The Republic Book 10 - Plato

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OF THE many excellences which I perceive in the order of our State, 
there is none which upon reflection pleases me better than the rule 
about poetry. 
To what do you refer? 
To the rejection of imitative poetry, which certainly ought 
not to be received; as I see far more clearly now that the parts 
of the soul have been distinguished. 
What do you mean? 
Speaking in confidence, for I should not like to have my words 
repeated to the tragedians and the rest of the imitative tribe-- 
but I do not mind saying to you, that all poetical imitations are 
ruinous to the understanding of the hearers, and that the knowledge 
of their true nature is the only antidote to them. 
Explain the purport of your remark. 
Well, I will tell you, although I have always from my earliest youth 
had an awe and love of Homer, which even now makes the words falter 
on my lips, for he is the great captain and teacher of the whole 
of that charming tragic company; but a man is not to be reverenced 
more than the truth, and therefore I will speak out. 
Very good, he said. 
Listen to me then, or rather, answer me. 
Put your question. 
Can you tell me what imitation is? for I really do not know. 
A likely thing, then, that I should know. 
Why not? for the duller eye may often see a thing sooner than 
the keener. 
Very true, he said; but in your presence, even if I had any faint notion, 
I could not muster courage to utter it. Will you enquire yourself? 
Well then, shall we begin the enquiry in our usual manner: 
Whenever a number of individuals have a common name, we assume them 
to have also a corresponding idea or form. Do you understand me? 
I do. 
Let us take any common instance; there are beds and tables in the world-- 
plenty of them, are there not? 
But there are only two ideas or forms of them--one the idea of a bed, 
the other of a table. 
And the maker of either of them makes a bed or he makes a table for our use, 
in accordance with the idea--that is our way of speaking in this 
and similar instances--but no artificer makes the ideas themselves: 
how could he? 
And there is another artist,--I should like to know what you would 
say of him. 
Who is he? 
One who is the maker of all the works of all other workmen. 
What an extraordinary man! 
Wait a little, and there will be more reason for your saying so. 
For this is he who is able to make not only vessels of every kind, 
but plants and animals, himself and all other things--the earth 
and heaven, and the things which are in heaven or under the earth; 
he makes the gods also. 
He must be a wizard and no mistake. 
Oh! you are incredulous, are you? Do you mean that there is no 
such maker or creator, or that in one sense there might be a maker 
of all these things but in another not? Do you see that there 
is a way in which you could make them all yourself? 
What way? 
An easy way enough; or rather, there are many ways in which the feat 
might be quickly and easily accomplished, none quicker than that of 
turning a mirror round and round--you would soon enough make the sun 
and the heavens, and the earth and yourself, and other animals and plants, 
and all the, other things of which we were just now speaking, in the mirror. 
Yes, he said; but they would be appearances only. 
Very good, I said, you are coming to the point now. And the painter 
too is, as I conceive, just such another--a creator of appearances, 
is he not? 
Of course. 
But then I suppose you will say that what he creates is untrue. 
And yet there is a sense in which the painter also creates a bed? 
Yes, he said, but not a real bed. 
And what of the maker of the bed? Were you not saying that he too makes, 
not the idea which, according to our view, is the essence of the bed, 
but only a particular bed? 
Yes, I did. 
Then if he does not make that which exists he cannot make true existence, 
but only some semblance of existence; and if any one were to say 
that the work of the maker of the bed, or of any other workman, 
has real existence, he could hardly be supposed to be speaking 
the truth. 
At any rate, he replied, philosophers would say that he was not 
speaking the truth. 
No wonder, then, that his work too is an indistinct expression 
of truth. 
No wonder. 
Suppose now that by the light of the examples just offered we 
enquire who this imitator is? 
If you please. 
Well then, here are three beds: one existing in nature, which is made 
by God, as I think that we may say--for no one else can be the maker? 
There is another which is the work of the carpenter? 
And the work of the painter is a third? 
Beds, then, are of three kinds, and there are three artists 
who superintend them: God, the maker of the bed, and the painter? 
Yes, there are three of them. 
God, whether from choice or from necessity, made one bed in nature 
and one only; two or more such ideal beds neither ever have been 
nor ever will be made by God. 
Why is that? 
Because even if He had made but two, a third would still appear 
behind them which both of them would have for their idea, 
and that would be the ideal bed and the two others. 
Very true, he said. 
God knew this, and He desired to be the real maker of a real bed, 
not a particular maker of a particular bed, and therefore He created 
a bed which is essentially and by nature one only. 
So we believe. 
Shall we, then, speak of Him as the natural author or maker of the bed? 
Yes, he replied; inasmuch as by the natural process of creation He 
is the author of this and of all other things. 
And what shall we say of the carpenter--is not he also the maker 
of the bed? 
But would you call the painter a creator and maker? 
Certainly not. 
Yet if he is not the maker, what is he in relation to the bed? 
I think, he said, that we may fairly designate him as the imitator 
of that which the others make. 
Good, I said; then you call him who is third in the descent from 
nature an imitator? 
Certainly, he said. 
And the tragic poet is an imitator, and therefore, like all 
other imitators, he is thrice removed from the king and from the truth? 
That appears to be so. 
Then about the imitator we are agreed. And what about the painter?-- 
I would like to know whether he may be thought to imitate that which 
originally exists in nature, or only the creations of artists? 
The latter. 
As they are or as they appear? You have still to determine this. 
What do you mean? 
I mean, that you may look at a bed from different points of view, 
obliquely or directly or from any other point of view, and the bed 
will appear different, but there is no difference in reality. 
And the same of all things. 
Yes, he said, the difference is only apparent. 
Now let me ask you another question: Which is the art of painting 
designed to be--an imitation of things as they are, or as they appear-- 
of appearance or of reality? 
Of appearance. 
Then the imitator, I said, is a long way off the truth, and can 
do all things because he lightly touches on a small part of them, 
and that part an image. For example: A painter will paint a cobbler, 
carpenter, or any other artist, though he knows nothing of their arts; 
and, if he is a good artist, he may deceive children or simple persons, 
when he shows them his picture of a carpenter from a distance, 
and they will fancy that they are looking at a real carpenter. 
And whenever any one informs us that he has found a man knows 
all the arts, and all things else that anybody knows, and every 
single thing with a higher degree of accuracy than any other man-- 
whoever tells us this, I think that we can only imagine to be a 
simple creature who is likely to have been deceived by some wizard 
or actor whom he met, and whom he thought all-knowing, because he 
himself was unable to analyse the nature of knowledge and ignorance 
and imitation. 
Most true. 
And so, when we hear persons saying that the tragedians, and Homer, 
who is at their head, know all the arts and all things human, 
virtue as well as vice, and divine things too, for that the good 
poet cannot compose well unless he knows his subject, and that he 
who has not this knowledge can never be a poet, we ought to 
consider whether here also there may not be a similar illusion. 
Perhaps they may have come across imitators and been deceived by them; 
they may not have remembered when they saw their works that these were 
but imitations thrice removed from the truth, and could easily be made 
without any knowledge of the truth, because they are appearances 
only and not realities? Or, after all, they may be in the right, 
and poets do really know the things about which they seem to the many 
to speak so well? 
The question, he said, should by all means be considered. 
Now do you suppose that if a person were able to make the original 
as well as the image, he would seriously devote himself to the 
image-making branch? Would he allow imitation to be the ruling 
principle of his life, as if he had nothing higher in him? 
I should say not. 
The real artist, who knew what he was imitating, would be interested 
in realities and not in imitations; and would desire to leave 
as memorials of himself works many and fair; and, instead of being 
the author of encomiums, he would prefer to be the theme of them. 
Yes, he said, that would be to him a source of much greater honour 
and profit. 
Then, I said, we must put a question to Homer; not about medicine, 
or any of the arts to which his poems only incidentally refer: 
we are not going to ask him, or any other poet, whether he has cured 
patients like Asclepius, or left behind him a school of medicine 
such as the Asclepiads were, or whether he only talks about medicine 
and other arts at second hand; but we have a right to know respecting 
military tactics, politics, education, which are the chiefest and 
noblest subjects of his poems, and we may fairly ask him about them. 
`Friend Homer,' then we say to him, `if you are only in the second 
remove from truth in what you say of virtue, and not in the third-- 
not an image maker or imitator--and if you are able to discern 
what pursuits make men better or worse in private or public life, 
tell us what State was ever better governed by your help? 
The good order of Lacedaemon is due to Lycurgus, and many other 
cities great and small have been similarly benefited by others; 
but who says that you have been a good legislator to them and 
have done them any good? Italy and Sicily boast of Charondas, 
and there is Solon who is renowned among us; but what city 
has anything to say about you?' Is there any city which he 
might name? 
I think not, said Glaucon; not even the Homerids themselves pretend 
that he was a legislator. 
Well, but is there any war on record which was carried on successfully 
by him, or aided by his counsels, when he was alive? 
There is not. 
Or is there any invention of his, applicable to the arts or to 
human life, such as Thales the Milesian or Anacharsis the Scythian, 
and other ingenious men have conceived, which is attributed to him? 
There is absolutely nothing of the kind. 
But, if Homer never did any public service, was he privately 
a guide or teacher of any? Had he in his lifetime friends 
who loved to associate with him, and who handed down to posterity 
an Homeric way of life, such as was established by Pythagoras 
who was so greatly beloved for his wisdom, and whose followers 
are to this day quite celebrated for the order which was named after him? 
Nothing of the kind is recorded of him. For surely, Socrates, Creophylus, 
the companion of Homer, that child of flesh, whose name always makes us laugh, 
might be more justly ridiculed for his stupidity, if, as is said, Homer 
was greatly neglected by him and others in his own day when he was alive? 
Yes, I replied, that is the tradition. But can you imagine, Glaucon, 
that if Homer had really been able to educate and improve mankind-- 
if he had possessed knowledge and not been a mere imitator--can you imagine, 
I say, that he would not have had many followers, and been honoured 
and loved by them? Protagoras of Abdera, and Prodicus of Ceos, 
and a host of others, have only to whisper to their contemporaries: 
`You will never be able to manage either your own house or your own 
State until you appoint us to be your ministers of education'-- 
and this ingenious device of theirs has such an effect in making 
them love them that their companions all but carry them about on 
their shoulders. And is it conceivable that the contemporaries 
of Homer, or again of Hesiod, would have allowed either of them 
to go about as rhapsodists, if they had really been able to make 
mankind virtuous? Would they not have been as unwilling to part 
with them as with gold, and have compelled them to stay at home 
with them? Or, if the master would not stay, then the disciples 
would have followed him about everywhere, until they had got 
education enough? 
Yes, Socrates, that, I think, is quite true. 
Then must we not infer that all these poetical individuals, 
beginning with Homer, are only imitators; they copy images 
of virtue and the like, but the truth they never reach? The poet 
is like a painter who, as we have already observed, will make 
a likeness of a cobbler though he understands nothing of cobbling; 
and his picture is good enough for those who know no more than he does, 
and judge only by colours and figures. 
Quite so. 
In like manner the poet with his words and phrases may be said 
to lay on the colours of the several arts, himself understanding 
their nature only enough to imitate them; and other people, 
who are as ignorant as he is, and judge only from his words, 
imagine that if he speaks of cobbling, or of military tactics, 
or of anything else, in metre and harmony and rhythm, he speaks very well-- 
such is the sweet influence which melody and rhythm by nature have. 
And I think that you must have observed again and again what a poor 
appearance the tales of poets make when stripped of the colours which 
music puts upon them, and recited in simple prose. 
Yes, he said. 
They are like faces which were never really beautiful, but only blooming; 
and now the bloom of youth has passed away from them? 
Here is another point: The imitator or maker of the image 
knows nothing of true existence; he knows appearances only. 
Am I not right? 
Then let us have a clear understanding, and not be satisfied 
with half an explanation. 
Of the painter we say that he will paint reins, and he will paint 
a bit? 
And the worker in leather and brass will make them? 
But does the painter know the right form of the bit and reins? 
Nay, hardly even the workers in brass and leather who make them; 
only the horseman who knows how to use them--he knows their 
right form. 
Most true. 
And may we not say the same of all things? 
That there are three arts which are concerned with all things: 
one which uses, another which makes, a third which imitates them? 
And the excellence or beauty or truth of every structure, 
animate or inanimate, and of every action of man, is relative 
to the use for which nature or the artist has intended them. 
Then the user of them must have the greatest experience of them, 
and he must indicate to the maker the good or bad qualities which 
develop themselves in use; for example, the flute-player will tell 
the flute-maker which of his flutes is satisfactory to the performer; 
he will tell him how he ought to make them, and the other will attend 
to his instructions? 
Of course. 
The one knows and therefore speaks with authority about the goodness 
and badness of flutes, while the other, confiding in him, 
will do what he is told by him? 
The instrument is the same, but about the excellence or badness 
of it the maker will only attain to a correct belief; and this he 
will gain from him who knows, by talking to him and being compelled 
to hear what he has to say, whereas the user will have knowledge? 
But will the imitator have either? Will he know from use whether 
or no his drawing is correct or beautiful? Or will he have right 
opinion from being compelled to associate with another who knows 
and gives him instructions about what he should draw? 
Then he will no more have true opinion than he will have knowledge 
about the goodness or badness of his imitations? 
I suppose not. 
The imitative artist will be in a brilliant state of intelligence 
about his own creations? 
Nay, very much the reverse. 
And still he will go on imitating without knowing what makes 
a thing good or bad, and may be expected therefore to imitate 
only that which appears to be good to the ignorant multitude? 
Just so. 
Thus far then we are pretty well agreed that the imitator has no 
knowledge worth mentioning of what he imitates. Imitation is only 
a kind of play or sport, and the tragic poets, whether they write 
in iambic or in Heroic verse, are imitators in the highest degree? 
Very true. 
And now tell me, I conjure you, has not imitation been shown by us 
to be concerned with that which is thrice removed from the truth? 
And what is the faculty in man to which imitation is addressed? 
What do you mean? 
I will explain: The body which is large when seen near, 
appears small when seen at a distance? 
And the same object appears straight when looked at out of the water, 
and crooked when in the water; and the concave becomes convex, 
owing to the illusion about colours to which the sight is liable. 
Thus every sort of confusion is revealed within us; and this is 
that weakness of the human mind on which the art of conjuring and of 
deceiving by light and shadow and other ingenious devices imposes, 
having an effect upon us like magic. 
And the arts of measuring and numbering and weighing come to 
the rescue of the human understanding-there is the beauty of them-- 
and the apparent greater or less, or more or heavier, no longer 
have the mastery over us, but give way before calculation and measure 
and weight? 
Most true. 
And this, surely, must be the work of the calculating and rational 
principle in the soul 
To be sure. 
And when this principle measures and certifies that some things 
are equal, or that some are greater or less than others, there occurs 
an apparent contradiction? 
But were we not saying that such a contradiction is the same faculty 
cannot have contrary opinions at the same time about the same thing? 
Very true. 
Then that part of the soul which has an opinion contrary to measure 
is not the same with that which has an opinion in accordance 
with measure? 
And the better part of the soul is likely to be that which trusts 
to measure and calculation? 
And that which is opposed to them is one of the inferior principles 
of the soul? 
No doubt. 
This was the conclusion at which I was seeking to arrive when I 
said that painting or drawing, and imitation in general, when doing 
their own proper work, are far removed from truth, and the companions 
and friends and associates of a principle within us which is equally 
removed from reason, and that they have no true or healthy aim. 
The imitative art is an inferior who marries an inferior, and has 
inferior offspring. 
Very true. 
And is this confined to the sight only, or does it extend 
to the hearing also, relating in fact to what we term poetry? 
Probably the same would be true of poetry. 
Do not rely, I said, on a probability derived from the analogy 
of painting; but let us examine further and see whether the faculty 
with which poetical imitation is concerned is good or bad. 
By all means. 
We may state the question thus:--Imitation imitates the actions of men, 
whether voluntary or involuntary, on which, as they imagine, a good 
or bad result has ensued, and they rejoice or sorrow accordingly. 
Is there anything more? 
No, there is nothing else. 
But in all this variety of circumstances is the man at unity 
with himself--or rather, as in the instance of sight there was 
confusion and opposition in his opinions about the same things, 
so here also is there not strife and inconsistency in his life? 
Though I need hardly raise the question again, for I remember that all 
this has been already admitted; and the soul has been acknowledged 
by us to be full of these and ten thousand similar oppositions 
occurring at the same moment? 
And we were right, he said. 
Yes, I said, thus far we were right; but there was an omission 
which must now be supplied. 
What was the omission? 
Were we not saying that a good man, who has the misfortune to lose 
his son or anything else which is most dear to him, will bear 
the loss with more equanimity than another? 
But will he have no sorrow, or shall we say that although he cannot 
help sorrowing, he will moderate his sorrow? 
The latter, he said, is the truer statement. 
Tell me: will he be more likely to struggle and hold out against 
his sorrow when he is seen by his equals, or when he is alone? 
It will make a great difference whether he is seen or not. 
When he is by himself he will not mind saying or doing many things 
which he would be ashamed of any one hearing or seeing him do? 
There is a principle of law and reason in him which bids him resist, 
as well as a feeling of his misfortune which is forcing him to indulge 
his sorrow? 
But when a man is drawn in two opposite directions, to and 
from the same object, this, as we affirm, necessarily implies 
two distinct principles in him? 
One of them is ready to follow the guidance of the law? 
How do you mean? 
The law would say that to be patient under suffering is best, 
and that we should not give way to impatience, as there is no 
knowing whether such things are good or evil; and nothing is gained 
by impatience; also, because no human thing is of serious importance, 
and grief stands in the way of that which at the moment is most required. 
What is most required? he asked. 
That we should take counsel about what has happened, and when 
the dice have been thrown order our affairs in the way which reason 
deems best; not, like children who have had a fall, keeping hold 
of the part struck and wasting time in setting up a howl, but always 
accustoming the soul forthwith to apply a remedy, raising up that 
which is sickly and fallen, banishing the cry of sorrow by the healing art. 
Yes, he said, that is the true way of meeting the attacks of fortune. 
Yes, I said; and the higher principle is ready to follow this 
suggestion of reason? 
And the other principle, which inclines us to recollection of our 
troubles and to lamentation, and can never have enough of them, 
we may call irrational, useless, and cowardly? 
Indeed, we may. 
And does not the latter--I mean the rebellious principle-- 
furnish a great variety of materials for imitation? Whereas the wise 
and calm temperament, being always nearly equable, is not easy 
to imitate or to appreciate when imitated, especially at a public 
festival when a promiscuous crowd is assembled in a theatre. 
For the feeling represented is one to which they are strangers. 
Then the imitative poet who aims at being popular is not by nature made, 
nor is his art intended, to please or to affect the principle 
in the soul; but he will prefer the passionate and fitful temper, 
which is easily imitated? 
And now we may fairly take him and place him by the side of the painter, 
for he is like him in two ways: first, inasmuch as his creations 
have an inferior degree of truth--in this, I say, he is like him; 
and he is also like him in being concerned with an inferior 
part of the soul; and therefore we shall be right in refusing 
to admit him into a well-ordered State, because he awakens and 
nourishes and strengthens the feelings and impairs the reason. 
As in a city when the evil are permitted to have authority 
and the good are put out of the way, so in the soul of man, 
as we maintain, the imitative poet implants an evil constitution, 
for he indulges the irrational nature which has no discernment 
of greater and less, but thinks the same thing at one time great 
and at another small-he is a manufacturer of images and is very far 
removed from the truth. 
But we have not yet brought forward the heaviest count in our accusation:-- 
the power which poetry has of harming even the good (and there 
are very few who are not harmed), is surely an awful thing? 
Yes, certainly, if the effect is what you say. 
Hear and judge: The best of us, as I conceive, when we listen 
to a passage of Homer, or one of the tragedians, in which he 
represents some pitiful hero who is drawling out his sorrows in a 
long oration, or weeping, and smiting his breast--the best of us, 
you know, delight in giving way to sympathy, and are in raptures 
at the excellence of the poet who stirs our feelings most. 
Yes, of course I know. 
But when any sorrow of our own happens to us, then you may observe 
that we pride ourselves on the opposite quality--we would fain be quiet 
and patient; this is the manly part, and the other which delighted 
us in the recitation is now deemed to be the part of a woman. 
Very true, he said. 
Now can we be right in praising and admiring another who is doing 
that which any one of us would abominate and be ashamed of in his 
own person? 
No, he said, that is certainly not reasonable. 
Nay, I said, quite reasonable from one point of view. 
What point of view? 
If you consider, I said, that when in misfortune we feel a natural 
hunger and desire to relieve our sorrow by weeping and lamentation, 
and that this feeling which is kept under control in our own 
calamities is satisfied and delighted by the poets;-the better 
nature in each of us, not having been sufficiently trained 
by reason or habit, allows the sympathetic element to break 
loose because the sorrow is another's; and the spectator fancies 
that there can be no disgrace to himself in praising and pitying 
any one who comes telling him what a good man he is, and making 
a fuss about his troubles; he thinks that the pleasure is a gain, 
and why should he be supercilious and lose this and the poem too? 
Few persons ever reflect, as I should imagine, that from the evil 
of other men something of evil is communicated to themselves. 
And so the feeling of sorrow which has gathered strength at the sight 
of the misfortunes of others is with difficulty repressed in 
our own. 
How very true! 
And does not the same hold also of the ridiculous? There are jests 
which you would be ashamed to make yourself, and yet on the comic stage, 
or indeed in private, when you hear them, you are greatly amused 
by them, and are not at all disgusted at their unseemliness;-- 
the case of pity is repeated;--there is a principle in human nature 
which is disposed to raise a laugh, and this which you once restrained 
by reason, because you were afraid of being thought a buffoon, 
is now let out again; and having stimulated the risible faculty 
at the theatre, you are betrayed unconsciously to yourself into 
playing the comic poet at home. 
Quite true, he said. 
And the same may be said of lust and anger and all the other affections, 
of desire and pain and pleasure, which are held to be inseparable 
from every action--in all of them poetry feeds and waters the passions 
instead of drying them up; she lets them rule, although they ought 
to be controlled, if mankind are ever to increase in happiness and virtue. 
I cannot deny it. 
Therefore, Glaucon, I said, whenever you meet with any of the eulogists 
of Homer declaring that he has been the educator of Hellas, and that he 
is profitable for education and for the ordering of human things, 
and that you should take him up again and again and get to know him 
and regulate your whole life according to him, we may love and honour 
those who say these things--they are excellent people, as far as 
their lights extend; and we are ready to acknowledge that Homer is 
the greatest of poets and first of tragedy writers; but we must remain 
firm in our conviction that hymns to the gods and praises of famous 
men are the only poetry which ought to be admitted into our State. 
For if you go beyond this and allow the honeyed muse to enter, 
either in epic or lyric verse, not law and the reason of mankind, 
which by common consent have ever been deemed best, but pleasure 
and pain will be the rulers in our State. 
That is most true, he said. 
And now since we have reverted to the subject of poetry, let this 
our defence serve to show the reasonableness of our former judgment 
in sending away out of our State an art having the tendencies 
which we have described; for reason constrained us. But that she 
may impute to us any harshness or want of politeness, let us tell 
her that there is an ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry; 
of which there are many proofs, such as the saying of `the yelping 
hound howling at her lord,' or of one `mighty in the vain talk 
of fools,' and `the mob of sages circumventing Zeus,' and the `subtle 
thinkers who are beggars after all'; and there are innumerable 
other signs of ancient enmity between them. Notwithstanding this, 
let us assure our sweet friend and the sister arts of imitation 
that if she will only prove her title to exist in a well-ordered 
State we shall be delighted to receive her--we are very conscious 
of her charms; but we may not on that account betray the truth. 
I dare say, Glaucon, that you are as much charmed by her as I am, 
especially when she appears in Homer? 
Yes, indeed, I am greatly charmed. 
Shall I propose, then, that she be allowed to return from exile, 
but upon this condition only--that she make a defence of herself 
in lyrical or some other metre? 
And we may further grant to those of her defenders who are lovers of poetry 
and yet not poets the permission to speak in prose on her behalf: 
let them show not only that she is pleasant but also useful to 
States and to human life, and we will listen in a kindly spirit; 
for if this can be proved we shall surely be the gainers--I mean, 
if there is a use in poetry as well as a delight? 
Certainly, he said, we shall the gainers. 
If her defence fails, then, my dear friend, like other persons 
who are enamoured of something, but put a restraint upon themselves 
when they think their desires are opposed to their interests, 
so too must we after the manner of lovers give her up, 
though not without a struggle. We too are inspired by that love 
of poetry which the education of noble States has implanted in us, 
and therefore we would have her appear at her best and truest; 
but so long as she is unable to make good her defence, 
this argument of ours shall be a charm to us, which we will repeat 
to ourselves while we listen to her strains; that we may not fall 
away into the childish love of her which captivates the many. 
At all events we are well aware that poetry being such as we have 
described is not to be regarded seriously as attaining to the truth; 
and he who listens to her, fearing for the safety of the city which is 
within him, should be on his guard against her seductions and make 
our words his law. 
Yes, he said, I quite agree with you. 
Yes, I said, my dear Glaucon, for great is the issue at stake, 
greater than appears, whether a man is to be good or bad. 
And what will any one be profited if under the influence of honour 
or money or power, aye, or under the excitement of poetry, he neglect 
justice and virtue? 
Yes, he said; I have been convinced by the argument, as I believe 
that any one else would have been. 
And yet no mention has been made of the greatest prizes and rewards 
which await virtue. 
What, are there any greater still? If there are, they must 
be of an inconceivable greatness. 
Why, I said, what was ever great in a short time? The whole 
period of threescore years and ten is surely but a little thing 
in comparison with eternity? 
Say rather `nothing,' he replied. 
And should an immortal being seriously think of this little space 
rather than of the whole? 
Of the whole, certainly. But why do you ask? 
Are you not aware, I said, that the soul of man is immortal 
and imperishable? 
He looked at me in astonishment, and said: No, by heaven: 
And are you really prepared to maintain this? 
Yes, I said, I ought to be, and you too--there is no difficulty 
in proving it. 
I see a great difficulty; but I should like to hear you state this 
argument of which you make so light. 
Listen then. 
I am attending. 
There is a thing which you call good and another which you call evil? 
Yes, he replied. 
Would you agree with me in thinking that the corrupting and destroying 
element is the evil, and the saving and improving element the good? 
And you admit that every thing has a good and also an evil; 
as ophthalmia is the evil of the eyes and disease of the whole body; 
as mildew is of corn, and rot of timber, or rust of copper and iron: 
in everything, or in almost everything, there is an inherent evil 
and disease? 
Yes, he said. 
And anything which is infected by any of these evils is made evil, 
and at last wholly dissolves and dies? 
The vice and evil which is inherent in each is the destruction of each; 
and if this does not destroy them there is nothing else that will; 
for good certainly will not destroy them, nor again, that which is 
neither good nor evil. 
Certainly not. 
If, then, we find any nature which having this inherent corruption 
cannot be dissolved or destroyed, we may be certain that of such 
a nature there is no destruction? 
That may be assumed. 
Well, I said, and is there no evil which corrupts the soul? 
Yes, he said, there are all the evils which we were just now passing 
in review: unrighteousness, intemperance, cowardice, ignorance. 
But does any of these dissolve or destroy her?--and here do not let 
us fall into the error of supposing that the unjust and foolish man, 
when he is detected, perishes through his own injustice, 
which is an evil of the soul. Take the analogy of the body: 
The evil of the body is a disease which wastes and reduces and 
annihilates the body; and all the things of which we were just 
now speaking come to annihilation through their own corruption 
attaching to them and inhering in them and so destroying them. 
Is not this true? 
Consider the soul in like manner. Does the injustice or other evil 
which exists in the soul waste and consume her? Do they by attaching 
to the soul and inhering in her at last bring her to death, 
and so separate her from the body ? 
Certainly not. 
And yet, I said, it is unreasonable to suppose that anything can 
perish from without through affection of external evil which could 
not be destroyed from within by a corruption of its own? 
It is, he replied. 
Consider, I said, Glaucon, that even the badness of food, 
whether staleness, decomposition, or any other bad quality, 
when confined to the actual food, is not supposed to destroy the body; 
although, if the badness of food communicates corruption to the body, 
then we should say that the body has been destroyed by a corruption 
of itself, which is disease, brought on by this; but that the body, 
being one thing, can be destroyed by the badness of food, 
which is another, and which does not engender any natural infection-- 
this we shall absolutely deny? 
Very true. 
And, on the same principle, unless some bodily evil can produce an evil 
of the soul, we must not suppose that the soul, which is one thing, 
can be dissolved by any merely external evil which belongs to another? 
Yes, he said, there is reason in that. 
Either then, let us refute this conclusion, or, while it 
remains unrefuted, let us never say that fever, or any other disease, 
or the knife put to the throat, or even the cutting up of 
the whole body into the minutest pieces, can destroy the soul, 
until she herself is proved to become more unholy or unrighteous 
in consequence of these things being done to the body; but that 
the soul, or anything else if not destroyed by an internal evil, 
can be destroyed by an external one, is not to. be affirmed by any man. 
And surely, he replied, no one will ever prove that the souls 
of men become more unjust in consequence of death. 
But if some one who would rather not admit the immortality of the soul 
boldly denies this, and says that the dying do really become more 
evil and unrighteous, then, if the speaker is right, I suppose 
that injustice, like disease, must be assumed to be fatal to the unjust, 
and that those who take this disorder die by the natural inherent 
power of destruction which evil has, and which kills them sooner 
or later, but in quite another way from that in which, at present, 
the wicked receive death at the hands of others as the penalty 
of their deeds? 
Nay, he said, in that case injustice, if fatal to the unjust, 
will not be so very terrible to him, for he will be delivered 
from evil. But I rather suspect the opposite to be the truth, 
and that injustice which, if it have the power, will murder others, 
keeps the murderer alive--aye, and well awake too; so far removed is 
her dwelling-place from being a house of death. 
True, I said; if the inherent natural vice or evil of the soul is 
unable to kill or destroy her, hardly will that which is appointed 
to be the destruction of some other body, destroy a soul or anything 
else except that of which it was appointed to be the destruction. 
Yes, that can hardly be. 
But the soul which cannot be destroyed by an evil, whether inherent 
or external, must exist for ever, and if existing for ever, 
must be immortal? 
That is the conclusion, I said; and, if a true conclusion, 
then the souls must always be the same, for if none be destroyed 
they will not diminish in number. Neither will they increase, 
for the increase of the immortal natures must come from something mortal, 
and all things would thus end in immortality. 
Very true. 
But this we cannot believe--reason will not allow us-- 
any more than we can believe the soul, in her truest nature, 
to be full of variety and difference and dissimilarity. 
What do you mean? he said. 
The soul, I said, being, as is now proven, immortal, must be 
the fairest of compositions and cannot be compounded of many elements? 
Certainly not. 
Her immortality is demonstrated by the previous argument, and there 
are many other proofs; but to see her as she really is, not as we 
now behold her, marred by communion with the body and other miseries, 
you must contemplate her with the eye of reason, in her original purity; 
and then her beauty will be revealed, and justice and injustice and all 
the things which we have described will be manifested more clearly. 
Thus far, we have spoken the truth concerning her as she appears 
at present, but we must remember also that we have seen her only 
in a condition which may be compared to that of the sea-god Glaucus, 
whose original image can hardly be discerned because his natural 
members are broken off and crushed and damaged by the waves in all 
sorts of ways, and incrustations have grown over them of seaweed 
and shells and stones, so that he is more like some monster 
than he is to his own natural form. And the soul which we behold 
is in a similar condition, disfigured by ten thousand ills. 
But not there, Glaucon, not there must we look. 
Where then? 
At her love of wisdom. Let us see whom she affects, and what 
society and converse she seeks in virtue of her near kindred 
with the immortal and eternal and divine; also how different 
she would become if wholly following this superior principle, 
and borne by a divine impulse out of the ocean in which she now is, 
and disengaged from the stones and shells and things of earth 
and rock which in wild variety spring up around her because she 
feeds upon earth, and is overgrown by the good things of this life 
as they are termed: then you would see her as she is, and know 
whether she has one shape only or many, or what her nature is. 
Of her affections and of the forms which she takes in this present 
life I think that we have now said enough. 
True, he replied. 
And thus, I said, we have fulfilled the conditions of the argument; 
we have not introduced the rewards and glories of justice, which, as you 
were saying, are to be found in Homer and Hesiod; but justice in her 
own nature has been shown to be best for the soul in her own nature. 
Let a man do what is just, whether he have the ring of Gyges or not, 
and even if in addition to the ring of Gyges he put on the helmet 
of Hades. 
Very true. 
And now, Glaucon, there will be no harm in further enumerating how many 
and how great are the rewards which justice and the other virtues 
procure to the soul from gods and men, both in life and after death. 
Certainly not, he said. 
Will you repay me, then, what you borrowed in the argument? 
What did I borrow? 
The assumption that the just man should appear unjust and the 
unjust just: for you were of opinion that even if the true state 
of the case could not possibly escape the eyes of gods and men, 
still this admission ought to be made for the sake of the argument, 
in order that pure justice might be weighed against pure injustice. 
Do you remember? 
I should be much to blame if I had forgotten. 
Then, as the cause is decided, I demand on behalf of justice that 
the estimation in which she is held by gods and men and which we 
acknowledge to be her due should now be restored to her by us; 
since she has been shown to confer reality, and not to deceive those 
who truly possess her, let what has been taken from her be given back, 
that so she may win that palm of appearance which is hers also, 
and which she gives to her own. 
The demand, he said, is just. 
In the first place, I said--and this is the first thing which you 
will have to give back--the nature both of the just and unjust 
is truly known to the gods. 
And if they are both known to them, one must be the friend and 
the other the enemy of the gods, as we admitted from the beginning? 
And the friend of the gods may be supposed to receive from them all 
things at their best, excepting only such evil as is the necessary 
consequence of former sins? 
Then this must be our notion of the just man, that even when he is 
in poverty or sickness, or any other seeming misfortune, all things 
will in the end work together for good to him in life and death: 
for the gods have a care of any one whose desire is to become just 
and to be like God, as far as man can attain the divine likeness, 
by the pursuit of virtue? 
Yes, he said; if he is like God he will surely not be neglected 
by him. 
And of the unjust may not the opposite be supposed? 
Such, then, are the palms of victory which the gods give the just? 
That is my conviction. 
And what do they receive of men? Look at things as they really are, 
and you will see that the clever unjust are in the case of runners, 
who run well from the starting-place to the goal but not back again 
from the goal: they go off at a great pace, but in the end only 
look foolish, slinking away with their ears draggling on their shoulders, 
and without a crown; but the true runner comes to the finish and 
receives the prize and is crowned. And this is the way with the just; 
he who endures to the end of every action and occasion of his entire 
life has a good report and carries off the prize which men have 
to bestow. 
And now you must allow me to repeat of the just the blessings which 
you were attributing to the fortunate unjust. I shall say of them, 
what you were saying of the others, that as they grow older, 
they become rulers in their own city if they care to be; they marry 
whom they like and give in marriage to whom they will; all that you 
said of the others I now say of these. And, on the other hand, 
of the unjust I say that the greater number, even though they escape 
in their youth, are found out at last and look foolish at the end 
of their course, and when they come to be old and miserable are 
flouted alike by stranger and citizen; they are beaten and then 
come those things unfit for ears polite, as you truly term them; 
they will be racked and have their eyes burned out, as you were saying. 
And you may suppose that I have repeated the remainder of your tale 
of horrors. But will you let me assume, without reciting them, 
that these things are true? 
Certainly, he said, what you say is true. 
These, then, are the prizes and rewards and gifts which are bestowed 
upon the just by gods and men in this present life, in addition 
to the other good things which justice of herself provides. 
Yes, he said; and they are fair and lasting. 
And yet, I said, all these are as nothing, either in number or 
greatness in comparison with those other recompenses which await 
both just and unjust after death. And you ought to hear them, 
and then both just and unjust will have received from us a full 
payment of the debt which the argument owes to them. 
Speak, he said; there are few things which I would more gladly hear. 
Well, I said, I will tell you a tale; not one of the tales 
which Odysseus tells to the hero Alcinous, yet this too is a tale 
of a hero, Er the son of Armenius, a Pamphylian by birth. 
He was slain in battle, and ten days afterwards, when the bodies 
of the dead were taken up already in a state of corruption, his body 
was found unaffected by decay, and carried away home to be buried. 
And on the twelfth day, as he was lying on the funeral pile, 
he returned to life and told them what he had seen in the other world. 
He said that when his soul left the body he went on a journey 
with a great company, and that they came to a mysterious place at 
which there were two openings in the earth; they were near together, 
and over against them were two other openings in the heaven above. 
In the intermediate space there were judges seated, who commanded 
the just, after they had given judgment on them and had bound 
their sentences in front of them, to ascend by the heavenly way 
on the right hand; and in like manner the unjust were bidden 
by them to descend by the lower way on the left hand; these also 
bore the symbols of their deeds, but fastened on their backs. 
He drew near, and they told him that he was to be the messenger 
who would carry the report of the other world to men, and they bade 
him hear and see all that was to be heard and seen in that place. 
Then he beheld and saw on one side the souls departing at either 
opening of heaven and earth when sentence had been given on them; 
and at the two other openings other souls, some ascending 
out of the earth dusty and worn with travel, some descending 
out of heaven clean and bright. And arriving ever and anon they 
seemed to have come from a long journey, and they went forth with 
gladness into the meadow, where they encamped as at a festival; 
and those who knew one another embraced and conversed, the souls 
which came from earth curiously enquiring about the things above, 
and the souls which came from heaven about the things beneath. 
And they told one another of what had happened by the way, 
those from below weeping and sorrowing at the remembrance of the things 
which they had endured and seen in their journey beneath the earth 
(now the journey lasted a thousand years), while those from above 
were describing heavenly delights and visions of inconceivable beauty. 
The Story, Glaucon, would take too long to tell; but the sum was this:-- 
He said that for every wrong which they had done to any one they 
suffered tenfold; or once in a hundred years--such being reckoned 
to be the length of man's life, and the penalty being thus paid ten 
times in a thousand years. If, for example, there were any who had been 
the cause of many deaths, or had betrayed or enslaved cities or armies, 
or been guilty of any other evil behaviour, for each and all of their 
offences they received punishment ten times over, and the rewards 
of beneficence and justice and holiness were in the same proportion. 
I need hardly repeat what he said concerning young children dying 
almost as soon as they were born. Of piety and impiety to gods 
and parents, and of murderers, there were retributions other and 
greater far which he described. He mentioned that he was present 
when one of the spirits asked another, `Where is Ardiaeus the Great?' 
(Now this Ardiaeus lived a thousand years before the time of Er: 
he had been the tyrant of some city of Pamphylia, and had murdered 
his aged father and his elder brother, and was said to have committed 
many other abominable crimes.) The answer of the other spirit was: 
`He comes not hither and will never come. And this,' said he, 
`was one of the dreadful sights which we ourselves witnessed. 
We were at the mouth of the cavern, and, having completed all 
our experiences, were about to reascend, when of a sudden Ardiaeus 
appeared and several others, most of whom were tyrants; and there 
were also besides the tyrants private individuals who had been 
great criminals: they were just, as they fancied, about to return 
into the upper world, but the mouth, instead of admitting them, 
gave a roar, whenever any of these incurable sinners or some one 
who had not been sufficiently punished tried to ascend; and then 
wild men of fiery aspect, who were standing by and heard the sound, 
seized and carried them off; and Ardiaeus and others they bound head 
and foot and hand, and threw them down and flayed them with scourges, 
and dragged them along the road at the side, carding them on thorns 
like wool, and declaring to the passers-by what were their crimes, 
and that they were being taken away to be cast into hell.' 
And of all the many terrors which they had endured, he said that there 
was none like the terror which each of them felt at that moment, 
lest they should hear the voice; and when there was silence, 
one by one they ascended with exceeding joy. These, said Er, 
were the penalties and retributions, and there were blessings as 
Now when the spirits which were in the meadow had tarried seven days, 
on the eighth they were obliged to proceed on their journey, and, 
on the fourth day after, he said that they came to a place where 
they could see from above a line of light, straight as a column, 
extending right through the whole heaven and through the earth, 
in colour resembling the rainbow, only brighter and purer; 
another day's journey brought them to the place, and there, 
in the midst of the light, they saw the ends of the chains of heaven 
let down from above: for this light is the belt of heaven, 
and holds together the circle of the universe, like the under-girders 
of a trireme. From these ends is extended the spindle of Necessity, 
on which all the revolutions turn. The shaft and hook of this 
spindle are made of steel, and the whorl is made partly of steel 
and also partly of other materials. Now the whorl is in form 
like the whorl used on earth; and the description of it implied 
that there is one large hollow whorl which is quite scooped out, 
and into this is fitted another lesser one, and another, and another, 
and four others, making eight in all, like vessels which fit 
into one another; the whorls show their edges on the upper side, 
and on their lower side all together form one continuous whorl. 
This is pierced by the spindle, which is driven home through the centre 
of the eighth. The first and outermost whorl has the rim broadest, 
and the seven inner whorls are narrower, in the following proportions-- 
the sixth is next to the first in size, the fourth next to the sixth; 
then comes the eighth; the seventh is fifth, the fifth is sixth, 
the third is seventh, last and eighth comes the second. 
The largest (of fixed stars) is spangled, and the seventh (or sun) 
is brightest; the eighth (or moon) coloured by the reflected 
light of the seventh; the second and fifth (Saturn and Mercury) 
are in colour like one another, and yellower than the preceding; 
the third (Venus) has the whitest light; the fourth (Mars) is reddish; 
the sixth (Jupiter) is in whiteness second. Now the whole spindle 
has the same motion; but, as the whole revolves in one direction, 
the seven inner circles move slowly in the other, and of these 
the swiftest is the eighth; next in swiftness are the seventh, 
sixth, and fifth, which move together; third in swiftness appeared 
to move according to the law of this reversed motion the fourth; 
the third appeared fourth and the second fifth. The spindle turns 
on the knees of Necessity; and on the upper surface of each circle 
is a siren, who goes round with them, hymning a single tone or note. 
The eight together form one harmony; and round about, at equal intervals, 
there is another band, three in number, each sitting upon her throne: 
these are the Fates, daughters of Necessity, who are clothed in white 
robes and have chaplets upon their heads, Lachesis and Clotho 
and Atropos, who accompany with their voices the harmony of the sirens-- 
Lachesis singing of the past, Clotho of the present, Atropos of the future; 
Clotho from time to time assisting with a touch of her right hand 
the revolution of the outer circle of the whorl or spindle, and Atropos 
with her left hand touching and guiding the inner ones, and Lachesis 
laying hold of either in turn, first with one hand and then with the 
When Er and the spirits arrived, their duty was to go at once to Lachesis; 
but first of all there came a prophet who arranged them in order; 
then he took from the knees of Lachesis lots and samples 
of lives, and having mounted a high pulpit, spoke as follows: 
`Hear the word of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity. 
Mortal souls, behold a new cycle of life and mortality. 
Your genius will not be allotted to you, but you choose your genius; 
and let him who draws the first lot have the first choice, 
and the life which he chooses shall be his destiny. Virtue is free, 
and as a man honours or dishonours her he will have more or less 
of her; the responsibility is with the chooser--God is justified.' 
When the Interpreter had thus spoken he scattered lots indifferently 
among them all, and each of them took up the lot which fell near him, 
all but Er himself (he was not allowed), and each as he took his lot 
perceived the number which he had obtained. Then the Interpreter 
placed on the ground before them the samples of lives; and there were 
many more lives than the souls present, and they were of all sorts. 
There were lives of every animal and of man in every condition. 
And there were tyrannies among them, some lasting out the tyrant's life, 
others which broke off in the middle and came to an end in poverty 
and exile and beggary; and there were lives of famous men, 
some who were famous for their form and beauty as well as for 
their strength and success in games, or, again, for their birth 
and the qualities of their ancestors; and some who were the reverse 
of famous for the opposite qualities. And of women likewise; 
there was not, however, any definite character them, because the soul, 
when choosing a new life, must of necessity become different. 
But there was every other quality, and the all mingled with one another, 
and also with elements of wealth and poverty, and disease and health; 
and there were mean states also. And here, my dear Glaucon, 
is the supreme peril of our human state; and therefore the utmost 
care should be taken. Let each one of us leave every other kind 
of knowledge and seek and follow one thing only, if peradventure 
he may be able to learn and may find some one who will make him 
able to learn and discern between good and evil, and so to choose 
always and everywhere the better life as he has opportunity. 
He should consider the bearing of all these things which have been 
mentioned severally and collectively upon virtue; he should know 
what the effect of beauty is when combined with poverty or wealth 
in a particular soul, and what are the good and evil consequences 
of noble and humble birth, of private and public station, of strength 
and weakness, of cleverness and dullness, and of all the soul, 
and the operation of them when conjoined; he will then look at the nature 
of the soul, and from the consideration of all these qualities he 
will be able to determine which is the better and which is the worse; 
and so he will choose, giving the name of evil to the life which will 
make his soul more unjust, and good to the life which will make 
his soul more just; all else he will disregard. For we have seen 
and know that this is the best choice both in life and after death. 
A man must take with him into the world below an adamantine faith 
in truth and right, that there too he may be undazzled by the desire 
of wealth or the other allurements of evil, lest, coming upon tyrannies 
and similar villainies, he do irremediable wrongs to others and suffer 
yet worse himself; but let him know how to choose the mean and avoid 
the extremes on either side, as far as possible, not only in this 
life but in all that which is to come. For this is the way of 
And according to the report of the messenger from the other world this 
was what the prophet said at the time: `Even for the last comer, 
if he chooses wisely and will live diligently, there is appointed 
a happy and not undesirable existence. Let not him who chooses first 
be careless, and let not the last despair.' And when he had spoken, 
he who had the first choice came forward and in a moment chose the 
greatest tyranny; his mind having been darkened by folly and sensuality, 
he had not thought out the whole matter before he chose, and did 
not at first sight perceive that he was fated, among other evils, 
to devour his own children. But when he had time to reflect, 
and saw what was in the lot, he began to beat his breast and lament 
over his choice, forgetting the proclamation of the prophet; 
for, instead of throwing the blame of his misfortune on himself, 
he accused chance and the gods, and everything rather than himself. 
Now he was one of those who came from heaven, and in a former life 
had dwelt in a well-ordered State, but his virtue was a matter 
of habit only, and he had no philosophy. And it was true of others 
who were similarly overtaken, that the greater number of them came 
from heaven and therefore they had never been schooled by trial, 
whereas the pilgrims who came from earth, having themselves 
suffered and seen others suffer, were not in a hurry to choose. 
And owing to this inexperience of theirs, and also because the lot 
was a chance, many of the souls exchanged a good destiny for an evil 
or an evil for a good. For if a man had always on his arrival 
in this world dedicated himself from the first to sound philosophy, 
and had been moderately fortunate in the number of the lot, 
he might, as the messenger reported, be happy here, and also his 
journey to another life and return to this, instead of being rough 
and underground, would be smooth and heavenly. Most curious, 
he said, was the spectacle--sad and laughable and strange; 
for the choice of the souls was in most cases based on their experience 
of a previous life. There he saw the soul which had once been Orpheus 
choosing the life of a swan out of enmity to the race of women, 
hating to be born of a woman because they had been his murderers; 
he beheld also the soul of Thamyras choosing the life of a nightingale; 
birds, on the other hand, like the swan and other musicians, 
wanting to be men. The soul which obtained the twentieth lot chose 
the life of a lion, and this was the soul of Ajax the son of Telamon, 
who would not be a man, remembering the injustice which was 
done him the judgment about the arms. The next was Agamemnon, 
who took the life of an eagle, because, like Ajax, he hated 
human nature by reason of his sufferings. About the middle came 
the lot of Atalanta; she, seeing the great fame of an athlete, 
was unable to resist the temptation: and after her there followed 
the soul of Epeus the son of Panopeus passing into the nature of a 
woman cunning in the arts; and far away among the last who chose, 
the soul of the jester Thersites was putting on the form of a monkey. 
There came also the soul of Odysseus having yet to make a choice, 
and his lot happened to be the last of them all. Now the recollection 
of former tolls had disenchanted him of ambition, and he went 
about for a considerable time in search of the life of a private 
man who had no cares; he had some difficulty in finding this, 
which was lying about and had been neglected by everybody else; 
and when he saw it, he said that he would have done the had 
his lot been first instead of last, and that he was delighted 
to have it. And not only did men pass into animals, but I 
must also mention that there were animals tame and wild who 
changed into one another and into corresponding human natures-- 
the good into the gentle and the evil into the savage, in all sorts 
of combinations. 
All the souls had now chosen their lives, and they went in the order 
of their choice to Lachesis, who sent with them the genius whom 
they had severally chosen, to be the guardian of their lives 
and the fulfiller of the choice: this genius led the souls first 
to Clotho, and drew them within the revolution of the spindle 
impelled by her hand, thus ratifying the destiny of each; 
and then, when they were fastened to this, carried them to Atropos, 
who spun the threads and made them irreversible, whence without 
turning round they passed beneath the throne of Necessity; 
and when they had all passed, they marched on in a scorching heat 
to the plain of Forgetfulness, which was a barren waste destitute 
of trees and verdure; and then towards evening they encamped 
by the river of Unmindfulness, whose water no vessel can hold; 
of this they were all obliged to drink a certain quantity, 
and those who were not saved by wisdom drank more than was necessary; 
and each one as he drank forgot all things. Now after they had gone 
to rest, about the middle of the night there was a thunderstorm 
and earthquake, and then in an instant they were driven upwards 
in all manner of ways to their birth, like stars shooting. 
He himself was hindered from drinking the water. But in what 
manner or by what means he returned to the body he could not say; 
only, in the morning, awaking suddenly, he found himself lying on 
the pyre. 
And thus, Glaucon, the tale has been saved and has not perished, 
and will save us if we are obedient to the word spoken; and we 
shall pass safely over the river of Forgetfulness and our soul 
will not be defiled. Wherefore my counsel is that we hold fast ever 
to the heavenly way and follow after justice and virtue always, 
considering that the soul is immortal and able to endure every sort 
of good and every sort of evil. Thus shall we live dear to one another 
and to the gods, both while remaining here and when, like conquerors 
in the games who go round to gather gifts, we receive our reward. 
And it shall be well with us both in this life and in the pilgrimage 
of a thousand years which we have been describing. 
End of the Project Gutenberg Edition of The Republic, by Plato 

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