The main purpose of Euthydemus is no more than it appears to be: to contrast Socratic argumentation and education with those of a certain type of sophist, to the detriment of the latter. There is no reason to doubt that the two representatives of this type in our dialogue, the brothers Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, were real people. We are given enough historical data about them in the dialogue to warrant this assumption, and we hear about them elsewhere: Plato mentions Euthydemus by name at Cratylus 386d (see p. 350) and, independently of Plato, but still a close historical witness, Aristotle twice associates him with a particular ambiguous question (Rhetoric 1401a28, De Sophisticis Elenchis 177b12). Our only close external witness for Dionysodorus’ existence is Xenophon (Memorabilia III. 1; see p. 16 above), where even his skill at teaching military matters (Euthydemus 271d etc.) is slighted. The dialogue is named after Euthydemus alone for convenience and because he is portrayed as the more rigorous of the pair, despite being the younger.
The dramatic or scenic date of the dialogue is not fixed, but must lie between 420 and 405 B.C., because Protagoras is mentioned in the past tense as if dead (286c; he died in 420 at the latest) and Alcibiades is still alive (275b; he died in 404). Given Socrates’ advanced age (272b), a date nearer 405 than 420 is likely: Socrates was born in 469.
It is equally difficult to date Euthydemus precisely in relation to other Platonic works, but it can confidently be located among the works of the end of his first (Socratic) period. The style is of a piece with Meno, Gorgias, Lysis and Hippias Major. The aim of distinguishing Socrates from the sophists is typical of Plato’s early period. The thought is purely Socratic (though this has been doubted: see pp. 365–6). The more precise ordering of these works of the later early period is extremely controversial and too technical to go into here: my own inclination would be to place Euthydemus first among this group, because the others show more signs of Platonic as opposed to Socratic thought. It was probably written, then, c. 387–385.
Euthydemus is one of the best-written and most amusing of Plato’s dialogues – which is just as well, for otherwise the lengthy catalogue of sophisms would pall even more than (some might think) it already does. It has a more formal structure than is usual: broadly, there are five scenes set in the past which alternately display the sophists and Socrates at work. Scenes I (275c–277c), 3 (283a–288b) and 5 (293a–304b) are the sophistic ones; 2 and 4 (277d–282e, 288b–292e) the Socratic. This series of scenes is bracketed by an introduction (271a–272d) and an epilogue (304c–307c) in which Socrates and Crito are talking in the present time (this happens too at 290e–292e, though here Crito is simply being used to demonstrate a phase of the past argument: Plato could have used the same mode as the rest of the reported sequences, but chose to vary our diet).
Within this structure, the predominant pattern of the sophists’ part is to start arguing with Socrates, switch to Ctesippus and return to Socrates. This happens in both the long scenes 3 and 5, in which Ctesippus plays a part; and in both cases the return to Socrates is prompted by Socrates’ own exasperated re-intervention.
Given a structure by scenes, a prologue and an epilogue, it is tempting to describe Euthydemus as a comedy, albeit with serious intent (see, for instance, Méridier, p. 120). The temptation is increased by the description of the sophists’ followers as a ‘chorus’ or dancing-troupe (276b–c), and of Euthydemus as a choreographer (276d). But the chief purpose of the structure, of course, is to enhance the overall aim of the dialogue by juxtaposing and contrasting Socrates and the sophists.
The artistry of the dialogue does not just lie in a formal structure, but in its readability. This is gained by easy, fluent and colloquial Greek, by vivid metaphors and similes, fine characterization, clear description and a generous dash of humour. The similes are especially striking: never again does Plato use so many in a single short dialogue.
As for the characters, Socrates is the same familiar person of other dialogues: moral, lucid, rational, patient – though his patience wears a little thin with Euthydemus and Dionysodorus – and possessed of a strong and sharp satirical sense of humour. Euthydemus and Dionysodorus are much of a muchness, though as the dialogue progresses we learn that Dionysodorus is the shallower of the two; otherwise their characters have been submerged under their mechanical method of argument. Crito is a typical Athenian bourgeois, but with some philosophical interests. Cleinias is a typical young Athenian aristocrat, reminiscent, for instance, of Charmides in Charmides: modest, pliable, but ready to join in too. Ctesippus’ character is summarized at 273a; his predominant feature is ‘youthful brashness’, and Plato skilfully maintains this portrait throughout the dialogue. Interestingly, Plato shows us the same Ctesippus in Lysis too, so perhaps it is an accurate depiction of the historical person at this time.
Plato defines Euthydemus’ and Dionysodorus’ argumentation as ‘eristic’ (272b, and cf. p. 32). This literally means ‘designed for victory’ or ‘contentious’, and was a technical term of Socrates’ and Plato’s time to describe a type of argumentation. As the literal meaning suggests, eristic is not so much a particular method of argument as a subjective term of abuse (‘One man’s philosophy was another man’s eristic’, as Guthrie (IV, p. 275) puts it). The particular method Euthydemus and Dionysodorus use is more correctly called ‘antilogic’ (see Kerferd, The Sophistic Movement, Chapter 6), that is, ‘proceeding from a given logos, say the position adopted by an opponent, to the establishment of a contrary or contradictory logos in such a way that the opponent must either accept both logoi, or at least abandon his first position’ (p. 63). As the dialogue is read it will be obvious how this applies to Euthydemus and Dionysodorus. They proceed by posing ‘either-or’ questions; sometimes the questions are posed so as to give the answerer no apparent choice about which alternative to take, in the sense that the other alternative is obviously absurd (e.g. ‘Do you know something or nothing?’ (293b ff.)). At other times either alternative is plausible, but the brothers are able to argue against both (e.g. Sections C and D). Whether the questions are plausible or implausible, the sophists exploit ambiguities to refute whatever answer their opponent chooses. Their argumentation, then, is ‘eristic antilogic’ – antilogic which is designed to defeat an interlocutor who is seen as an opponent.
Antilogic has a history in Greek philosophy, and for more thorough accounts I must be content with referring the reader to the works of E. S. Thompson, Ryle and particularly Lloyd (1971) in the bibliography. Very briefly, there are two great Presocratic thinkers chiefly associated with this method: Zeno of Elea (fl. c. 450) probably invented it, to refute views contrary to Parmenides’ metaphysical monism, and the sophist Protagoras of Abdera (c. 490-c. 420) is said to be the first to have taught systematically, probably in the context of teaching rhetoric, that there are at least two opposing positions possible on any matter. There is also extant, probably from c. 400, a shallow but historically interesting treatise called Dissoi Logoi, ‘Two-way Arguments’, which applies the method to a number of theses.
I introduce the history of the method of argument for three reasons. In the first place, it was (and still is) a common form of argument, and though Euthydemus and Dionysodorus no doubt practised a debased (eristic) version of it, we should not be surprised to find that it was their livelihood. The sophists were in demand in the contemporary Greek world, particularly in Athens (see Kerferd, The Sophistic Movement, Chapter 3; Rankin, Chapter 1), and Aristotle (De Sophisticis Elenchis 183b36) speaks of ‘paid professors of eristic’ who set their pupils arguments, like those of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, to learn by heart: the arguments could then be used in a political, legal or even philosophical context. We do not need to think, as has been suggested, that Euthydemus’ and Dionysodorus’ arguments are merely figments of Plato’s imagination. In fact there is considerable evidence (see p. 275) for there having been sophistic debates, open to the (presumably paying) public, where sophists would argue for and against certain common theses. A considerable body of arguments, such as those summarized in Dissoi Logoi, must have been current in Plato’s time.
Secondly, since antilogic has a varied history, and since Euthydemus and Dionysodorus are eristics, it seems to me impractical to locate them in any particular philosophical tradition. Attempts to do so, like that of Sprague (1962), followed by Hawtrey (1981), are not sustained even by their authors: such theories can account for only a few, but not all of the sophisms. Take the issue of predication as an example: our sophists sometimes argue that even contradictory predicates are applicable to the same thing (275d–277c, especially), but at other times that there is only one proper description of a thing (285e–286b). The most likely hypothesis is that our sophists are eclectic: they will borrow from any source in pursuit of their eristic aims of defeating the opponent and astounding the audience. In the running commentaries which introduce each section of the text, I mention such provenances of the sophisms as are plausible.
Thirdly, and most importantly, Socrates and at least two of his followers (Euclides and Antisthenes) were practitioners of antilogic. Socrates too used question-and-answer, where the questions of ten have the same ‘either-or’ nature and drive his interlocutors into a corner. When Socrates uses the art, it is honoured with the name ‘dialectic’; but it is a species of antilogic just as much as Euthydemus’ and Dionysodorus’ eristic (see Robinson (1953)). What, then, is the difference between Socrates’ dialectic and the sophists’ eristic?
It is, of course, Plato’s purpose in Euthydemus to raise and answer precisely this question, which the very similarity between dialectic and eristic makes urgent. Book 8 of Aristotle’s Topics is worth reading in this context: his description of the practice of dialectic often makes it sound as contentious as eristic.
It can immediately be said that to anyone acquainted with Socratic thought and method, Plato answers the question most satisfactorily. It is all very well, however, to see that Socratic thought external to Euthydemus has a bearing on our appreciation of the dialogue, but it must also be the case that the dialogue is internally meaningful. It is, in fact: the most important points of contrast between Socrates and the two sophists are clearly made in the dialogue. The sole purpose of eristic, as Socrates points out (272a), is to win the argument and enhance the questioner’s esteem. Socrates, however, uses his dialectic to try to reach the truth on any issue and to enhance the answerer’s concern to live a morally viable life. The corners into which Socrates drives his interlocutors are (ideally) not formed by ambiguities in language but by inconsistencies in the answerer’s moral notions; Socrates seeks to remove what is irrational in a person’s life in order to make way for improvement. The person who thinks that he knows how to live, but who cannot defend his opinions against questioning, is anathema to Socrates, because such confidence does away with the continual search for a better life.
In fact, even to say this is to draw on other dialogues, because in Euthydemus itself Socrates has no need of this more aggressive side of his dialectic. In his model conversations with Cleinias (Sections E and I), he is working on an answerer who is lucky (and young) enough not to have many fixed notions. While one might criticize Plato for making Cleinias too amenable, the point, in Euthydemus, is that Plato should clearly portray the moral purpose of Socratic questioning, and this is most economically done by providing Socrates with such an interlocutor. Socrates is then easily able to lead the boy to agreeing that philosophy – the practice of virtue – is essential. So in the practice of dialectic, the interlocutor is ideally seen not as an opponent, but as a fellow-traveller in a moral quest.
It is worth pausing for a moment to consider whether there might not be another contrast between Socrates’ dialectic and the sophists’ eristic as portrayed in Euthydemus – that is, simply between validity and invalidity of argument. This question has provoked considerable controversy, with some (e.g. Robinson (1942) and Stewart) claiming that Plato has no interest in fallacies whatsoever, and others (notably Sprague (1962)) arguing against this position. It is certainly true that Socrates’ arguments in Euthydemus are not perfect (though they are not as bad as Stewart makes out), and I think it is also true that it is not an important part of the programme of the dialogue to analyse invalid forms of argument: the sophists’ fallacies are really no more than ambiguities (see pp. 303–4), so it would be rash to claim that Plato is providing any kind of handbook of valid and invalid forms of reasoning. Aristotle’s claim to be the first to do so can stand (De Sophisticis Elenchis 184b1 ff.). But it is undeniable that the sophists’ arguments are fallacious and that Socrates’ arguments are better, even in a formal logical sense. It is also crucially undeniable that Plato was aware of fallacy: this is shown at least by explicit comment at 277e-278b and by Socrates’ tactics throughout 293b-296d. It is probably the case, since the sophists’ arguments are so consistently fallacious, and since Plato wrote them down, that Plato must have recognized them to be genuine sophisms in the Aristotelian sense (arguments which have the form of validity but are in fact invalid), in which case he must have had the concept of valid reasoning. If all this is so, then it follows that the logical contrast between Socrates and the sophists is part of Plato’s purpose in Euthydemus. But it must be seen as a subsidiary purpose – as a literary device rather than a philosophical point which is vitally important to Plato. For throughout the dialogues, Socrates is made to commit fallacies, often ones which are scarcely less blatant than some of Euthydemus’ and Dionysodorus’, and often the same ones that these two sophists commit in our dialogue. In other words, Plato is perfectly prepared to stomach a bad argument, provided it leads to a good conclusion. Philosophy for both Socrates and Platowas a way of life, not an exercise in logic. So, if in Euthydemus Plato makes Socrates come up with sounder arguments than the sophists, this is only to enhance the central moral purpose he found in Socrates’ arguments; it is relevant to do so in the context of such atrocious arguments from the sophists, but it is not necessary to that moral purpose, except in so far as the removal of confusion, especially about ambiguous terms, may lead to greater mental and moral clarity.
Apart from this qualification about the formal logical nature of the arguments, let us summarize the differences between dialectic and eristic, as Plato sees it. It is some what glib to say simply that the difference is between morality and nullity: in what does the morality of dialectic lie? It lies fundamentally, as far as we can tell from Euthydemus, in the ability to stimulate. It is important to realize that the difference does not liein dialectic providing answers: dialectic does not – Socrates’ protreptic ultimately gets into an infinite regress in Section J of the dialogue. Nordoes Socrates disapprove of logical puzzles per se, provided they stimulate thought and discourage overhasty acceptance of answers. The differenceis that under Socrates’ guidance Cleinias’ life is opened up and steered towards virtue. Cleinias is not left in a moral vacuum or to rely on his conditioning: he is led to think for himself about his own life, whereas the sophists’ arguments cannot change his life at all. The sophists either shut things up or leave them where they are; Socrates leaves matters open in aconstructive way.
Apart from this central contrast, Plato means us to notice other differences: Socratic dialectic tests a person’s real beliefs, whereas eristic deals only with words; dialectic is flexible, eristic is mechanical; dialectic does not offer instant wisdom and Socrates is far from claiming to be a know-all. Both methods lay claim to the same purpose – virtue – but we are bound to think that only one is successful.
Euthydemus and Dionysodorus exhibit many irritating traits during the course of the dialogue: for instance, if a discussion is not going their way, they avoid the issue (287b, 297b, etc.). But this and other similar features are self-evident; what I want to do now is briefly to introduce the reader to the subject of fallacy, since the arguments of the two brothers are formally fallacious.
Aristotle was the first to attempt to categorize types of fallacy, and plenty of alternative classifications have arisen since, which have shown, inter alia, that some of Aristotle’s fallacies are not really fallacies at all. A fallacy is invalid argument. So, for instance, of relevance to Euthydemus, the so-called fallacia plurium interrogationum (De Sophisticis Elenchis 1677e37 ff.) is not really a fallacy. This ‘fallacy of too many questions’ (i.e. more than one question compressed into a single question) is usually – and nicely – illustrated by ‘Have you stopped beating your wife?’ This is a misleading question (because whether you answer yes or no, you will be a self-confessed wife-beater), not an invalid argument, and there are many examples in Euthydemus.
It should be clear from the outset that the same invalid argument can often be analysed as fallacious in different ways. We should certainly take Euthydemus to be fairly simple as far as fallacies are concerned, however; only if Plato had shown greater awareness of varieties of fallacy would it be fair to introduce complexities. If it is possible to analyse the sophisms of Euthydemus simply, then that is the correct procedure. In fact, there is only one type of fallacy which needs to be understood for a reading of the dialogue: that which depends on ambiguity.
What Aristotle ‘called fallacies dependent on language’ all involve ambiguities. Ambiguity may reside in a single word, in which case it is called ‘equivocation’ – or sometimes a pun! An argument which exploits equivocation is fallacious. A very similar and often indistinguishable case is when ambiguity occurs in the juxtaposition of a number of words which are not misleading individually. This type of ambiguity is called ‘amphiboly’. My favourite example is the wartime headline FIFTH ARMY PUSH BOTTLES UP GERMANS.
Ambiguity may reside in a sentence which contains predicates which qualify parts rather than the whole of which they are parts (or vice versa). An argument which transfers the predicate from the parts to the whole commits the fallacy of ‘composition’ (transference from the whole to the parts is ‘division’). A famous Aristotelian example, designed as a criticism of Pythagorean arithmology, of the fallacy of composition is (De Sophisticis Elenchis 166a33): three and two are odd and even, five is three and two, therefore five is odd and even.
The fallacy of seamdum quid needs a little more discussion, since in Aristotle’s scheme it was not classified as dependent on language, i.e. as involving ambiguity. Its full scholastic name is the fallacy a dicto secundum quid ad dictum simpliciter, ‘moving from speaking of something in relative terms to speaking of it unqualifiedly’. In Euthydemus, for example, the sophists move from ‘knowing something’ to ‘knowing’ without qualification (Section L). But this can be seen as a sort of ambiguity, in the sense that the term ‘know’ is capable of both relative and absolute usage. According to the principle of interpreting Euthydemus simply, it is probably safest to classify this fallacy as a form of ambiguity.
There is a fallacy which is the opposite of secundum quid (though it is not precisely the same as any of Aristotle’s fallacies), i.e. ‘moving from speaking unqualifiedly about something to speaking of it in relative terms’. It is similarly classifiable as a species of ambiguity.
Finally, I must make it clear that in using these terms (‘equivocation’, secundum quid and so on), I am not suggesting for a moment that Plato had in mind any such classification, or indeed any classification at all. He does not even have a word for ‘fallacy’. I have argued (p. 302) that he knew there was something wrong with the arguments and could pinpoint the errors, if pushed, but he need not have had any classificatory system to do so. I introduce the terms as tools for the simpler explanation of what is going on in our dialogue; they will be used particularly in the running commentaries that introduce each section of the text.
Given what has already been said about the importance for Plato of distinguishing Socrates from Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, it will come as no surprise that Euthydemus contains a succinct summary of the basis of Socrates’ moral thought. This is found in Socrates’ protreptic, which starts in Section E and is continued in Sections I and J.
The term ‘protreptic’ describes a branch of philosophical rhetoric which was current in Socrates’ day and which continued much later. The term (or the verb from which it is derived) occurs several times in Euthydemus (275a, 278c, 278d, 282d, 307a; in the last passage, its use is not technical, and the verb has been translated ‘recommend’). The rise of this offshoot of philosophy is intrinsically connected with the rise of the sophistic movement. The sophists by and large claimed to teach virtue (as did Socrates). Two questions then arose, which are neatly given at 274d–e: is virtue teachable, and is this person I am listening to, as opposed to any other sophist making the same claim, capable of teaching it? Protreptic speeches or discussions were preliminaries, then, designed to persuade the audience that they had come to the right teacher, and that the virtue they would gain from his teaching was worthwhile. We know that several contemporary thinkers wrote or delivered protreptics, but Socrates’ in Euthydemus is the earliest extant version. It is worth comparing the fragments of Aristotle’s influential but lost Protrepticus, which are most accessible in Chroust’s edition.
The basis of Socrates’ position is formed by two premisses: everyone wants success (or happiness); and it is some activity or set of activities that bring it (278e, 280c). These are probably statements with which no Greek would disagree; at any rate, they also form the basis of Aristotle’s ethics and are presented there as if they were endoxa, commonly held opinions (e.g. Nicomachean Ethics 1097b20–21). But despite the relative straight- forwardness of the premisses, the argument soon moves into more controversial areas. The backbone of the first pan of the protreptic (Section E) is as follows:
1. Everyone wants success (happiness) (278e)
2. Happiness comes from good things (279a–c)
2a. Happiness comes from the use of good things, not their mere possession (280b–e)
2b. Happiness comes from the correct use of good things (280e–281a)
3. Wisdom (skill, knowledge) causes correct use of things (281a–d)
3a. It is not luck that causes correct use: luck is a red herring, because wisdom is luck (279d–280b)
4. Wisdom is the only good thing (281d–e)
5. Therefore (given 1 and 2), everyone should pursue wisdom (knowledge), i.e. be philosophers, ‘lovers of wisdom’ (282a–d)
It is one of the remarkable features of this protreptic that it is intended to appeal to everyone, whatever their ideas about what things are good. That is to say, it is a true protreptic.
Nearly every stage of the argument is supported, in a typically Socratic fashion, by inference from what obtains in the case of everyday crafts. Such inferences can never amount to proof, and this is a constant weakness in Socratic arguments. Thus, there may be some ‘good’ things for which mere possession is a sufficient condition of happiness – a stamp collection, for example. And there are certainly some who believe that use of power, whether ‘correct’ or not, causes happiness. (‘Correct’ here does not convey a moral connotation, merely an instrumental one: a correct use of a tool is a proper use, leading to success. It follows that this stage of the argument is circular, since it says in effect: ‘Success comes from successful use of good things.’)
The weakest stage of the argument is undoubtedly 3a. (In the schema above, I have put this stage in its logical place, though it comes between 2 and 2a in the text.) Though weak, however, it is a sign of Plato’s thoroughness that he considers luck at all, even if to dismiss it. It is a bold attempt to argue that luck, which by definition is beyond human control, is potentially within it. Luck plays no part in a wise person’s life. Rarely is Socratic rationalism so obvious. The argument is unsuccessful because it only manages to associate wisdom with success, and luck (as commonly conceived) is blandly eliminated, with no argument to back up this elimination. The argument, then, exploits the ambiguity of ‘good luck’, which can mean success. Basically, the thesis Plato wants to maintain is impossible to uphold in rational argument: it is rather a matter of faith about the extent of man’s mind and capabilities. The inference from a few cases to a conclusion is here, then, particularly unsound.
Stage 2 of the discussion is interesting because it is a very clear statement of a constant thread in Socrates’ ethics: he uses the term ‘good’ as synonymous with ‘beneficial’ or ‘conducive to happiness’. Anything is good forsome one if and only if it makes that person happy. Clearly, this view throws up a great need to define happiness, but Socrates never clearly does (see below), unless we accept at face value the hedonism of Protagoras, where Socrates apparently argues that pleasure is the summutn bonum (351b ff.).
The argument in general, and particularly the paragraph running from 281b–c, has been seen as trading on an ambiguity in ‘success’. In the paragraph referred to, Socrates says ‘the fewer mistakes, the less unsuccessful’ – which takes success as competence; and then ‘the less unsuccessful, the less miserable’ – which takes success as happiness. But in fact Plato has been careful to argue for the shift from ‘success’ as the result of mere possession of things to ‘success’ as the result of competent use of them; that is, he has argued for the equation of happiness and success, which in turn enables him to elevate wisdom as he wants, as the only true cause of human happiness.
The argument as a whole is partial evidence for an important aspect of Socratic ethics, namely the relation of virtue and happiness. On the whole issue, see Vlastos (1984). The instrumentalist language of 280d–e and 282a shows that for Socrates wisdom – and therefore virtue, by the doctrine of the unity of the virtues (see Protagoras) – leads to happiness. The passages show, at least, that Vlastos is right to reject the idea that virtue is exactly the same as happiness; but beyond this they cannot tell us in themselves whether Socrates holds that virtue is desirable only as an instrumental means to happiness, not for its own sake, or whether some closer relation between the two is being assumed. From a careful survey of all the relevant passages in the early dialogues, Vlastos concludes that the latter is the case: for Socrates, virtue ‘would of itself assure a sufficiency of happiness… but would still allow for small, but not negligible, enhancements of happiness as a result of the virtuous possession and use of non-moral goods’ (p. 191). On non-moral goods, see Euthydemus 281d with Vlastos, pp. 199–200.
Socrates in Euthydemus also warns us, however, not to talk about virtue without qualification. In Section E, especially 281b–d, we find him classifying even courage and sōphrosunē, which are two of the four cardinal Socratic/Platonic virtues (the others being wisdom and justice), as neither good nor bad in themselves, but as dependent on knowledge or ignorance to make them so. In his analysis of the virtues, they should be forms of knowledge, but occasionally in the dialogues (as here) Plato recognizes debased versions which are not (see Meno 88a–c, Phaedo 68a–69d, Laws 710a, 968a).
In a sense the protreptic aspect of Socrates’ discussion with Cleinias both starts and finishes with Section E; but in Sections I and J certain aspects of Section E are subjected to closer consideration. To be precise, a further consequence is drawn out, which may then be called stage 6 of the argument (see p. 305 for stages 1–5):
6. The branch of knowledge we should seek must benefit us, i.e. it must be knowledge of both achieving and using a product (288e–289b)
This consequence is then examined at length. We must first notice, however, that it is not a true consequence of the argument of Section E. In the first place, Section E established only that knowledge in general is worth pursuing, not that a particular branch of knowledge leads to happiness; Socrates’ words at 282e prepare us for this move, but it is still peculiar. Secondly, the requirement established by Section E was that happiness comes from the correct use of good things, which is guaranteed by wisdom; step 6 goes further, then, in declaring that both achievement and use are requirements. These flaws should be borne in mind.
The argument then proceeds to eliminate candidates for this supreme branch of knowledge, on the grounds that they are concerned with achievement, not both achievement and use (289b–290e). Finally, the art of kingship is considered (291b–292e), because it seems to be the apex of a hierarchy of skills: skill b hands over its product for skill b to use; skill b to skill c… and so on, to kingship. But even kingship fails to pass the test. By the requirement of step 6, it must have a recognizably good product. But since the only good thing is knowledge (step 4), the product of kingship must be knowledge. But the hypothesis of step 6 is that a single branch of knowledge (now kingship, as it seems), is the only truly good one – so its product must be itself (292d; cf. Charmides 165c ff.). The most that can be said is that it makes others good at making others good at making others good… without ever specifying what the product is, i.e. what they are to be good at. Since a regress like this is untenable, the argument has failed.
The reason it fails is clear enough. It is the insistence at 292b that only some kind of knowledge is good, from which it is concluded that kingship must have itself as its object. Now, this insistence at 292b is couched as a reference back to the earlier part of the protreptic – step 4, to be precise. But when wisdom is there said to be the only good thing, ‘good’ is meant in an instrumental sense – it is good in the sense that it makes other things good. At 292b, however, Plato takes ‘good’ to mean ‘good in itself. If he had taken it – as, given the reference back to step 4, he should have done – in the instrumental sense, then the regress would not have arisen. If kingship is good in the sense that it makes other things good – whatever these other things may be (the community, for instance) – it is not self-reflexive. Relatedly, the failure of the argument could be seen to stem from the requirement that the superordinate craft must not only use a product but also be productive. Since it is apparently impossible to find a product for kingship, and the requirement is that there must be, the argument fails. Socrates insists on this point because of the craft analogy (pp. 22–3, 25–6, 267); it is noticeable that Plato in later dialogues drops the insistence on a product in order to establish dialectic as the supreme branch of knowledge (e.g. Cratylus 390b–d, Republic 533b, Philebus 57e–58d; indeed, at Sophist 219a–d the ‘productive’ and ‘acquisitive’ branches of knowledge are uncompromisingly separated).
Inevitably, when an argument of Plato’s fails, there is a temptation to try to mitigate the failure. This temptation has proved especially strong in the case of arguments which, like this, are part of important threads in Plato’s thought. Some have pointed to the reasons for the failure of the argument and supposed that Plato was aware, for instance, that a different sense of ‘good’ was operative and was artificially creating a puzzle. If we take the instrumental sense of ‘good’, then we may reach a solution similar to that of the Statesman: kingship makes other things good by blending them together into a harmonious whole. The problem with this solution is that Euthydemus belongs with the earlier, aporetic dialogues, and precedes the great constructive dialogues of Plato’s middle and late periods. It is not until Republic, then, that Plato starts to give answers in this thread of his thought. This is a general consideration; more particularly, there is no reason to suppose that Plato was aware that different senses of ‘good’ were operative in the two parts of the argument. It is after all a rather subtle point.
Others (especially Sprague (1976)) have argued for a distinction between first-order crafts, which have products, and second-order crafts, which do not. The claim is that Plato was aware that asking for a product of a second-order craft, like kingship, artificially creates the puzzle. The purpose of the argument, then, would precisely be to show that kingship is not a first-order craft, because it is impossible to find its product. But there is no sign of this distinction in Euthydemus. In the early dialogues, Plato’s assumption is that each craft has a specific domain and product. It is true that Plato is distinguishing kingship as a superordinate craft, which uses the other crafts’ products, but the distinction is not based on its lack of product. It is not impossible, however, that puzzles like this one in Euthydemus led to the later Platonic undermining of the Socratic craft analogy.
It seems safest to take the regress at face value: rather than some kind of underhand ploy on Plato’s part, it is a record of genuine perplexity. Kingship is the most plausible candidate, but for reasons beyond Plato’s control, it fails to satisfy him. It is precisely this perplexity that may have led, ultimately, to the solution of Statesman. In the context of Euthydemus, Plato’s purpose is to distinguish between the stimulating perplexity caused by Socratic dialectic, which is apparent in many early dialogues (the Euthydemus would not be alone in this), and the vacuous perplexity caused by eristic.
The discussion of kingship brings to the fore a theme of Euthydemus: the relation between, and relative merits of, philosophy and politics. Socrates’ protreptic set out to be an exhortation to philosophy and virtue (278d), but has ended in a discussion of kingship, a political craft. Is philosophy political, then? As far as we can tell from Euthydemus, the answer is ‘no’, because kingship fails to qualify as the supreme craft. Nevertheless, it is true that both Socrates (Gorgias 521d–e) and Plato (Republic, especially) believe that a true philosopher would be the best statesman, because of his knowledge. Philosophy is not kingship, but if a philosopher undertook to rule – Plato talks in Republic 519c of having to compel a philosopher to do so – he would be the best.
Why would he be best? Because he has access to knowledge, certainly; but a question arises in the context of Euthydemus which leads in a more specific direction. The search in Euthydemus is for the supreme branch of knowledge which will make each and every individual happy. Why should kingship even be considered in this context? The answer is given in Republic, in the analogy between city and soul: in principle, self-government is the same as governing a community. If you can do either properly, you can do both – hence the ideal of the philosopher-king.
The importance of this ideal to Plato cannot be overestimated. He devotes his two longest works, Republic and Laws, as well as the substantial Statesman, to political matters. He personally spent a lot of time trying to influence Syracusan affairs. And his Academy, whether or not it was established to do so, turned out people who possessed sufficient political competence to be invited to other cities for political purposes, such as codifying laws.
The theme of philosophy and politics resurfaces in the final section of the dialogue (304c ff.). Reading between the lines, we learn that there is an unbridgeable gap between philosophy and politics as the latter is actually practised: the two pursuits do not share the same features at all (306a–c). In this section we encounter Crito’s conversation with, and Socrates’ methodical criticism of, an unnamed critic who dabbles in both philosophy and politics. It is explicit at the start that Plato has in mind a type of person (304d, 305b); but it seems equally undeniable that, as the section progresses, Plato picks on a particular representative of the type to enliven his portrait. The identity of this individual used to be hotly debated, but I have no doubt that the majority of scholars are correct now in picking on Isocrates, a brilliant teacher of rhetoric who was an almost exact contemporary of Plato.
There is certainly evidence to support this view, in that features which Plato attributes to the unnamed critic of philosophy are attributed by Isocrates to himself. For instance, at 305c we learn that although he composes forensic speeches (as Isocrates did at the time of the writing of Euthydemus), he himself has never delivered any in public: Isocrates admits at Panathenaicus 9 that, to his regret, he has had to avoid public speaking. The description of the critic as dabbling in both philosophy and politics fits Isocrates, who allowed philosophical training in his students in so far as it sharpens the wits in preparation for the training he offers (Antidosis 261–9). One is reminded of Plato’s description of Isocrates at Phaedrus 279a: ‘He is naturally of a philosophical bent, to a degree.’
Two points might seem to argue against identifying the unnamed critic with Isocrates. First, at 304e, Plato claims to be all but quoting him, but the exact words Plato uses are not to be found in the extant works of Isocrates. Yet neither are they to be found in anybody else’s works, and the words in question are certainly in the Isocratean rhetorical manner. Secondly, it is anachronistic to have Socrates discussing Isocrates, who was at the most still only young – too young to have risen to prominence – at the dramatic date of the dialogue. But in response to this it need only be pointed out that Plato not infrequently uses Socrates as a mouthpiece for comments on his own contemporaries.
There was rivalry between Plato and Isocrates, though it was not particularly personal or acrimonious. It was generated by the fact that they were each the prime educators of the time in different fields. Both seem to have felt that the other misunderstood and underestimated the value of his own field. There is evidence for this general background picture (see W. H. Thompson). It is even possible to speculate that the particular scenario for Plato’s comments in Euthydemus is as follows. In about 390, Isocrates had written Against the Sophists, which was, in effect, his protreptic (and should be read by anyone who wants to understand popular attitudes of the time towards the sophists): in it he runs down all other practitioners of philosophy, calling them eristics, in order to claim that his teaching is the valuable one. Plato’s response (we may suppose) in Euthydemus, which was probably written only a few years later (see p. 297), is a protreptic to dialectic which, as we have seen, satisfactorily distinguishes it from eristic.
A. Introduction
B. Second Introduction
C. Wisdom and Ignorance: The Sophists’ Version
D. More on Learning and Knowledge
E. The Socratic Protreptic
F. Being and Not-being
G. Falsehood is Impossible
H. Socrates Fights Back
I. Knowledge and Happiness
J. Is Kingship the Supreme Science?
K. Everyone is Always Omniscient
L. The Sophists on Family Relationships
M. Nothing in Excess
N. Paradoxes about the Senses
O. Fineness and Fine Things
P. The Sophists on the Crafts
Q. Gods for Sale
R. Capitulation and Recapitulation
S. Epilogue
SOCRATES
CRITO: From Athens, a contemporary of Socrates, and a lifelong and devoted friend. He appears in several other dialogues, one of which (named after him) portrays him trying to persuade Socrates to escape from prison. The late biographer Diogenes Laertius, probably erroneously, mentions him (II.121) as a philosopher in his own right.
CLEINIAS: A member of a very eminent Athenian family (see 275a). Aged about sixteen at the time of the dialogue.
CTESIPPUS: From the deme of Paeania in Athens, an aristocrat in his late teens. He was a follower of Socrates and was present at his death (Phaedo 59b). Also appears in Lysis.
EUTHYDEMUS and DIONYSODORUS: Brothers, born on Chios, emigrated to Thurii, exiled from there and became peripatetic sophists. They are at least as old as Socrates. Their areas of expertise were originally rhetoric and martial techniques, but by the time of the dialogue they have moved on to eristic argument.
For the most part, the dialogue is presented in the form of a report: Socrates reconstructs for Crito, an old friend, a discussion in which the active participants, apart from himself, were the two sophists Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, and two well-born young Athenians, Cleinias and Ctesippus.
Apart from introducing most of these characters, this opening section also sets the tone of the dialogue, as Socrates evinces an ironic desire for Euthydemus’ and Dionysodorus’ new-found eristic expertise. Throughout the dialogue, Socrates’ apparent deference to the sophists is an aspect of his usual famous irony – that is, the profession of ignorance (see p. 31). Plato’s concern in the dialogue as a whole is to distinguish Socrates from such sophists; the particular reason for doing so is that their eristic method of questioning is superficially similar to Socratic dialectic (see pp. 299–303). Euthydemus and Dionysodorus used to teach weaponry and oratory, neither of which could conceivably be confused with Socrates’ speciality; but their form of eristic could, so the irony running throughout the dialogue is particularly sharp.
CRITO: Who was that person you were talking to yesterday in the [271a] Lyceum,1 Socrates? There was quite a crowd around you, and although I wanted to listen, I couldn’t get close enough to hear clearly. But I peered over the crowd and got the impression that you were talking to someone from out of town. Who was it?
SOCRATES: Which one, Crito? There were two of them, not just one.
CRITO: I mean the one who was sitting two places to your right, on the other side of Axiochus’ boy2 – who struck me as having grown up a lot, [b] socrates, and to have almost caught up with my son Critobulus. But Critobulus is weedy, whereas this lad is mature and good-looking.
SOCRATES: Euthydemus is the one you’re asking about, Crito, and the other one, who sat next to me on my left, was his brother Dionysodorus, who also joined in the discussion.
CRITO: I don’t know either of them, Socrates – I suppose they are more new sophists. Where are they from? What are they experts in? [c]
SOCRATES: Their family roots, I think, are in this part of the world, in Chios, but they went as colonists to Thurii;1 they’ve been exiled from there, however, and for many years now they’ve been spending time in these parts.2 As to your question about their expertise, Crito, it’s astonishing: they are absolutely omniscient – I hadn’t realized before what pancratiasts really are.3 These two are absolutely all-round fighters, not restricted to physical fighting as the pair of pancratiast Acarnanian brothers were.4 [d] Supreme physical skill at the sort of fighting which can overpower anyone5 is only the first of their attainments: they are expert fighters in armour,6 and can make others the same, for a fee. Secondly, they excel both at [272a] contesting legal battles and at teaching others to deliver and compose speeches suitable for the lawcourts.7 These attainments used to be the limits of their ability, but now they have put the finishing touch to pancratiastic skill. They have now perfected the sole form of fighting they had neglected; they are utterly invincible, so formidable have they become at verbal battle – specifically, refutation of any statement, no matter whether [b] it is true or false.8 Anyway, Crito, I intend to put myself in their hands, since they claim that they wouldn’t take long to make anyone else equally formidable.
CRITO: What, Socrates? Don’t you think you might already be too old at your age?
SOCRATES: Not at all, Crito. I have enough evidence to encourage me not to worry. You see, these two themselves were getting on when they embarked on what I covet – eristic expertise.9 A year or two ago they hadn’t made it. There’s only one thing I’m afraid of – that the two visitors [c] will lose face because of me, as Metrobius’ son Connus, the lyre-player,1 already does, because he is still teaching me to play the instrument, and my young companions laugh at me and call Connus a ‘crock’s coach’.2 The problem is that our visitors might incur the same reproach, and if they worry about that, they might not be prepared to take me on. In Connus’ case, Crito, I’ve persuaded other old men to come along with me as pupils, and I’ll try to do the same now. Why don’t you come along? [d] We’ll take your sons as bait: in their anxiety to have them, I’m sure they’ll enrol us too as pupils.3
CRITO: That’s all right with me, Socrates, if you say so. But first explain their speciality to me. I want to know what we are going to learn.
SOCRATES: You shall hear it straight away. I cannot deny that I listened attentively to them; in fact, I paid close attention, I remember it well, and I will try to tell you everything from start to finish.
This introduction to the actual conversation which Socrates is to recount to Crito gives us a pleasantly vivid picture of the scene in the Lyceum. The homosexuality of Ctesippus and the others was a fact of life in the upper-class segment of Athenian society at the time. The more interesting aspect of Cleinias’ admirers is a literary point: Plato is obviously seeking, here and elsewhere in the dialogue, to compare the crowd surrounding Cleinias with the crowd surrounding the two sophists (see also the satirical portrayal of various sophists and their followers in Protagoras 315a–e). They could be seen as the two halves of the ‘chorus’ of a comedy (see p. 298). Both groups consist of admirers (273a, 276d), but the former desire the best for their beloved in a moral sense (275a), while the latter desire eristic victory for the two sophists (276c–d). See further Grube, Chapter 3, on love in Plato’s thought as a motivator in philosophy.
SOCRATES: It was my good fortune to be sitting by myself in the [e] changing-room, where you saw me. I was thinking that it was time to go, but when I got up, my regular supernatural signal occurred,1 so I sat down again, and not long afterwards those two, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, [273a] entered, accompanied by lots of other people – pupils, I supposed. Once inside, the pair of them began to walk around the covered walk. They had completed no more than two or three circuits, when in comes Cleinias, who, as you rightly point out, has grown up a lot. In his train was a crowd of admirers, including Ctesippus, a very well-bred young man – except for a youthful brashness – of the deme of Paeania.2 When Cleinias spotted [b] me from the doorway sitting by myself, he came straight over and sat on my right, just as you describe it; and when Dionysodorus and Euthydemus saw him, they first stopped and began to speak to each other, looking in our direction every so often – I was watching them carefully. Then they came and sat down, Euthydemus by the boy, Dionysodorus next to me on my left, and the rest wherever they could.
I hadn’t seen them for a while, so I said hello, and then I said to Cleinias: [c] ‘Cleinias, at last you can meet clever men who don’t waste their cleverness on trivia: Euthydemus and Dionysodorus know all about warfare, that is, what a prospective military commander should know, if he is to be a good one – they know about the deployment of troops and about leadership, and they have a complete course of the instruction necessary for fighting in armour3 – and they are also capable of making any injured party self- reliant in the lawcourts.’
Contempt was their response to my speech. At any rate,4 they exchanged [d] glances and laughed, and Euthydemus said: ‘We no longer bother with those matters, Socrates. We treat them as peripheral.’
I was astonished. ‘If you treat such important matters as peripheral,’ I said, ‘then what on earth can your main occupation be? It must be pretty impressive. Tell me, please.’
‘Virtue, Socrates,’ he said. ‘We think that we are the finest and quickest teachers of virtue alive.’5
‘Good heavens!’ I said. ‘That’s fantastic! How did you two come across [e] this godsend? I was still thinking, as I said a moment ago, that your speciality was fighting in armour, and that’s what I attributed to you. I remember your claiming as much when you were in Athens before. But if you really do possess this knowledge, have mercy. (You see, in begging your pardon for my earlier words, I address you exactly as if you were [274a] divine.)1 But, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, are you sure you are speaking the truth? Scepticism is natural when faced with such a large claim.’
‘You may be sure, Socrates,’ they both said,2 ‘that that is the fact of the matter.’
‘In that case, I think you are far more fortunate in this possession than the king of Persia in his empire. There’s only one question: do you plan to give an exhibition3 of this wisdom, or what have you decided to do?’
‘That’s precisely why we’re here, Socrates: to give demonstrations and
to teach anyone who is prepared to learn.’ [b]
‘I assure you that everyone who lacks what you offer will be prepared: I’ll be first in the queue myself, then Cleinias here, with Ctesippus – that’s him – and the rest close behind,’ I said, pointing out Cleinias’ admirers, who were by now grouped around us. You see, Ctesippus had sat down far away from Cleinias, and I got the impression that as Euthydemus leaned forward to talk to me, he blocked Ctesippus’ view of Cleinias, who [c] was in between us. So, since Ctesippus wanted to see his beloved and yet not miss out on the conversation, he had jumped up and stood right opposite us; seeing him do this, the others followed suit and grouped themselves around us, not only Cleinias’ admirers, but Euthydemus’ and Dionysodorus’ followers too.4 So I gestured towards them and told Euthydemus that they all wanted to be their pupils. Ctesippus and the rest [d] agreed very enthusiastically, and the request that they demonstrate the power of their wisdom was endorsed unanimously.
That was my cue: ‘Yes, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, please do all you can to oblige our friends here with a demonstration – and I too will be obliged to you. Now, obviously, it’s too much to ask you to give a comprehensive demonstration, but tell me this: are you capable of improving only the person who is already convinced of the necessity of studying under you, or can you also improve someone who is not yet convinced, [e] either because he is of the general opinion that virtue is not something that can be learned, or because he doesn’t think that you are teachers of it? Come on, tell me. Suppose you’re faced with someone who thinks that way: does the task of convincing him both that virtue is teachable and that you in particular are the best teachers of it belong to this same skill of yours, or to some other skill?’1
‘It belongs to the same skill, Socrates,’ said Dionysodorus.
‘Then there’s no one alive today, Dionysodorus,’ I said, ‘who would be [275a] better than you two at giving a protreptic to philosophy, that is, the practice of virtue?’2
‘That is our opinion, Socrates.’
‘So please postpone the exhibition of the rest until later,’ I said, ‘and just concentrate on convincing our young friend here of the indispensability of philosophy and the practice of virtue; that will put all of us here in your debt, because, as his luck would have it, we are all concerned about enhancing his welfare as much as possible. Let me introduce you: Cleinias, the son of Axiochus, grandson of the old Alcibiades and first cousin of the [b] present Alcibiades.3 He is young, and we are afraid – youth gives grounds for such fear – that, before our influence has taken hold, his mind may be corrupted by being turned towards some other pursuit. So you two have come at just the right time. If you have no objection, test the lad’s mettle: engage him in conversation here, in front of us.’
That was more or less exactly what I said. Euthydemus replied gamely and confidently: ‘No, we have no objection, Socrates, as long as the young man is willing to answer questions.’4 [c]
‘Oh well, he’s no stranger to that,’ I said. ‘You see, this lot here often ply him with questions and draw him into discussions, so he’s pretty confident at answering.’5
The arguments of this section, as of many of the sophistic sections of the dialogue, present problems for the translator. Many of the sophisms, quite natural in
Greek, cannot easily be expressed in English, and even those which are more forced in Greek are usually no more strange than puns (which, arguably, several of them are).
As Socrates will point out in 277e–278a (and at Theaetetus 199a), the arguments in this section are fallacious because they trade on an ambiguity in ‘learn’, which means either ‘engage in the process of learning’ or ‘successfully complete the process of learning’; ignorant people need to do the former, but clever people do the latter. Parallel to the ambiguity in ‘learn’ is another in ‘clever’ (and mutatis mutandis in ‘ignorant’) which means either ‘skilful (at the process of learning or some other task)’ or ‘knowledgeable’ (i.e. having completed the process of learning). In Greek, as in English, the former meaning is more usual; but the latter meaning is more common for the Greek sophos than for the English ‘clever’, so such sentences as ‘In fact, if you weren’t clever, you were ignorant, weren’t you?’ (276b) are rather forced in translation.
There is no need to suppose (as Stewart does, p. 27) that Plato was unaware of the ambiguity of ‘clever’ and ‘ignorant’, simply because in 277e–278a he comments only on the ambiguity of ‘learn’. At 277e–278a he is trying to summarize and quickly dismiss the sophisms both of this and of the next section: a full analysis would have been out of place. The ambiguity of ‘clever’ and ‘ignorant’ is as glaringly obvious as that of ‘learn’ in the context of the sophism, and may be said to depend on it, so to point out only the primary ambiguity and to omit the dependent one is a fair tactic.
Dionysodorus’ contribution (276c) is a different ploy, designed only to contradict the first conclusion (276b) and thereby produce confusion: his argument does not depend on any fallacy in itself, but he simply agrees with Cleinias’ original reply to Euthydemus in order to gain the contradiction. If Cleinias had given the alternative answer, ‘ignorant people’, to Euthydemus’ original question, then Dionysodorus’ argument would have been used to refute him and Euthydemus’ would have been used to agree with him. The sophists, we can see, have a battery of arguments to bring out as appropriate.
So instead of the protreptic Socrates was expecting (274e–275a), we get a sophism and confusion. The sophists employ the word ‘wisdom’ (‘cleverness’, ‘skill’ – all the same word in Greek, sophia), but Socrates wants Cleinias to be encouraged actually to love wisdom (philo-sophia, philosophy).
Hawtrey (1981, p. 21) comments: ‘Those who learn are neither wise nor ignorant – which is exactly the condition of philosophers at Lysis 218a–b.’ This is part of a recent tendency among commentators on our dialogue to find covert references to Socratia/Platonic thought in the sophisms. This would be nice – it would add to the poignancy of Plato’s distinction of Socrates from the sophists – but is, I believe, very rarely justified. Here it must be wrong: the result of this pair of arguments is that those who learn are both wise and ignorant (as are those who understand, too). The sophism has no point: it is just a trick.
Now, Crito, I wonder how I might give you a fair account of what happened. I mean, it’s a colossal task to recall and then recount such an incredible amount of cleverness. I shall have to imitate the poets and invoke the Muses and Memory as I embark on my account1 … So, [d] Euthydemus started from roughly this direction, I think: ‘Tell me, Cleinias, are clever or ignorant people those who learn?’
Faced with this momentous question, the lad blushed and looked at me in puzzlement. I saw that he was flustered and said: ‘Don’t worry, Cleinias. Just pluck up courage and give whichever answer you think is [e] right. Remember, you’ll probably benefit enormously.’
While I was saying this, Dionysodorus had leaned over to me with a big grin on his face, to whisper briefly in my ear. ‘In fact, Socrates,’ he said, ‘I can tell you now that whichever answer the lad gives, he will be proved wrong.’
As luck would have it, Cleinias gave his answer at the same time as Dionysodorus was telling me this, so I didn’t have a chance to recommend caution to him; he replied that clever people are the ones who learn. [276a]
‘Do you or do you not acknowledge the existence of teachers?’ asked Euthydemus.
He agreed that he did.
‘And teachers teach learners – for instance, you and your schoolmates
had a music-teacher and a writing-teacher, from whom you used to learn?’
He agreed.
‘So wasn’t it the case that when you were learners, you didn’t yet know what you were learning?’
He agreed that they did not.
‘And were you clever when you didn’t have this knowledge?’ [b]
‘Of course not,’ he said.
‘In fact, if you weren’t clever, you were ignorant, weren’t you?’2
‘Yes.’
‘So, while learning what you didn’t know, you were learning because you were ignorant.’
The lad nodded.
‘Therefore, Cleinias, it is ignorant people who learn, not clever people, as you imagine.’
As if these words were a prompt by a director to a chorus,1 Dionysodorus’ and Euthydemus’ followers broke out into cheers and laughter. And [c] before the lad could draw a proper breath, Dionysodorus took over and said: ‘Now, Cleinias, when the writing-teacher was reciting a piece, was it the clever or the ignorant children who learned it?’
‘The clever ones,’ said Cleinias.
‘So clever people learn, not ignoramuses: you gave the wrong reply to Euthydemus just now.’
As Dionysodorus suggests at 276d–e, Socrates at 278a–b and Aristotle at De Sophisticis Elenchis 165b30–32, the fallacy of equivocation on ‘learn’ is operative in this section, as it was in the last (see pp. 320–22). The situation is confused, however, by the presence of another fallacy, that of composition (p. 304).
This fallacy of composition occurs at 277a, where it is assumed that anyone who knows the alphabet knows all the words and sentences that the letters of the alphabet may be combined into. (Aristotle uses this as an example of the fallacy at Rhetoric 1401a29–31, and he has just mentioned Euthydemus a line earlier.) Cleinias makes the mistake of accepting the assumption. Given this we can see how the equivocation on ‘learn’ plays a part.
Cleinias answers Euthydemus’ question whether those who learn learn what they know (276d) negatively, as if ‘learn’ means ‘engage in the process of learning’ (276e). Euthydemus then uses the fallacy of composition to force the agreement that if Cleinias knows the alphabet, then when he learns a recitation, he learns what he knows (since the recitation consists of letters of the alphabet). So the sense of learn can be changed, and Euthydemus’ conclusion (277b) can mean ‘You successfully learn what you know.’
Dionysodorus’ half of the argument (277b–c) supports Cleinias’ original answer with a reasonable, if somewhat long-winded, argument which results in the opposite conclusion to that of Euthydemus’ fallacious argument. As in Section C, Dionysodorus plays the straight man to Euthydemus’ ‘fool’, to produce confusion between them. The pattern of both sections is exactly the same: Euthydemus asks a question in which ‘learn’ could be taken either way; Cleinias chooses one way; Euthydemus fallaciously turns it the other way; Dionysodorus reverts to the original way.
Hawtrey comments (1981, p. 21): ‘They learn neither what they know nor what they do not know – which is exactly what is implied by the [Socratic] theory of recollection, according to which they learn what they latently “know” but have forgotten.’ But again there is no true similarity with Socratic/Platonic thought (cf. pp. 321–2): the result of the sophism is again pointless – that those who learn learn both what they know and what they do not know. It is true that the ‘eristic’ argument of Meno 80d–e is comparable: you cannot look for what you do not know (because you won’t recognize it) and you obviously need not look for what you already know. Plato’s solution to this paradox in Meno is the theory of recollection, whereby all so-called learning is actually recollection of prenatal knowledge. But the argument in Euthydemus is similar only to the paradox, not to the solution. Our understanding of this section of Euthydemus is not enhanced at all by bearing in mind the theory of recollection. It is likely that fifth-century sophists had come up with a number of similar paradoxes, which both Euthydemus and Meno are reflecting independently.
At this point, the pair’s admirers, delighted with their heroes’ cleverness, [d] laughed and cheered very loudly, while the rest of us were speechless with amazement. Euthydemus recognized our amazement and, in order to astound us even more, kept on relentlessly questioning the lad, and in good choreographic style began to turn his questions back around the same spot. ‘Do those who learn learn what they know,’ he asked, ‘or what they do not know?’
Dionysodorus had another brief word in my ear: ‘This is another one just like the first, Socrates,’ he said. [e]
‘Heavens!’ I exclaimed. ‘I can assure you that we were impressed by the first question.’
‘All our questions of this sort are designed to trap people, Socrates,’ he said.
‘That, I think,’ I said, ‘is why your pupils look up to you.’
Cleinias had meanwhile replied that those who learn learn what they do not know, and Euthydemus’ questions employed the same method as before: ‘But surely you know the alphabet, don’t you?’ he asked. [277a]
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Right through?’
He agreed.
‘Now, doesn’t a recitation consist of letters?’
He agreed.
‘So, if you know the whole alphabet, then a recitation consists of what you know, doesn’t it?’
He agreed to this too.
‘Well then,’ he said, ‘Do you not learn a recitation, while someone ignorant of the alphabet does?’1
‘No,’ he replied, ‘I do learn it.’
‘Therefore, you learn what you know,’ he said, ‘if you know the alphabet.’ [b]
He agreed.
‘So your answer was wrong,’ he said.
These words were hardly out of Euthydemus’ mouth when Dionysodorus took over the argument, as if it were a ball to catch and throw at the lad: ‘Euthydemus is having you on, Cleinias,’ he said. ‘I mean, wouldn’t you say that learning is the acquisition of knowledge of what is being learned?’
Cleinias agreed.
‘And knowing is the current possession of knowledge, surely?’
He agreed.
‘Ignorance, therefore, is not yet possessing knowledge?’
He agreed with him. [c]
‘Well, do people acquire something which they already possess or something which they lack?’
‘Something which they lack.’
‘And you have agreed that ignorant people are among those who have a lack?’
He nodded.
‘And those who learn are acquirers, not possessors?’
He agreed.
‘Therefore, Cleinias,’ he concluded, ‘it is ignorant people who learn, not knowledgeable ones.’
This section provides the positive Socratic arguments to encourage someone to take up philosophy. It is discussed at length on pp. 304–7. The arguments are positive in the sense that they reach some meaningful conclusion, unlike those of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus; but this is not to say that they are free from formal fallacies (pointed out in the footnotes). In the context of Plato’s awareness of such fallacies, we have to conclude that it is the nullity of the sophists’ arguments, rather than their invalidity, which strikes Plato as most abhorrent (see pp. 301–2). Even if one disagrees with Socrates’ conclusions, reflection on the universal desire for happiness is obviously less trivial than the sophists’ word-games.
As a literary point, it is worth noting that Socrates makes use of the same terms – cleverness and ignorance – as Euthydemus and Dionysodorus did in the last two sections. This may not immediately be obvious to the English reader, because the word sophos has to be translated differently in different contexts: it means ‘clever’, ‘skilful’ and ‘wise’. Wisdom is the goal of the philosopher, who literally loves (philein) wisdom (sophia). For Socrates, such wisdom constitutes virtue and is precisely parallel to the skill of a craftsman (see pp. 22–3, 25–6, 267–8): one might say that it is skill at living.
Euthydemus was winding up to throw the youngster yet again – a third [d] fall, as it were1 – but I saw that the lad was going under and I wanted to give him a break, rather than see him submit, so I consoled him: ‘Cleinias, you shouldn’t be surprised if the arguments strike you as odd: you probably don’t realize what our visitors are doing with you, which is just like the enthronement of the neophyte in Corybantic rites.2 On those occasions too – as you know if you’ve been initiated – there is light-hearted dancing; and that is just what these two are doing – stepping and dancing around [e] you light-heartedly, to lead up to your initiation. So now you should believe that you are hearing the opening phase of the sophistic mysteries. The first thing, as Prodicus says,3 is to learn the correct usage of words. And that is exactly what our two visitors are showing you, that you didn’t realize that “learn” is used in two different contexts: (a) when initial ignorance about some matter is being replaced by the acquisition of [278a] knowledge about it; and (b) when, with knowledge already present, this same matter – it may be an action or a statement – is surveyed in the light of this knowledge. (“Understand” is more common than “learn” for this latter sense, but “learn” is occasionally used.) Anyway, as our friends here point out,4 you have overlooked the fact that the same word is applied to people in the opposite conditions of knowledge and ignorance. The point of the second question was similar too, when it was asked whether people learn what they know or what they don’t know. Now, this is not [b] the serious part of the curriculum, which is why I say that their treatment of you is light-hearted; I call it playful because mastery of even a substantial amount, or even the whole, of this sort of stuff would by no means lead to increased knowledge of how things are, but only to the ability to play games with people, tripping them up and flooring them with different senses of words, just like those who derive pleasure and amusement from pulling stools from under people when they are about to sit down, and from seeing someone floundering on his back. So you should realize that [c] so far they’ve had their tongues in their cheeks; but no doubt they will of their own accord show you the serious part next. I shall suggest a way in which they might fulfil their promise to me: they said they were going to give an exhibition of protreptic wisdom,1 but in fact they apparently felt that a prerequisite was playing games with you. So, enough of your games, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus: more would probably be superfluous. [d] For your next exhibition, convince the lad of the necessity of pursuing wisdom and virtue. But first, I’ll just outline for you what I’d like to hear- that is, what I take the task to be. If my effort strikes you as ridiculously amateurish, please don’t mock: my eagerness to hear your wisdom makes me risk an impromptu in your presence. So will you and your students please be patient and hear me out without laughing? And will you, son of [e] Axiochus, answer my questions?
‘Does everybody want success?2 That’s a stupid question, I suppose – a typical example of the sort of absurd question I was afraid of just now, perhaps? I mean, who doesn’t want success?’
‘No one,’ replied Cleinias.
‘Well then,’ I said, ‘the next question, given that we want success, is [279a] how might we gain it? If we had plenty of good things? Or is this an even sillier question than before? I mean, this too is indisputably so, I suppose.’
He agreed.
‘All right, then: what sorts of things are in fact good things? Well, that isn’t difficult: we don’t seem to need any particularly distinguished personage to give us a fluent answer to this one either, do we? Anyone would tell us that wealth is good. Right?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘And the same goes for health, good looks and adequate physical [b] characteristics generally?’
He agreed.
‘But we mustn’t forget good birth, power and authority in one’s country, which are obviously good.’
He agreed.
‘Have we missed out any good things?’ I asked. ‘What about self-responsibility,1 justice and courage? Give me your honest opinion, Cleinias: would we correctly class these as good or not? I mean, there could be disagreement on this.2 What do you think?’
‘That they are good,’ replied Cleinias.
‘All right, then,’ I said. ‘How shall we cast wisdom?3 As good, or what?’ [c]
‘As good.’
‘Now, make sure that we aren’t overlooking anything good – at least, anything worth mentioning.’
‘No, I don’t think we are,’ said Cleinias.
Then I remembered something, and said: ‘Good heavens, we are in danger of missing out the greatest good of all!’
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Good luck, Cleinias, which is unanimously – even by pretty uneducated people – held to be the greatest good of all.’4
‘You’re right,’ he said.
Then I had another afterthought, and said: ‘You and I, Cleinias, have just come very close to making ourselves objects of our visitors’ derision.’ [d]
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because our inclusion of good luck in the list is redundant.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘It is ridiculous to propose all over again something that has already been proposed, and to cover the same ground twice.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Wisdom is good luck, you know,’ I said. ‘This is something even a child would appreciate.’5
He was surprised – a sign of his youth and naivety – and because I recognized that he was surprised,1 I said: ‘Surely you’re aware, Cleinias, [e] that pipe-players have the best luck as regards success at pipe-playing?’
He agreed.
‘And that the same goes for scribes,’ I went on, ‘as regards reading and writing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Moreover, surely, you wouldn’t expect anyone to have better luck, when faced with maritime dangers, than an expert helmsman, generally speaking?’
‘Of course not.’
‘And would you prefer to face military risks and hazards in the company of a clever or an ignorant commander?’2 [280a]
‘A clever one.’
‘And would you rather take your chances with a clever or an ignorant doctor when you’re ill?’
‘A clever one.’
‘Therefore,’ I said, ‘you think that you will have better luck if your affairs are attended by an expert rather than an ignoramus, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘In every walk of life, then, wisdom causes luck: wisdom can never fail at all, but must be successful and attain its goal. Otherwise it would no longer be wisdom.’3
The long and short of it was that we finally agreed – I don’t know how – [b] that whenever wisdom is present,4 good luck is redundant. Once we’d reached this agreement, I returned to our earlier agreed conclusions and asked him how they stood. ‘You see,’ I continued, ‘we agreed that if we had plenty of good things, we would be happy5 and successful.’
He agreed.
‘Now, would we be happy if we derived no benefit from the presence of these good things? Or do they have to benefit us?’
‘And does mere possession without use benefit us? For example, would [c] we benefit at all from the possession of plenty of food and drink without eating or drinking?’
‘Of course not,’ he said.
‘Now, take a craftsman who has all the equipment suitable for his job, but doesn’t use it: is he going to be successful, just because he has in his possession everything he needs to possess? For example, if a carpenter has equipped himself with all his tools and enough wood, but doesn’t do any carpentry, is he going to benefit at all from the possession of them?’
‘Impossible,’ he said. [d]
‘Well then, suppose someone has acquired wealth and all the good things we just mentioned, but doesn’t put them to use: would the mere possession of these things cause him to be happy?’
‘Of course not, Socrates.’
‘It apparently follows,’ I said, ‘that one must1 not only possess these good things, but also use them, if one is to be happy. I mean,2 no benefit is gained from possession alone.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So do the possession and use of good things constitute a sufficient [e] condition of happiness?’
‘I think so.’
‘For this to be so, do they need to be used correctly, or not?’ I asked.3
‘Correctly.’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I’m inclined to think that it is more untoward for something to be used incorrectly than to be left alone, because the one situation is actually bad, but the other is neither good nor bad. Isn’t that [281a] our position?’
He agreed.
‘Now then, in the case of working with and using wood, it is knowledge of carpentry which engenders correct use, isn’t it?’
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘And, I suppose, in the case of working with equipment, it is again knowledge that engenders the correct procedures.’
He agreed.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘in the case of using the good things we mentioned at the outset – wealth, health and good looks – didn’t we find that it is again knowledge which governs action and makes it correct, or was it something [b] else?’
‘It was knowledge,’ he said.
‘Apparently, then, knowledge affords people success as well as giving them good luck, whatever they possess or do.’
He agreed.
‘So,’ I said, ‘can we in all honesty say that if someone lacks intelligence and wisdom, he will benefit from his other possessions? Which is better for an unintelligent person: to be rich in possessions and have a finger in many pies, or to have few possessions and be less busy?1 Look at it this way: the less he did, the fewer mistakes he would make; the fewer mistakes, [c] the less unsuccessful he would be; and the less unsuccessful he was, the less miserable he would be. Isn’t that right?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Is poverty or wealth more conducive to less business?’
‘Poverty,’ he said.
‘Weakness or strength?”
‘Weakness.’
‘Authority or obscurity?’
‘Obscurity.’
‘And do courage and self-responsibility2 make for less activity, or does cowardice?’
‘Cowardice.’
‘Laziness, then, rather than energy?’
He agreed.
‘And ambling rather than running? Sight and hearing which are dull rather than sharp?’ [d]
He agreed with me on these and all similar points.
‘In a nutshell, Cleinias,’ I said, ‘it seems likely that our account of all the things we originally said were good is not concerned with the sense in which they are naturally good per se. No, the facts are apparently as follows: if ignorance guides them, they are greater evils than their opposites, to the extent that they put more power in the hands of their evil leader; but if intelligence and wisdom guide them, they are greater goods – but in themselves both “good” and “bad” things are valueless.’3
‘It rather looks as though you’re right,’ he said. [e]
‘What emerges from all this? Surely that nothing else is good or bad, and that of the pair we’ve been discussing, wisdom is good, ignorance bad?’
He agreed.
‘Well, our investigation isn’t over yet,’ I said. ‘The desire for happiness [282a] is universal,1 and we found that happiness stems from use – correct use – of things, and that correctness, in turn, and good luck, are products of knowledge; it apparently follows that everyone should be expending all their efforts on making themselves as wise as possible. Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Now, take someone who believes that this is a far more valuable gift to receive than money – particularly from his father, but also from anyone he looks up to or likes (especially those who claim to be his admirers), and from strangers and neighbours – and begs and beseeches them to share [b] their wisdom; for such a person, Cleinias, with his mind set on this goal, it is not at all demeaning or a source of reproach to be dominated by, and enslaved to, a lover or anyone, and to be willing, in his desire to become wise, to perform any fine act of service. Don’t you think that is so?’ I asked.
‘I think you’re quite right,’ he said.
‘Well, at least if wisdom is teachable, Cleinias,’ I pointed out, ‘and not [c] something which people get by chance. That’s a problem you and I haven’t yet considered and reached a verdict on.’
‘Well, I think it’s something teachable, Socrates,’ he said.
That pleased me. ‘That’s good to hear,’ I said. ‘Wonderful! Thank you for allowing me to dispense with a long inquiry into precisely this point, whether or not wisdom is something teachable.2 Anyway, since you think it is something teachable and is the sole source of happiness and good luck for men, then wouldn’t you say that philosophy is essential? And do you [d] yourself intend to take it up?’
‘I most certainly do, Socrates,’ he said, ‘to the best of my ability.’
I was delighted to hear this. ‘Well, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus,’ I said, ‘there you have my version – amateurish, perhaps, and clumsily long-
winded1 – of what I want protreptic discussions to be like. Now it’s up to one or the other of you to give a skilled display in the same mode. Or if you don’t want to do that, then take up where I left off and demonstrate [e] whether the lad ought to acquire every branch of knowledge or whether there is just one, possession of which will make him happy and good, and if so, which it is. You see, as I said at the beginning,2 we set considerable store by this youngster here becoming wise and good.’
This section contains the first in a series of sophisms which trade on the ambiguity, always crucial in early Greek philosophy, of the word einai, ‘to be’. There are two senses of the word which need to be understood in order to appreciate this section: (i) the existential sense, in which the word means ‘to exist’ (this is rare in English, except in the sentence ‘God is’); (ii) the copulative or predicative sense, in which it links a predicate to a subject (‘The sky is blue’).
In this section Dionysodorus moves from the copulative usage (‘Cleinias is not wise’) to the existential (‘Cleinias is not’). However absurd this move might seem, it should be remembered that einai troubled Greek philosophers for some time, until Plato pointed the way towards understanding the issues in his late dialogue Sophist. Until then, even arguments of central importance to Plato’s thought could fail to be valid (e.g. Republic 476e-480a). The Presocratic philosopher Parmenides first brought einai to the fore of Greek philosophical thought.
Although I have just analysed the sophism as relying on the fallacy of equivocation on einai, it could equally well be seen as relying on the fallacy of secundum quid (see p. 304), which is how Aristotle would classify it (De Sophisticis Elenchis 166b37–167a6). Thus, in the move cited above, Dionysodorus drops the qualification ‘wise’.
There is also a further equivocation in 283d, where Dionysodorus’ crucial sentence is literally translatable as: ‘So you want him to become who he is not and no longer to be who he now is.’ ‘Who’ here is properly equivalent to ‘the sort of person’, but Dionysodorus takes it actually to identify the subject.
That sophists had exploited difficulties in einai is shown, for instance, by the extant paraphrase of a treatise written by Gorgias (On Nature or the Non-existent), which set out to prove (contrary to Parmenides’ assertion that you cannot say ‘is not’ about anything), that nothing exists, that even if it did, it would be incomprehensible, and that even if it was comprehensible, it would
be incommunicable. Moreover, the treatise Dissoi Logoi 5.15 comes close to answering Dionysodorus’ fallacy by using the existential sense of einai to claim, ‘Everything exists in some respect.’ This suggests that Dionysodorus’ puzzle, or a similar one, was current at the time (c. 400). Parmenides and other philosophers, perhaps including Gorgias, were using einai to generate profound or at least interesting thoughts, but at some point the problems became trivialized as well.
So anyway, Crito, once I’d spoken my piece, I watched very closely for [283a] what would happen next, concentrating on how they would take up the theme and what their starting-point would be for encouraging the lad to devote himself to wisdom and virtue. Dionysodorus, the older of the two, spoke first, and we all gazed at him, thinking that we would straight away hear some pretty amazing stuff. Well, we did: the argument he launched [b] was pretty amazing, Crito, and you should hear it, as an example of an argument designed to motivate someone to virtue.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘Socrates, and all the rest of you who say you want this young man to become wise, is this a joke or do you really mean it? Are you serious?’
Now, the explanation, I supposed, for this banter and lack of seriousness was that, in spite of all, they’d got the impression that our earlier request for them to speak with the lad had not been serious, so I said in [c] no uncertain terms that we were incredibly serious.
‘Look out, Socrates,’ Dionysodorus rejoined; ‘you may end up taking your words back.’1
‘I have looked,’ I said. ‘There’s no way that I shall ever take them back.’
‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘Now, you say that you want him to become wise?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Cleinias wise at the moment or not?’ he asked.
‘Well, he says he isn’t yet,’ I said, ‘and he’s not given to idle talk.’
‘And you want him to become wise,’ he said, ‘and not to be ignorant?’ [d]
We agreed.
‘So you want him to become someone else and to stop being the person he now is.’
This took me aback, and before I could recover, he cut in: ‘In other words, since you want him to stop being the person he now is, you apparently want him to die, don’t you? Of course, it’s those who place supreme value on their beloved dying that make sterling friends and admirers!’
This is another section which presents particular problems for the translator. It introduces an old chestnut of Greek philosophical paradox – that falsehood is impossible (in Plato, see Cratylus 429d–e, Republic 478b–c, Theaetetus 187d–200c, Sophist 259d–264b, in their contexts). The paradox arises naturally out of the Greek language and occurs in slightly different forms. Understanding the version here requires meeting a third possible sense of einai (see p. 333). This third usage is called ‘veridical’ and is not paralleled in English: einai can mean ‘to be so’, ‘to be the case’, ‘to be true’, ‘to be real’.
The course of the argument from 283e-284a is as follows: (i) if someone speaks, he says something; (ii) this something exists (einai); (iii) this something is true (einai). In order to approximate to a literal translation, I have employed the rather archaic English ‘fact’ for ‘thing’ (Greek on: literally ‘a thing that is’), since that permits the transition in English to ‘it is a fact’, meaning ‘it istrue’.
The fallacy, then, is again equivocation on einai. Again, it seems trivial and obvious to us, but we should remember the extent to which language conditions thought, and try to imagine the confusions possible for a people whose language did not contain the appropriate distinctions.
The move from stage (i) to stage (ii) of the argument as summarized above looks somewhat suspect, and from 284b–c Euthydemus supports his original argument with another which confirms the suspicion. He makes it clear that he is using the verb ‘to speak’ or ‘utter’ (legein) as equivalent to doing something directly to an object. If I do something to an object, that object, no doubt, exists; but if I say something, that something does not exist in the same sense. One could say that there is an ambiguity in legein, which means either to mention an (existent) object, or simply to state a proposition (which may be false). Plato, then, provides the material for pinpointing the difficulty of the argument; but since the paradox recurs in later dialogues, we cannot say that he has solved it. He must, here as elsewhere in the dialogue, simply be repeating a standard sophistic puzzle.
Ctesippus is made to come close to a correct response, however, when he says that it is possible to describe things not as they are (284c). He is falling just short of the necessary distinction between (possibly false) statements and the actual things with which the statements are concerned. But Dionysodorus parries with a ludicrous argument (284c–e) which forces the phrase ‘as they are’ into ambiguity. Whereas Ctesippus had used the phrase to qualify the things being spoken about, Dionysodorus makes it qualify the manner of speaking. He employs, then, the fallacy of amphiboly (pp. 303–4). The argument only breaks
up when Ctesippus begins to meet Dionysodorus on his own ground (284d–e), with an equivocation on ‘speak badly’ as either ‘be bad at speaking’ or ‘abuse’.
After an interlude (285a-d), Dionysodorus launches into the next argument – prompted by Ctesippus’ use of the word ‘contradict’ – that contradiction is impossible. There are obvious similarities with the argument that falsehood is impossible, on which it is crucially dependent.
The vital premisses come at 285e-286a: that it is impossible to speak ‘nonfacts’, and that there is only one possible description of any given event. Given Ctesippus’ agreement, the rest is easy. Either both parties are speaking what is the case about an event x – no contradiction there; or neither party is speaking about x – no contradiction about x there; or one party is describing x and the other is describing another event – no contradiction about x there. Sprague (1965, n. 44) accuses Dionysodorus of being less than exhaustive – of omitting the case where both parties are giving alternative descriptions of x; but the point is that Dionysodorus is being exhaustive, given the restrictions imposed by his premisses.
Why, then, does Ctesippus agree to the premisses? Simply because he has already agreed that falsehood is impossible – or rather, he has not been able to disprove it. Dionysodorus reminds him of this at 286a: you can only speak the truth about x. From this, interestingly, it does not necessarily follow that there is only one description of any event: it might equally follow that truth is relative and that while each person gives what he sees as the truth, these truths may differ. But Ctesippus shares the common naive assumption that there is only one truth about one object, so he is trapped.
Antisthenes, a philosopher contemporary with Plato, is known to have denied the possibility of contradiction on very similar grounds (Aristotle, Metaphysics 1024b32–4), so it is possinle that the provenance of the arguments of this section is Antisthenean theory. It is by no means impossible for Plato to use a contemporary of his as a background for a discussion set in Socrates’ time (see, for example, pp. 310–11). But we know all too little about Antisthenes (the meagre evidence is ably summarized by Guthrie, III, pp. 209–18; see also Field, pp. 160–69, and Rankin, Chapter 12), and it is equally possible that arguments of this kind were current among the sophists of Socrates’ day: Antisthenes may have had the same fifth-century source and developed sophisms into more seriously meant logical theory.
Ctesippus, nervous about his beloved, got annoyed when he heard this, [e] and said: ‘If it wasn’t a bit impolite – after all, you’re a visitor, all the way from Thurii – I would have said “Go and die yourself”, for getting it into your head to slander me and the others like that; I think it’s blasphemous to suggest that I could wish him to die.’
‘Oh, I see, Ctesippus,’ said Euthydemus. ‘You think it’s possible to lie, do you?’
‘Good heavens, of course!’ he said. ‘I’m not crazy!’
‘Do lies occur when someone mentions the thing which he mentions, or when he does not?’
‘When he mentions it,’ he said. [284a]
‘So if he mentions it, then, out of all facts, he is mentioning precisely the one which he is mentioning, isn’t he?’
‘Of course,’ said Ctesippus.
‘Then at least this thing which he mentions is one out of all facts, distinct from all other facts, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So in mentioning this thing, he is talking about the fact of the matter?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘But if he mentions the fact of the matter, if he mentions facts, then he is speaking the truth. So if Dionysodorus mentions facts, he is speaking the truth and not slandering you at all.’
‘Yes,’ said Ctesippus, ‘but anyone who says what he said is not mentioning [b] facts.’
To this Euthydemus responded: ‘Non-facts do not exist, do they?’1
‘No, they don’t.’
‘And things which do not exist do not exist anywhere, do they?’
‘No.’
‘Now, is it possible for things which do not exist to be the object of any action, in the sense that things which do not exist anywhere can have anything done to them?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well then, when politicians speak in the Assembly, isn’t that an activity?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘And if it’s an activity, they are doing something?’
‘Yes.’ [c]
‘Then speech is activity and doing something?’
He agreed.
‘So no one,’ he said, ‘speaks non-existent things: I mean, he would already, in speaking, be doing something, and you have agreed that it is impossible for non-existent things to have anything done to them by
anybody.1 So you are committed to the view that lies never happen: if Dionysodorus speaks, he speaks facts – that is, truth.’
‘Good heavens, Euthydemus!’ said Ctesippus. ‘All right! But although in a sense he does mention facts, he doesn’t describe them as they are.’
‘What do you mean, Ctesippus?’ said Dionysodorus. ‘Are there people who describe things as they are?’ [d]
‘Yes, there are,’ he said. ‘Gentlemen and those who tell the truth.’
‘Now, aren’t good things in a good state and bad things in a bad state?’
He agreed.
‘And you agree that gentlemen describe things in the way that they are?’
‘Yes.’
‘So your paragons describe bad things badly, Ctesippus, if they describe things as they are!’2
‘Yes, they certainly do,’ he said, ‘particularly in the case of bad people; and if you take my advice, you’ll watch out in case you join their ranks and have good people speak badly of you – for you can be sure that good [e] people speak badly of bad people.’
‘And do they enlarge upon large people, and speak warmly of warm people?’
‘Of course,’ said Ctesippus. ‘And they speak coldly of cold people and their conversation.’3
‘You are being offensive, Ctesippus,’ said Dionysodorus, ‘very offensive.’
‘Oh no, not I, Dionysodorus,’ he said. ‘I like you. I’m just giving you a friendly warning and trying to get you never to behave so rudely in front of me as to say that I wish for the death of those I value most.’ [285a]
Well, I thought that they were being rather brusque with each other, so I tried to lighten the atmosphere by saying to Ctesippus: ‘I think that, if our visitors are prepared to talk, Ctesippus, we should accept what they offer, and not argue over words. If they do know how to destroy people, in the sense of making them good and rational instead of bad and irrational – whether they have made this breakthrough by themselves or whether someone else1 taught them a kind of destruction and annihilation, such [b] that they can do away with someone bad and resurrect him as a good person – if they know how to do this (and obviously they do: at any rate, they said that they’d recently discovered how to change people from bad to good),2 then let’s not quibble with them over this: let them destroy the lad and make him wise – and all the rest of us too. If you young men are afraid, then I’ll play the Carian3 and risk myself first: I’m old, so I’m ready [c] to take a chance, and I put myself in Dionysodorus’ hands, as if he were Medea of Colchis, to destroy me, boil me,4 or whatever else he might choose, just so long as he resuscitates me as a good person.’5
Then Ctesippus said: ‘Speaking for myself, Socrates, I’m also ready to hand myself over to our visitors, even if they choose to increase the flaying they are already subjecting me to, as long as it ends in virtue, not in my hide becoming a wineskin, as Marsyas’ did.6 Now, Dionysodorus here thinks [d] that I’m cross with him, but that’s not so: it’s just that I contradict what I take to be slanderous of me. You, my dear Dionysodorus,’ he added, ‘mustn’t confuse contradiction with abuse, which is quite different.’
‘When you argue, Ctesippus,’ said Dionysodorus, ‘do you assume that contradiction [e] exists?’
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘No doubt about it. Do you think contradiction does not exist, Dionysodorus?’
‘I bet you could never prove that you have heard one person contradicting another,’ he said.
‘Can that be true?’ he asked. ‘We’ll hear right away if7 I can prove it to you – with Ctesippus contradicting Dionysodorus!’
‘Ah, but can you provide rational argument for this claim?’8
‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘Are there descriptions for each thing that exists?’
‘Yes.’
‘Describing it as it is or as it is not?’
‘As it is.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘for if you remember, Ctesippus, not too long ago we [286a] demonstrated that no one describes things as they are not, when we showed the impossibility of speaking non-facts.’
‘So what?’ said Ctesippus. ‘Does that alter the fact that you and I can contradict each other?’
‘If we were both describing the same event,’ he asked, ‘would that constitute contradiction? Or wouldn’t we both, surely, just be saying the same thing?’
He agreed.
‘What about when neither of us describes the event?’ he asked. ‘Would that be contradiction? Or would that rather be neither of us having the [b] event in mind at all?’
He agreed to this too.
‘Finally, then, when I describe the event, and you describe another event, does that constitute contradiction? Or in this instance am I describing the event and you giving no description at all?1 But how could someone giving no description contradict someone who is giving a description?’
Socrates correctly lumps all the arguments of Section G together as dependent on the view that falsehood is impossible; he establishes that this means false belief as well as false speech, and produces an argument which, failing the necessary logical analysis of einai, is all that can be said: in the first place, nobody can be wrong, refutation is impossible and therefore (an ad hominem point) there is no need of teachers such as the sophists! So far, this merely sharpens the paradox: it doesn’t refute it.
The main part of Socrates’ fight-back arises at the end of the section. Socrates has put Dionysodorus on the spot, but Dionysodorus finds a way out: he produces another absurd argument to distract attention. Socrates’ phrase ‘the idea of the sentence’ (287c) is made to appear ridiculous: only animate things can have ideas (287d–e)! This is formally an amphiboly (pp. 303–4). Socrates seizes
the opportunity to point out that any argument, however bad, presupposes a mistake in the opponent. He uses this to suggest that the argument that falsehood is impossible is, qua argument, self-defeating (288a, see 286c). It is worth mentioning in passing that Theaetetus 171a–b elaborates the point: the argument that falsehood is impossible presupposes the mistake that falsehood is possible. But if falsehood is impossible and all beliefs are true, then the belief that falsehood is possible is true! The technical name for this argument is peritrop.
So in this section, Socrates both sharpens the paradox to show how ridiculous and counter-intuitive it is, and suggests that it is self-refuting. Remembering the Socratic equation of wisdom with virtue, we can see that what might fundamentally trouble him is that if there is no ignorance, then the distinction between virtue and vice is eliminated.
Ctesippus made no reply, but I was astonished at the argument, and said: ‘What do you mean, Dionysodorus? I’ll have you know that I’ve heard this argument plenty of times from plenty of people, but it always [c] surprises me. Protagoras’ followers were particularly keen on it,1 and there were others even before them.2 But what strikes me is its amazing capacity for destroying not only other arguments but itself as well. Anyway, I suppose you are the best person to tell me the truth about it: it means that falsehood is impossible, doesn’t it – that people either speak the truth or are not speaking at all?’
He agreed.
‘Now, is it impossible to speak falsehood, but possible to think it?’ [d]
‘No, false thoughts are impossible too.’
‘So there’s no such thing as false belief at all?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said.
‘And no ignorance or ignorant people, then? I mean, I suppose that ignorance, if it existed, would be being wrong about things?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Which is impossible,’ I said.
‘Are you arguing merely for argument’s sake, Dionysodorus, just to shock, or do you really think that no one is ignorant?’
‘Just you try to refute me,’ he said.1 [e]
‘Is refutation possible on your view, if no one speaks falsely?’
‘No,’ said Euthydemus.2
‘But didn’t Dionysodorus just suggest that I refute him?’ I asked.
‘How can anyone suggest something non-existent? Can you?’
‘Well, Euthydemus,’ I said, ‘the reason I asked is that I’m a bit slow-witted and I don’t in the least understand all these clever and worthwhile points. Anyway, I have a question for you to consider – and please bear with me if it’s rather tiresome. If neither speaking falsehood nor thinking [287a] falsehood nor ignorance are possible, then surely it is impossible, in any action, to make a mistake, because the agent cannot go wrong in what he does? Isn’t that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Now we can come to my tiresome question,’ I said. ‘If action, speech and thought are not wrong, then who on earth have you come to teach, if that is so?3 Didn’t you recently claim that you would be the best teacher of virtue to anyone who wanted to learn it?’ [b]
‘Socrates,’ Dionysodorus interjected, ‘what an old stick-in-the-mud4 you are! Fancy harping on our original statements! Next you’ll be bringing up something I said last year, but it won’t help you cope with what’s being said at the moment.’
‘That’s because it’s pretty difficult,’ I said, ‘which is only to be expected, given that clever people are doing the talking. And it is especially difficult to cope with this last argument of yours. What do you mean by my “inability to cope”, Dionysodorus? Or is it obvious – you mean that I can’t refute it? Tell me, what else is the idea of the sentence “I am unable [c] to cope with the argument”?’5
‘Well, it is far from difficult to cope with what you are saying,’6 he said, ‘so answer me this.’
‘Before you’ve answered me, Dionysodorus?’ I asked.
‘Aren’t you going to answer me?’
‘Is that fair?’
‘Of course it’s fair,’ he said.
‘On what grounds?’ I asked. ‘Oh, I see: is it because here you are – there’s nobody more clever at argument – and you know when answers are called for and when not? You’re not going to reply1 at all for the [d] moment, because you realize you’d better not. Is that it?’
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ he said, ‘when you should be getting ready to answer. My dear fellow, just do what you’re told and answer my questions. After all, you do admit that I’m clever.’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘I must do as you say. I have no choice in the matter, apparently: you’re the boss. Go ahead with your questions, then.’
‘Do animate or inanimate things have ideas?’
‘Animate.’
‘Do you know an animate sentence?’ he asked.
‘Good heavens, no!’
‘Why, then, did you just ask me what the idea of my sentence was?’ [e]
‘My stupidity led me astray, of course,’ I said. ‘But wait a moment… did I make a mistake? Or was I right in saying that sentences have ideas? Are you saying I was wrong or not? If I wasn’t wrong, then not even you will refute me, for all your cleverness;2 so you will be unable to cope with the argument! And if I was wrong, then your claim that mistakes are impossible was incorrect. I’m not referring to something you said last [288a] year, either. Apparently, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus,’ I went on, ‘this sort of argument hasn’t changed at all, it still brings itself down in the act of throwing others,3 just as it always did. Not even your skill has come up with a cure for this, despite your amazing precision with words.’
Ctesippus chipped in: ‘Thurians or Chians – wherever you’re from and whatever title pleases you4 – I’m astonished at your words: you don’t care [b] at all if you talk gibberish.’
This section continues the Socratic protreptic of Section E and is discussed on pp. 307–9. The search is for a superordinate branch of knowledge which is the
one to bring happiness. The discussion moves rapidly from manufacturing skills with obviously restricted domains (289b–c), to somewhat more plausible claims: both speech-composition (289C–290a) and military command (290a-d) could be claimed to require wide knowledge. (Gorgias in Gorgias claims that oratory is the supreme skill.) Plato, however, finds the claims unsatisfactory.
Interestingly, Plato has Cleinias, not Socrates, develop the argument which dismisses the claims of both speech-composition and military command. The point is probably to show how under Socrates’ tutelage independent thought is encouraged.
I was afraid that insults were in the offing, so I tried to calm Ctesippus down again by saying: ‘Not long ago, Ctesippus, I said something to Cleinias, which I shall now repeat to you: you are failing to recognize our visitors’ wisdom for the wonder that it is. It’s just that they are not willing to give us a serious demonstration; instead they are imitating the Egyptian sophist Proteus and practising illusions on us. So we must imitate Menelaus and not let them go until they have revealed the serious part of their [c] work.1 To my mind, we will see an excellent side of them, when they get down to being serious; so let us get down on our knees and beg and beseech them to reveal it. Now, I again propose to show the way myself, to indicate what sort of persons I am begging them to reveal themselves to be. I will try to the best of my ability to cover the stages which follow [d] on from where I left off before: perhaps the seriousness of my efforts will stimulate them, through pity and compassion, to take things seriously themselves. Cleinias,’ I said, ‘please remind me where we left off. Am I right in thinking that we ended up agreeing that philosophy is essential?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘All right; and philosophy is acquisition of knowledge, isn’t it?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘So what is the proper branch of knowledge to acquire?2 Isn’t it simply [e] the one which benefits us?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Would it benefit us at all to know how to travel around and pick out the places with the richest deposits of gold?’
‘It might,’ he said.
‘But earlier,’1 I went on, ‘we established that even if all the gold in the world could be ours without the bother of excavation, we would be no better off. No, even if we knew how to change stones into gold nuggets, our knowledge would be worthless. We proved that without the [289a] knowledge of how to use gold, no benefit would accrue. Don’t you remember?’ I asked.
‘Of course I do,’ he said.
‘Nor, apparently, is there any benefit to be gained from any other branch of knowledge – financial, medical or whatever – unless on top of enabling achievement of a result, it brings knowledge of how to use the result. Isn’t that so?’
He agreed.
‘To judge by these agreed premisses, there is apparently no benefit to be gained even from knowing how to bestow immortality, without the [b] knowledge of how to use immortality.’
He found this wholly acceptable too.
‘Therefore, my dear boy,’ I said, ‘a kind of knowledge is required which simultaneously combines both achievement of a result and knowing how to use the result.’2
‘I suppose so,’ he said.
‘It seems to follow that there’s really no call for us to be lyre-makers or to be masters of a branch of knowledge like that, since in this instance the [c] skills of manufacture and use are separate, though the object is identical: I mean, the making and playing of lyres are quite different, don’t you think?’
He agreed.
‘Again, we obviously don’t need pipe-making, which is another just like the first.’
He agreed.
‘Now, seriously,’ I said, ‘suppose we’d learned the art of composing speeches: is this the art whose possession is bound to make us happy?’
‘Not in my opinion,’ Cleinias replied.
‘What’s your evidence?’ I asked. [d]
‘My eyes provide it,’3 he said. ‘Some composers of speeches do not know how to use their own speeches, the ones they themselves compose.4 In this field too – just like lyre-makers and their lyres – others, who are themselves incapable of writing speeches, have the ability to put the speech-writers’ compositions to use. Obviously, then, speeches are no different from the rest: the arts of composition and usage are distinct.’
‘I think,’ I said, ‘that your evidence is enough to prove that speech- composition is not the skill whose possession would bring happiness. Pity – I did think that we were getting close to uncovering the branch of knowledge we’ve been after all this time: my contacts with speech-writers [e] themselves have always confirmed them in my eyes as incredibly clever, and their art as superhuman and sublime. And that’s only what you’d expect: after all, it’s an aspect of enchantment and a close second best to it. Enchantment is the bewitching of wild animals and pests like snakes, [290a] poisonous spiders and scorpions; speech-writing is in fact the bewitching and calming down of assemblies – legal, political and so on. Would you argue with me on that?’ I asked.
‘No, I agree with you,’ he said.
‘Where is there left for us to turn?’ I asked. ‘What skill can we investigate?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ he said.
‘Hang on,’ I said, ‘I think I’ve got it.
‘Which one?’ asked Cleinias.
‘I think,’ I said, ‘that military command is pre-eminently the skill possession [b] of which would bring happiness.’
‘I disagree,’ he said.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Well, this skill involves hunting men.’
‘What of it?’ I asked.
‘Any skill that’s subsumable under hunting,’ he said, ‘is restricted to hunting and subduing. Once the quarry has been subdued, hunters are incapable of using it: hunters and fishermen hand it over to cooks; geometers, astronomers and mathematicians – yes, they’re hunters too, [c] because they don’t create their respective diagrams ex nihilo; they merely show up what’s already there.1 Anyway, since they only know how to hunt, not how to use their discoveries, they entrust their use to dialecticians, I suppose – at least they do if they’ve got any sense at all.’2
‘Well!’ I exclaimed. ‘Brafns as well as looks, Cleinias! So that’s how it is?’
‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘And military commanders are just like that. When they have finished hunting a city or an army, then because they themselves [d] don’t know how to use the quarry, they make way for statesmen, just as people who hunt quails hand them over to people who breed them. So,’ he concluded, ‘if we want that skill which combines making or hunting with knowing how to use the acquisition – the sort of skill which will make us happy – we’d better look elsewhere, not to military command.’
This section ends Socrates’ protreptic; it is discussed on pp. 308–9, where it is argued that its inconclusive conclusion should be taken as a sign of genuine puzzlement. What the passage illustrates, within the context of the whole dialogue, is the difference between constructive puzzlement and the confusion caused by eristic arguments.
There is no significance in Plato’s changing to direct dialogue form in this section: he is merely varying our diet. The conversations between Socrates and Crito enclose and punctuate the dialogue.
CRITO: Do you really mean that Cleinias came out with all that? [e]
SOCRATES: Don’t you believe it?
CRITO: I most certainly do not. If he said that, he doesn’t need educating by Euthydemus or anyone else, in my opinion.
SOCRATES: Good heavens! Then perhaps it was Ctesippus who said it, and I’ve forgotten?
CRITO: Ctesippus? Hardly! [291a]
SOCRATES: Anyway, there’s one thing I’m sure of, that it wasn’t Euthydemus or Dionysodorus who said it. But I’m sure I heard the speech… My dear Crito, do you think it might have come from some superior being who was present?
CRITO: Yes, I’d swear to it, Socrates – some superior being, to be sure; far superior, in fact.1 But tell me, did you continue the search for a skill? And did you find the one for which the inquiry was undertaken, or not?
SOCRATES: How could we hope to find it, my friend? We were really [b] being ridiculously childish. You know how children try to catch larks: we always thought we were poised to grasp each branch of knowledge, only to have them keep slipping through our fingers. I won’t go through the bulk of the tale, but once we’d come to the art of kingship, to consider thoroughly whether it might be the one which brings and causes happiness, we found ourselves trapped in a sort of maze: we’d think we’d finally reached the end, and then we’d turn another corner and find ourselves more or less back at the beginning of the quest and just as far short [c] of finishing as when we set out on it.
CRITO: How did this state of affairs happen, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I’ll tell you. We decided that statesmanship and kingship were identical…
CRITO: And…?
SOCRATES:… that this is the art to which military command and so on entrust the control of the products which they themselves fashion, on the grounds that it alone knows how to use them. So we were certain that we’d found our quarry, that it was the cause of correct action in the state, and that it, as Aeschylus’ line has it, sits alone at the helm of the state, [d] steering all and controlling all to make all of use.1
CRITO: And the idea met with approval, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I’ll tell you what happened next, if you like; then you’ll be able to make up your own mind. We restarted the inquiry somewhat as follows: ‘All right, then, does the art of kingship, as supreme authority, produce some result or not?’ ‘It most certainly does,’ we said to one [e] another. Wouldn’t you agree, Crito?
CRITO: Yes.
SOCRATES: What do you think its product is? Suppose I asked you: given that medicine has total authority over the area it controls, what product does it offer? You would answer health, wouldn’t you?
CRITO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Consider the skill of which you are one of the practitioners, farming, which has total authority over the area it controls: what does it produce?2 Wouldn’t you say that its product is sustenance from the earth? [292a]
CRITO: Yes.
SOCRATES: What about the art of kingship, which has total authority over the area it controls? What does it produce? Perhaps you find this a bit difficult?
CRITO: You can say that again, Socrates.
SOCRATES: We did too, Crito. But this much is clear, at any rate, that if this art is our quarry, it must be something beneficial.
CRITO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And it must yield something good, then, mustn’t it?
CRITO: Necessarily, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And, as you know, Cieinias and I agreed that nothing is [b] good except knowledge of some sort.
CRITO: Yes, that was what you said.
SOCRATES: So we found that all the other results which one might attribute to statesmanship – and there are many of these, of course: provision of a high standard of living for the citizens, for example, and freedom, and absence of faction – are neither good nor bad. We decided that, if as a result of statesmanship the citizen body was to be benefited and happy, it was crucial to make them wise and knowledgeable. [c]
CRITO: Fair enough – at least, that was your conclusion in the earlier part of the discussion, as you reported it.
SOCRATES: So does the art of kingship make people wise and good?
CRITO: Why not, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Does it make everyone good, in every respect? Does it yield all knowledge, including cobbling, carpentry and so on?
CRITO: I wouldn’t say that, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then what knowledge does it yield? What use will it be [d] to us? I mean, it must neither fashion any of the neither-good-nor-bad products, nor must it yield any knowledge apart from itself. So what about trying to formulate what it is and what use it will be? Suppose we said that its use will be making others good, Crito?
CRITO: By all means.
SOCRATES: In what respect will we find them to be good and in what respect will they be useful? Are we just to continue saying that they will make others good, and these others still others? But given that we have demoted the results which are usually attributed to statesmanship, this [e] doesn’t tell us what these people are good at. We’re in the proverbial ‘Corinthus son of Zeus’1 situation and, as I said, we’re still nowhere near knowing what that knowledge is which will make us happy.2
CRITO: Good heavens, Socrates! You apparently reached quite an impasse.
The nest of arguments in this section depends on two fallacies. First, secundum quid (p. 304), which enables Euthydemus to move from ‘A knows x’ to ‘A knows’, dropping the qualification. Second, an equivocation on ‘always’ which means both ‘for ever’ and ‘on each relevant occasion’ (as in ‘I always wash my hands before meals’).
The section is remarkable for the sophists’ disdain for empirical proof, and for Socrates’ dogged attempts to avoid both fallacies. The former is interesting because there are traces of a fifth-century debate on the relative merits of pure thought and empirical data. Several of the Presocratic philosophers entered into the debate, and some of the earlier treatises of the Hippocralic corpus take up positions in it. On the whole issue, see Lloyd (1979), Chapter 3. Here again, then, we find trivialization of an important debate.
Socrates’ delaying tactics show that Plato is aware of what is causing the problem in each case: Socrates wants to retain an object for the verb ‘know’, so that it remains qualified (293c), and he pinpoints the troublesome ‘always’ (296a–b).
Apart from the fallaciousness of the sophisms and their evident absurdity, the end of the section sees Socrates developing an ad bominem argument, when he tries to get Dionysodorus to admit that he knows propositions like ‘good men are unjust’. Dionysodorus squirms out of shame: to normal Greek morality, such a proposition was inconceivable (compare Gorgias 474c in context for a similar use of the tactic). It should be noted, since this is not the first occasion in the dialogue, that ad hominem tactics are not unfair on the principles of Socratic dialectic, which require interlocuters to state their real beliefs (cf. p. 31).
The pace of the dialogue is increasing; with Socrates continuing to pressurize the sophists, we are prepared also for Ctesippus’ aggression later in the dialogue. As a general background, we should again remember (see p. 341) that the Socratic equation of virtue with knowledge means that, if the sophists were right, that everyone is omniscient, then everyone would always be virtuous: at Cratylus 386d Plato attributes to Euthydemus the view that ‘all things belong equally to all men simultaneously and always’, from which Plato derives the moral that ‘it is not the case that some people are good, others bad, if virtue and vice belong equally and always to everyone’.
Several commentators have found covert references in the sophists’ utterances to Socraticl Platonic thought. When Dionysodorus says, ‘If you know even one thing, you know everything’ (294a), this is similar to Socrates’ statement at Meno 81d: ‘If someone recalls just one thing, there is nothing to prevent him discovering everything else.’ The similarity is only superficial: Dionysodorus is claiming that there is logical necessity, as it were, for actual omniscience of every detail; Socrates is claiming, if his statement is read in context, that with hard work one may discover the principles that govern things. It seems likely that the sophism originated independently of Socrates’ theory of recollection; nevertheless, the superficial similarity of the two statements makes Plato’s task of distinguishing the sophists from Socrates more poignant. It is perhaps significant, then, that Plato chooses to illustrate the sophists’ argument about omniscience rather than total ignorance: their argument could have turned either way (‘If you are ignorant of just one thing, you are ignorant of everything’).
Others have gone so far as to find reference in Dionysodorus’ statement to Plato’s view in Republic that the form of the good makes all other things knowable. But Euthydemus was written some time before Republic and as far as we can tell Plato had not yet elaborated that theory. In the second sophism of this section, Euthydemus’ ‘proof’ of eternal omniscience is again superficially similat to the theory of recollection, according to which the immortal soul has latent knowledge of everything.
SOCRATES: Yes, and that’s why, when I found myself trapped in this maze, I for my part began vociferously to resort to every kind of plea and [293a] to call on the two visitors, as if they were the Dioscuri,1 to save us – the lad and me – from being overwhelmed by the argument. I asked them to try in all seriousness to show us what the knowledge is whose discovery would enable us to live finely for the rest of our lives.
CRITO: And was Euthydemus prepared to give you a demonstration?
SOCRATES: Of course, my friend. And he started with a very generous offer. ‘Socrates,’ he said, ‘you’ve both been puzzling over this knowledge [b] for a while now. Shall I instruct you in it or demonstrate that you have it?’
‘You marvellous man,’ I said. ‘Can you do that?’
‘Certainly,’ he said.
‘Then please, please demonstrate that I have it,’ I said. ‘For someone my age that’s easier than learning about it.’
‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘You answer my questions. Do you know anything?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘lots of things – unimportant things, though.’2
‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Now, do you think it possible for anything not to be what it is?’
‘Of course I don’t. What a question!’ [c]
‘And you know something?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, if you know, you are in possession of knowledge?’
‘Yes, of that thing, anyway.’
‘That’s irrelevant. Aren’t you bound to know everything, if you are in possession of knowledge?’
‘Good heavens, no!’ I said. ‘There are plenty of other things I don’t know.’
‘Well, if you don’t know something, you are not in possession of knowledge.’
‘Of that, my friend,’ I said.
‘But that doesn’t alter the fact that you are not in possession of knowledge, does it?’ he asked. ‘But just now you said you were. So you both are what you are, and again are not what you are, in the same respect and at the same time.’1 [d]
‘All right, Euthydemus,’ I said. ‘Touché, as they say. So how do I have that knowledge which we were looking for? Because (a) it is impossible both to be and not be the same thing; (b) if I know one thing, I know everything, since I cannot at the same time both be and not be in possession of knowledge; (c) since I know everything, then I possess that knowledge too. Is that what you are saying? Is that the bright idea?’
‘You are refuting yourself out of your own mouth, Socrates,’ he said. [e]
‘But doesn’t the same thing happen to you, Euthydemus?’ I asked. ‘I mean, I really wouldn’t mind sharing any experience at all with you and dear old Dionysodorus here. Tell me, don’t you two know some things and not know others?’
‘You’re quite wrong, Socrates,’ said Dionysodorus.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Do you mean you two know nothing?’
‘We have knowledge, all right,’ he said. ‘So,’ I said, ‘since you know something, you know everything?’ [294a]
‘Everything,’ he said. ‘And you do too: if you know even one thing, you know everything.’
‘Good God!’ I exclaimed. ‘That’s incredible! Thank you for enlightening me about my great good fortune! What about everyone else? Do they know everything or nothing?’
‘Well, they can’t have only partial knowledge, and simultaneously be and not be in possession of knowledge,’ he said.
‘What is the case, then?’ I asked.
‘Everybody knows everything,’ he said, ‘as long as they know just one thing.’
‘It was a bit of a struggle, Dionysodorus,’ I said, ‘to get you two to be [b] serious, but I can see you’re in earnest now. So for heaven’s sake, tell me, do you two really know everything, I mean, including carpentry and cobbling?’1
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You are competent even at stitching leather?’
‘Yes, of course, and at sewing soles on too,’ he said.
‘And at things like how many stars and grains of sand there are?’2
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You didn’t really expect us to deny that, did you?’
Ctesippus came in quickly at this point: ‘For heaven’s sake, Dionysodorus!’ he said. ‘Give me a demonstration, something to let me know [c] you’re telling the truth.’3
‘What demonstration shall I give?’ he asked.
‘Do you know how many teeth Euthydemus has got? Does Euthydemus know how many you’ve got?’4
‘Can’t you be satisfied with being told that we are omniscient?’ he asked.
‘No, not in the slightest,’ he said. ‘Just answer my question – that’s all – and demonstrate that you’re telling the truth. If each of you says how many teeth the other has, and when we’ve counted we find that you do know, then we’ll believe your other claims too.’
They weren’t prepared to do this – they thought he was mocking them; [d] but each time Ctesippus asked them whether they knew something, they agreed that they did. Eventually Ctesippus, rather uninhibitedly, went so far as to ask whether they knew even the most disgusting things. They continued to agree that they did, and tackled his questions head on, very courageously, like boars thrusting against a hunter’s spear. Eventually, Crito, my own incredulity compelled me to join in and ask Dionysodorus whether he knew how to dance.
‘Yes,’ he said. [e]
‘Surely,’ I asked, ‘your expertise is not so advanced that at your age you can do handsprings over knives and whirl around on a wheel.1 Can you do that?’
‘There is nothing I do not know how to do,’ he said.
‘Do you both know everything only at this moment, or did you always too?’ I asked.
‘Always too,’ he said.
‘And did you both know everything when you were children, as soon as you were born, in fact?’
They both said ‘yes’ simultaneously.
Well, we just couldn’t believe it. ‘Are you dubious, Socrates?’ asked [295a] Euthydemus.
‘I would be,’ I said, ‘if your cleverness was open to reasonable doubt.’
‘You have only to answer my questions,’ he said, ‘and I will demonstrate that you too agree to these marvels.’
‘Well, this is one argument I really don’t mind losing,’ I said. ‘I mean, I could look my whole life and never find a greater godsend than your demonstration that I am, was and will be omniscient – though this wisdom has escaped my noticeg.’2
‘Answer my questions, then,’ he said,
‘You have only to ask them.’ [b]
‘Do you, Socrates,’ he said, ‘know anything or not?’
‘I do.’
‘And is this state of knowledge made possible by what enables you to be in possession of knowledge, or by something else?’
‘By what enables me to be in possession of knowledge: I suppose you mean my soul, don’t you?’
‘Really, Socrates!’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t answer questions with questions.’3
‘All right,’ I said. ‘But what am I to do? I’ll do as you say: are you telling me just to answer, and not to ask questions, even when I don’t know what you’re asking?’
‘Surely you understand what I’m saying a bit, don’t you?’ he asked. [c]
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘So answer as much of the question as you understand.’
‘What if I misconstrue the thinking behind your question and answer what I take it to be?’ I asked. ‘Is it still enough for you if my answer is entirely beside the point?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but not for you, I imagine.’
‘Good heavens, no!’ I said. ‘I won’t answer until I’ve got to the bottom of a question.’
‘The reason you won’t answer as much of the question as you understand at the time,’ he said, ‘is because you persist in being an unnecessarily reactionary old windbag.’
I realized that my precision with his words was annoying him, because [d] he wanted to surround me with verbiage and trap me that way. Then I remembered that when Connus1 gets annoyed with me for being stubborn, he doesn’t take so much trouble over me, thinking that I am stupid. So I thought I’d better give in to Euthydemus, since I intended to become his pupil too, in case he thought I was dense and refused to take me on as his pupil. So I said: ‘All right, Euthydemus, we’ll have to do it your way: you [e] know infinitely more about how to conduct a philosophical discussion than I, who have only an amateur’s skill. So please, start your questions again from the beginning.’
‘Try again, then,’ he said, ‘to answer me this: do you know what you know by means of something or not?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘My soul.’
‘He’s done it again,’ he said. ‘He answers more than he’s asked. My [296a] question is not what you know by, but whether you know by means of something.1
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Once again, lack of education has made me give a superfluous answer. Now I’ll answer with no embellishments: yes, I know what I know by means of something.’
‘And is it always the same thing, or is it sometimes that and sometimes something else?’ he asked.
‘Whenever I know, it’s always by means of that thing,’ I said.
‘I must ask you again,’ he said, ‘not to qualify your answers.’
‘Well, I’m worried about this “always” misleading us.’
‘Not us,’ he said, ‘but you, maybe. Now come on, answer me: do you [b] always know by means of that thing?’
‘If I have to delete my “whenever”, I can only answer “always”,’ I said.
‘So you always know by means of that thing. Now, given that you always know, do you know some things by means of this thing which enables you to know, but other things by means of something else? Or do you know everything by means of this thing?’
‘All that I know, I know by means of this thing,’ I said.1’
‘There you are again,’ he said, ‘bringing in the same qualification.’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘I withdraw my phrase “that I know”.’
‘No, don’t bother to withdraw anything,’ he said. ‘I don’t need any favours from you. Tell me: could you know all2 without knowing [c] everything?’
‘That would be unusual,’ I said.
‘Now you can add whatever qualifications you like,’ he replied. ‘You have admitted that you know everything.’3
‘So it seems,’ I said. ‘I know everything – given your invalidation of “that I know”.’
‘Now, you have admitted both that you always know by means of that which enables you to know – whenever you know or what have you (I mean, you have admitted that you always know) – and that you know everything too.4 So obviously you knew even when you were a child – and at birth, and at conception! And given that you always know, you knew [d] everything before you were born, and before heaven and earth came into being. And, by God,’ he added, ‘you – yes, you – will always know in the future, and know everything, if I so want it.’5
‘I certainly hope you will desire it,’ I said, ‘if you really are telling the truth. But – and I mean you no disrespect, Euthydemus – I’m not fully convinced that you are up to the task, unless your brother Dionysodorus here shares your desire. Then perhaps it might be possible. It’s beyond me,’ I went on, ‘to argue against you two with your fantastic wisdom that [e] I do not know everything, when you are claiming that I do. So let’s leave all that, but could you just tell me this: how am I to say that I know that good people are unjust, and things like that? Tell me, please: is this something I know, or not?’
‘Of course you know,’ he said.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘That good people are not unjust.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ve known that for some time. But you misunderstand [297a] my question: where did I learn that good people are unjust?’1
‘Nowhere,’ said Dionysodorus.
‘So this is something which I do not know,’ I said.
‘You’re ruining the argument,’ Euthydemus said to Dionysodorus.
‘He’ll turn out not to know, and to be and not be in possession of knowledge at the same time.’
Dionysodorus blushed. ‘What do you mean, Euthydemus?’ I asked. ‘Do you think your omniscient brother is making a mistake?’ [b]
‘Am I Euthydemus’ brother?’ Dionysodorus quickly butted in.2
‘Let mat go, my friend,’ I said, ‘until Euthydemus has taught me how I know that good people are unjust. Don’t begrudge me this lesson.’
‘You’re running away, Socrates,’ said Dionysodorus. ‘You don’t want to answer me.’
‘That’s hardly surprising,’ I said. ‘Either of you by himself could defeat me, so you bet I’m running away from the two of you together. I’m not in the same league as Heracles,3 you know – far from it – and he couldn’t [c] stand up to the Hydra (a she-sophist who was clever enough to come up with many heads of argument for any one which was cut off), when she joined forces with another, crab-like sophist, who, I imagine, had just come ashore from the sea. When this crab-like sophist was giving him a hard time with arguments and with claws a-snapping on his left,4 he called up reinforcements, in the shape of his nephew Iolaus, whose assistance met his requirements. But if my Iolaus should come, he might only make [d] matters worse.’1
There are several arguments in this section, which are linked both by the common theme of family relationships and by an increasing absurdity. The sophisms here are perhaps better called quibbles or puns than arguments.
Dionysodorus sets out to demonstrate that if Iolaus is a nephew, he is everyone’s nephew. By 297e this fallacy of secundum quid, and another on brothers, have been foiled by Socrates’ precision with the necessary qualifications. Dionysodorus then changes tack, to argue that a father both is a father (of someone) and is not a father (of others). The dropping of the qualifications and the consequent fallacy of secundum quid are blatant. That this is Plato’s analysis of the argument is clear from Socrates’ answers at the beginning of 298a, but other analyses are possible (see Hawtrey (1981), p. 161). Euthydemus adds the consequence (298b) that Socrates is fatherless: it is not clear whether this is meant simply to be ludicrous, or whether it carries the connotation of ‘bastard’ that English slang does.
Ctesippus takes over to prove that Euthydemus is fatherless too, but Euthydemus turns the tables by arguing the reverse (the tactic is familiar from Sections C and D), using the law of non-contradiction (see e.g. 293b), in conjunction with the usual omission of necessary qualifications. Ctesippus insolently draws out the absurdity: each person’s parents are the parents of everything.
The final argument (298d–e) uses a different fallacy – equivocation on’ your’ – to claim that Ctesippus’ dog is his father. This may also be analysedas a fallacy of composition (if the dog is both yours and a father, it is your father; see p. 304). Aristotle analyses it (De Sophisticis Elenchis 179a34–5) as an example of his ‘fallacy of accident’, that is, the confusion of an accidental term with an essential term: my father is mine in a more proper – less accidental – sense than my dog. In any case, the fallacies of composition and of accident depend upon the presence of ambiguous terms.
‘Since you’ve so lyrically brought it up,’ said Dionysodorus, ‘tell me this: was Iolaus any more Heracles’ nephew than yours?’
‘Well, I’d better answer you, Dionysodorus,’ I said. ‘I’m pretty sure that there’s no chance of your dropping your questions. You refuse to let me learn that bit of wisdom from Euthydemus; you just get in the way.’
‘Answer, then,’ he said.
‘My answer,’ I said, ‘is that Iolaus was Heracles’ nephew and, as far as I can see, there’s no way that he was mine at all. I mean, Iolaus’ father [e] wasn’t my brother Patrocles but – and I admit that the names are similar – Iphicles, who was Heracles’ brother.’
‘Is Patrocles your brother?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We have the same mother, at any rate, though different fathers.’
‘So he is and is not your brother.’
‘It’s just that we don’t have the same father, my friend,’ I said. ‘His was Chaeredemus, mine Sophroniscus.’
‘Were both Sophroniscus and Chaeredemus fathers?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The first was mine, the second his.’ [298a]
‘Was Chaeredemus different from a father?’ he asked.
‘From mine, anyway,’ I said.
‘What? He was a father although he was different from a father? And you are the same as the proverbial stone, I suppose?’1
‘I’m afraid that’s how you’ll make me appear,’ I said, ‘but, as far as I can see, I’m not.’
‘Well, are you different from the stone?’ he asked.
‘Of course I am.’
‘And if you are different from stone, you’re not stone, are you? And if you are different from gold, you’re not gold, are you?’
‘True.’
‘So surely, if Chaeredemus is different from a father,’ he said, ‘then he isn’t a father.’2
‘I suppose not,’ I said.
‘For if Chaeredemus is a father, you see,’ Euthydemus interposed, ‘then [b] again, Sophroniscus is not a father, because he is different from a father – and you, Socrates, are fatherless!’
At this point Ctesippus took over. ‘Doesn’t precisely the same go for your father too?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t he different from my father?’
‘Far from it,’ said Euthydemus.
‘He’s the same?’ he asked.
‘Certainly.’
‘I can’t go along with that. But tell me, Euthydemus: is he only my [c] father, or everyone else’s as well?’
‘Everyone else’s as well,’ he said, ‘unless you imagine that the same person can both be and not be a father.’
‘That’s exactly what I did think,’ said Ctesippus.
‘Really?’ he said. ‘That gold isn’t gold, and a person isn’t a person?’
‘Euthydemus,’ said Ctesippus, ‘I rather suspect that you are not joiningflax to flax, as the saying goes.1 It is monstrous to say that your father isfather of everything.’
‘But he is,’ he said.
‘Just of men,’ asked Ctesippus, ‘or of horses and all other animals too?’
‘Of everything.’
‘And similarly for your mother?’ [d]
‘Yes.’
‘Your mother, then, is the mother of sea-urchins.’
‘So’s yours,’ he said.
‘Which makes you a brother to gobies and puppies and piglets.’
‘Yes, and you,’ he said.
‘And your father is a pig and a dog.’
‘Yes, and so’s yours,’ he said.
‘You’ll soon find yourself agreeing to these points, Ctesippus,’ said Dionysodorus, ‘if you answer my questions. Tell me: do you have a dog?’
‘Yes, a real scamp,’ said Ctesippus.
‘And has he got puppies?’
‘Yes, regular chips off the old block,’ he said. [e]
‘So your dog is their father?’
‘Yes, I myself saw him mounting the bitch,’ he said.
‘Well now, the dog is yours?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘He is a father, and he is yours – so he turns out to be your father, and you are brother to puppies!’
To prevent Ctesippus having the next word, Dionysodorus quickly started up again: ‘I’ve got one more small question for you,’ he said. ‘Do you beat this dog of yours?’
Ctesippus laughed and said: ‘Good heavens, yes! You see, I can’t beat you!’
‘You beat your own father, then?’
‘I would be far more justified in beating yours,’ he said, ‘for having the [299a] bright idea of fathering such clever sons!’
Ciesippus’ first words in this section seem to assume that lots of good things are desirable, so the sophists set out to prove the opposite. First, Euthydemus uses the method of reductio ad absurdum to show that in at least two cases a lot is too much. Second, Dionysodorus uses the same method to show that having a good thing is not always and everywhere appropriate.
The fallacy in their arguments is the opposite of secundum quid; Ctesippus’ unqualified assumption is given absurd qualifications. But the section has more interest than this. Why are the sophists given an argument for a non-outrageous conclusion (‘nothing in excess’ was proverbial Greek wisdom, endorsed by both Socrates and Plato), while Ctesippus defends the opposite?
We have been conditioned so far in the dialogue to disapprove of the sophisms. What does Plato mean us to disapprove of here? Probably this: that even though the conclusion is reasonable, the purpose of the argument is eristic, as usual. Ctesippus’ innocuous, or at least casual assumption is seized on for the sophiststo score points.
Ctesippus’ defence of his assumption has several dramatic purposes: first, since he finds counter-examples, albeit extreme ones, we are being shown the dangers of inferring a conclusion from too few examples; second, Plato is showing how eristic arguments provoke more of the same; third, we are being prepared for Ctesippus’ counter-attack in Section N.
The sophisms here are Socratic both in mode (Socrates frequently uses inference) and in conclusion (see Section E for the lack of necessity for many good things). They cannot even be described as perversions of Socratic argument. We are simply being shown that eristic sophists can use anything for their own ends.
‘But I suppose it goes without saying, Euthydemus, that your father – the puppies’ father – has derived enormous benefit from your wisdom.’
‘He has no need of lots of good things, Ctesippus; nor do you.’
‘Nor you, Euthydemus?’ he asked.
‘No, no one does. I mean, suppose someone’s ill, Ctesippus, and takes some medicine when he needs it – tell me whether you reckon that is a [b]good thing or not. And again, isn’t it better to be armed than unarmed when going to war?’
‘I would say so. But I imagine that you will come up with one of your smart moves.’
‘You’ll discover that best,’ he said, ‘if you just answer my questions. You endorsed the idea that it is good for a person to take medicine when he needs it; so shouldn’t he take as much as possible of this good thing? And in that case, won’t he be well off if a whole cartload of hellebore is pounded and mixed for him?’
‘No doubt about it, Euthydemus,’ said Ctesippus, ‘if the patient has the bulk of the Delphic statue.’1 [c]
‘Now, take war too, where it is good to be armed: shouldn’t one have as many spears and shields as possible, since it is a good thing?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Ctesippus. ‘Don’t you agree, Euthydemus? Do you think that one of each is appropriate?’
‘I do.’
‘Would you also arm Geryon or Briareus in that fashion?’2 he asked. ‘I’d credited you with more competence than that – you and your colleague – considering that you teach weaponry.’
Euthydemus kept quiet, but Dionysodorus had a question relating to Ctesippus’ earlier responses: ‘Do you think possession of gold is good [d] too?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Ctesippus, ‘and in this case, plenty of it.’
‘And do you think that possession of good things is always indispensable everywhere?’
‘Certainly,’ he said.
‘And you agree that gold is good?’
‘I’ve already said so,’ he replied.
‘So one should always have it everywhere, and in oneself as much as possible? The greatest happiness would be having three talents of gold in [e] your stomach, one in the skull, and a stater in each eye, wouldn’t it?’3
‘Well, Dionysodorus,’4 said Ctesippus, ‘they do say that the happiest and bravest Scythians are those who have lots of gold in their skulls (to imitate your recent claim that my dog is my father),1 and – what is even more remarkable – that they drink out of their gilded skulls, hold the crowns of their heads in their hands and gaze inside!’2
That sophisms about the senses were common is proved by Aristotle’s references to them (De Sophisticis Elenchis 166a9–14, 168a13–16, 171a passim). Those we find in this section employ the fallacy of amphiboly (pp. 303–4), dependent upon ambiguities in Greek grammar. They are, therefore, very difficult to translate.
The first (300a) exploits the phrase dunata horan, which has both active and passive meanings: ‘able to see’ or ‘possible to see’. The English phrase ‘here to see’ is the closest I can get to capturing this ambiguity. We say ‘The paintings are here to see’ – that is, ‘here for us to see’ – but obviously the phrase also has an active sense, as in ‘I am here to see the paintings.’
Ctesippus responds by coming up with two paradoxes of his own: it is possible to be asleep (mentally) and awake (physically) at the same time, and to talk and say nothing (in the sense of nothing sensible). Ctesippus is learning!
The second sophism (300b) exploits the phrase sigōnta legein – ‘to speak while silent’ or ‘to speak of silent things’; the third is the converse (300b–c): legonta sigan means either ‘to be silent while speaking’ or ‘to be silent about speaking things’. I have tried to capture this ambiguity by the phrases ‘involved in silence’ and ‘involved in speaking’; thus ‘silent things are involved in speaking’ may mean either the impossibility, that silent things are speaking, or the possibility, that silent things are being mentioned in someone’s speech.
Finally, Ctesippus comes up with a nice example of a leading question which refuses to acknowledge the intermediate position, when he assumes that the denial that everything is silent entails that everything is talking, rather thanthat some things are talking. Euthydemus sees the problem and counters it; Dionysodorus tries to be clever but makes a mess of it (see p. 365 n. 1).
‘Do Scythians,’ asked Euthydemus, ‘or anyone else, for that matter, [300a] see things which are here to see or those which are not?’
‘Those which are, of course.’
‘And so do you?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, can you see our clothes?’
‘So they are here to see.’1
‘Extraordinarily clearly.’
‘What’s next?’ said Euthydemus.
‘Nothing. Perhaps you think you don’t see them.2 Such lack of subtlety, Euthydemus! To my mind you’ve nodded off without being asleep, and you are talking but saying nothing, if that is possible.’
‘Surely it isn’t possible for silent things to be involved in speaking?’ [b] asked Dionysodorus.
‘Quite out of the question,’ replied Ctesippus.
‘Nor for speaking things to be involved in silence?’
‘Even less of a possibility,’ he said.
‘But when you speak of stone or wood or iron, then silent things are involved in speaking, aren’t they?’
‘They’re not silent when I go to a forge,’ he said, ‘where handling the iron goods makes them “talk” and “cry out loud”.3 This is a case of your cleverness blinding you to the nonsense you come up with. So please go on to the other half of the demonstration, how speaking things may be involved in silence.’
I thought Ctesippus was pushing too hard, to impress his beloved. [c]
‘When you’re silent, you’re not saying anything,are you?’ asked Euthydemus.
‘That’s right,’ he said.
‘And “anything” includes the phrase “speaking things”,4 so “speaking things” are involved in your silence!’
‘Well now,’ said Ctesippus, ‘isn’t everything silent?’
‘Of course not,’ said Euthydemus.5
‘So everything is talking, my friend?’
‘Talking things, anyway.’
‘That’s not my question,’ he said. ‘Is everything silent or talking?’
‘Neither and both,’ Dionysodorus interrupted. ‘An answer you won’t [d] be able to cope with, I’m sure.’
Ctesippus gave one of his typical huge guffaws and said: ‘Euthydemus, your brother’s prevarication has completely ruined and defeated your argument!’1
This afforded Cleinias considerable pleasure and amusement, which made Ctesippus grow at least ten times taller! Ctesippus, I think, is a bit cunning and had caught the arguments he was using from them. I mean, nobody else but them nowadays has such wisdom.
This section of the dialogue is fairly opaque. Dionysodorus uses a leading question in an attempt to trap Socrates into admitting that an attribute is either the same as its particular instances or different from them. We may speculate about the possible sequence of the sophism: if Socrates says they are the same, Dionysodorus would produce some absurd conclusion like, ‘So fineness is a fine dog’; if Socrates says they are different, perhaps Dionysodorus would argue that if fineness is fine, and particulars are different, then they are not fine.
Anyway, Socrates avoids the dilemma by adopting a middle way. He introduces the idea that an attribute may be said to be present to its particular instances, in order to claim that it is in a sense both different from and the same as those instances.
Dionysodorus attempts to reduce the notion of ‘presence’ to absurdity: the presence of a cow does not make me a cow! (This equivocates on ‘presence’ by taking it as physical presence, which Socrates clearly did not intend.) And, generally, how can two different things have any similarity?
Despite Dionysodorus’ attempt, Socrates persists in his line. Something fine is fine, but this is not to say that it is the same as the attribute, or that it is totally different from it. It is the same to the extent that it is characterized by the attribute; it is different to the extent that it is not the attribute itself. Thus’ something identical is identical [i.e. has the quality of being identical]’ (301b) means that if something fine is fine, it is to that extent identical with the attribute; and ‘something different is different [i.e. has the quality of being different]’means that something fine is not the same as the attribute, fineness. The issue here is the same as we have met earlier in the dialogue (especially Section K): Socrates is trying to qualify the sophists’ bare statements.
Why does Socrates cast himself as a sophist at 301b? Chiefly he means no more than that he is taking over the sophists’ role as questioner. It is also
noticeable, however, that his solution to Dionysodorus’ dilemma really does no more than reassert the original proposition that fineness is both different from fine things and yet may have some relation to them. So perhaps Socrates casts himself as a sophist because he is about to obfuscate the issue to some extent and avoid the lengthy metaphysical discussion that a proper response would entail.
Many commentators read into this section a background of Plato’s theory of forms (see pp. 32–3, 219), according to which fineness is a form with an existence independent of any particulars that might be fine. There is no suggestion of this in the passage: we may be on the ground of Socrates’ search for universal as objects of definition (see pp. 21–2), but we need not suppose even this. The metaphor of presence was perfectly acceptable even in non-philosophic Greek: ‘Fear is present to them’ is periphrastic for ‘They are afraid.’ We are simply seeing two Greeks using their language, one to produce confusion, the other to try to defend common sense. It is Dionysodorus who first mentions the abstract entity ‘fineness’, not Socrates, so we should not suppose that this is a Platonic form. Socrates uses the phrase ‘fineness itself’ at 301a to pinpoint orisolate fineness, not in any metaphysically significant sense (see p. 221). There is a certain similarity between Dionysodorus’ assault on the notion of presence and an argument put into the mouth of Parmenides against Plato’s theory of forms at Parmenides 130e-131c, as Sprague (1967) points out. But this shouldnot induce us to think that Platonic forms are relevant to this passage (or that Plato saw the arguments of Parmenides as less than damaging to his theory): Plato probably realized later that this argument, in origin a sophism, could be turned against his theory.
I spoke up: ‘What do you find amusing in such serious and fine matters, [e] Cleinias?’
‘Have you ever seen anything fine, Socrates?’ asked Dionysodorus.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘many things, Dionysodorus.’
‘And were they different from or identical to fineness?’ he asked. [301a]
I was really in desperate straits and didn’t know what to do – which, I thought, was only what I deserved for complaining – but all the same, I replied that although they are different from fineness itself, fineness in a sense is present to each of them.
‘So,’ he said, ‘if there’s a cow present to you, are you a cow? And given that I’m present to you, are you Dionysodorus?’
‘God forbid!’ I said.
‘But how,’ he asked, ‘can A’s presence to B turn B into A, when they are different?’
‘Do you find that puzzling?’ I asked – my desire for their cleverness [b] was now leading me to try to copy the two visitors.
‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘Not only I but everyone else finds impossibilities puzzling.’
‘What do you mean, Dionysodorus?’ I asked. ‘Surely, something fine is fine, and something contemptible is contemptible?’
‘If that is my impression,’ he said.1
‘And is it your impression?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘So something identical is identical and something different is different, surely? I mean, something different cannot be identical, of course; but I didn’t imagine that even a child would find puzzling the idea that something [c] different is different. No, you must have ignored this point on purpose, to judge by the finesse which you two generally strike me as bringing to the art of discussion, and which is comparable to the creativity of craftsmen at their respective functions.’
Socrates, of course, often brings the crafts into his discussions, using them as examples to illustrate some point or other. Dionysodorus’ treatment is a simple amphiboly (pp. 303–4), based on an ambiguity in Greek grammar: in the sentence ‘It is right ton mageiron katakoptein’, the Greek phrase can mean either ‘for the cook to chop’ or ‘to chop the cook’.
‘Oh, so you know what each craftsman’s function is, do you?’ he asked. ‘Do you know, firstly, whose job it is to hammer metal?’
‘Yes, a smith’s.’
‘And to make pots?’
‘A potter’s.’
‘And to slaughter, skin, chop meat up, boil it and roast it?’
‘A cook’s.’ [d]
‘Now, doing one’s proper job is right, isn’t it?’ he asked.
‘Very much so.’
‘And, as you agree, the proper thing for a cook is chopping and skinning? Did you admit that or not?’
‘I did,’ I said, ‘but please don’t hold it against me.’
‘The proper thing to do, then, obviously, is to slaughter cooks, chop them up, boil them and roast them. Likewise, the proper thing is to hammer smiths and make pots out of potters!’
Dionysodorus argues that you are able to sell etc. your gods because they are yours and you can do what you like with your property. The fallacy here is equivocation, based on the same ambiguity of ‘your’ that we have met before (Section L): your gods are obviously not yours in the same sense that your chattels are. The fallacy could also be seen as ‘affirming the consequent’ (Aristotle, De Sophisticis Elenchis 167b1 ff.): at first Dionysodorus argues that if you control something it is yours; later that if the gods are yours you control them. But it does not follow from ‘if A, then B’ that ‘B, therefore A’.
The most curious part of the section is Socrates’ denial that he has an Ancestral Zeus (302b–d). We know from both literary and epigraphical evidence that Athenians did worship Zeus under this title, so what is going on? Socrates is playing the sophists’ own game again (Plato has him admit that he is ‘trying in vain to wriggle out of the trap’). The title ‘Ancestral Zeus’ is ambiguous: it can mean either ‘Zeus, ancestor of the race’ or ‘Zeus, protector of ancestors’. Socrates chooses to take the former meaning, so that he can deny Dionysodorus’ question; he could not have denied that he had an Ancestral Zeus in the latter sense.
‘My God!’ I exclaimed. ‘Now you’re putting the coping-stone on your [e] wisdom! Shall I ever get it and make it my own?’
‘Would you recognize it, Socrates,’ he asked, ‘if it did become yours?’1
‘Yes, obviously,’ I said, ‘if you so want it.’
‘So you think you know your possessions?’ he asked.
‘Unless you tell me otherwise. I mean, you are my alpha, and Euthydemus here is my omega, and that’s the way it should be.’2
‘Do you consider things to be yours,’ he asked, ‘when you control them and are free to do what you want with them? Take cattle and sheep, for [302a] example: would you consider that they are yours because you are free to sell them, give them away or sacrifice them to any god you choose? And do you consider not to be yours anything that isn’t like that?’3
Now, I knew that something line would emerge from the questions as they stood, and I was impatient to hear it, so I said: ‘Yes, that’s right. Only things of that sort are mine.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘isn’t “living being” the way you describe something animate?’
‘Yes,’ I said. [b]
‘So do you agree that living beings are only yours when you are free to treat them in all the ways I just mentioned?’
‘Yes.’
He paused a bit – an affectation to give the impression of deep thought – and then said: ‘Tell me, Socrates: do you have an Ancestral Zeus?’
I guessed the direction and ultimate destination of the argument, and I squirmed like an animal caught in a net, trying in vain to wriggle out of the trap. ‘No, Dionysodorus,’ I said.
‘What a pitiful specimen of humanity you are, then, and no Athenian either, if you have no ancestral gods or shrines, or any other mark of [c] gentility.’
‘Steady on, Dionysodorus,’ I said. ‘Please mind your language and don’t malign your pupil. I have domestic and ancestral altars and shrines and so on as much as the next Athenian.’
‘Do other Athenians really not have an Ancestral Zeus?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘That title is not an Ionian one,1 and so is not used by Athenians or Athenian colonists. We have an Ancestral Apollo instead, because he was Ion’s father. We don’t have a Zeus we call Ancestral, but [d] a Zeus of the Household, and Zeus Guardian of the Phratry and Athena Guardian of the Phratry…’2
‘Enough,’ he said. ‘You do, apparently, have Apollo, Zeus and Athena.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘And they must be your gods, surely?’
‘They are my progenitors and my masters,’ I said.3
‘But they are yours,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you admit that they are yours?’
‘I did,’ I said. ‘What have I let myself in for?’ ‘Are these gods living beings too?’ he asked. ‘Remember, you agreed [e] that anything animate is a living being. Are these gods animate?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘So they are living beings too?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Now, you agreed that those living beings are yours, which you are free to give away, sell or sacrifice to a god of your choice.’
‘I did,’ I said. ‘I can’t go back on that, Euthydemus.’
‘No more delays, now,’ he said. ‘Just tell me this: given your claim that Zeus and the other gods are yours, do you have the same freedom as with [303a] the other living beings, to sell them or give them away or do whatever else you want with them?’
Ctesippus ironically praises the previous argument; the sophists, finding as usual something to start a sophism, seize on his words, but Ctesippus capitulates and this signals the end of the whole display, since the capitulation of the opponent was the purpose of eristic argument. After the applause for the sophists’ victory has died down, Socrates summarizes the main points, as he sees them, in a speech whose irony is palpable. He concludes by encouraging Crito, as he had at the beginning of the dialogue, to join him as the sophists’ pupil.
It was as if the argument had struck me physically, Crito: I just sat there speechless. But Ctesippus came to my assistance and said: ‘By Heracles, bravo – a fine argument!’
And Dionysodorus said: ‘Is Heracles bravo, or bravo Heracles?’1
‘Oh, God!’ said Ctesippus. ‘Amazing! I give up – there’s no stopping them.’
Then, my dear Crito, everyone present almost wore themselves out [b] with laughter, applause and expressions of delight, as they praised to the skies the arguments and the two visitors. Every single earlier argument had met with a very fine reception, but only from Euthydemus’ admirers; but now, so to speak, even the pillars in the Lyceum acclaimed the visitors and showed their pleasure. I myself was inclined to agree that I had never come across such clever people, and their wisdom so utterly enthralled [c] me that I turned to praising them in a panegyric: ‘What a godsend, to be so remarkably gifted as to have accomplished such important work in so short a span of time! Your arguments are impressive in many respects, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, but especially magnificent is your disdain for the majority of mankind and for reputable savants, and your concern only for those similar to yourselves. I mean, I am sure that those who are [d] like you and would approve of these arguments are very few; everybody else understands these kinds of arguments so little that, I am convinced, they would be less embarrassed to be refuted by them than to use them to refute others. Then there’s the altruistic and affable side of your arguments; although, as you say, you absolutely muzzle people by denying [e] that anything is fine, good, white and so on – in the sense that nothing is any different from anything else1 – you apparently would do the same to yourselves as to others.2 This is very decent of you, and takes the sting out of your words. But the most important point is that you have arranged and elaborated these things so skilfully that anyone can learn them in a very short time, as I realized by observing how quickly even Ctesippus could improvise and reproduce your arguments.3 Now, this clever aspect of your work is fine as far as rapid dissemination is concerned, but unsuitable [304a] for discussions in front of an audience, and if I were you, I would think twice before talking in public, because if people pick up the arguments so quickly, they might not feel indebted to you. The best thing would be for the two of you just to talk between yourselves in private; failing that, the only other person who should be present is a paying customer. The sensible course would be to give your pupils the same [b] advice too, not to have discussions with anyone except you and between themselves. I mean, the scarce product is the valuable one, Euthydemus: despite what Pindar said about water being best,4 it commands a very low price. Anyway,’ I concluded, ‘please enrol me and Cleinias here as your pupils.’
That was more or less all the discussion, Crito; then we left. Do you think you can manage to join me as their pupil? Remember, they claim [c] to be able to teach anyone who is prepared to pay, age and aptitude notwithstanding – and, you’ll be pleased to hear, they say that even commercial interests don’t stop anyone from easily acquiring their wisdom.5
A Platonic dialogue invariably ends with the conclusion of the main conversation; this epilogue is most unusual. The point of it is to underline the gulf between the ideal of philosophy and some more of its so-called practitioners. The contrast with Euthydemus and Dionysodorus has been made throughout the dialogue: though they are mentioned again as eristics (305d), the chief contrast in this section is with a type of practitioner exemplified in Isocrates (see pp. 310–11).
The section is also remarkable for its economical portrait of Crito: he has unexceptionable standards – his term of praise, for instance, is ‘decent’ (304e), he does not think Socrates should be seen in public with sophists (305b), and he has the usual concerns of an Athenian paterfamilias (306d–e); despite his lifelong attachment to Socrates, we are bound to feel that he has never fully committed himself to philosophy (the dialogue Crito bears this out). In short, Plato seems to be saying that he sits on the fence, much as Isocrates does. Perhaps Crito had recently died, and this is Plato’s memorial: honest, but not a true philosopher (though we hear of Crito having written philosophical works).
The final passage shows Crito worrying about his sons’ education. This emphasizes and rounds off the purpose of the dialogue: we are now supposed to be in no doubt that Socrates’ is the best educational method.
CRITO: It’s true that I love listening to talks and that I’m pleased to learn anything, Socrates, but I feel that I too am one of those who are not like Euthydemus and who would rather, as you put it, be refuted by such [d] arguments than use them in refutation. Giving you advice is foolish, I think, but I still want to tell you what I was told. I think you should know that I was walking around while your group was dispersing, and I was approached by one of them (he has a high opinion of his own cleverness: you know the type – good at forensic speeches). He said: ‘Aren’t you listening to those sages, Crito?’
‘No, damn it,’ I said. ‘The crowd stopped me getting close enough to hear clearly.’
‘Well, it was worth listening to,’ he said.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘To have heard philosophical discussion from contemporary masters of [e] the art.’
‘How did it strike you?’ I asked.
‘As the sort of nonsense one can always hear from such people, of course, when they devote themselves pointlessly to pointless matters,’ he replied – these were almost his exact words.
‘But philosophy is a decent sort of pursuit,’ I said.
‘Decent, my friend!’ he said. ‘A waste of time. If you’d been there, I [305a] think you’d have been most embarrassed by your friend’s highly eccentric inclination to put himself into the hands of men who couldn’t care less what they say, and who seize on every word. These are the men, as I was just saying, who are among the leading lights nowadays!1 No, Crito,’ he said. ‘The fact of the matter is that this pursuit and those who spend their time on it are worthless and ridiculous.’
He was wrong, in my opinion, Socrates, to censure the pursuit, and so [b] is anyone else who does so; but I didn’t think he was wrong to criticize being prepared to talk with people of that sort in front of large audiences.
SOCRATES: People like him are an extraordinary breed, Crito: I’m not yet sure what I’m going to say. To which category does the man belong who approached you and criticized philosophy? Is he an orator, someone good at fighting cases, or is he one of their backroom boys, a writer of the speeches with which the orators do the fighting?
CRITO: He’s certainly no orator at all; in fact, I don’t think he’s ever [c] entered a lawcourt.2 But, as God is my witness, he is reputed to understand the pursuit, as well as to be clever and to compose clever speeches.
SOCRATES: Now I understand. I was on the point of bringing up the subject of these people myself not long ago. They are the ones, Crito, whom Prodicus3 described as sitting on the fence between philosophy and state affairs, though they think they are the ne plus ultra of wisdom, and that they are so commonly recognized as such ±at ‘those philosophy fellows’ constitute the only impediment to this acclaim being universal. [d] So they think that if they engineer a reputation of worthlessness for philosophers, then everyone will see that their own reputation for wisdom indisputably carries the day. In their opinion, they really are extremely clever, and if they are brought up short in private conversations, that is just the likes of Euthydemus cramping their style.4 And why shouldn’t they think they are clever?5 They reckon they don’t over-indulge in either philosophy or affairs of state, which is a highly reasonable stance, they maintain; they have an acceptable foot in both camps, stand back from [e] the risks and the disputes, and reap the benefits of their wisdom.
CRITO: And do you think there’s any sense in these thoughts of theirs, Socrates? I mean, their argument definitely has a certain plausibility.
SOCRATES: Yes, that’s right, Crito – plausibility rather than truth. I mean, it’s uphill work getting them to see that it is a universal fact, not [306a] just applicable to human beings, that anything which lies mid-way between two factors and possesses features of both is better than one and worse than the other, when one of the factors is bad and the other good; but when the two factors are both good for different purposes, then anything which is composed of both of them is worse than both at the purposes for which they are good. Only something which is composed of two factors which are bad for different purposes and lies mid-way between them is better than either of the factors whose features it possesses to a degree. [b] It follows that if both philosophy and statesmanship are good for their respective purposes, and these people lie in between and possess features of both, then they are not talking sense, for they are worse than both factors; and if one is good and the other bad, then they are better than the practitioners of the latter and worse than the practitioners of the former; if, and only if, both are bad, would there be any element of truth in their claim. Even so, I don’t suppose they would think that both are bad, or [c] that one is bad and the other good. The fact of the matter is that because they have a foot in both camps, they fail in both of the respective purposes for which philosophy and statesmanship are worthwhile: they actually come in third, but want to be thought first! However, this desire of theirs is excusable and nothing to get indignant about: a smattering of sensible conversation and the courage to work at seeing something through give us plenty to be thankful for in anyone. But we must be realistic about the [d] sort of people they are.
CRITO: Yes, but as I’m always telling you, Socrates, my worry is that I don’t know what to do with my sons.1 The younger one’s still a child, but Critobulus is a young man now and needs some beneficial guidance. Now, when I’m with you, I tend to think it madness to have gone to such trouble for the sake of my children in many other ways (such as choosing my wife with a view to providing them with the best possible lineage on [e] their mother’s side, and ensuring that they are financially as well off as possible), but to neglect them themselves – their education. But then I look at any of those who profess to educate people and I am astonished: each of them strikes me on examination as pretty weird – I know I cans speak frankly to you. This leaves me unable to recommend philosophy to [307a] the boy.
SOCRATES: My dear Crito, don’t you realize that in every walk of life second-rate practitioners, who are worse than useless, outnumber the competent ones, who are beyond value? I mean, don’t you think that the skill of an athlete, a businessman, an orator or a military commander is admirable?
CRITO: Yes, absolutely.
SOCRATES: But isn’t it obvious in each of these cases that, when it comes to actual execution, most people make themselves ridiculous? [b]
CRITO: Good heavens, yes! You’re quite right.
SOCRATES: Well, will this make you avoid all pursuits yourself and refuse them for your son?
CRITO: No, that wouldn’t be fair.
SOCRATES: Don’t do what you shouldn’t, then, crito: never mind whether those who practise philosophy are good or bad, just well and truly test the pursuit itself. if you find it to be flawed, then dissuade everyone [c] from it, not just your sons; but if you find it to be as I think it is, then with a good heart make it your goal and your work – ‘you and your children’, as the formula is.1