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Part III.
Part III.
For this is clear, that when we perceived something, either by the help
of sight or hearing, or some other sense, there was no difficulty in receiving
from this a conception of some other thing like or unlike which had been
forgotten and which was associated with this; and therefore, as I was saying,
one of two alternatives follows: either we had this knowledge at birth, and
continued to know through life; or, after birth, those who are said to learn
only remember, and learning is recollection only.
Yes, that is quite true, Socrates.
And which alternative, Simmias, do you prefer? Had we the knowledge at
our birth, or did we remember afterwards the things which we knew previously
to our birth?
I cannot decide at the moment.
At any rate you can decide whether he who has knowledge ought or ought
not to be able to give a reason for what he knows.
Certainly, he ought.
But do you think that every man is able to give a reason about these very
matters of which we are speaking?
I wish that they could, Socrates, but I greatly fear that to - morrow at
this time there will be no one able to give a reason worth having.
Then you are not of opinion, Simmias, that all men know these things?
Certainly not.
Then they are in process of recollecting that which they learned before.
Certainly.
But when did our souls acquire this knowledge? - not since we were born
as men?
Certainly not.
And therefore previously?
Yes.
Then, Simmias, our souls
must have existed before they were in the form
of man - without bodies, and must have had intelligence.
Unless indeed you suppose, Socrates, that these notions were given us at
the moment of birth; for this is the only time that remains.
Yes, my friend, but when did we lose them? for they are not in us when we
are born - that is admitted. Did we lose them at the moment of receiving them,
or at some other time? No, Socrates, I perceive that I was unconsciously
talking nonsense.
Then may we not say, Simmias, that if, as we are always repeating, there
is an absolute beauty, and goodness, and essence in general, and to this,
which is now discovered to be a previous condition of our being, we refer all
our sensations, and with this compare them - assuming this to have a prior
existence, then our souls must have had a prior existence, but if not, there
would be no force in the argument? There can be no doubt that if these
absolute ideas existed before we were born, then our souls must have existed
before we were born, and if not the ideas, then not the souls.
Yes, Socrates; I am convinced that there is precisely the same necessity
for the existence of the soul before birth, and of the essence of which you
are speaking: and the argument arrives at a result which happily agrees with
my own notion. For there is nothing which to my mind is so evident as that
beauty, goodness, and other notions of which you were just now speaking have a
most real and absolute existence; and I am satisfied with the proof.
Well, but is Cebes equally satisfied? for I must convince him too.
I think, said Simmias, that Cebes is satisfied: although he is the most
incredulous of mortals, yet I believe that he is convinced of the existence of
the soul before birth. But that after death the soul will continue to exist is
not yet proven even to my own satisfaction. I cannot get rid of the feeling of
the many to which Cebes was referring - the feeling that when the man dies the
soul may be scattered, and that this may be the end of her. For admitting that
she may be generated and created in some other place, and may have existed
before entering the human body, why after having entered in and gone out again
may she not herself be destroyed and come to an end?
Very true, Simmias, said Cebes; that our soul existed before we were born
was the first half of the argument, and this appears to have been proven; that
the soul will exist after death as well as before birth is the other half of
which the proof is still wanting, and has to be supplied.
But that proof, Simmias and Cebes, has been already given, said Socrates,
if you put the two arguments together - I mean this and the former one, in
which we admitted that everything living is born of the dead. For if the soul
existed before birth, and in coming to life and being born can be born only
from death and dying, must she not after death continue to exist, since she
has to be born again? surely the proof which you desire has been already
furnished. Still I suspect that you and Simmias would be glad to probe the
argument further; like children, you are haunted with a fear that when the
soul leaves the body, the wind may really blow her away and scatter her;
especially if a man should happen to die in stormy weather and not when the
sky is calm.
Cebes answered with a smile: Then, Socrates, you must argue us out of our
fears - and yet, strictly speaking, they are not our fears, but there is a
child within us to whom death is a sort of hobgoblin; him too we must persuade
not to be afraid when he is alone with him in the dark.
Socrates said: Let the voice of the charmer be applied daily until you
have charmed him away.
And where shall we find a good charmer of our fears, Socrates, when you
are gone?
Hellas, he replied, is a large place, Cebes, and has many good men, and
there are barbarous races not a few: seek for him among them all, far and
wide, sparing neither pains nor money; for there is no better way of using
your money. And you must not forget to seek for him among yourselves too; for
he is nowhere more likely to be found.
The search, replied Cebes, shall certainly be made. And now, if you
please, let us return to the point of the argument at which we digressed.
By all means, replied Socrates; what else should I please?
Very good, he said.
Must we not, said Socrates, ask ourselves some question of this sort? -
What is that which, as we imagine, is liable to be scattered away, and about
which we fear? and what again is that about which we have no fear? And then we
may proceed to inquire whether that which suffers dispersion is or is not of
the nature of soul - our hopes and fears as to our own souls will turn upon
that.
That is true, he said.
Now the compound or composite may be supposed to be naturally capable of
being dissolved in like manner as of being compounded; but that which is
uncompounded, and that only, must be, if anything is, indissoluble.
Yes; that is what I should imagine, said Cebes.
And the uncompounded may be assumed to be the same and unchanging, where
the compound is always changing and never the same?
That I also think, he said.
Then now let us return to the previous discussion. Is that idea or
essence, which in the dialectical process we define as essence of true
existence - whether essence of equality, beauty, or anything else; are these
essences, I say, liable at times to some degree of change? or are they each of
them always what they are, having the same simple, self - existent and
unchanging forms, and not admitting of variation at all, or in any way,or at
any time?
They must be always the same, Socrates, replied Cebes.
And what would you say of the many beautiful - whether men or horses or
garments or any other things which may be called equal or beautiful - are they
all in changing and the same always, or quite the reverse? May they not rather
be described as almost always changing and hardly ever the same either with
themselves or with one another?
The latter, replied Cebes; they are always in a state of change.
And these you can touch and see and perceive with the senses, but the
unchanging things you can only perceive with the mind - they are invisible and
are not seen?
That is very true, he said.
Well, then, he added, let us suppose that there are two sorts of
existences, one seen, the other unseen.
Let us suppose them.
The seen is the changing, and the unseen is the unchanging.
That may be also supposed.
And, further, is not one part of us body, and the rest of us soul?
To be sure.
And to which class may we say that the body is more alike and akin?
Clearly to the seen: no one can doubt that.
And is the soul seen or not seen?
Not by man, Socrates.
And by "seen" and "not seen" is meant by us that which is or is not
visible to the eye of man?
Yes, to the eye of man.
And what do we say of the soul? is that seen or not seen?
Not seen.
Unseen then?
Yes.
Then the soul is more like to the unseen, and the body to the seen?
That is most certain, Socrates.
And were we not saying long ago that the soul when using the body as an
instrument of perception, that is to say, when using the sense of sight or
hearing or some other sense (for the meaning of perceiving through the body is
perceiving through the senses) - were we not saying that the soul too is then
dragged by the body into the region of the changeable, and wanders and is
confused; the world spins round her, and she is like a drunkard when under
their influence?
Very true.
But when returning into herself she reflects; then she passes into the
realm of purity, and eternity, and immortality, and unchangeableness, which
are her kindred, and with them she ever lives, when she is by herself and is
not let or hindered; then she ceases from her erring ways, and being in
communion with the unchanging is unchanging. And this state of the soul is
called wisdom?
That is well and truly said, Socrates, he replied.
And to which class is the soul more nearly alike and akin, as far as may
be inferred from this argument, as well as from the preceding one?
I think, Socrates, that, in the opinion of everyone who follows the
argument, the soul will be infinitely more like the unchangeable - even the
most stupid person will not deny that.
And the body is more like the changing?
Yes.
Yet once more consider the matter in this light: When the soul and the
body are united, then nature orders the soul to rule and govern, and the body
to obey and serve.
Now which of these two functions is akin to the divine? and which to the
mortal? Does not the divine appear to you to be that which naturally orders
and rules, and the mortal that which is subject and servant?
True.
And which does the soul resemble?
The soul resembles the divine and the body the mortal - there can be no
doubt of that, Socrates.
Then reflect, Cebes: is not the conclusion of the whole matter this? -
that the soul is in the very likeness of the divine, and immortal, and
intelligible, and uniform, and indissoluble, and unchangeable; and the body is
in the very likeness of the human, and mortal, and unintelligible, and
multiform, and dissoluble, and changeable. Can this, my Cebes, be denied?
No, indeed.
But if this is true, then is not the body liable to speedy dissolution?
and is not the soul almost or altogether indissoluble?
Certainly.
And do you further observe, that after a man is dead, the body, which is
the visible part of man, and has a visible framework, which is called a
corpse, and which would naturally be dissolved and decomposed and dissipated,
is not dissolved or decomposed at once, but may remain for a good while, if
the constitution be sound at the time of death, and the season of the year
favorable? For the body when shrunk and embalmed, as is the custom in Egypt,
may remain almost entire through infinite ages; and even in decay, still there
are some portions, such as the bones and ligaments, which are practically
indestructible. You allow that?
Yes.
And are we to suppose that the soul, which is invisible, in passing to
the true Hades, which like her is invisible, and pure, and noble, and on her
way to the good and wise God, whither, if God will, my soul is also soon to go
- that the soul, I repeat, if this be her nature and origin, is blown away and
perishes immediately on quitting the body as the many say? That can never be,
dear Simmias and Cebes. The truth rather is that the soul which is pure at
departing draws after her no bodily taint, having never voluntarily had
connection with the body, which she is ever avoiding, herself gathered into
herself (for such abstraction has been the study of her life). And what does
this mean but that she has been a true disciple of philosophy and has
practised how to die easily? And is not philosophy the practice of death?
Certainly.
That soul, I say, herself invisible, departs to the invisible world - to
the divine and immortal and rational: thither arriving, she lives in bliss and
is released from the error and folly of men, their fears and wild passions and
all other human ills, and forever dwells, as they say of the initiated, in
company with the gods. Is not this true, Cebes?
Yes, said Cebes, beyond a doubt.
But the soul which has been polluted, and is impure at the time of her
departure, and is the companion and servant of the body always, and is in love
with and fascinated by the body and by the desires and pleasures of the body,
until she is led to believe that the truth only exists in a bodily form, which
a man may touch and see and taste and use for the purposes of his lusts - the
soul, I mean, accustomed to hate and fear and avoid the intellectual
principle, which to the bodily eye is dark and invisible, and can be attained
only by philosophy - do you suppose that such a soul as this will depart pure
and unalloyed?
That is impossible, he replied.
She is engrossed by the corporeal, which the continual association and
constant care of the body have made natural to her.
Very true.
And this, my friend, may be conceived to be that heavy, weighty, earthy
element of sight by which such a soul is depressed and dragged down again into
the visible world, because she is afraid of the invisible and of the world
below - prowling about tombs and sepulchres, in the neighborhood of which, as
they tell us, are seen certain ghostly apparitions of souls which have not
departed pure, but are cloyed with sight and therefore visible.
That is very likely, Socrates.
Yes, that is very likely, Cebes; and these must be the souls, not of the
good, but of the evil, who are compelled to wander about such places in
payment of the penalty of their former evil way of life; and they continue to
wander until the desire which haunts them is satisfied and they are imprisoned
in another body. And they may be supposed to be fixed in the same natures
which they had in their former life.
What natures do you mean, Socrates?
I mean to say that men who have followed after gluttony, and wantonness,
and drunkenness, and have had no thought of avoiding them, would pass into
asses and animals of that sort. What do you think?
I think that exceedingly probable.
And those who have chosen the portion of injustice, and tyranny, and
violence, will pass into wolves, or into hawks and kites; whither else can we
suppose them to go?
Yes, said Cebes; that is doubtless the place of natures such as theirs.
And there is no difficulty, he said, in assigning to all of them places
answering to their several natures and propensities?
There is not, he said.
Even among them some are happier than others; and the happiest both in
themselves and their place of abode are those who have practised the civil and
social virtues which are called temperance and justice, and are acquired by
habit and attention without philosophy and mind.
Why are they the happiest?
Because they may be expected to pass into some gentle, social nature
which is like their own, such as that of bees, or ants, or even back again
into the form of man, and just and moderate men spring from them.
That is not impossible.
But he who is philosopher or lover of learning, and is entirely pure at
departing, is alone permitted to reach the gods. And this is the reason,
Simmias and Cebes, why the true votaries of philosophy abstain from all
fleshly lusts, and endure and refuse to give themselves up to them - not
because they fear poverty or the ruin of their families, like the lovers of
money, and the world in general; nor like the lovers of power and honor,
because they dread the dishonor or disgrace of evil deeds.
No, Socrates, that would not become them, said Cebes.
No, indeed, he replied; and therefore they who have a care of their
souls, and do not merely live in the fashions of the body, say farewell to all
this; they will not walk in the ways of the blind: and when philosophy offers
them purification and release from evil, they feel that they ought not to
resist her influence, and to her they incline, and whither she leads they
follow her.
What do you mean, Socrates?
I will tell you, he said. The lovers of knowledge are conscious that
their souls, when philosophy receives them, are simply fastened and glued to
their bodies: the soul is only able to view existence through the bars of a
prison, and not in her own nature; she is wallowing in the mire of all
ignorance; and philosophy, seeing the terrible nature of her confinement, and
that the captive through desire is led to conspire in her own captivity (for
the lovers of knowledge are aware that this was the original state of the
soul, and that when she was in this state philosophy received and gently
counseled her, and wanted to release her, pointing out to her that the eye is
full of deceit, and also the ear and other senses, and persuading her to
retire from them in all but the necessary use of them and to be gathered up
and collected into herself, and to trust only to herself and her own
intuitions of absolute existence, and mistrust that which comes to her through
others and is subject to vicissitude) - philosophy shows her that this is
visible and tangible, but that what she sees in her own nature is intellectual
and invisible. And the soul of the true philosopher thinks that she ought not
to resist this deliverance, and therefore abstains from pleasures and desires
and pains and fears, as far she is able; reflecting that when a man has great
joys or sorrows or fears or desires he suffers from them, not the sort of evil
which might be anticipated - as, for example, the loss of his health or
property, which he has sacrificed to his lusts - but he has suffered an evil
greater far, which is the greatest and worst of all evils, and one of which he
never thinks.
And what is that, Socrates? said Cebes.
Why, this: When the feeling of pleasure or pain in the soul is most
intense, all of us naturally suppose that the object of this intense feeling
is then plainest and truest: but this is not the case.
Very true.
And this is the state in which the soul is most enthralled by the body.
How is that?
Why, because each pleasure and pain is a sort of nail which nails and
rivets the soul to the body, and engrosses her and makes her believe that to
be true which the body affirms to be true; and from agreeing with the body and
having the same delights she is obliged to have the same habits and ways, and
is not likely ever to be pure at her departure to the world below, but is
always saturated with the body; so that she soon sinks into another body and
there germinates and grows, and has therefore no part in the communion of the
divine and pure and simple.
That is most true, Socrates, answered Cebes.
And this, Cebes, is the reason why the true lovers of knowledge are
temperate and brave; and not for the reason which the world gives.
Certainly not.
Certainly not! For not in that way does the soul of a philosopher reason;
she will not ask philosophy to release her in order that when released she may
deliver herself up again to the thraldom of pleasures and pains, doing a work
only to be undone again, weaving instead of unweaving her Penelope`s web. But
she will make herself a calm of passion and follow Reason, and dwell in her
beholding the true and divine (which is not matter of opinion), and thence
derive nourishment. Thus she seeks to live while she lives, and after death
she hopes to go to her own kindred and to be freed from human ills. Never
fear, Simmias and Cebes, that a soul which has been thus nurtured and has had
these pursuits, will at her departure from the body be scattered and blown
away by the winds and be nowhere and nothing.
When Socrates had done speaking, for a considerable time there was
silence; he himself and most of us appeared to be meditating on what had been
said; only Cebes and Simmias spoke a few words to one another. And Socrates
observing this asked them what they thought of the argument, and whether there
was anything wanting? For, said he, much is still open to suspicion and
attack, if anyone were disposed to sift the matter thoroughly. If you are
talking of something else I would rather not interrupt you, but if you are
still doubtful about the argument do not hesitate to say exactly what you
think, and let us have anything better which you can suggest; and if I am
likely to be of any use, allow me to help you.
Simmias said: I must confess, Socrates, that doubts did arise in our
minds, and each of us was urging and inciting the other to put the question
which he wanted to have answered and which neither of us liked to ask, fearing
that our importunity might be troublesome under present circumstances.
Socrates smiled and said: O Simmias, how strange that is; I am not very
likely to persuade other men that I do not regard my present situation as a
misfortune, if I am unable to persuade you, and you will keep fancying that I
am at all more troubled now than at any other time. Will you not allow that I
have as much of the spirit of prophecy in me as the swans? For they, when they
perceive that they must die, having sung all their life long, do then sing
more than ever, rejoicing in the thought that they are about to go away to the
god whose ministers they are. But men, because they are themselves afraid of
death, slanderously affirm of the swans that they sing a lament at the last,
not considering that no bird sings when cold, or hungry, or in pain, not even
the nightingale, nor the swallow, nor yet the hoopoe; which are said indeed to
tune a lay of sorrow, although I do not believe this to be true of them any
more than of the swans. But because they are sacred to Apollo and have the
gift of prophecy and anticipate the good things of another world, therefore
they sing and rejoice in that day more than they ever did before. And I, too,
believing myself to be the consecrated servant of the same God, and the fellow
servant of the swans, and thinking that I have received from my master gifts
of prophecy which are not inferior to theirs, would not go out of life less
merrily than the swans. Cease to mind then about this, but speak and ask
anything which you like, while the eleven magistrates of Athens allow.
Well, Socrates, said Simmias, then I will tell you my difficulty, and
Cebes will tell you his. For I dare say that you, Socrates, feel, as I do, how
very hard or almost impossible is the attainment of any certainty about
questions such as these in the present life. And yet I should deem him a
coward who did not prove what is said about them to the uttermost, or whose
heart failed him before he had examined them on every side. For he should
persevere until he has attained one of two things: either he should discover
or learn the truth about them; or, if this is impossible, I would have him
take the best and most irrefragable of human notions, and let this be the raft
upon which he sails through life - not without risk, as I admit, if he cannot
find some word of God which will more surely and safely carry him. And now, as
you bid me, I will venture to question you, as I should not like to reproach
myself hereafter with not having said at the time what I think. For when I
consider the matter either alone or with Cebes, the argument does certainly
appear to me, Socrates, to be not sufficient.
Socrates answered: I dare say, my friend, that you may be right, but I
should like to know in what respect the argument is not sufficient.
In this respect, replied Simmias: Might not a person use the same
argument about harmony and the lyre - might he not say that harmony is a thing
invisible, incorporeal, fair, divine, abiding in the lyre which is harmonized,
but that the lyre and the strings are matter and material, composite, earthy,
and akin to mortality? And when someone breaks the lyre, or cuts and rends the
strings, then he who takes this view would argue as you do, and on the same
analogy, that the harmony survives and has not perished; for you cannot
imagine, as we would say, that the lyre without the strings, and the broken
strings themselves, remain, and yet that the harmony, which is of heavenly and
immortal nature and kindred, has perished - and perished too before the
mortal. The harmony, he would say, certainly exists somewhere, and the wood
and strings will decay before that decays. For I suspect, Socrates, that the
notion of the soul which we are all of us inclined to entertain, would also be
yours, and that you too would conceive the body to be strung up, and held
together, by the elements of hot and cold, wet and dry, and the like, and that
the soul is the harmony or due proportionate admixture of them. And, if this
is true, the inference clearly is that when the strings of the body are unduly
loosened or overstrained through disorder or other injury, then the soul,
though most divine, like other harmonies of music or of the works of art, of
course perishes at once, although the material remains of the body may last
for a considerable time, until they are either decayed or burnt. Now if anyone
maintained that the soul, being the harmony of the elements of the body, first
perishes in that which is called death, how shall we answer him?
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