Short Essays

2 p. min. double space. You are not obliged to use any outside literature. Simply write what the reading material is about. What’s going on there? Who is (if anyone) involved? What do you think the author is trying to say? Do you agree with him/her if yes/no why? What did/didn’t you like about it and why? You should make references to pages of the given book only. No need to mention the author or the title. Simply p. # in the text.

The Republic 

What is the main purpose of this excerpt by Plato? What is he trying to prove?

What is the nature of reality? What’s the purpose of his metaphors and analogies?

How does the last “death travel” story connect with the beginning of this excerpt?

What is the main purpose of life and virtue? 

What ethical theory known to you applies here?

  1
 

The Republic

by Plato
Book VII.

And now, I said, let me show in a figure how far our nature is enlightened

or unenlightened:—Behold! human beings living in a underground den,

which has a mouth open towards the light and reaching all along the den;

here they have been from their childhood, and have their legs and necks

chained so that they cannot move, and can only see before them, being

prevented by the chains from turning round their heads. Above and

behind them a fire is blazing at a distance, and between the fire and the

prisoners there is a raised way; and you will see, if you look, a low wall

built along the way, like the screen which marionette players have in front

of them, over which they show the puppets.

I see.

And do you see, I said, men passing along the wall carrying all sorts of

vessels, and statues and figures of animals made of wood and stone and

various materials, which appear over the wall? Some of them are talking,

others silent.

You have shown me a strange image, and they are strange prisoners.

Like ourselves, I replied; and they see only their own shadows, or the

shadows of one another, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the

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cave?

True, he said; how could they see anything but the shadows if they were

never allowed to move their heads?

And of the objects which are being carried in like manner they would only

see the shadows?

Yes, he said.

And if they were able to converse with one another, would they not

suppose that they were naming what was actually before them?

Very true.

And suppose further that the prison had an echo which came from the

other side, would they not be sure to fancy when one of the passers-by

spoke that the voice which they heard came from the passing shadow?

No question, he replied.

To them, I said, the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the

images.

That is certain.

And now look again, and see what will naturally follow if the prisoners are

released and disabused of their error. At first, when any of them is

  3
 

liberated and compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his neck round

and walk and look towards the light, he will suffer sharp pains; the glare

will distress him, and he will be unable to see the realities of which in his

former state he had seen the shadows; and then conceive some one

saying to him, that what he saw before was an illusion, but that now, when

he is approaching nearer to being and his eye is turned towards more real

existence, he has a clearer vision,—what will be his reply? And you may

further imagine that his instructor is pointing to the objects as they pass
and requiring him to name them,—will he not be perplexed? Will he not

fancy that the shadows which he formerly saw are truer than the objects

which are now shown to

him?

Far truer.

And if he is compelled to look straight at the light, will he not have a pain

in his eyes which will make him turn away to take refuge in the objects of

vision which he can see, and which he will conceive to be in reality clearer

than the things which are now being shown to him? True, he said.

And suppose once more, that he is reluctantly dragged up a steep and

rugged ascent, and held fast until he is forced into the presence of the sun

himself, is he not likely to be pained and irritated? When he approaches

the light his eyes will be dazzled, and he will not be able to see anything at
all of what are now called realities.

Not all in a moment, he said.

He will require to grow accustomed to the sight of the upper world. And

  4
 

first he will see the shadows best, next the reflections of men and other

objects in the water, and then the objects themselves; then he will gaze

upon the light of the moon and the stars and the spangled heaven; and he

will see the sky and the stars by night better than the sun or the light of

the sun by day?

Certainly.

Last of all he will be able to see the sun, and not mere reflections of him in

the water, but he will see him in his own proper place, and not in another;

and he will contemplate him as he is.

Certainly.

He will then proceed to argue that this is he who gives the season and the

years, and is the guardian of all that is in the visible world, and in a certain

way the cause of all things which he and his fellows have been

accustomed to behold?

Clearly, he said, he would first see the sun and then reason about

him.

And when he remembered his old habitation, and the wisdom of the den

and his fellow-prisoners, do you not suppose that he would felicitate
himself on the change, and pity them?

Certainly, he would.

And if they were in the habit of conferring honours among themselves on

  5
 

those who were quickest to observe the passing shadows and to remark

which of them went before, and which followed after, and which were

together; and who were therefore best able to draw conclusions as to the

future, do you think that he would care for such honours and glories, or

envy the possessors of them? Would he not say with Homer,

‘Better to be the poor servant of a poor master,’

and to endure anything, rather than think as they do and live after their

manner?

Yes, he said, I think that he would rather suffer anything than entertain

these false notions and live in this miserable manner.

Imagine once more, I said, such an one coming suddenly out of the sun to

be replaced in his old situation; would he not be certain to have his eyes

full of darkness?

To be sure, he said.

And if there were a contest, and he had to compete in measuring the

shadows with the prisoners who had never moved out of the den, while

his sight was still weak, and before his eyes had become steady (and the
time which would be needed to acquire this new habit of sight might be

very considerable), would he not be ridiculous? Men would say of him that

up he went and down he came without his eyes; and that it was better not

even to think of ascending; and if any one tried to loose another and lead

him up to the light, let them only catch the offender, and they would put

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him to death.

No question, he said.

This entire allegory, I said, you may now append, dear Glaucon, to the

previous argument; the prison-house is the world of sight, the light of the

fire is the sun, and you will not misapprehend me if you interpret the

journey upwards to be the ascent of the soul into the intellectual world
according to my poor belief, which, at your I agree, he said, as far as I am

able to understand you.

Moreover, I said, you must not wonder that those who attain to this

beatific vision are unwilling to descend to human affairs; for their souls are

ever hastening into the upper world where they desire to dwell; which

desire of theirs is very natural, if our allegory may be trusted.

Yes, very natural.

And is there anything surprising in one who passes from divine

contemplations to the evil state of man, misbehaving himself in a

ridiculous manner; if, while his eyes are blinking and before he has

become accustomed to the surrounding darkness, he is compelled to

fight in courts of law, or in other places, about the images or the shadows
of images of justice, and is endeavouring to meet the conceptions of

those who have never yet seen absolute justice?

Anything but surprising, he replied.

  7
 

Any one who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of

the eyes are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming

out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind’s eye,

quite as much as of the bodily eye; and he who remembers this when he

sees any one whose vision is perplexed and weak, will not be too ready to

laugh; he will first ask whether that soul of man has come out of the

brighter life, and is unable to see because unaccustomed to the dark, or
having turned from darkness to the day is dazzled by excess of light. And

he will count the one happy in his condition and state of being, and he will

pity the other; or, if he have a mind to laugh at the soul which comes from

below into the light, there will be more reason in this than in the laugh

which greets him who returns from above out of the light into the den.”

Book X.

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.

  8
 

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.

  9
 

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?

Yes.

But there are only two ideas or forms of them—one the idea of a bed, the

other of a table.

True.

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?

Impossible.

And there is another artist,—I should like to know what you would say of

him.

  10
 

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.

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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.

  12
 

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?

No.

There is another which is the work of the carpenter?

Yes.

And the work of the painter is a third?

Yes.

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.

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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 not 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?

Yes.

But would you call the painter a creator and maker?

Certainly not.

  14
 

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.

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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.

Certainly.

And whenever any one informs us that he has found a man who 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 him 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.

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And so, when we hear persons saying that 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. 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

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equally removed from reason, and that they have no true or healthy aim.

Exactly.

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 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.

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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

three score 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.

  19
 

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?

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.

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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 have one shape only or many, or what her nature is. Of her

  21
 

affections and of the forms which she takes in this present life I think that

we have now said enough.

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.

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.

  22
 

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.

Granted.

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?

True.

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?

Certainly.

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?

Certainly.

  23
 

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.

hese, 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.

  24
 

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 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

  25
 

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 great.

Now when the spirits which were in the meadow had tarried seven days,

on the eighth 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

  26
 

ones, and Lachesis laying hold of either in turn, first with one hand and

then with the other.

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 will 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 in them, because the soul, when choosing a new life,

must of necessity become different. But there was every other quality, and

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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 natural and acquired gifts of 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 happiness.

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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 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

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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

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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.