i) with a singular title, and (ii) by book number, using an unfamiliar division into six books. However at six points he uses the expected words Πλάτων Πολιτείᾳ, without mention of a book (82.11, 94.19, 94.30, 111.16, 116.9 and 25). Though it is conceivable that the plural form is some strange title from Plato Comicus, since other strange titles in the plural are known (normally indicating the identity of a chorus), [4] one should be reluctant to affirm that Πολιτεῖαι was a comic title when examples of the citation of Republic in this plural form seem to exist. There is actually one example in the Antiatticista of the Republic being named as Πολιτικῶν (rather than Πολιτείας) at 100.20, citing book IV (of the six-book version) and clearly meant to refer to 462b8 (in our book V).

If we take the reference to Politeiai to refer to Plato's Republic we encounter the difficulty that the author will normally select the right voice in which to cite a verb, while both the references in Plato's Republic (372a6-7, 419a5-6) use this verb in the middle voice rather than the active. The active can be found in the Charmides (161e6, 165d5, both present infinitive), Laws (643b8, 858b7, present participles), and Gorgias (514b6, perfect indicative), though of these works only Gorgias is ever cited by the Antiatticista. In order to resolve the difficulties one might be led to propose various emendations. For instance, the text might possibly have read Οἰκοδομεῖν· ἀντὶ τοῦ οἰκοδομεῖσθαι· Πλάτων Πολιτείαις (implying that the middle is used where the active would be normal), [5] since the trouble with the active is that it is probably the more regular form in classical times, so that atticizing grammarians can hardly have frowned on it, at least when used in the simple sense of ‘build'. It is forms rare in Attic that are likely to be cited in such a work.

One actually does find related terminology among the Atticist lexicographers, for Phrynichus rejects the Koine noun οἰκοδομή in favour of the Attic οἰκοδόμημα (Eclogues 395). Furthermore, as we shall see below, two late texts are witness to discussion by unknown grammarians of the active and middle voices of the verb οἰκοδομεῖν itself. Earlier objections to the misuse of building-related terminology may have prompted the Antiatticista's citation of this series of three connected terms—not only the verb in the active, but also (110.20-21) οἰκοδομία (cited only for Thucydides VII, but found at Rep. 394a5) and οἰκοδόμησις (again only cited for Thucydides VII, [6] but found at Rep. 401a3). These lines are very compressed, suggesting that something may have been lost in the abridgement of the original material. That in turn may possibly explain a lack of precision. One should therefore ask whether the grammarian is predisposed to a lack of precision at the point. With that end in view we shall examine the distribution of those cases where a book is not specified for Republic or for either Herodotus or Thucydides. We shall also consider when the wrong book is cited for Herodotus or Thucydides, though we cannot do this systematically for the Republic because the boundaries of most books are unknown, and it cannot be assumed that none of the content has been rearranged, as I have argued (Tarrant 2012).

The normal method of citing the Republic in this work is to follow the word that is subject to comment with ‘Plato' [nom.] Politeia [gen.] book-number [dat.]; that order may follow the specification of a required sense or receive some further addition. A total of 26 cases follow this pattern. A further 7 cases have reversed the genitive of the title and the book-number. But 7 cases (including the one under consideration) omit the book number, and place the title in the dative. In these seven, six cases fail to capture the correct form of the word in our texts, although this is usually the author's practice, with the result that a noun might be cited in any case, or a verb in any voice or tense. It is natural to infer that the bulk of the author's material comes from notes taken while reading the texts, resulting in greater precision, but that a few entries are based on memory, no attempt being made to check the original. The author wishes to add something further at this point, and he may either omit or guess at the correct book-number. Omissions are found as in table 1:

Bekker page	Republic	Thucydides	Herodotus	Total	Refs.	Percentage
77-81	0	0	0	0	20	0
82-83	1	0	1	2	7	28.57
84-91	0	0	0	0	15	0
92-95	2	3	0	5	19	26.32
96-106	0	0	1	1	37	2.7
107-111	2	1	0	3	23	13.04
112-116	2	1	2	6	12	41.67

Table 1: Citations without book-number

Clearly the omissions of book numbers are concentrated at certain points, including 82-83, 92-95, and the last few pages. They are less striking when part of a list of authorities, as in the case of Herodotus at 83.31, but the impression of inaccurate memory-work may be enhanced, as when the lexical entry is misspelt, as at 100.23 (if the text is correctly preserved) with ἰσχόφωνον for Herodotus' ἰσχνόφωνον (4.155). [7] The overall problem increases towards the end of the work, which seems unnaturally compressed. We do not meet the entries for mu until p. 107, thirty pages through Bekker's text, and nu to omega are disposed of in pp. 109-116. Entries seem too few as well as too brief. References that lack the citation of a book number for these works are particularly common at pp. 113-16. The compression may have been the work of an epitomator, which Lee (2013) has quite reasonably argued for, though one would have to postulate a process that is, in general, much more ruthless at the end than at the beginning. [8] An alternative might be that the work was never properly finished. From p. 110 none of the remaining seven references to Plato's Republic are entirely unproblematic, and an example would be the citation of the simple verb instead of the compound ἐπιχρωματίζειν (Rep. 601a5). There is no guarantee that the author had found the compound in his text, [9] but, seeing that the book number is not given, faulty memory may well be to blame. However, of six references to other Platonic works at pp. 110-116, only p. 116.29, which I relate to Gorgias 485e7, [10] should give any concern.

If we conclude that the failure to cite a book number is an indication that the original author is working from memory rather from notes taken while reading, then we are not expecting that the reference to Politeiai rather than to a single Politeia is aiming to convey precise information. Most likely it is just an observation that, in spite of the grammarians' tendency to condemn certain oik- terms in certain senses, many of them were entirely legitimate. If we had known that Plato Comicus had written a play of this title then we should see it as a reference to him, but in the present circumstances it seems more probable that we are dealing with some kind of attempt to derive the forms required from Plato the philosopher, an author who does indeed use many of them. However, the author is unlikely to have temporarily forgotten the usual title of the Republic that he employs so often elsewhere, [11] and we should consider seriously the possibility that he is trying to refer either to more than one version of the Republic (Politeiai) [12] or more likely to those Platonic works that deal with constitutions (politeiai). Not only would this latter solution help to explain the active voice of the verb (cf. Laws 643b8, 858b7), but as we shall see there may have been a precedent for the use of the plural in this sense in Aristotle.

I believe that the correct solution to the problem in the Antiatticista actually involves both Republic and Laws. If the Atticists were going to condemn a sense of οἰκοδομεῖν then one possibility might be the Koine use as ‘edify' (LSJ 3), with a personal object, but Plato could not be said to offer any comparable example. More probable here is that an exception had been made to the use of the active in what is properly the middle sense, of having a house built rather than performing all the work oneself. It could be argued that this is the sense in which Plato intends both middle-voice forms in the Republic, particularly at 419a5-6 but possibly also at 372a6-7. However, the active forms in Laws both relate to the actual builder, [13] one learning to be a builder and needing to play at building (642b-c), and, in an elaborate analogy (858b), one who is actually ‘building' a law-code out of assembled materials. So Plato's two constitutional works are actually a model of how the two voices should be employed. Clearly the surviving version of the Antiatticista does not specify this, but it may well be that the epitomator has omitted material that would have cited Plato's Politeiai as a possible source for the correct use of the voices of this verb, material ultimately derived not from the Antiatticista's personal reading but from one of the grammarians whose work he draws on and qualifies; for grammarians had at some time certainly discussed the voices of οἰκοδομεῖν in relation to both Homer and Demosthenes. [14]

This solution, like almost any solution that will appeal to the loss of information thanks to the activities of an epitomator, can be regarded as provisional only. The Antiatticista is not an easy author to fathom. We must now look at the remaining evidence.

2. Boethus the Platonic Lexicographer

Another linguistic work cites Plato in a similar way centuries later, the Etymologicum Magnum. Elsewhere it cites the Republic quite normally in the singular (e.g. 31.20, 199.7, 769.35, 777.14), but at 789.45 we read of the word φαῦλος:

καὶ ἐπὶ τοῦ ῥᾳδίου· Πλάτων Πολιτειῶν πρώτῳ. [15]

This late citation would be irrelevant to our present purpose, but for the fact that the entry has a complicated history, and this has led to its being regarded as fragment 5 of Boethus the Platonic lexicographer, who may not be far separated in date from the Antiatticista. Owing to the complications, there is no guarantee that either the fragment itself, assigned to Boethus because of structural similarities with fragments 1 and 4, [16] or more particularly the plural form of the Platonic title, goes back to early imperial times. The Platonic title may have resulted from a very late ‘correction'. [17]

3. Aristotle

Aristotle has no difficulty in using the singular for the title of the work we know as ‘Republic', and it is the only title used when discussing that work in Politics II.1-6 (1261a6, 9; 1264b28), but at IV.7 we read that ‘people use only the four [constitutions] just like Plato in the politeiai' (1293b42-94a1). I avoid a title-indicating capital letter, since Aristotle did not have it available, and for the same reasons I omit the brackets in which modern editors enclose ‘just like Plato'. [18] I assume that Aristotle is referring to the two written ‘constitutions' (1260b29-30) of Plato that he had dealt with previously at II.1-6, both of which had failed to take note of the ‘polity' (in Aristotle's special sense), allegedly contenting themselves with just four forms, monarchy, oligarchy, democracy, and aristocracy. This is hardly an accurate account of Republic VIII-IX where five constitutions are enumerated, nor of Statesman 291d-292a (three or five, with six at 302d-e); it is less a distortion of Laws IV 709e-713a, [19] where Plato comes frustratingly close to using the word politeia in its Aristotelian sense. While Dörrie-Baltes (III, 204 n.1) supports Westerink's (1981) proposal to interpret this reference as a general one to Plato's political works, it is perhaps unnecessary to be certain of what Aristotle wrote here; we need to suppose only that the text that was transmitted could be taken to refer to Plato's two works that discussed his type of constitution.

4. Commentary-titles

Early in the history of commentary on Plato we find two titles that couple the term most often used to denote a commentary, hypomnêma or hypomnêmata, with the name of Plato and the plural Politeiai. They have naturally been taken to indicate some kind of commentary on the Republic. However, though we are familiar with many interpretative works that relate to the Republic, we do not actually know of any tradition of commenting on the Republic that involved a succession of lemmata taken in order in the same way as most surviving commentaries on Plato did. Unlike other Proclan commentaries, the Proclan ‘Commentary' on the Republic consists of a series of hermeneutic essays. We do not have papyrus fragments that can with confidence be said to come from a regular commentary on the work. We are aware of several works on aspects of the Republic, [20] especially its mathematical aspects, whose authors included Clearchus, Dercyllides, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, possibly Theon of Smyrna, [21] and possibly Taurus of Sidon (or Beirut). [22] Again, of the two of Plutarch's Quaestiones Platonicae that concern the Republic, the third (1001c-1002e) is concerned with mathematics (namely the Divided Line), while the ninth is not. Thanks to Proclus (in Remp. II.96.10-15 = Dörrie-Baltes III 76.4), and ultimately probably to Porphyry, we have quite a list of pre-Porphyrian interpreters who tackled the Myth of Er in particular, but most probably did so in works on the nature of the soul. Hence, what we lack is a reference to regular commentaries, [23] and one of the reasons for this was no doubt the likelihood that such a commentary would have been a monumental undertaking, longer than the Platonic original. It is appropriate therefore that we take a fresh look at the plural titles, asking whether they could not have been exegetical works that set out to discuss Plato's constitutions, i.e. the arrangements for governance and social organisation, in both Republic and Laws.

The works concerned are attributed to Potamo of Alexandria, from the Augustan age, and Onosander (first century A.D.?). A third plural title that fails to include the term hypomnêma(ta) is a work in three books ascribed to Manaichmus (of unknown date). In all cases the title comes from the Suda under the entries for the authors concerned, who are in every case called philosophers, and in the case of Onosander and Manaichmus ‘Platonic philosophers'. [24] Thus we cannot be entirely sure whether we are dealing with a title bestowed on the commentary by its author, or one that had come to be used many centuries later, for the transmitted title of Proclus' Commentary on Plato's Republic actually uses the plural term, though Proclus' own practice in the text is to refer to the Republic by its normal singular title. However, there seems to be something of a pattern in the Suda's references to scholarship on the Republic from centuries earlier, and on balance I favour accepting that titles referring to Plato's Politeiai did exist in this period, which is not far removed in date from that of the Antiatticista.

It has been suggested that the plural title may be linked somehow with Thrasyllus, [25] since Diogenes Laertius (3.57) reports that this latter counted up to 56 dialogues of Plato by dividing the Republic into ten and the Laws into twelve. Even so, the term ‘dialogue' must surely be wrong here, as the number would include the collection of thirteen Epistles (counted as one). Thrasyllus was thus presumably counting papyrus scrolls. The count is only undertaken in the context of the tetralogies, associated with Thrasyllus both by Diogenes (3.56) and by Albinus (Prologue 4), and the tetralogies themselves count the Republic and Laws only once. The title of the Republic remains singular at D.L. 3.56, 3.60, and 3.62 (twice). Finally, the idea that these works tackled the separate books of the Republic might be taken to imply that all or most books were treated exegetically, but it is scarcely credible that Manaichmus' three-book work about the Republic could be treating so much material. Indeed the failure of all three authors to attract the attention of the Neoplatonists suggests that their contribution did not seriously overlap with the interests of later Platonism. From what little the Suda tells us about Onosander we would expect a practical work, with a possible emphasis on the military arrangements. And it is difficult (but not impossible) to imagine a professed Eclectic like Potamo embarking upon a complete set of lectures on a very long work of Plato. Could it not be, then, that these exegetes are using the plural politeiai for the same reason as Aristotle and the Antiatticista, because it is a type of Platonic subject matter to which they are referring rather than a single dialogue? It is possible that all had written works that compared the positions of Republic and Laws on certain matters of constitutional arrangement.

It is clear, I believe, that prior to chapter 34 of Alcinous' Didascalicus (from the second century AD perhaps) there had been some discussion of the different types of constitution supposedly found in Plato, with the non-foundational (ἀνυπόθετος) constitution being the subject matter of Republic and two kinds of constitution that work upon pre-existing foundations (ἐξ ὑποθέσεως) being the subject of Laws and Epistles. Interestingly, this division and its terminology had its roots in the fourth book of Aristotle's Politics (1288b21-39), before mention of Plato's ‘constitutions' is made at 1293b1. It is certain that Alcinous is crediting Plato with outlining a plurality of politeiai (188.8-9, 188.36), and unlikely that this was an innovation of his own.

Frankly it is difficult to make any decision on the basis of such slender evidence, but the principal conclusion that I would draw is that one should avoid referring to these philosophers as authors of ‘commentaries on the Republic'. Even if they were, that is not what we are told about them.

iv. Platonists after Proclus and the interpretation of the Republic

This is no longer what the plural means when we reach the Alexandrian Platonists who followed Ammonius, son of Hermeias. Ammonius himself, like Proclus if unlike Proclus' biographer Marinus (VProc. 14), does not seem to use the plural to indicate a title, [26] but Olympiodorus wavers. The title appears only in the singular in the commentaries on the Alcibiades and the Phaedo, [27] but once in the singular and once in the plural in that on Aristotle's Meterologica. [28] In the Gorgias-commentary it is found nine times in the plural and between three and five times in the singular according to one's stance on details. [29] At 241.4-242.4 we have a microcosm of this situation, with three plurals and two singulars, including one of each at 241.12! Some inconsistency is perhaps not unexpected in a commentary ‘from the voice'. In the related, but anonymous, Prolegomena to Plato's Philosophy there are four singulars and perhaps five plurals. [30] In other authors of this school, we find Pseudo-Elias having plurals at Isag. 14.22.26 and 22.44.17, followed by singulars at 22.44.18 and 23, while Philoponus has two plurals in the commentary on Nicomachus, of which 32.1 is a genuine reference to the Republic, and 15.53 actually refers to the Laws. Asclepius also has the plural at in Nicomachum 11.68. It may be relevant that the important early manuscript Parisinus A has the plural title, for Westerink feels that this owes its origin to this early manuscript's having been influenced by an Alexandrian exemplar. [31] It does not of course indicate the true title of the work.

The sudden explosion of unambiguous references to the Republic in late antiquity demands an explanation. The special prominence of Olympiodorus here, and above all of his Commentary on Plato's Gorgias, offers a clue. The Republic is seldom far away from Olympiodorus' mind in this commentary, as has been previously observed. [32] ‘Constitutional happiness' had become the key link between Republic and Gorgias, and the emphasis was firmly on the inner constitution within the soul of the individual, mirroring that of the state (in Gorg. proem, 4-5). Whereas Proclus had tended to stress that constitution of soul and state were one and the same (in Remp. I.11.12-13), Olympiodorus prefers to see an analogous relationship between the two. So whereas for Proclus it was probably more accurate to see the constitution that is the subject of the Republic as one constitution with two manifestations, in Olympiodorus the Republic is indeed a work that promotes two constitutions. [33]

Hence we have found a theoretical basis for believing that one would correctly refer to the Republic by the plural title Politeiai. Of course books VIII-IX had spoken about a plurality of inferior constitutions, both civic and individual, but they were not Plato's constitutions. Up until this period the conventional title had not yet seemed a problem for the philosophers. [34]

Conclusion

For these reasons it would seem to be illegitimate to expect that the early imperial hypomnêmata that used the plural Politeiai should be using it for the same reason as the Alexandrian Neoplatonists (particularly Olympiodorus) did centuries later. They simply did not have the same theoretical basis for doing so. To the best of our knowledge Marinus is the first Neoplatonist known to employ the plural title, in his Life of Proclus of AD485-6. Nor can we be sure that he did so for the same reason as Olympiodorus and some of his Alexandrian colleagues. Before the fifth century AD the default explanation of any title-like reference to Plato's politeiai should be that it is a reference to the political systems as found in both the Republic and the Laws. Such a hypothesis makes best sense of the reference in Aristotle's Politics, helps to explain the active voice and the omission of a book-number in the Antiatticista, and does not run counter to what we know of exegetical works involving the Republic.

Harold TARRANT University of Newcastle

[1] Details in Slings (2003); note that Slings misleadingly reports the Antiatticist as preserving the plural title, without indicating that this was written only in one of a great many citations in the work.

[2] Westerink (1981); Dörrie & Baltes (1993), 203-4; Hatzimichali (2012) 72-73.

[3] Bekker (1814). [Text of Antiatticist = 1.75–116] The surviving work is abridged (Lee forthcoming), with resultant problems in identifying quite what the Antiatticist himself was trying to say. The best internal indication of a date occurs at 79.31-32 reads as follows: ᾿Αθετεῖν φασὶν οὐ δεῖν λέγειν, ἀλλ' ἀναιρεῖν. ἰασιν οὖν ὁ γραμματικὸς μέμφεται ἐπὶ τῇ λέξει ᾿Αρίσταρχον. In Tarrant (2012), 72 with n.55, I argue that for ἰασιν οὖν we should read ᾿Ιάσων (perhaps with οὖν), referring to Iason the grammarian mentioned by the Etymologicum Magnum (184.27), while Aristarchus is the Samothracian (c.220-143BC), successor to Aristophanes of Byzantium. A date any time up to the second century AD is theoretically possible.

[4] Tarrant (2012), 55 and 63.

[5] One might also consider the possibility that some alternative word for ‘build' had been cited before dropping out, for instance κατασκευάζειν (for building a city at 557d3), but the omission of an etymologically unrelated form would be harder to explain, as would the presence of its entry at this point of the largely alphabetic lexicon.

[6] This should have been the third book, III.2.2 or 21.1; the previous form was found at VII.6.4.

[7] Besides the omission of the nu, note the Antiatticista's default accusative for a form that had appeared in the nominative in Herodotus.

[8] Rather than a diligent epitomator carefully excising the same kind of unwanted material throughout, it seems that this would be a person who has increasing doubts about the overall use of the work in question as he approaches the end of the task.

[9] Tarrant (2012), 60 n.24.

[10] Tarrant (2012), 57.

[11] Here again I mention the single exception of the work's being cited as ‘Politics' at 100.20.

[12] This possibility arises only if the six-book arrangement differed significantly in content from the ten-book work, as Tarrant (2012) has argued; but the author shows no other signs of awareness that a fuller version exists. This should be balanced against the fact that he shows no signs of having studied Laws.

[13] Both examples of the active in Charmides (161e, 165d) also involve the actual act of building, though this is not so clear at Gorgias 514b, where one may only assume that the 1st person plural subject will include the actual builder.

[14] Thomas Magister, p. 214.13-16 Ritschl (s.v. κατασκευάζω), shows that grammarians had discussed the correct use of the active and middle voices of οἰκοδομεῖν in relation to Demosthenes, while a scholion on Iliad 24.281a shows that this example had already been used to illustrate the meaning of the Homeric middle at a time when Homeric scholarship had flourished.

[15] For ‘first' it is clear from the citation of Rep 423c5-6 that ‘fourth' should be read if the usual ten-book arrangement is being cited; for details see Dyck (1985), 79-80, 83-84.

[16] Dyck (1985), 83-84.

[17] For the special problems of dating any individual pieces of text within lexical works see Bonelli (2008), 25: ‘aucun argument de la forme ‘Notre texte du Lexique fait référence à X: donc Timée a écrit après X' n'est solide, car il est toujours possible que la référence à X soit un ajout tardif.' One must expect common material with no acknowledgment of borrowing, and allow that alien material may have been added. A vitally important modern case of such additions is the TLG text of Timaeus' Platonic Lexicon that uses the ‘text' of Baiter et al. (1839), which has been ‘restored' to proper alphabetic order and infused with much alien material from lexica and Byzantine encyclopaedias (Bonelli, 2008, 9). Baiter and his colleagues had in fact distinguished other material by the use of a different font. Hence the entry in the Antiatticista that we have dealt with will also appear (falsely) as a passage of Timaeus Sophista! In this appendix (970-1010) appear 9 further glosses of a linguistic character that appear to refer to ‘Republics'. Their narrow range suggests a single source, which is ultimately the Eclogues attributed to the very late Thomas Magister, the standard edition of which is Ritschl (1832). Thomas continues the Atticist tradition, drawing on earlier authors extensively (Lee 2013). The problem is that one cannot date the cluster of references to Politeiai. None of this cluster cite books three to ten. Some of those that cite a book relate to specific passages in Republic I or II, though 995b11 does not obviously do so, 986a12 seems is citing via Aristides' speech Against Plato on Rhetoric 11.27, and 986a15 actually relates to Theaetetus 143a4. At 975b7 one reads ‘in one of his Republics' as if the intention was to say ‘either Republic or Laws', and the quotation is imprecise enough to leave doubts as to which work is cited.

[18] Westerink (1981) 112; I ignored here the possibility that there has been a gloss at this point, which affects my argument only if the gloss is late enough to have been unknown to the Antiatticista.

[19] The most exact parallel to Aristotle's group of four is not at 710e3-6, which omits aristocracy and includes tyranny, but at 712c2-5 where Cleinias is speaking, and explains why he omits tyranny.

[20] See Dörrie-Baltes (1993) 80.1, 3, 5-7.

[21] If the Commentary on the Republic (Dörrie-Baltes III 80.6 = Theon, Expositio 146.3-4 Hiller) was not primarily mathematical, then the Expositio might almost be regarded as the required sort of work owing to the liberal use it makes of various passages of the Republic.

[22] The identity of the two is unproven; the fragment (Dörrie-Baltes III 80.7) is derived from a work relating to mechanics (Ps-Hero) and purportedly giving a definition of geometry, while the parallel passage in the anonymous Commentary on the Theaetetus (col. XV) is treating simple as opposed to systematic knowledge in particular: a distinction relevant to mathematics, which is prominent in the context. Taurus may have been commenting on the epistemology of Republic VI-VII, as Mansfeld suggested (1983, 61).

[23] By ‘regular commentary' I am thinking of a lemmatic commentary dealing primarily with philosophic issues; we cannot be certain what a primarily linguistic commentary on the Republic (such as Schironi 2005, especially 431, attributes to Aristarchus) might have looked like.

[24] It should be assumed that Potamo is the Alexandrian ‘Eclectic' discussed by Diogenes Laertius (1.21), whose testimonies are discussed fully in Hatzimichali (2012).

[25] See Hatzimichali (2012) 73; Baltes (1993) 202. Neither lacks for alternative explanations.

[26] Note that there is a plural at II.227.3 which translators concur in seeing as a reference to Laws VI 757a; hence this is further confirmation of the plural to be used inclusively of Laws.

[27] I count nine cases in the former, and only one in the latter.

[28] Singular at 144.33, plural at 100.19.

[29] At 41.14 it is not clear that this is a title, and at 100.19 it is used to refer to Laws 709e. This may be either a simple mistake resulting from a slip in oral delivery (for the index to Westerink's 1970 text shows that Olympiodorus was quite familiar with Republic, as also with book IV of Laws) or a case where the term is used, albeit confusingly, to mean simply ‘constitution'.

[30] One must allow that 17.29 may be a joint reference to Republic and Laws.

[31] Westerink (1981), 115.

[32] Tarrant (1997).

[33] There may be another factor that applies here. Proclus, presumably following Iamblichus, had rejected the inclusion of Republic and Laws in his restricted curriculum precisely on the grounds that each is a plurality of logoi, as reported in the Prolegomena (26.3). In this context the Prolegomena employs the plural title.

[34] It is noticeable that in the passage of Olympiodorus' Commentary on Aristotle's Meteorologica the one passage that uses the plural title (100.19-24) is actually discussing the way that the ideal constitution relates to the discussion of justice that had been begun. However, it would be very difficult to establish any clear pattern of reference in the Prolegomena or the in Gorg.

Baiter, J.G., Orelli, J.C., and Winckelmann, A.W. 1839. Platonis opera quae feruntur omnia, Turin: Meyer & Zeller, 970-1010 (Timaeus Sophista, Lexicon Platonicum).

Bekker, Immanuel (ed.). 1814. Anecdota Graeca, Berlin: Nauck. [Text of Antiatticist = I.75–116]

Bonelli, Maddalena. 2008. Timée le Sophiste: Lexique platonicien, Leiden: Brill.

Dörrie H. and Baltes M. 1993. Der Platonismus in der Antike III, Stuttgart–Bad Cannstatt: frommann-holzboog, 203-4

Dyck, Andrew R. 1985. ‘Notes on Platonic Lexicography in Antiquity', HSCP 89, 75-88.

Hatzimichali, Myrto. 2012. Potamo of Alexandria and the Emergence of Eclecticism in late Hellenistic Philosophy, Cambridge: CUP, 72-73.

Lee, John A.L. 2013. ‘The Atticist Grammarians', in Stanley E. Porter and Andrew W. Pitts (eds), The Language of the New Testament: Context, History and Development, Leiden: Brill.

Mansfeld, Jaap. 1983. ‘Intuitionism and Formalism: Zeno's Definition of Geometry in a fragment of L. Calvenus Taurus', Phronesis 28, 59-74.

Ritschl, F. (ed). 1832. Thomae Magistri sive Theoduli monachi ecloga vocum atticarum, Halis Saxonum.

Schironi, Francesca. 2005. ‘Plato at Alexandria: Aristarchus and the “Philological Tradition” of a Philosopher', CQ 55, 423-34.

Slings, S.R. 2003. Platonis Rempublicam, Oxford: Oxford Classical Texts.

Tarrant, Harold. 1997. ‘Politike Eudaimonia: Olympiodorus on Plato's Republic', in K. Boudouris (ed.), Plato's Political Theory and Contemporary Political Thought, vol. II. Athens. 200-207 (reprinted in H. Tarrant, From the Old Academy to Later Neo-Platonism, Farnham: Ashgate, 2011).

Tarrant, Harold. 2012. ‘The Origins and Shape of Plato's Six-Book Republic', Antichthon, 46, 52-78.

Westerink L.G. (ed.). 1970. Olympiodorus, In Platonis Gorgiam Commentaria, Berlin: Teubner.

Westerink, L.G. 1981. ‘The Title of Plato's Republic', Illinois Classical Studies 6, 112-115.

4. Socratic Philosophy, Rationalism, and "Obedience": Decision Making without Divine Intervention

SENN, Scott J. — 2013-03-24T11:06:08Z

[1] The main aim of this paper is to explain why Plato's Socrates [2] devotes himself to philosophy. In so doing, I hope also to show that he does not sincerely believe that any of his decisions, about philosophy or anything, involve any kind of divine intervention. As my conclusions are contrary to a good bit of first-rate, recent scholarship on the subject, and also contrary to part of what Socrates himself says in Plato's Apology of Socrates, I think it is especially important to clarify these issues, however repeated commentary (by, again, the best scholars in the field) on the same texts may seem to have exhausted the need for further clarification. Confusion about these issues entails grave misunderstandings of the Socratic philosophy that Plato meant to depict, at least in his "early" dialogues.

Section 1. Socratic Philosophy: Mere Method, or Pursuit of Wisdom and Happiness?

It is crucial first to understand what is the nature of philosophizing, according to Socrates, and the fact that, predominantly, his stated reasons for philosophizing do not invoke any god or any command. The prominent place of the oracle story in the Apology, and its connection there with Socrates' account of his peculiar "practice (pragma)", has led some able commentators to conclude that Plato's Socrates is not even a philosopher [3] or that his "philosophizing" does not involve the pursuit of genuine wisdom. [4] In fact, such conclusions clash with most of what Socrates says about philosophy in Plato's early dialogues generally and in the Apology in particular. I shall return to the matter of the oracle, but in order first to establish what is philosophizing for Socrates, consider a familiar passage from the Apology:

. . . This actually happens to be the greatest good for a human—to make accounts/statements/arguments (logoi) each day about virtue and about the other things concerning which you hear me discussing and examining myself and others—and . . . the unexamined life is not livable for a human. . . . (Apol. 38a) [5]

It is fairly uncontroversial to infer that what Socrates here calls "making logoi" and "discussing and examining" (cf. 23b-c, 29e, 33c) are the main activities of what he elsewhere terms simply "philosophizing" (28e5, 29d5). [6] Nor is it very controversial to infer that Socrates uses the term "philosophizing" to refer to the core activities involved in the attempt to acquire virtue. But as this latter inference has recently come under formidable criticism, [7] and as the story of the oracle in the Apology (20c-23c) rather obscures it, it would not hurt to review the evidence.

First of all, when Socrates characterizes making logoi, discussing, and examining as "philosophizing", nothing suggests that "philosophizing" simply means making logoi, discussing, and examining. Michael Forster considers the same passages just cited and concludes that philosophizing is being "virtually equated with cross-questioning oneself and others…" (2006, 17). But other evidence suggests that that goes too far. It is plain that such are the main activities of the philosopher, according to Socrates; but they are not what he thinks philosophy is, plain and simple; for, it is critical to note, the activities are goal-driven. Of course a philosopher discusses, cross-examines, makes logoi about virtue, lacks wisdom, and is aware of lacking it. [8] But insofar as one is a "philosopher", one wants wisdom and pursues wisdom. [9] In ancient Greek, this is virtually a tautology, prompting Socrates in the Lysis to assert that ". . . the ones who are already wise no longer philosophize. . ." (218a; cf. Symp. 204a). A philosopher philosophizes—i.e., loves wisdom (even if wisdom does not love the philosopher back; Lys. 212d5-e1). Euthydemus 288d8 actually has: "…Philosophy is acquiring knowledge (Hē de ge philosophia ktēsis epistēmēs)." That translation is rather too literal. Socrates must mean that philosophy is the process of acquiring knowledge, just as the "ascent to reality" in the Republic is called "philosophy" (521c). [10]

As such isolated passages could perhaps be explained away, we should consider more substantial evidence: Socrates thinks that if we want happiness (and we all do), it is "necessary" to love wisdom—i.e., to strive to acquire wisdom (Euthyd. 282a1-b6, c8-d1, e2-4, 288d6-7, 289c7-8)—genuine wisdom, genuine virtue, because to do well—to act correctly (at least consistently enough to be happy) requires wisdom. [11] We find a related view attributed to Socrates in a number of passages in the earlier dialogues: viz., that one cannot be genuinely good without being genuinely wise. [12] Since Socrates' view is that we all ought first and foremost to care for our souls' (i.e., ourselves) being as good as possible (Apol. 29d-30a, 30a-b, 36c, 39d, 41e), he must think we ought to care about becoming as wise as possible—which of course he actually also states (29e1, 36c7). [13] In this way, we should take quite seriously Socrates' claim, in various early dialogues, that he himself wants to have genuine wisdom (Charm. 166c7-d6, Lach. 201a2-6, Euthyd. 274b2-3 and 285c2-4, Hipp. min. 369d2-e2, Prot. 348c5-e5; cf. Apol. 20c1-2, 22b5). Even if we do not think Socrates is altogether hopeful of getting it straightaway from the interlocutors present at the time of the claim, there is substantial evidence for thinking that Socrates' hope is that such wisdom is attainable together, "in common" (Lach. 201a, Prot. 348d, Charm. 166c-d, Gorg. 505e, Meno 86b-c), i.e., in dialogue with others. [14] He repeatedly makes it clear that such is his paramount aim in discussing and questioning (Charm. 166c-d, Hipp. min. 369d-e, Prot. 348c-e, Gorg. 453c1-4, 457e3-458b1). This is why Socrates consistently evinces a marked preference for discussing with educated gentlemen (Prot. 347c-e), those reputed for wisdom (Hipp. min. 369d-e, Prot. 348d-e, Gorg. 447a, 448d, Meno 89e, Apol. 23b), and wealthy adolescents who have philosophical potential (Charm. 153d, Lach. 180c, Lys. 203b-204b, Apol. 23c, Theaet. 143d). [15]

All of us who are not already completely wise, then, according to Socrates, ought to be philosophers, since philosophy is necessary for virtue ("goodness") and wisdom, and hence necessary for happiness. [16] And it seems that this is at least part of what Socrates is attempting to "persuade" the Athenians of in his typical encounters with them. In the Euthydemus we find what appears to be an example of one of Socrates' habitual exhortations: Socrates asks the sophists Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, who claim expertise in making people good (273d-e with 274d-e), to make the young Cleinias "turn toward" philosophy (275a), where this is meant as a plea to get Cleinias to care about virtue, i.e. about his becoming a good man and to learn what he must learn to be so. (In fact, at 275a "philosophy" and "attention to virtue" appear to be co-referential if not synonymous.) When the brothers fail, Socrates himself gets Cleinias to turn toward philosophy (282d, 288d) by getting him to desire wisdom as necessary for happiness. That this is typical of Socrates' exhortation of Athenian youths is corroborated by Lysis 210 and Protagoras 311a-314b. [17]

This is what the "attention to virtue" (31b5, 41e5)—or, alternatively, "attention to the soul" (30b2) or "self" (36c7)—in the Apology is all about too, and it is just what Socrates there is himself committed to and what he is "exhorting" and "persuading" the Athenians to do throughout the speech. It is true enough that that does not exactly leap off the pages of the Apology as it virtually does in other dialogues. A careful look, however, does reveal the same view in the Apology itself. Again, his concern there is clearly about the soul's being "good" (sc., virtuous)—in other words, as "wise (phronimos)" as possible (29e1, 36c7). As the above account of "philosophy" indicates, we simply misunderstand the Socrates of the early dialogues if we interpret the "wisdom (phronēsis)" of the Apology as the mere "human" wisdom involving only awareness of the limits of one's knowledge, if only because it is from the wisdom to which he exhorts everyone to attend (29e1)—but not from mere awareness of the limits of one's knowledge—that "money and all the other things [come to be] good for humans both in private and in public" (30b). [18] The point is made explicitly in the Charmides: "For it is not knowledge of knowledges and of lack of knowledges [whose peculiar product (ergon) is substantively beneficial for us]; rather, [it is knowledge] of good and bad" (174d). [19] For this reason, awareness of the limits of one's knowledge may indeed "profit" one (Apol. 22e), but only in that way explained in the Meno: i.e. it is profitable as a prerequisite to seeking greater, substantive knowledge (84b-c). [20]

Again, the same point is not quite as explicit in the Apology, but it is indeed there. Though his main focus in the Apology is on what he calls "human wisdom", there are telling indications that Socrates is, even in the Apology, concerned with having not merely "human" wisdom, but genuine wisdom. [21] One is his reference to "truth" at 29e2, appearing on a list which also includes "wisdom (phronēsis)" and improvement of the soul (cf. "truth" at Crito 48a7). And (assuming that soul = self) we know, from the discussion at Apol. 20a-c, that concern for substantive improvement of soul (his paramount concern in the Apology) is naturally connected, in Socrates' mind, to the quest for a teacher who has genuine wisdom and knowledge and can instill genuine virtue in students. All this sounds very much like his own quest for a teacher (Lach. 201a, Euthyphro 5a, Euthyd. 274b, Meno 96d-e), self-improvement through learning (Charm. 166c-d, Hipp. min. 369d-e, Prot. 348c-e), and his "attention to virtue" (Crito 45d, 51a), which he expresses in similar terms in other dialogues. Indeed, at Apol. 20c1-2 Socrates claims that he would "preen" himself and "luxuriate" if only he had the knowledge that the sophist Euenus advertises as having and teaching: viz., knowledge about how to be a virtuous/good human. Furthermore, in his account of his examination of the poets, he claims that he initially hoped to "learn" something from their poems, assuming they were genuinely wise (Apol. 22b). One further indication that Socrates in the Apology expects, ideally, to learn from philosophical conversation is at 41c: ". . . it would be an overwhelming [amount] of happiness to discuss with and to be with and to examine . . ." legendarily wise men and women like Agamemnon, Odysseus, and Sisyphus if he had the opportunity (my emphasis). "To be with (suneinai)" was the regular expression for to be a student of (cf. Apol. 19e-20a; Lach. 186e, Prot. 316c, 318a; Gorg. 455d; Meno 92b; Phaedo 61d). Again, whether or not Socrates really believed any of these specific individuals were genuinely wise is beside the point; the point has to do with the real aim of philosophical conversation. All of this points to the same, largely self-centered concern for having genuine wisdom which Socrates repeatedly claims to desire in other early dialogues.

But what of the assertion, made in the course of the Apology's oracle story, that all human wisdom is worthless, whereas "the god" has genuine wisdom? Certainly Socrates is trying at this point in his speech to convince the Athenians that he never found anyone among them who is genuinely wise. As usual, he (disingenuously or not) includes himself in this estimation. So he tells them that "human wisdom is worth something little—actually, nothing" (23a7), [22] and that "really the god is wise" (23a5-6), by which he may have meant that only the god is wise. [23] A number of excellent commentators [24] argue that Socrates considered the wisdom that he and all humans lack to be unattainable in whole or in part by humans. But Socrates' actual words at 23a-b seem to require no more than the view that what humans happen to have—that which passes for "wisdom" [25]—is worthless, not really wisdom. Some of his words in fact suggest that he may not even have wished to go that far: what he says is that "…I'm afraid (kinduneuei), you men, that really the god is wise…." The Greek kinduneuei certainly suggests some kind of qualification, usually rendered as "it is probable" in English. Moreover, Socrates does not even actually say that "only" the god is wise. He does say "human wisdom…is worthless", though this too is governed by the kinduneuei of 23a5. Furthermore, "worthless" need not mean inherently or inevitably worthless. And such a reading certainly is unlikely, given the rest of what Socrates says in the speech and in other early dialogues (the exhortations to virtue already reviewed). [26] It is worth noting that Socrates actually says in the Apology that he has made the Athenians—or some of them anyway—"happy" (36d10), which (interpreted literally), together with the success-requires-wisdom doctrine, suggests that it is possible for humans to be happy and to have genuine wisdom.

If Socrates in the Apology did not really believe that we ought to try to achieve genuine wisdom—indeed if he believed it was humanly unattainable—then it is hard to understand why he was so concerned with human "improvement" or what he can have meant by it. Socrates certainly thought that awareness of one's own ignorance was "profitable" in some sense (Apol. 22e); but he did not consider this awareness genuine wisdom, since he acknowledged that it certainly was not sufficient for doing well (see the Euthyd. protreptic passages and especially Charm. 174d). It is true that Plato sometimes depicts Socrates as denying that goodness comes from learning, teaching, or any kind of "human attention" (e.g. Prot. 328e), but there are ample reasons for concluding that Socrates is not to be taken seriously in such cases. Among the reasons are his otherwise constant exhortations to strive for wisdom (already reviewed above). Another is the fact that there are pretty transparent holes in the arguments that Socrates is supposed to have endorsed against the teachability of virtue, and it is fairly clear that Socrates was aware of the holes (see Prot. 360e-361b). [27] It may be that in Socratic dialogues not by Plato, improvement—making someone good—could have been something other than making someone acquire genuine wisdom, genuine virtue; [28] but in Plato at least, making a person good is none other than instilling genuine virtue (Prot. 348e-349a and passim; Lach. 190b with 186a; Euthyd. 273d with 274d8-e1). [29]

Section 2. Socratic Rationalism: Subordinating or Autonomous?

Before I proceed in addressing specifically the oracle issue, it will be helpful to discuss, at a general level, what Socrates claims motivates his actions. In response to Crito's plea for Socrates to "be persuaded by/obey me" (Crito 44b, 45a, 46a), Socrates replies,

We ought, therefore, to consider whether we must do these things or not, as I—not now for the first time, but actually always—am the sort of man such as to be persuaded by/obey none of my things [30] other than the statement (logos) that to me, when I reason (logizomai), appears best. (46b)

He invokes the principle in this context in order to let Crito know that he will not be persuaded by/obey even his dear friend, but will only be persuaded when he has reasoned the matter through for himself; what determines his decisions is always and only the conclusion of his own argument. [31] Let us call the principle "Rationalism".

Thomas Brickhouse and Nicholas Smith's ingenious interpretation of Crito 46b would circumvent the role of "reasoning" in Socrates' decision making; they do not seem to think that it expresses what I am calling Rationalism:

Socrates does say that he would be persuaded by nothing but logos, but why must we assume that divination would fall into some category other than persuasive logos, for Socrates, and, hence, that Socrates would never put his faith in divination unless he had some (other) persuasive logos to do so? (1994, 193) [32]

Their question is meant rhetorically. But I believe there is a better answer than the one they accept. On their reading, Socrates' logos would appear to include any form of "persuasive" justification. They thus seem to be neglecting the crucial clause "when I reason". Liddell and Scott make it tolerably clear that it would be a mistake to regard logizomai as having a sense that does not suggest calculating or reasoning or argument. [33] And that should be especially clear in the present instance, considering the argument that Socrates proceeds to present after stating the principle. For this reason, the English translation "reflect" is far too imprecise, as (I would say) is "consider". [34]

Another defect in Brickhouse and Smith's interpretation of Crito 46b is that logos for them includes things that do not even have truth-value: they argue that the daimonion's "promptings" (which they variously describe as "alarms", "warnings", "monitions", "commands", "directives") would count as logoi for Socrates. [35] And, if we use the English term "reason" to translate logos, this may sound fine. But the primary issue with which Socrates is concerned at Crito 46b is truth: "Friend Crito, your spiritedness is worth much if it is on the side of something correct." The surrounding passage (46b-47a and 48-49; cf. 54d) makes it clear that the subject matter is statements/positions presented in speech ("stated") and arrived at by a process of deliberative reasoning (46d, 48d, 49d). Socrates' concern is: "Was it, or wasn't it admirably stated . . . ?" (46c8-d1).

We should, therefore, accept Liddell and Scott. Citing our very passage, they define logos as a "rule, principle, law, as embodying the result of λογισμός" (original emphasis). [36] What Socrates means by logos is a statement, expressing a rule or principle of conduct, [37] that is the conclusion of a reasoned argument. [38] I shall, however, presently return to Socrates' reaction to the daimonion, as it does raise the question of whether Crito 46b is consistent with how Socrates' behavior is depicted in the Apology and other dialogues.

But in order better to clarify my interpretation of Crito 46b, let us consider Socrates' apparent deference for "expert" opinion (Crito 48a, Lach. 184e-185a)—expressed not just in abstract terms, but personally too (Apol. 28d-e, 29b). The Rationalism of Crito 46b seems expressly to rule out not only "nonrational" obedience but also any bit of reasoning whose core premise states simply that someone other than Socrates (even an expert) believes that an act is best (or orders the act to be done). So the Rationalism of Crito 46b might well be called "Autonomous Rationalism". This indeed is the whole point of Socrates' stating that he is persuaded by the conclusion of his own reasoning, not by anything else, not by anyone else's conclusion (or command). [39] Socrates could hardly offer an argument like the following as an example of how he is persuaded not by the expert but only by the conclusion of his own reasoning:

1. This expert believes that Socrates should do X. [Alternatively: This expert orders Socrates to do X.]
2. If (1), then Socrates should do X.
Therefore, 3. Socrates should do X.

Indeed, if he were to accept the above argument, it would mean that he is obeying the expert (whether or not he happens "also" to be obeying "his own" conclusion). That is precisely the point of the above argument. And so accepting it would thus directly conflict with the principle that "I am persuaded by none . . . other than. . . ." Though accepting an argument like the one above is consistent with some kind of Rationalism (we might call it "Subordinating Rationalism"), it is not consistent with the Autonomous Rationalism that Socrates expresses at Crito 46b.

In light of Crito 46b, then, the only way to account for passages like Apology 28e and 29b, where Socrates seems to admit "obedience" to an expert (or to a god), is to interpret the expert's order or belief as having no causal role in Socrates' decision. [40] How can we make sense of this? To see how, we need only look carefully at how he describes his "obedience": he "abided by" the order (28e); he does not "disobey" a superior (29b). This language entails only that Socrates' decision is in accordance with the superior's order. It does not mean that the order was in any way the impetus for his decision. In other words, he sometimes acts according to orders, but never acts on orders—not a trivial difference. Socrates' "obedience" is thus consistent with Autonomous Rationalism. [41]

One further indication of Socrates' Rationalism is his determination never to take into consideration/account, in decision making, anything other than whether his action will be just or unjust (Crito 48c-d; Apol. 28b, 28d, 32d). It is explained to us in quite clear and explicit terms that the ultimate basis for this determination is concern for the condition of his own soul. [42] It is worth noting that this is in precise agreement with his reasons for philosophizing, already explained.

But, according to Socrates, mere belief (even true belief) that an act is good/just is evidently not enough. This is the whole point of submitting to the persistent Socratic demand "to give a rational account (logos) of oneself, the manner in which one now lives, and the manner in which one has led one's life" (Lach. 187e-188a). Such language suggests that those who refuse to do so are not abiding by the Autonomous Rationalism of Crito 46b; as Socrates puts it in the Meno, "knowledge is more valuable than correct opinion", because true opinions "aren't worth much, until one binds them down by explanatory reasoning (aitias logismōi)" (98a). [43]

That is precisely why Socrates criticizes Euthyphro's prosecution of his father, which seems to be based on the diviner's belief that the action is loved by the gods (Euthyphro 6e-7a); Euthyphro proves incapable of producing a genuinely "explanatory reasoning" for his belief that his action is virtuous. Though Socrates does not deny that if all the gods in fact love an act then the act is assuredly virtuous, he nonetheless is not satisfied with that as an answer to the question about what makes the act virtuous (11a-b). Socrates' compelling concern about that sort of question is one thing that calls into question the idea that Socrates could in his own case find ultimate satisfaction even if he were assured that an act was loved by all gods. Especially in light of Socrates' adherence to the success-requires-wisdom doctrine (canvassed above), it is doubtful that it is sheer intellectual curiosity, and not practical concern, that motivates Socrates' quest for an answer to the question What makes an action virtuous? One lesson of the Euthyphro seems to be that, even if we can be assured that X is a telltale feature of virtuous action (such that an action is virtuous if and only if it has X), knowing that an action is X is not a sufficiently justifiable reason for choosing that action (as Socrates clearly does not believe that Euthyphro is justified in his, even if he has correctly divined the gods' love). In order to be justified in choosing an action, we must have genuine knowledge to the effect that that action is virtuous; and in order to have genuine knowledge like that, we must know what virtue consists in, not just its telltale qualities. (In the language of Euthyphro 11a, we must know its substance (ousia), not just an affection (pathos).) Having a true belief to the effect that an action is virtuous (because that action is X) is not sufficient for knowledge that the action is virtuous; and for Socrates knowledge is necessary for full justification of a course of action. Again, the reason for this is because Socrates believes that genuine knowledge is necessary for doing well. That is the ultimate foundation for the Socratic principle that "fearless" action (including declaration) concerning the good and the bad requires genuine knowledge of the good and the bad. [44] This of course is why Socrates never accords wisdom even to the blessed who act or speak by divine dispensation (Apol. 22b-c, Ion 533d-534e, Meno 99b-d, Lach. 198e-199a). We have, then, plenty of reason to think that Socrates would never deliberately choose an act out of divine inspiration; he does not consider that a source of genuine knowledge about virtue, and so it cannot be the basis of confident decision making.

Now, I happen to believe that, given Socrates' belief that he is "good" (Apol. 28a7-b2, 41d) and that he has never done any injustice (33a, 37b; cf. 27e3-5), and given his view that one cannot be genuinely good without genuine wisdom, it follows that Socrates thinks he does act in light of genuine knowledge about the good—not just belief. Here, however, is not the place to defend this further step. Whether or not he really considers himself genuinely wise need not be settled for the purposes of this paper; for at any rate he clearly regards himself as striving for wisdom and endeavoring to act wisely. So my point in this section of the paper has been, not that Socrates follows the above principles unerringly, but only that he strives to follow them and thinks that anyone who "cares for the soul" and "attends to virtue" ought to follow them.

Section 3. Socrates' Daimonion: Reflection or Reflex?

Given how "frequent" (Apol. 40a) and "usual" (40c) was the occurrence of Socrates' daimonion, [45] it is often considered at least prima facie reason to question Socrates' commitment to the principle expressed at Crito 46b. Indeed, the phenomenon is usually interpreted as involving an "order" that Socrates immediately "obeys". Is this not, then, striking evidence that Socrates often acts on orders, and so contrary to my Autonomously Rationalistic interpretation of Crito 46b?

I should say first that I agree with most recent commentators in concluding that the daimonion, as Socrates describes it, is the sort of thing that "trumps" [46] conclusions that Socrates had been about to act upon before its occurrence. Formidable scholars have maintained that there is no text that suggests such a conclusion. [47] But that is pretty clearly a mistake. Socrates' description of what the daimonion does at Apol. 31d, 40a, and Phaedr. 242c, together with his description of his reaction to it at Euthyd. 272e, do strongly suggest that the daimonion's occurrence is immediately followed by Socrates' ceasing his intended course of action. [48]

This also means that the texts that discuss the daimonion do not give us any reason to think that Socrates accepts a form of Subordinating Rationalism whereby he sometimes acts on orders in light of the following kind of argument: [49]

1. I am experiencing the daimonion.
2. If (1), then I should not do what I was about to do.
Therefore, 3. I should not do what I was about to do.

If the daimonion functions in such a way as to necessitate immediate action, then it seems to preclude further reasoning on that particular occasion. That is to say, it cannot be interpreted as a phenomenon that Socrates reflects upon and then, on the basis of such reflection, rationally decides to act, as some commentators appear to think. [50]

But many scholars seem to think that our texts do support the idea that Socrates' reaction to the daimonion consists in a conscious decision to accept the experience itself as a sufficient reason for acting (or, more accurately, for stopping a course of action). [51] There is, however, a different and straightforward interpretation of the nature of the daimonion which I have not seen clearly articulated. It is indeed an interpretation that the texts themselves naturally suggest, and one that happily makes them consistent with an Autonomously Rationalistic interpretation of Crito 46b.

First of all, it is well worth noting that most commentators are guilty of (unwittingly) embellishing Socrates' account of the daimonion. It is usually said to give Socrates "orders" or "warnings", and that Socrates "obeys" the daimonion. [52] But it is important to recognize that none of our texts say or suggest "orders" or "warnings", or even "obedience". In fact, they describe something quite different in nature, whose implications have not been sufficiently appreciated or clearly understood by most commentators. Whenever Socrates actually describes the operation of the daimonion, he says only that, when it "comes" or "happens" to him (moi gignetai) (Apol. 31d, Euthyd. 272e, Rep. 496c, Theaet. 151a, Phaedr. 242b; cf. Euthyphro 3b), it "always turns me away (apotrepei) from that which I'm about to do" (Apol. 31d), or "always holds me back from (epischei) what I'm about to do" (Phaedr. 242c; cf. Apol. 40b), or "opposes me (moi enantioutai)" in some action or statement (Apol. 31d, 40a-c), or "doesn't allow (ouk eai) me" to do something (Phaedr. 242c), or "prevents (apokōluei)" an action (Theaet. 151a). As that is an exhaustive list of descriptions of its activity, we have every reason to interpret them literally rather than figuratively. We might consider a figurative interpretation of such expressions as "turns me away" or "holds me back", but only if the daimonion were ever described as "ordering" or "warning".

Socrates does call the daimonion "a kind of voice". Not only, however, does he never describe what it says, but he never even says that it says anything. He certainly never says he is "persuaded" or "dissuaded" by it, nor even goes so far as to suggest that he "obeys" it. Indeed, the descriptions we are given seem to indicate hardly more than a kind of brute (albeit divine) force, literally deflecting or otherwise blocking Socrates' intended course of action. I would suggest, then, that what Socrates does, as soon as it "comes" or "happens", is purely reflexive and altogether non-deliberative. [53]

To be sure, the fact that Socrates calls the daimonion "a kind of voice" is consistent with an interpretation that attributes to it linguistic content of some kind. [54] But our texts hardly require such an interpretation. After all, Socrates never calls it "a voice", but only "a kind of" voice (phōnē tis) (Apol. 31d, Phaedr. 242c). And he says only that he "seems" to hear such a thing (Phaedr. 242c). So I am sympathetic with some who have suggested that Socrates did not regard the daimonion as literally a voice. [55] But even if we allow it some linguistic content, its linguistic content is not manifest in the ways Socrates describes himself as reacting to it. So it appears that whatever linguistic content it may have plays no causal role in Socrates' behavior. It may be rather like my shouting "no" at my tomcat, which causes him immediately to stop attacking his little sister, but not in virtue of the linguistic content of my shout, which he presumably cannot grasp in any case.

We also simply go beyond our texts if we interpret the nature of the daimonion as itself signaling Socrates not to do what he is about to do, or as signaling to him that he should not do what he is about to do. Such interpretations are tempting, as he does indeed describe the phenomenon as a "sign" (Apol. 40b, 40c, Rep. 496c, Euthyd. 272e, Phaedr. 242b), and once even as "prophetic" (Apol. 40a). [56] But, lacking any further information, we should adopt a conservative interpretation of our texts. The use of the terms sēmeion and mantikē do suggest that it signals or prophesies something. But what it signals or prophesies is never explicitly described. Considering what he says at Apol. 40a—that it has always been "very frequent, opposing me even in small matters if I was about to act in some way not correct"—, it could be that Socrates does think of it as signaling or prophesying that what he is about to do would be not correct. Still, Socrates never says as much. And it is worth recognizing that, even if he had, it would not mean that the "sign" itself had any linguistic content. I suggest that Socrates regards the daimonion as a sign, not in his immediate reaction to it (since, as I have said, that reaction is purely reflexive), but only after he reflects on his reaction to it. Likewise, I (or, for that matter, any observer) may regard the reflexive pull of my hand away from the stove as a sign (or "prophecy") that the stove is hot or that touching it would be bad, though of course there was no linguistic content to my hand's movement. [57]

On my interpretation of the daimonion, therefore, the phenomenon does not require that he ever violates the Autonomous Rationalism of Crito 46b, simply because Autonomous Rationalism applies only to decision making (to "obeying" or "being persuaded"), not to reflexive behavior. Socrates never regards the daimonion as a reason for deciding anything; it is at most the cause of some of his reflexive actions. [58]

Section 4.) Delphic Oracle: Order or Irony?

Predominantly, I have so far argued, Socrates' stated reasons for philosophizing do not invoke a god or an order. But in perhaps his most famous defense of his philosophical lifestyle, a divinity is invoked in a most striking way: I mean of course the passages in Plato's Apology where he describes the oracle and the mission that is alleged to derive from it. This account has obscured Socrates' real reasons for philosophizing, and is understandably, I think, the main reason why many excellent scholars are led to misinterpret Socrates' real purpose.

It is well known that in some passages of the Apology Socrates gives his audience the impression not only (i) that he philosophizes because of a divine order (23b, 28e-29a, 29d, 30a, 33c, 37e-38a), but also (ii) that his philosophizing with the Athenians is a service that greatly benefits them (30a, 36c, 36d10) while having no perceptible benefit, but rather great adversity, for himself (23b-c, 31b-c, 21e2-3, 22e7-23a2, 28a5-9). He even purports to continue to be motivated by this selfless, divine purpose right up to the present moment in his "defense" speech: ". . . I am far from speaking a defense on behalf of myself, as someone might suppose; rather, I do so on behalf of you, lest you somehow err regarding the god's gift to you by voting against me" (30d-e). I shall refer to propositions (i) and (ii) as "DO" and "PS", respectively. [59] They are clearly of a piece; Socrates connects the two explicitly: he offers his own personal adversity as proof that his activity is motivated by divine will, rather than his regard for personal welfare (31a-c). So DO and PS must be accounted for (or discounted) together. [60] I shall try to show that neither proposition represents the truth; Socrates presents them (in the Apology alone, [61] we should always keep in mind), not indeed to deceive anyone, but to mock his accusers.

Some commentators make a great deal of the fact that the oracle was not by itself sufficient for the mission described in DO and PS, explaining that the divine order was not in—or was, at any rate, not clear from—the oracle itself, but rather was something Socrates had to infer from his own "examination" and reasoning. An interpretation along such lines seems to cast Socrates as a Subordinating Rationalist:

1. The divine oracle meant that I should philosophize.
2. If (1), then I should philosophize.
Therefore, 3. I should philosophize.

For this reason alone, there would be good reason to reject such an interpretation. Taking DO and PS seriously, however, involves a more fundamental problem.

It should be clear that DO conflicts with Socrates' Autonomous Rationalism, simply because DO suggests that news of the oracle motivated a decision to "examine" its meaning, though the oracle does not count as a logos in the sense required by Crito 46b. [62] It was of course a statement (or, in any case, a word); but it was clearly not, at the crucial time (i.e. the time that it allegedly motivated his "examination"), a statement that he was persuaded of due to his own reasoning. Indeed, it was (according to the story) a statement that "for a long time" he did not believe, simply because he did not even know what it meant (Apol. 21b2-6). He does say he knew throughout this time that, whatever it meant, it was true (because it was divine). So, in that sense, he believed that it was true. But, since he did not know what it was, he can hardly have been persuaded by it.

Given this, it is hard to take seriously the suggestion (Apol. 21e) that he really believed that it was "necessary" to "make the god's thing be of the most importance" despite the great risk that his "examination" of it (allegedly) seemed to involve. Again, his whole point here is that he (supposedly) did not at that time even understand precisely what the god's "thing" was. So the oracle story appears to conflict, not only with the letter of the Rationalistic principle of Crito 46b, but also with his determination not to perform a course of action unless it is clearly "just"—i.e., as I explained earlier, that it is best for himself (his soul). As Socrates himself seems to have recognized (Apol. 21e2-3, 22e7-23a2), it was far from clear, at the time, that his chosen method of examining the oracle was really in his interest (assuming, of course, that he did not already understand its meaning). These are powerful reasons for rejecting the story about the risky, selfless divine mission of DO and PS.

Another indication that Socrates does not seriously endorse DO and PS is that his "proof" (Apol. 31a-c) of the divine nature of his practice—viz., his poverty—also entails a rejection not only of the Rationalism of Crito 48b but even of a principle that is one main focus of Socrates' habitual exhortations: to be inattentive to money (Apol. 29d-e, 30a-b). The alleged proof in fact trades on an ambiguity in the expression "my own things", conflating attention to material well-being and attention to the soul's good condition: He claims that the oracle story must be the truth—that his behavior is divinely inspired, "not human", irrational—because, in his "service to the god", he has been inattentive of all of his own things (tōn emautou hapantōn), particularly personal finance. Accepting the "proof" entails accepting that being inattentive to money is "irrational". Accepting the "proof" furthermore entails a rejection of the Rationalism of Crito 46b, which requires (at least) rational behavior: according to his "proof", he does not "have any rational account (logos)" of the behavior that results in his condition (Apol. 31b6-7). [63] Surely, quite extraordinary, by Socrates' own lights, if it were true!

As the above considerations are grounded in rather general principles, some of them based on dialogues other than the Apology, they may be less than thoroughly convincing. But there are in Socrates' presentation of the oracle story itself plenty of indications that he does not take DO and PS seriously:

One indication is the fact that he consistently does not expect his audience to take them seriously (20d4-5, 37e-38a), warning them twice (20e, 21a) not to jeer at him for what he is about to say. [64] He anticipates (30c) that they will likewise make an uproar after they hear him claim that he is making his "defense" speech for their sake and not for his (30d-e). [65] Of course none of that logically entails that Socrates thinks they should not accept the story. But if the oracle story were really part of a serious effort to defend himself, it would be remarkable for him to waste so much space with an explanation which, he both anticipates (20d) and concludes (37e-38a), will be not only unconvincing but also regarded as a joke. And one might well think the defendant doth protest too much for the story not to be in jest. Indeed, my own interpretation of the oracle story is that it is a joke—in fact, a mockery of his accusers—which his audience would be unable to understand if they were to take the story seriously.

But the oracle story itself contains even more powerful reasons for rejecting DO and PS. According to DO, the supposed point of the oracle story is to explain how he came to understand that he must philosophize in his now characteristic way, and part of that understanding is supposed to have come from what he allegedly learned from the oracle about the nature and value of genuine wisdom. So if we are to take the oracle story at face value, then Brickhouse and Smith's conclusion would indeed sound reasonable: ". . . His certainty about the moral importance of his mission is derived from various forms of divination, and not from whatever conception of virtue he has developed and continues to test by means of the elenchus" (1989, 107). [66] But a careful look at the oracle story reveals that Socrates cannot have really learned about the importance of philosophy, or about the nature and value of genuine wisdom, from the oracle or even from his "examination" of it. According to the story itself, before he had even arrived at the allegedly momentous conclusion described at 23a, Socrates was already taking for granted the fairly sophisticated axiological position outlined in the so-called protreptic passages of the Euthydemus and expressed in other early dialogues: he makes it clear that he had already determined (22d) that garden-variety craft-knowledge is not wisdom in the "greatest things"—in fact, that it is worthless by itself. [67] So the supposed examination of the oracle actually itself hinges crucially on a preconception about virtue that Socrates had evidently already developed—precisely what Brickhouse and Smith allege cannot be true.

Socrates does admit craftsmen know "many admirable things" and, in that respect, are indeed "wiser" than Socrates, a "wisdom" that their lack of modesty "conceals" (22d). But we are not to make too much of all that: For one thing, he never says he cross-examined the craftsmen about their crafts, nor does he ever say he wanted to learn crafty matters from them (though, in rather stark contrast, he did express (22b) an interest in learning about the poets' works). But, more importantly, he concludes, despite all their craft-knowledge, that the craftsmen were not in the end really any wiser than he: [68] "human wisdom is worth something little—actually, nothing" (23a7). He is willing to allow that craft-knowledge is in some sense "admirable"; but he evidently was, from the start, committed to the view that it is strictly speaking not good at all if it is not conjoined with genuine wisdom—precisely the view we find the supposedly more enlightened Socrates espousing in other early dialogues (Euthyd. 281d-e and 288e ff., Charm. 173d-e and 174b, Lach. 194e-196a, Gorg. 511b-514a). Again, what is crucial to observe here is that Socrates did not discover the view from talking with the craftsmen; rather, he depicts himself as having known it all along: garden-variety craft-knowledge was just not what he was interested in in the first place. Without understanding, from the beginning, precisely how to distinguish the craftsmen's knowledge from wisdom in "the greatest things", he could not have so confidently concluded that the latter is indeed "other" (Apol. 22d7) than the craftsmen's knowledge. [69]

Now, wisdom in "the greatest things" he does indeed deny having. But he never in the Apology denies knowing the nature of such wisdom. He claims not to have wisdom in the greatest things, but there is no indication that he was ever unaware of exactly what sort of wisdom it is. This is why, later in the dialogue, he so confidently avers what he says he has always "been in the habit of" saying to anyone he encounters: viz., that they should not "attend to" money, reputation, bodies, or anything other than "wisdom (phronēsis), truth, and the soul"—i.e., that they should first of all be trying to acquire genuine virtue (29d-30b). His point is that the latter are "the things worth most" (30a1-2). But this is nothing new; [70] it is just another way of putting the point expressed earlier at 22d and 23a: that wisdom in "the greatest things" is not the knowledge of the money-makers, or of the doctors or trainers, or of the rhetoricians, etc. Indeed, once this is understood, we should recognize that his own neglect of those "paltrier things" does not come, as he slyly suggests (23b-c, 31a-c), from "service to the god", allegedly understood only after discovering the oracle's meaning; rather, that neglect is required by the axiological principles implicit in his early "examination" of the oracle's meaning. [71]

One significant problem with taking the oracle story seriously is that we must then draw a very different conclusion about Socrates' chief purpose than the one we are presented with in the other early dialogues: we must regard Socrates as concerned primarily, not with a personal search for wisdom, but with proving to others their own lack of genuine wisdom. I do not doubt that the latter was a concern of Socrates. But it was, at most, a subsidiary one. It cannot, however, be such if DO and PS are the truth. John Burnet put this point very well a century ago:

We need not doubt . . . that Socrates actually gave some such account of his mission as that we read in the Apology, though we must keep in view the 'ironical' character of this part of the speech. Most English critics take it far too seriously. They seem to think the message of Socrates to his fellow-citizens can have been nothing more than is there revealed, and that his sole business in life was to expose the ignorance of others. If that had really been all, it is surely hard to believe that he would have been ready to face death rather than relinquish his task. (1916, 242-243)

I do not entirely follow Burnet's last sentence; surely many have died in the name of a god for what others would consider far less worthy causes. But Burnet's main point here was that we take the oracle story too seriously if we conclude that Socrates really thought it explained his purpose. I would go further than Burnet; for even some of those who have regarded Socrates' true mission as involving more than simply exposing others' ignorance also take the oracle story far too seriously. I believe that Socrates would have acted and lived pretty much as he had even if the oracle had never delivered the famous response, even if he had never received or heard of another such oracle or any other divine sign. As I have explained, it is clear that Socrates had reasons of his own for choosing a philosophical life, arrived at independently of divine influence—reasons which he clearly regarded not only as sufficient for his peculiar behavior, but as the proper explanation of it, the gods having played little or no part—and certainly no causal role in his decision making.

I do not mean to deny that Chaerephon did receive a response of the kind reported in the Apology. Nor do I wish to deny that Socrates thinks he is acting in accordance with divine wishes. But this is quite different from denying, as I do, that Socrates believes he had received an explicit order to philosophize or believes that he is acting on any special order from a god. I would say rather that, based on his own determination that philosophizing is good, Socrates has inferred that the god wants him (and us all) to philosophize. [72] This, I suggest, accounts for the speculative terms he chooses (Apol. 23a5, 23a8, 28e5) to describe his views about the supposed "order". [73]

If what he says in connection with the oracle story is not meant to be taken seriously, what then is its purpose in Socrates' defense speech? As I have indicated already, I believe that it was meant as a scathing joke, moreover one that was supposed to be transparent. Just consider how incredibly full of tragic ironies Socrates' trial and conviction would be, if the oracle story were indeed supposed to be the truth: he has been charged with impiety for acting in a way that is in reality more pious than any other Athenian's action, so much so that he is practically irreplaceable (Apol. 30e-31a); it is actually the plaintiffs (35d6-7), and the judges voting for his execution, who do not acknowledge the gods, as executing Socrates for not acknowledging the gods will thwart the divine purpose of Socrates' life (30d-e); the method which he used to discover his special divine mission, and which the divine order requires that he continue using, is the very thing that, despite its being a uniquely beneficial and divine "gift" to them, so infuriates the Athenians (21c8-d2, 24a6-7, 30e7-31a6), and ultimately is what leads to his own prosecution and execution (23e4, 28a5-9, 28b4-5); indeed, the very ones whom the god has chosen him to save are the ones who will put him to death and thus doom themselves to go on living "incorrectly". Reality is rarely so replete with tragi-comedy. Instead, I suggest that we, as well as Socrates' Athenian audience, were supposed to interpret DO and PS as part of an elaborate effort by Socrates to mock his accusers and to highlight their own very real crimes (30d5-6, 33b4-5, 39b5-6, 41d6-e1), in which, Socrates gravely believed, the judges who voted against him were complicit (41b3, 41d6-e1). [74]

As I have argued, there is otherwise no way to make coherent sense of his commitment to the Autonomous Rationalism that we find not only in other early dialogues but also in the Apology itself.

Scott J. SENN
Longwood University

[1] For helpful feedback, I am indebted to Ben Bradley, Mark Chekola, Mark Lukas, Gary Matthews, and Erik Wielenberg.

[2] My focus is Socrates as Plato depicts him in his "early" dialogues, not necessarily the "historical" Socrates. For the purposes of this paper, I accept the usual division between "early" and "middle" dialogues, where "early" includes at least Apology, Charmides, Crito, Euthydemus, Euthyphro, Hippias Minor, Ion, Laches, Lysis, Protagoras. Gorgias and Meno are often considered "transitional" between early and middle, so my interpretation of Plato's "early" Socrates does not hinge on those two works, however consistent (I and many others think) they are with the "earlier" dialogues. I shall also occasionally cite even later dialogues, where I think such references are telling, though nothing crucial depends on such references.

[3] J. Adam 1916, ix

[4] Forster 2006, 17-19; Weiss 2006, 243-244, 252

[5] Unless otherwise noted, translations are my own, based on the Oxford Classical Text.

[6] Cf. Weiss 2006, 247. Interestingly, the "discussing, asking and answering, affirming and denying" that occur in one's own thoughts are treated, at least in later dialogues, as not fundamentally different from the logoi between two or more interlocutors (Theaet. 189e-190a, Soph. 263e-264a, Phil. 38b-e).

[7] Weiss 2006; Forster 2006 and 2007.

[8] Forster correctly says that Socrates' characterizing himself as a "philosopher" "may well connote his lack of knowledge and his awareness of his own ignorance" (2007, 17-18). Certainly it does. This is made explicit at Lys. 218a-b: philosophers are neither wise nor unwise, but between wisdom and ignorance: they "have ignorance" but are not "ignorant" or "unlearned" as a result of it, since they regard themselves as not knowing what they do not know (cf. Symp. 204a). But there is no reason to suppose, as Forster seems to, that this represents the entire meaning of "philosopher" anywhere in the dialogues.

[9] Weiss appears to acknowledge this: ". . . The more philosophical among us . . . deeply desire to know, yearn to know, and strive to know" (2006, 251; her emphasis). But, concerning Socrates' philosophy, she seems to accept Forster's more narrow definition: "What makes what he does philosophy is that he attempts to [get his interlocutors to think as he does] by asking questions and presenting arguments" (252). I shall presently address the concerns that seem to have led Weiss to this conclusion.

[10] Forster notes Euthyd. 288d (2007, 17 n. 40), but apparently does not think much of it. By the way, it is true that at Euthyd. 307, Socrates seems to suggest that Euthydemus and Dionysodorus are philosophers. But if so, he evidently believes they are bad at philosophy. It is not that "philosopher" means something different when applied to them. Rather, what Socrates means is that there is a single practice (the pursuit of wisdom), and some do it well and others do it poorly. Presumably, there are different ways of doing it poorly: one could genuinely desire real wisdom but be bad at getting it, or one might not genuinely desire it and so practice philosophy disingenuously, etc. (So similarly there are bad politicians etc.) Of course, even if "philosopher" did really mean something other than pursuer of wisdom when applied to the likes of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, this does not supply us convincing reason for taking the term to have such a meaning in other contexts, particularly in those where it is applied to Socrates, whom Plato consistently contrasted with the sophists. Again, Forster evidently would not agree (2006, 17).

[11] Cf. Hipp. min. 366d3-368b1 and Gorg. 466e, 509d-e. Although Socrates arrives at the same conclusion at Meno 88c, he later (97a, 97b-c, 98b-c) appears to withdraw this conclusion because having true opinion without knowledge seems to lead to success as well. Vlastos thinks (1991, 228 n. 91) this indicates a shift from genuine Socratic doctrine to Platonic. (Cf. his contention that the Meno is "a hybrid, firmly elenctic down to 80E, firmly non-elenctic after that" (115 n. 41). See also Kraut 1984, 301-304. ) Penner has defended a plausible interpretation according to which Socrates genuinely recants neither the success-requires-wisdom doctrine nor the virtue-is-wisdom doctrine (1987, 310-320; 1992, 165 n. 63). Forster, who accepts Meno 96e ff. pretty much at face value (2007, 10ff.), recognizes (11) that Meno 100a implies that divinely inspired true belief is only a "shade (skia)" compared with "real (alēthes)" virtue; Forster nonetheless maintains that Socrates held that humans were incapable of such "real virtue". Forster believes that for Socrates true belief without understanding is "in many cases…beneficial for action" (2007, 31). If this is meant to suggest that true belief by itself is consistently beneficial in practice, it seems to contradict even the Socrates of post-80e Meno: Socrates explains the difference between knowledge and mere true belief (97e-98a): true opinions are not "worth much" until tied down with reasoning —i.e., until they become knowledge (98a); that is why knowledge is "more valuable" (98a)—in fact "so much more valuable" (97d)—than mere true belief. How are we to explain the difference Socrates here acknowledges if he were supposed to consider mere true belief sufficient for long-term benefit or success?

[12] This is pretty explicit at Lach. 194d1-3, Hipp. min. 366d3-368b1, Lys. 210d1-4, Euthyd. 282e2-4; cf. also Gorg. 459e5-6, 506d5-8 and Rep. 1.349e. It is certainly implied in the Apology as well; see 23b4-7 with 29d-30b. Brickhouse and Smith have argued that Socrates thought that virtue—as a condition of the soul, as opposed to virtuous activity—is unnecessary for happiness (1994, 129-130) and that wisdom is unnecessary for consistently performing virtuous actions and thus being "good" (2000, 148-152). I believe such conclusions fly in the face of almost everything Socrates says on the matter. It is worth noting that they are driven to such a conclusion because they accept Socrates' claim never to have done injustice (Apol. 33a, 37a) and they believe he is sincere in disavowing genuine wisdom. It should be understood what a precarious stance that is; in fact, I think it is ultimately untenable in light of the overwhelming textual evidence that Socrates accepts the goodness-requires-wisdom doctrine. Brickhouse and Smith have suggested a variety of implausible but imaginative alternatives: that "elenctic knowledge", along with frequent assistance from the daimonion, can serve as a substitute for genuine moral knowledge (1994, 60, 132); that Socrates has just "been lucky" in not doing injustice his whole life (2000, 152); or that "scrupulous" managing of appetites keeps "them from interfering with his deliberations about what is best" (2006, 273). Though I cannot adequately defend the point here, I am afraid that we had better concede that Socrates may have been dissembling when he claims not to have any genuine wisdom, something that Plato consistently represents almost all his interlocutors as suspecting in any case (not only Callicles and Thrasymachus but even Socrates' friends and associates: see Apol. 23a, Lach. 180b-c, 200c-d, Charm. 176b, Ion 532d; Meno. 71b-c, Symp. 175c-d, 217a, 218d, 219d-e, 222a; Rep. 2.367d-368c and 6.506b-d; cf. Phaedo 118a15-17). I believe that Socrates' characteristic "disavowals" were not meant (by Socrates or by Plato) to be taken as seriously as they usually are by commentators nowadays. It is helpful to keep in mind, in this connection, that Socrates in the Apology, despite his famous coyness (at 20b-e, 21d, 22c-d, 23b), later clearly characterizes himself as a "good" man (28a7-b2, 41d), and that there is no simpler way of describing one as virtuous in ancient Greek than calling one "good" (see Senn 2005, 5 n. 14). And, as I have said, Socrates consistently maintains that virtue requires genuine wisdom.

[13] In the Apology, as in other dialogues, phronēsis stands for genuine wisdom. Forster translates the word as "practical judgment" (2007, 4), which rather obscures the possibility (and, as I believe, the reality) that Socrates is urging us toward genuine wisdom. His translation cannot be called "inaccurate", but there is no compelling reason to suppose—in fact many compelling reasons to reject the idea—that for Socrates "practical judgment" is anything less that genuine wisdom. Cf. Burnet 1916, 258.

[14] Forster, on the other hand, seems to require that Socrates' claim is no more than a disingenuous ploy to set up an interlocutor for refutation (2006, 18-22), all with a view to proving wisdom to be humanly unattainable. Cf. Weiss' conclusion that "the core of Socratic moral inquiry" is merely "Socrates' attempt to get his interlocutors to think as he does" (2006, 252).

[15] Despite this, there is sometimes rather overblown significance attached to passages like Apol. 17c9, 30a3-4, and 33b1-2. They seem to be part of why Vlastos ventures to characterize Socrates as a "populist", a "street philosopher", choosing not to "confine . . . moral inquiry to a tiny elite" (1991, 18, 48, 110, 177; 1994, 103). That Socrates saw no intrinsic importance in his interlocutor's wealth or poverty, or that the general public might find him in the Agora "and other places", hardly makes him a populist.

[16] For this reason, Socrates' characterizing the main activities of philosophy as the "greatest" good (Apol. 38a, cf. 41b) could cause confusion. However we understand that locution, it can hardly mean the ultimate good, since, as I have shown, philosophy is desirable, according to Socrates, as a means to some further end. In any case, there are independent reasons for thinking Plato does not (always) use "greatest" to mean "ultimate": For instance, in a not unrelated passage, Phaedo 89d2-3, he makes Socrates say that there is "no greater evil" than hating logoi, and only a little later (90d6-7) that hating logoi results in being "robbed of truth and knowledge of the things that are (real)", an evidently more ultimate evil (cf. 66b, 83c-d). Similarly, at Gorg. 452d Gorgias claims that the power to persuade is both the "greatest good" and the cause of things that (presumably) are good in some more ultimate sense. A few scholars do think that for Socrates philosophizing has some intrinsic value (Vlastos 1971, 19; Penner 1992, 150 n. 14; Kraut 1984, 271 n. 43)—however little is the evidence for such an interpretation (see Irwin 1977, 91; McPherran 1996, 222 n. 115). But, as far as I can tell, philosophizing is rarely interpreted as the sole ultimate good for Socrates (see, however, Reeve 1989, 178).

[17] Weiss is perhaps correct that "there are no instances of direct exhortation in any of Plato's dialogues outside of the Apology" (2006, 248-249), but only if by "direct" exhortations she just means (as she seems to) exhortations that are not "summaries of conclusions that emerged from elenctic exchange" (249). On that definition, however, it is unclear that even the exhortations in the Apology are "direct" ones.

[18] The translation is based on Burnet's perceptive gloss (1924, 124).

[19] Cf. Senn 2005, 5.

[20] When Socrates' accomplishment (ergon) of merely getting (some) Athenians to attend to virtue (i.e. to philosophize) is described as the "greatest" good for them (Apol. 30a-b, 36c), we cannot interpret "greatest" as meaning most ultimate. Cf. note 16.

[21] So I disagree with Weiss' view that Socrates in the Apology is "not a man whose aim is to attain wisdom . . ." (2006, 244), as well as with her more general conclusion that "the core of Socratic moral inquiry" is merely "Socrates' attempt to get his interlocutors to think as he does" (252).

[22] A. Adam 1914 ad loc.: "καί corrects ὀλίγου and introduces a stronger word." Cf. Smyth 1984, 650.

[23] Taylor glosses the phrase: "In reality god [i.e. god alone] is wise. . ." (1998, 22; his brackets).

[24] Vlastos 1994, 64; McPherran 1985, 301; Reeve 1989, 149-150; Reeve 2000, 36; Weiss 2006, 244, 250; Forster 2006, 12-13

[25] There is a parallel here with Socrates' (probably intentionally) fallacious reasoning in Prot. 319e-320b and Meno 93a-94e to the effect that virtue is not teachable. Below I discuss these passages specifically.

[26] Benson's arguments in favor of the kind of interpretation that I here support are well worth considering (2000, 181-182). Forster, who thinks it "seems clear" that 23a7 is "a timeless statement about the human condition in comparison with the divine" (2006, 12; 2007, 3-4), says, "Even taken alone, or just in its immediate context, the statement . . . could hardly be interpreted as harbouring such a tacit qualification as at the moment or so far" (2006, 13 n. 25). He does not explain why it could "hardly" do so. No doubt his interpretation of the words by themselves is certainly a possible one, but not compelling, especially given the other evidence and indications I have already reviewed. Forster is quite right that the timeless interpretation would have agreed with traditional Greek thought and even perhaps the traditional way in which Delphic oracles were "timelessly" interpreted. But we should not expect that Socrates' interpretation would agree with tradition (though we may indeed expect that Socrates might make it appear to his uncareful audience that he agreed with tradition). As far as I can tell, Forster offers no argument in support of his timeless interpretation, upon which much of his 2006 and his 2007 heavily rely. I see that Hatzistavrou also has recently accepted the interpretation that I favor (2005, 85).

[27] The arguments at Prot. 319e-320b and Meno 93a-94e trade on the ambiguity of "virtue", which may either mean the "virtue" of Pericles et al. or else mean genuine virtue. What saves us from concluding that Socrates took the argument seriously is the fact that we know Socrates did not believe Pericles et al. had genuine virtue. The key to understanding the virtue-is-unteachable argument was seen long ago by, e.g., J. Adam 1893, xix and Burnet 1914, 171, 173-174. It is no coincidence that one glaring flaw in the argument Socrates is supposed to endorse is in its pointing to the failure of the best current and past politicians and sophists to make anyone good (Prot. 320a-b, Meno 93b-94e, 96b-c) in order to prove that virtue is not teachable, and so not knowledge. Of course Socrates' argument may be relying on the ambiguity of didakton which may mean already taught instead of capable of being taught; if so, the argument is a red herring anyway.

[28] So Forster cites Aeschines (2007, 13).

[29] Forster does not deny that Socrates was seeking a kind of human improvement that went beyond awareness of ignorance. (Forster correctly observes (2006, 6) that Socrates does not consider awareness of ignorance to be genuine wisdom; and we should agree since Socrates quite clearly has reservations (Apol. 20d9, 20e7, 29b4, 38c3-4) about even calling such awareness "wisdom".) Forster's idea seems to be that such improvement entailed acceptance of "the right ethical views" (2007, 13) in absence of genuine understanding. It is unclear how, on Forster's interpretation, Socrates believed one should go about acquiring such views; but part of it, no doubt, involved accepting a reliance on the god or gods for inspiration (2007, 31-32); perhaps one was also to trust that such views might be transmitted to one by certain humans like Socrates himself (2007, 32) or the divinely inspired poets (2007, 33). But, on Forster's interpretation, then, effort or "attention" would seem largely unnecessary; indeed, perhaps what most people require, according to Socrates, is simple indoctrination in the correct beliefs? To me, the idea seems wildly implausible given Socrates' aims and efforts as Plato portrays them. For one thing, Socrates' view about human improvement would, on Forster's kind of interpretation, appear to be not that much different from the traditional ancient Greek view. Forster perhaps would agree, given his frequent comparisons of Socratic thought with traditional thought (2006, 6 n. 13, 10, 13 n. 25). Are we to believe Socrates—or Plato in his "early" period—thought he had no novel message to bring to Hellas?

[30] Burnet's gloss on the phrase is: "The soul, with its thoughts and feelings, as well as the body and its appurtenances, are all included in a man's 'belongings' " (1924, 188; cf. Crito 47c6). "My things" surely also includes Socrates' family and friends (cf. Meno 92b, J. Adam 1893, and Weiss 1998, 59 n. 6). The possessive is a typical Greek way of referring to personal and/or familial affairs; cf. Apol. 23b, 31b, 36c, Crito 54b.

[31] He says "the statement that to me appears best"; so it is a little difficult to take too literally his invitation to consider the matter "in common" (46d, 48d), particularly given the dominant role that Socrates plays not only in the following discussion but typically.

[32] McPherran also adopts (1996, 179, 203 and 2011, 124) the kind of interpretation of logos that Brickhouse and Smith favor. Corey (2005, 224) and Partridge (2008, 291) seem to as well.

[33] Liddell and Scott 1996, s.v., II.

[34] It could be a mere coincidence, but whereas Brickhouse and Smith 1994 faithfully translate the word at their 178 ("when I reason"), they soften this to "when he considers it" while defending their interpretation at 193. Indeed, in their 2000, where they give the same interpretation, they prefer Grube's translation "on reflection" (247).

[35] They would evidently not be troubled by the fact that "my things" at Crito 46b5 would presumably also include "my usual prophetic thing" (Apol. 40a); for they would explain that Crito 46b is consistent with Socrates' being persuaded by some of "my things", provided he has "considered" them or "reflected" on them.

[36] Liddell and Scott 1996, s.v., III.2.d.

[37] Cf. Burnet 1924, 188.

[38] Brickhouse and Smith object to Grube's translation of logos as "argument", claiming that it "would beg the question about what might count as a 'reason' for Socrates" (2000, 263 n. 16). Needless to say, there is no question begging, provided we accept Grube's interpretation in light of what the context implies. Woodruff suggests an interpretation that similarly seems to circumvent the influence of reasoning: "Socrates does not say that he achieves this result [i.e., his conclusion] solely by reason, but only while he is reasoning" (2000, 137, original emphases). Woodruff too seems to undervalue the context of Crito 46b. In any case, it strikes me as a grossly unnatural interpretation of Socrates' words to suppose that his point here is only that he will accept whatever conclusion he arrives at in the course of his reasoning whether or not that conclusion came about as a result of the reasoning.

[39] This is just the point that Hatzistavrou misses when he claims that Crito 46b is consistent with what he calls "weak subordination" to authority (2005, 111). It is true, as Hatzistavrou says, that according to Crito 46b "one should consider only rational arguments". But Crito 46b does not allow just any rational argument. Hatzistavrou's attribution of "weak subordination" to Socrates conflicts with Crito 46b in yet a more fundamental way: It is clear, from Hatzistavrou's account of "weak subordination" (79), that any "rationalization" that Socrates may indulge in plays no causal role in his obedient actions. So Socrates is free to "agree" or "disagree" with the command, but the command is what determines his action, since he would obey even if he "disagreed" (101). This comes out quite starkly in the case of the daimonion: According to Hatzistavrou , Socrates will "abstain from an action because the daimonion so prescribed, thus obeying his daimonion, even though he has rationalized the daimonion's command and he himself believes that the relevant action is bad" (95).

[40] Again, exactly the opposite of Hatzistavrou's interpretation.

[41] Nehamas comes roughly to the same conclusion (1987, 43-45), but he does so without considering Crito 46b, and he balks (as I do not) at interpreting Socrates as willing to "obey" superiors (Nehamas prefers to speak of "persuasion"). As Nehamas points out, Socrates' Rationalism allows him to be persuaded by an argument that a superior may offer. But, in such cases, he is persuaded not simply by the fact that it is a superior who offers it; rather, he accepts the argument after using his own reasoning to come to what happens to be the same conclusion. Again, the wording and context of Crito 46b make this unmistakable.

[42] See Crito 47d3-5, 47e7-48a7 and my 2005, 18. We are not to let the terms "just" and "unjust" distract us from this point; for, as Socrates uses the terms, they are plainly either synonymous or co-referential with the terms "good" and "bad", "admirable" and "shameful". See Crito 48b7, 49a5-6, 49b4-5, and again my 2005, 18.

[43] Again, the Meno is not, in my view, a departure from the earlier dialogues concerning the value of genuine knowledge. Passages such as this keep me from following commentators who (like Kraut 1984, 301-304) believe that Socrates in the Meno abandons the position that knowledge is necessary for virtue. See my n. 11 above.

[44] The principle is prominent in the Euthyphro (4a-b, 4e, 15d-e), but also appears at Lach. 186c-d and (implicitly) at Apol. 24d3-5 (cf. Euthyphro 2c) and elsewhere. It is indeed the basis for Socrates' usual (disingenuous) reverence for his interlocutors' "wisdom".

[45] Since the subject of this paper is Plato's Socrates, I do not consider the accounts of Xenophon and spurious Platonic works. Though Alcibiades I otherwise agrees with how the daimonion is presented in Plato's dialogues, one of many things that mark it as spurious is that it describes the daimonion's operation in a way that Plato's Socrates conspicuously avoids: claiming the act that it opposed (103a) was something "the god" did not allow (105d, 124c). In Plato, only the daimonion itself is said not to allow, though it is indeed "of/from the god".

[46] The term was first used in this context in a debate between Vlastos and Brickhouse and Smith (Smith and Woodruff 2000, 195ff.).

[47] Vlastos 1991, 286-287 and Woodruff 2000, 141. According to Vlastos the daimonion brings Socrates a "message", a "monition" that "tells him to do or believe" something; but it does not contradict Socrates' intended course of action; it only operates in cases when he ends up acting on the basis of either (A) "independent grounds" that he had already rationally formulated or (B) "intuitive" grounds (a "hunch") that he only later rationally articulates and accounts for (1991, 283-285). So Vlastos seems to believe that it is simply an expression of his own powers of reasoning. (This kind of interpretation dates back at least to Jackson 1874, 241-242.) Weiss 1998 and 2005 accepts a similar conclusion, except that Weiss, unlike Vlastos, thinks that the daimonion does frustrate Socrates' intended course of action.

[48] Cf. Reeve 1989, 69; Brickhouse and Smith 1994, 193; McPherran 1996, 205 n. 64; Weiss, 2005, 86; Corey 2005, 222; Long 2006, 73; Partridge 2008, 289-290.

[49] Even if the daimonion is not interpreted as an order or as issuing an order, this kind of argument cannot be accommodated by Autonomous Rationalism since it forgoes the truly "explanatory reasoning" about the action's goodness that (as I argued earlier) Socratic Rationalism requires. Brisson 2005 seems ultimately to accept this type of Subordinating Rationalism. On Brisson's interpretation, the daimonion seems to be just a bare sign devoid of linguistic content; but it is never "inexplicable" (10), because it "enables" Socrates to "use his reason" to infer "injunctions" (12). This is what makes his reactions to it "autonomous", according to Brisson, even though he "does not enjoy complete 'moral autonomy'" (12), since he sometimes depends upon such signs. Partridge has recently argued for a rather similar interpretation. So, much like Brisson, Partridge is certainly correct in concluding that Plato's descriptions of the daimonion do not entail that the phenomenon has any "informational or discursive content" (2008, 287-288, 296). But I disagree with the "agnostic" position that Partridge prefers: "It is, after all, a subjective experience that, moreover, is not adequately described . . ." in a way that warrants attributing "informational or discursive content" to it (288; cf. 297). As I shall presently argue, since it is consistently described as "preventing" or "holding back" Socrates, and described only as "a kind of" voice, we do indeed have positive indication that it had no linguistic content.

[50] Kraut (2000, 16) and Long (2006, 73) both seem to accept a Subordinately Rationalistic interpretation of Crito 46b, according to which action in accordance with the daimonion is consistent with Crito 46b because his action is based on inductive reasoning concerning past reliability of the daimonion (cf. Jackson 1874, 242 and Corey 2005, 224). What is apparently overlooked in this kind of interpretation is the fact that Socrates could not even begin such an inductive test without violating the rational principle in the first instance, as Brickhouse and Smith point out (2005, 57).

[51] Reeve 1989 and 2000, Brickhouse and Smith 1994 and 2000, McPherran 1996, Weiss 1998 and 2005, Benson 2000, Hatzistavrou 2005. For whatever reason, Benson seems to be only one of few who actually describes the phenomenon as "divine intervention" (247 n. 88), though the term is perfectly apt on this sort of interpretation.

[52] It is variously described as issuing a "command" (Brickhouse and Smith 1994, 195 and 2005, 50; McPherran 1996, 189; Hatzistavrou 2005, 95), "prohibition" (A. Adam 1914, 15; Brickhouse and Smith 1989, 251; Reeve 1989, 69 and 2000, 35; Brisson 2005, 5-6; Long 2006, 64, 72), "injunction" (Woodruff 2000, 141; Weiss, 2005, 86; Long 2006, 65), "prescription" (Hatzistavrou 2005, 90, 95), "order" (Corey 2005, 221). The daimonion is just as frequently described as "warning" him (Jackson 1874, 236; A. Adam 1914, 15; Nussbaum quoted in Kraut 2000, 32; Brickhouse and Smith 1989, 168 and 1994, 133, 203 and 2000, 152, 235 and 2005, 60; McPherran 1996, 186-190 and 2005, 17-19 and 2011, 125; Kraut 2000, 16; Brisson 2005, 10; Weiss 2005, 90, 95-96; Corey 2005, 221; Long 2006, 63-64) or issuing "monitions" (Vlastos 1991, 170, 283-284, Brickhouse and Smith 1994, 190-194 and 2005, 49; McPherran 2005, 16 and 2011, 125), though it is hard to tell whether this is supposed to be something different from "command" or "prohibition", especially as some of the same commentators seem to use both sets of terms interchangeably. We also hear of "admonitions" (Jackson 1874, 236; Kraut 2000, 16; Weiss 2005, 88; Long 2006, 65; McPherran 2011, 125), whether or not this is meant as yet a different category. At any rate, Socrates is almost universally characterized as "obeying" or being "persuaded/dissuaded" by the daimonion.

[53] To his credit, Partridge 2008 seems to acknowledge the possibility of the sort of account I offer here. However, he rejects it, arguing (296) that the idea that the daimonion "is merely an arresting experience" is not compatible with even a "qualified rationalism" for Socrates (which Partridge cleaves to). Consequently, he himself accepts "something like a twinge theory" (297), according to which the daimonion "unsettles him momentarily" (305). And so Partridge attempts to answer such questions as: "why Socrates did not view it as a gut feeling or his own subconscious sense that an action is inadvisable" (297-298), and how "the subjective experience of an informationally-empty event [c]ould draw his attention to what he was about to do" (300), and "how could Socrates know it was a warning" at its very first occurrence? (304). On my account, this problem of interpretation—an alleged problem for Socrates about how to react to the daimonion—does not even arise, because Socrates' reaction does not require interpretation, inasmuch as it does not involve a decision to react to it. And, as I argue, my account does not conflict with Socrates' Rationalism simply because his Rationalism has to do only with decision making, not purely reflexive action. Partridge does occasionally describe the daimonic phenomenon in ways that may make it seem as though he accepted my account ("his reflexive obedience to the sign" (296), "the sign stops Socrates" (300), "the sign prevents" (302), "the sign stops him in his tracks" (304)). But it is clear that those descriptions are no more literal on Partridge's account than the usual interpretations of the daimonion. In fact, on his account, even Socrates' own "exclusively apotreptic" descriptions are not to be taken literally, as they are based, not on the intrinsic nature of the experience itself, but on "the frequency of the sign's occurrences and the confidence in the regularity of its operation that the frequency supports" (301). Indeed, Partridge explains that at least "for the first few instances of the sign's operation in Socrates' life" it operated "in such a way that it le[ft] reason alone to determine that he ought not to do" what he was about to do (306). Again, on Partridge's account, Socrates experiences just an unsettling "twinge", which may be only "arresting enough" to "simply arouse his curiosity and heighten his self-awareness and awareness of his surroundings. . ." (302). Partridge's Socrates does not experience actual opposition from the daimonion when it occurs; rather, it is only in retrospect that he "would come to see the sign as a warning or opposition" (301, my emphasis).

[54] Some scholars speculate that the daimonion effectively says something like "no" or "stop" (Brickhouse and Smith 1994, 195 and 2000, 248; McPherran 1996, 197, 200, 204-205; Woodruff 2000, 141; Weiss 2005, 87; Long 2006, 67; cf. Vlastos 1991, 283). Brisson is considerably more careful about this than many are (2005, 2), as is Partridge (2008, 287ff.). See note 57 below.

[55] J. Adam 1916, xxviii and Joyal 2005, 107. Jackson reports the metaphorical interpretation as a "common" one in his day (1874, 232), though he himself does not accept it. Erik Wielenberg has brought my attention, in this connection, to C. S. Lewis' remark on human pain: ". . . [P]ain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pain: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world" (2001, chap. 6). Pain would thus also be "a kind of" divine voice, i.e. metaphorically.

[56] There is no reason to interpret "mantikē" here to mean "prophetic skill", as Joyal does (2005, 102). "Mantikē" ("prophetic") is feminine due to its antecedent: the "phōnē" ("voice") of Apol. 31d3. That the term refers simply to his "sign", and not a "skill" or "power", is further corroborated by the symmetry between "hē eiōthuia moi mantikē" at Apol. 40a and "to eiōthos sēmeion" at Apol. 40c, Euthyd. 272e, and Phaedr. 242b. Cf. Brisson 2005, 3.

[57] Brisson concludes that, though Socrates' "acoustic" sign is "equivalent to something like 'mē', 'do not'" (2005, 2), it does not constitute "articulated discourse" (11). Indeed, the daimonion "manifests" or "reveals a prohibition through the intermediary of a sign" (11), but presumably, according to Brisson, only because Socrates, using his powers of reasoning, may regard it thus (12). This part of Brisson's account seems plausible enough to me, though I cannot accept his broader conclusions. Likewise, I agree wholeheartedly with Partridge 2008 in concluding that Socrates only "came to view" the daimonion "as" a warning, though I cannot accept Partridge's broader conclusions. See my notes 49 and 53 above.

[58] We might here recall Socrates' view that the Homeric poems were not really spoken by Homer (Ion 534d), that they are "not human" or even "from human" but "godly and from gods" (534e). So it may well be said that the actions that the daimonion causes are not strictly speaking Socrates' actions, that the actions—like the daimonion that causes them—are not human or from human but "godly" (cf. Apol. 31c) and "from god" (cf. Apol. 40b). Similarly, it looks as though Socrates is genuinely "mindless" in his daimonic behavior, just as the poets and Corybantic dancers are when they make poetry and dance (Ion 534a). So one might think that Socrates "seems to hear" (Phaedr. 242c) a voice in the very sense that the Corybantes "seem to hear the auloi" (Crito 54d), as both respond helplessly. These parallels are interesting and telling, but not to be taken too far: McPherran is certainly right that Socrates never describes himself as "having a god in" him or being "possessed" by a god, as he sometimes characterizes poets and Bacchic dancers. McPherran, however, goes too far in concluding that Socrates' daimonic experiences cannot even have involved the "replacement" of consciousness that the poetic and Corybantic experiences do (1996, 195-196).

[59] Think: "Divine Order" and "Public Service/Private Sacrifice".

[60] The connection between the two propositions has not been sufficiently appreciated by scholars who are unwilling to accept DO whole-heartedly but who appear to take quite seriously the idea (PS) that Socrates' real mission is largely one of public service, rather than (as I believe) largely self-centered. These include Reeve 1989, 72 and 155, Vlastos 1991, 177, Stokes 1992, 62ff., and McPherran 1996, 222. Weiss (1998, 13) and Nehamas (1999, xxx-xxxi) see quite well that PS cannot be taken any more seriously than DO, though Weiss seems to lose sight of this in her 2006 analysis of the Apology (see my note 9 above).

[61] We do of course in the Phaedo hear of the "exhortation" that "continually" comes to Socrates in his dreams to "make and work at music" (60e). But this apparent exception actually proves the rule: For one thing, Socrates' (alleged) point in mentioning his dream exhortation is that, after so many years, he is not even sure that he was "conceiving" it correctly, as he now says he thinks it may well have meant "popular" music, and not philosophy. Also, he makes it fairly plain that, if the dream was exhorting him to philosophize, it was exhorting him to do "the very thing" that he "was [already] doing"; indeed, he reiterates this three times in the brief passage (60e7-8, 61a2, 61a4). So at most he was philosophizing only in accordance with the dream's orders, and not on its orders. Likewise, nothing more is implied by the similar reference in the Apology to divine orders transmitted in dreams (and other "divinations") (33c).

[62] As I explained earlier, some commentators mistakenly interpret logos broadly enough to include such things as the oracle (Brickhouse and Smith 1994, McPherran 1996).

[63] The argument at 31a-c seems to be of this sort:
1. I have some rational account for my behavior only if I attend to my own things.
2. I attend to my own things only if I am not poor as a result of my behavior.
3. I am poor as a result of my behavior.
Therefore, 4. I have no rational account for my behavior.
Therefore, 5. My behavior is not human, but divinely inspired.
Of course Socrates does not really accept premise (2), and so cannot accept the "proof".

[64] Note also the incredulous exclamation that he anticipates (28b3-5) one of his judges making in reaction to his account of his peculiar "practice". The imagined judge could hardly expect Socrates to be "ashamed" of his purpose if the judge accepted it as a genuinely divine one.

[65] At 30e2-3 Socrates again concedes that his account might sound "laughable". (J. Adam (1916, 86) and Burnet (1924, 126) suggest that "laughable" refers specifically to the gadfly simile. There is, however, no compelling reason to interpret the remark so narrowly.)

[66] Furthermore, they add, ". . . Socrates has not undertaken to test elentically whether testing elentically is worthy, and found it to pass the test. . . . Therefore, his confidence in the value of his mission cannot derive from elentic justification" (105). The idea that Socrates' commitment to the method and practice of philosophy (at least in the Apology) is primarily due to the divine order inferred from the oracle, rather than to his own independent judgment, is also accepted by many recent commentators, including Kraut 1984, 15, 238; Kahn 1996, 96-97; Benson 2000, 248; Hatzistavrou 2005, 94-95; Forster 2007, 11, Partridge 2008, 290 n. 19. Kahn, however, in light of Crito 46b, argues (perhaps uniquely) that Plato depicts a fundamentally different Socrates in the Crito than the "deeply religious" Socrates we find in the Apology (1996, 88ff., 97).

[67] Stokes also argues that certain features of the oracle story suggest that Socrates had already understood what the oracle story is supposed to have taught him (1992, 69-70); and Stokes argues (61-67), as I do, that Socrates had reasons for his "mission" that were entirely independent of the oracle. But Stokes' account of Socrates' real mission, and of the purpose of the oracle story, is rather different from mine.

[68] He does say that the craftsmen's immodesty—thinking they know things they do not ("the greatest things")—"conceals" the craft-wisdom they do have (22d8-e1). This could suggest that their craft-wisdom would indeed make them overall wiser than Socrates, were it not for their immodesty. But such an interpretation conflicts with his conclusion that all human wisdom is worth "nothing". The false dilemma of Apol. 22e1-4 may somewhat obscure the point. But plainly Socrates never takes interest in the clear, but unmentioned, option of keeping his modesty while adding craft-wisdom. (We surely are not to think that craft-knowledge inherently comes along with immodesty. Gorg. 511d-512b gives an example of a craftsman free of the conceit highlighted at Apol. 22d-e.)

[69] Nor could the oracle's prima facie meaning, together with his own lack of craft-knowledge, have given him sufficient confidence for ignoring craft-wisdom. After all, if he were at that point as yet uncertain that the oracle's prima facie meaning was its true meaning, how could he at that time have been confident in dismissing craft-wisdom as irrelevant, especially since "sophia" was commonly used to refer to craft-knowledge?

[70] So I disagree with Stokes that we find at 29d-30b "far more positive content" than earlier in the dialogue (1992, 75).

[71] For this reason alone, we must reject McPherran's proposal that, before Socrates allegedly discovered the oracle's meaning, the value that he found in philosophy was "significantly qualified by ordinary prudential considerations", e.g. about "money and leisure" (1996, 222). Another, more powerful consideration against McPherran's interpretation is that the relative values that Socrates himself places on philosophy on the one hand and those "external goods" on the other are precisely the values he believes everyone should place upon them, as his habitual exhortations make plain. Thus his philosophical obligations are in no way "special".

[72] This, I assume, is what makes Weiss say that "to obey the god and to act according to one's own reasoned conclusions about what justice requires are, at bottom, the same thing" (1998, 11; cf. 17 n. 28; also cf. her 2005, 85-86).

[73] Reeve (1989, 71), Vlastos (1991, 171-172), and Stokes (1992, 48) too think the speculative terms are significant.

[74] Since (as I have tried to show) the substance of the oracle story and Socrates' own framing and commentary provide his audience ample opportunity to see that he cannot have meant it seriously, we need not worry that Socrates would scruple to speak "ironically on a matter of substance" in this instance. So Brickhouse and Smith's concerns about ironic interpretations (1989, 40ff. and 89-90) simply do not apply here because he does not "risk being intentionally misleading". The fact that Socrates repeatedly voices doubt in his ability to give a "full" defense of himself "in so brief a time" (19a, 24a, 37a-b) is further indication that Socrates was not (pace Brickhouse and Smith) overly concerned about producing an "effective" defense.

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