Sunday, November 27, 2016

The dating of Plato’s Phaedrus, with a reference to Herodotus and Plato’s Laws

In the Phaedrus, the Palinode culminates in Socrates’ assertion that ‘if the victory be won by the higher elements of mind guiding them [the lover and his beloved] into the ordered rule of the philosophic life (ean men dȇ oun eis tetagmenȇn te diaitan kai philosophian nikȇsȇi ta beltiȏ tȇs dianoias agagonta), their days on earth will be blessed with happiness and concord (makarion kai homonoȇtikon ton enthade bion diagousin, 256a7-b1).’ Shortly afterwards he prays to Eros: ‘If anything that Phaedrus and I said earlier sounded discordant to thy ear (en tȏi prosthen ei ti logȏi soi apȇches eipomen Phaidros te kai egȏ), set it down to Lysias, the only begetter of that discourse (Lusian ton tou logou patera aitiȏmenos)’ – the discourse in which Lysias argued that a lovely boy should give his favours to a non-lover rather than a lover, the discourse that occasioned the whole dialogue – ‘and staying him from discourses after this fashion (paue tȏn toioutȏn logȏn) turn him towards the love of wisdom, even as his brother Polemarchus has been turned (epi philosophian de, hȏsper h’adelphos autou Polemarchos tetraptai, trepson). Then will his loving disciple here (hina kai ho erastȇs hode autou) present no longer halt between two opinions (mȇketi epamphoterizȇi), as now he does (kathaper nun), but live for Love in singleness of purpose with the aid of philosophic discourse (all’ haplȏs pros Erȏta meta philosophȏn logȏn ton bion poiȇtai, 257b1-6, tr. Hackforth).’

Polemarchus ended his life in the hands of the Thirty Tyrants. The relevance of it for the dating of the dialogue appears to have escaped modern interpreters of Plato, for the ancients believed that one’s life could not have been blessed with happiness if it ended badly. It indicates that Plato wrote the Phaedrus prior to the death of Polemarchus.

This ancient belief is brought to light in the story about Croesus, Solon, and Cyrus in Herodotus: ‘In the course of time (chronou de epigenomenou) Croesus subdued all the peoples west of the river Halys (kai katestrammenȏn schedon pantȏn tȏn entos Haluos potamou oikȇmenȏn … pantas hup’ heȏutȏi eiche katestrammenos ho Kroisos) (I. 28) … When all these nations had been added to the Lydian empire (katestrammenȏn de toutȏn  kai prosepiktȏmenou Kroisou Ludoisi), and Sardis was at the height of her wealth and prosperity, all the great Greek teachers of that epoch, one after another, paid visits to the capital (apikneontai es Sardis akmazousas ploutȏi alloi te hoi pantes ek tȇs Hellados sophistai, hȏs hekastos autȏn apikneeto). Much the most distinguished of them was Solon the Athenian (kai dȇ kai Solȏn anȇr Athȇnaios), the man who at the request of his countrymen had made a code of laws for Athens (hos Athȇnaioisi nomous keleusasi poiȇsas). He was on his travels at the time (apedȇmȇse), intending to be away ten years (etea deka), in order to avoid the necessity of repealing any of the laws he had made. That, at any rate, was the real reason of his absence, though he gave it out that what he wanted was just to see the world (kata theȏriȇs prophasin ekplȏsas, hina dȇ mȇ tina tȏn nomȏn anankasthȇi lusai tȏn etheto) (I. 29)

Croesus entertained him hospitably in the palace, and three or four days after his arrival (apikomenos exeinizeto en toisi basilȇioisi hupo tou Kroisou, hȇmerȇi tritȇi ȇ tetartȇi) instructed some of his servants to take him on a tour of the royal treasuries and point out the richness and magnificence of everything (keleusantos Kroisou ton Solȏna therapontes periȇgon kata tous thȇsaurous kai epedeiknusan panta eonta megala te kai olbia). When Solon had made as thorough an inspection as opportunity allowed, Croesus said (theȇsamenon min ta panta kai skepsamenon, hȏs hoi kata kairon ȇn, eireto ho Kroisos tade – correctly: ’After Solon had seen and inspected it all, when Croesus saw it as opportune, he asked’): ‘Well, my Athenian friend (Xeine Athȇnaie), I have heard a great deal about your wisdom (par’ hȇmeas gar peri seo logos apiktai pollos kai sophiȇs heneken tȇs sȇs), and how widely you have travelled in the pursuit of knowledge (kai planȇs, hȏs philosopheȏn gȇn pollȇn theȏriȇs heineken epelȇluthas). I cannot resist my desire to ask you a question (nun ȏn himeros epeiresthai moi epȇlthe se): who is the happiest man you have ever seen (ei tina ȇdȇ pantȏn eides olbiȏtaton)?’ The point of the question was that Croesus supposed himself to be the happiest of men (ho men elpizȏn einai anthrȏpȏn olbiȏtatos tauta epeirȏta). Solon, however, refused to flatter (Solȏn de ouden hopothȏpeusas), and answered in strict accordance with his view of the truth (alla tȏi eonti chrȇsamenos legei). ‘An Athenian,’ he said, ‘called Tellus’ (ȏ basileu, Tellon Athȇnaion). Croesus was taken aback (apothȏmasas Kroisos to lechthen). ‘And what,’ he asked sharply, ‘is your reason for this choice? (eireto epistrepheȏs. Koiȇi dȇ krineis Tellon einai olbiȏtaton;)’

‘There are two reasons,’ said Solon (ho de eipe), ‘first, his city was prosperous (Tellȏi touto men tȇs polios eu hȇkousȇs), and he had fine sons (paides ȇsan kaloi te k’agathoi), and lived to see children born to each of them (kai sphi eide hapasi tekna ekgenomena), and all these children surviving (kai panta parameinanta): secondly, he had wealth enough (touto de tou biou eu hȇkonti) by our standards (hȏs ta par’ hȇmin): and he had a glorious death (teleutȇ tou biou lamprotatȇ epegeneto). In a battle with the neighbouring town of Eleusis (genomenȇs gar Athȇnaioisi machȇs pros tous astugeitonas en Eleusini), he fought for his countrymen (boȇthȇsas), routed the enemy (kai tropȇn poiȇsas tȏn polemiȏn), and died like a soldier (apethane kallista ‘he died most splendidly’); and the Athenians paid him the high honour of a public funeral on the spot where he fell (kai min Athȇnaioi dȇmosiȇi ethapsan autou tȇi per epese kai etimȇsan megalȏs).’ All these details about the happiness of Tellus, Solon doubtless intended as a moral lesson for the king (hȏs de ta kata ton Tellon proetrepsato ho Solȏn ton Kroison eipas polla te kai olbia); Croesus, however, thinking he would at least be awarded second prise, asked who was the next happiest person whom Solon had seen (epeirȏta tina deuteron met’ ekeinon idoi, dokeȏn panchu deutereia gȏn oisesthai). ‘Two men of Argos’ was the reply, Cleobis and Biton (ho de eipe, Kleobin te kai Bitȏna, toutois gar eousi genos Argeioisi).’ (I. 30-31)

Croesus was vexed with Solon for giving the second prize for happiness to the two young Argives, and snapped out (Solȏn men dȇ eudaimoniȇs deutereia eneme toutoisi, Kroisos de sperchtheis eipe): ‘That’s all very well, my Athenian friend (Ȏ xeine Athȇnaie); but what of my own happiness? Is it so utterly contemptible (hȇ d’ hȇmeterȇ eudaimoniȇ houtȏ toi aperriptai es to mȇden) that you won’t even compare me with mere common folk like those you have mentioned (hȏste oude idiȏteȏn andrȏn axious hȇmeas epoiȇsas)?’ ‘My lord,’ replied Solon (ho de eipe, Ȏ Kroise), ‘I know God is envious of human prosperity (epistamenon me to theion pan eon phthoneron te) and likes to trouble us (kai tarachȏdes); and you ask me (epeirȏtais) about the lot of men (anthrȏpeiȏn pragmatȏn peri) (I. 32, 1) … You are very rich (emoi de su kai plouteein mega phaineai) and you rule numerous people (kai basileus pollȏn einai anthrȏpȏn); but the question you asked me (ekeino de to eireo me) I will not answer (ou kȏ se egȏ legȏ), until I know you have died happily (prin teleutȇsanta kalȏs ton aiȏna  puthȏmai). (I. 32, 5) … After Solon’s departure (Meta de Solȏna oichomenon) nemesis fell upon Croesus, presumably because God was angry with him (elabe ek theou nemesis megalȇ Kroison, hȏs eikasai) for supposing himself the happiest of men (hoti enomise heȏuton einai anthrȏpȏn hapantȏn olbiȏtaton, I. 34, 1).’

After narrating Croesus’ subsequent unhappy military campaign against Cyrus, Herodotus goes on to say: ‘Sardis was captured by the Persians (Hoi de Persai tas te dȇ Sardis eschon) and Croesus taken prisoner (kai auton Kroison ezȏgrȇsan, I. 86,1) … The Persians brought their prisoner into the presence of the king (labontes de auton hoi Persai ȇgagon para Kuron), and Cyrus chained Croesus and placed him with fourteen Lydian boys on a great pyre that he had built (ho de sunnȇsas purȇn megalȇn anebibase ep’ autȇn ton Kroison te en pedȇisi dedemenon kai dis hepta Ludȏn par’ auton paidas, I. 86, 2) … and Croesus, for all his misery, as he stood on the pyre, remembered with what divine truth Solon had declared (tȏi de Kroisȏi hesteȏti epi tȇs purȇs eselthein, kaiper en kakȏi eonti tosoutȏi, to tou Solȏnos, hȏs hoi eiȇ sun theȏi eirȇmenon) that no man could be happy until he was dead (to mȇdena einai tȏn zȏontȏn olbion). Till then Croesus had not uttered a sound; but when he remembered, he sighed bitterly and three times, in anguish of spirit, pronounced Solon’s name (hȏs de ara min prosstȇnai touto, aneneikamenon te kai anastenaxanta ek pollȇs hȇsuchiȇs es tris onomasai “Solȏn”). Cyrus heard the name (kai ton Kuron akousanta) and told his interpreters (keleusai tous hermȇneas) to ask who Solon was (epeiresthai ton Kroison tina touton epikaleoito) … he was forced to speak (hȏs ȇnankazeto). “He was a man,” he said, “who ought to have talked with every king in the world, I would give a fortune to have had it so” (eipein: Ton an egȏ pasi turannoisi proetimȇsa megalȏn chrȇmatȏn es logous elthein) (I. 86, 3-4) …  He then related how Solon the Athenian once came to Sardis (elege dȇ hȏs ȇlthe archȇn ho Solȏn eȏn Athȇnaios, I. 86, 5) … The interpreters told Cyrus what Croesus had said, and the story touched him (kai ton Kroison akousanta tȏn hermȇneȏn ta Kroisos eipe, metagnonta te kai ennȏsanta). He himself was a mortal man (hoti kai autos anthrȏpos eȏn), and was burning alive another who had once been as prosperous as he (allon anthrȏpon, genomenon heȏoutou eudaimoniȇi ouk elassȏ, zȏnta puri didoiȇ). The thought of that (pros te toutoisi), and the fear of retribution (deisanta tȇn tisin), and the realization of the instability of human things (kai epilexamenon hȏs ouden eiȇ tȏn en anthrȏpoisi asphaleȏs echon), made him change his mind
[‘made him change his mind’ translates ‘metagnonta’; the translator transformed one sentence of Herodotus into three English sentences]
and give orders that the flames should at once be put out (keleuein sbennunai tȇn tachistȇn to kaiomenon pur), and Croesus and the boys brought down from the pyre (kai katabibazein Kroison te kai tous meta Kroisou).’ (I. 86, 6, translation Aubrey de Sélincourt, revised by A. R. Burn)

***
W. W. How and J. Wells in their Commentary on Herodotus note that ‘the truth’ of Herodotus’ story on Solon and Croesus ‘is now universally given up, on chronological grounds … Solon’s legislation is put in 594 B. C. (or perhaps in 591, Ath. Pol. 14. 1), while Croesus came to the throne in 560 (or later); hence the Athenian’s travels belong to the generation before Croesus.’ (vol. I, pp. 66-67, Oxford University Press, 1912, in paperback 1989.)

Plato testifies to the popularity of the story when he says in his Second Letter: ‘People delight in talking about these things and listening to others speak about them (hoi anthrȏpoi chairousi peri toutȏn dialegomenoi kai allȏn akouontes) … on Croesus also and Solon as wise men with Cyrus as potentate (kai Kroison au kai Solȏna hȏs sophous kai Kuron hȏs dunastȇn, 310e7-311a7)’. But does this not relegate the story to ‘a piece of popular philosophy’ (How and Wells, p. 67) with which Plato had nothing in common?

***
In Book VII of his Laws Plato says that ‘citizens who are departed (tȏn politȏn hoposoi telos echoien tou biou) and have done good and energetic deeds, either with their souls or with their bodies (kata sȏmata ȇ kata psuchas erga exeirgasmenoi kala kai epipona), and have been obedient to the laws (kai tois nomois eupeitheis gegonotes), should receive eulogies (enkȏmiȏn autous tunchanein); this will be very fitting (prepon an eiȇ).’

My emphasis on ‘who are departed’ is not fortuitous. Plato goes on to say: ‘But to honour with hymns and panegyrics those who are still alive (Tous ge mȇn eti zȏntas enkȏmiois te kai humnois timan) is not safe (ouk asphales); a man should run his course, and make a fair ending, and then we will praise him (prin an hapanta tis ton bion diadramȏn, telos epistȇsȇtai kalon). (801e6-802a3, tr. Jowett)

Friday, November 25, 2016

Could my dating of Plato’s Phaedrus be the answer?

In February of this year (2016) I offered Dr Jirsa, the Director of the Institute for Philosophy and Religion at Charles University, two papers: ‘Plato’s defence of Forms in the Parmenides’ and ‘Plato and Dionysius’. He replied: ‘I thank you for your offer, but I have decided not to use it.’ I asked him to explain his decision, but he has not replied to my request. These two papers, as well as everything else I have written on Plato since my arrival at Oxford in 1980, depend on my dating of the Phaedrus. Could this fact provide an explanation of his decision?

***
To give substance to this conjecture, let me quote from Dr Jirsa’s Curriculum vitae:
2008-2009 - visiting scholar at the Faculty of Classics, University of Cambridge
2006 - PhD degree in Philosophy, Central European University, Budapest; thesis title: “The Ethics of Self-Knowledge in Plato’s Dialogues”, supervisors: Gábor Betegh, David Sedley (viva: July 17, 2006)
2004-2005 - Research stay at the Faculty of Classics, University of Cambridge, Hughes Hall College (supervisor: David Sedley, Malcolm Schofield)

***
The Daily Telegraph of August 25, 1988, published Barry O’Brien‘s interview with David Sedley entitled „Philosophers in knots over Dr Tomin‘s Plato thesis“, from which I quote:

‘A leading scholar responded yesterday to complaints by Dr Julius Tomin, the Czech dissident philosopher, that he cannot get his controversial work on Plato published in Britain. “He holds that the Phaedrus is Plato’s first dialogue, which is contrary to the beliefs of pretty well all scholars in the field in this century,“ said Dr David Sedley, editor of Classical Quarterly, and director of studies in classics at Christ’s College, Cambridge. … “I think people just have a great difficulty in seeing how it can be right,“ he said. “It means he is asking people to give up nearly everything else they believe about Plato’s development.“

***

I never asked David Sedley or any other Platonic scholar to give up what he or she believed about Plato. What I have asked them, so far in vain, is to meet me in a discussion on Plato with Plato’s writings at hand.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Celebration and Protest

[I put the Czech original of this text on my website on November 7, before going to Prague.]

Information

On November 16-18 I intend to celebrate the forthcoming anniversary of the Velvet Revolution [it began on Nov. 17, 1989] with ‘Three days with a pub philosopher devoted to philosophy’. Without the Velvet Revolution it would be impossible for me to have in Prague three days devoted to philosophy.

The ‘Three days‘ will be a protest as well as celebration. I shall be protesting against my exclusion from any meaningful cooperation with philosophers in the Czech Republic. In February of this year I offered Dr Jirsa, the Director of the Institute for Philosophy and Religion at the Faculty of Arts (Filosofická fakulta) of Charles University, two papers in which I shed new light on Plato: ‘Plato’s defence of the Forms in the Parmenides’ and ‘Plato and Dionysius’. Dr Jirsa rejected my offer without any explanation. On November 16-18, I shall present these two papers, together with ‘Self-knowledge as an Imperative’, in front of the Faculty of Arts on Palach’s square, at 10-12 am.

Needless to say, I would much rather present these papers at the Institute. I shall therefore leave buying the air-ticket until the last moment, in the hope that Dr Jirsa might change his mind.

If I could, I would inform about my protest every Czech woman and man. To show that the matter concerns every Czech, I put on my website Roger Scruton’s ‘A Catacomb Culture’. This article was published shortly after the commencement of the Velvet Revolution in Czechoslovakia, in February 1990, and it elucidates the role that Oxford philosophers played in my country after I had left Prague for Oxford and my open Philosophy seminar was supplanted by ‘secret’ activities; these activities have had impact not only on the whole system of university education, but on the broad sphere of culture and politics in Czechoslovakia, and then the Czech Republic.

Furthermore, in preparation for the ‘Three days’ I put on my website a letter written by Radovan Richta to Professor Diemer, the President of FISP [Fédération International des Sociétés Philosophiques], published in tvorba on October 15, 1980, that is shortly after I left Prague for Oxford. This letter pre-determined all my subsequent existence and work: ‘Tomin is a man who is worth nothing in philosophy … It is self-evident that Mr. Tomin would not find the means to live for a single week if he were interesting merely for what he did in philosophy.’ These words of Radovan Richta are worth comparing with the words of Jonathan Barnes, Professor of Ancient Philosophy at Balliol College, Oxford, which Nick Cohen quoted in ‘The Pub Philosopher’ published in The Independent Magazine on Nov. 18, 1989, a day after the Velvet Revolution in my country began: “He [i.e. Tomin] would not be accepted as a graduate here, let alone be given a teaching job.’

As I was transcribing Roger Scruton’s article on my notebook, with every paragraph I wrote a recurrent thought passed through my mind: ‘And during all that time, during all those years, I was excluded from any normal cooperation with philosophers, although I devoted all my efforts to enhancing my knowledge of ancient philosophy and culture.’ This is why my protest is directed at Oxford and Cambridge philosophers as well as Czech academics, as I wrote about it in my blog-entry of October 11 ‘From Bertrand Russell on Plato’s Meno and Phaedo to my forthcoming protest in Prague.’ It contains the first version of the ‘Information’ about the ‘Celebration and Protest’ and it ends with a letter from The Editor of the TLS from November 18, 1991, from which I quote: ‘We would, of course, be very happy for you to use Roger Scruton’s article in whatever way you wish. I enclose two photocopies of the article. I have a great deal of sympathy with the difficulty you have experienced in steering Oxford philosophers into answering your argument, but I do not see how any contribution from us would compel a response from those who do not wish to respond. I am sorry not to be able to help more.’

*** 

Food for thought [‘K zamyšlení’ in Czech: ‘For thought’ or ‘To think about’]

I informed the editor of the Philosophy journal [Filosofický časopis] of my offering Dr Jirsa two papers, ‘Plato’s defence of Forms in the Parmenides’ and ‘Plato and Dionysius’, to which Dr Jirsa promptly replied: ‘I thank you for your offer, but I have decided not to use it.’ [Děkuji za Vaši nabídku, ale rozhodl jsem se ji nevyužít.] I asked him to explain his decision, but he has not answered to my request. I therefore wrote to the editor: ‘Would you ask Dr Jirsa why he refused my offer?’

The editor wrote to me:

‘Dear Dr Tomin,
This decision is fully within the competence of Director Jirsa with which nobody in the Philosophy journal is going to interfere. It is therefore quite pointless for you to address us concerning this matter.
Olga Baranová, the Editor.‘

I replied:

Dear Mrs Baranová,
Your response to my request brought me back to the year 1975. I wrote to the Editor of Rudé Právo [the Communist Party daily newspaper]:

‘In the French newspaper Le Monde I read a letter of the Czeech philosopher Dr Karel Kosík addressed to J. P. Sartre. Karel Kosík in his letter mentions several disturbing things: He has been deprived of the possibility to do work for which he is qualified. He has been excluded from any participation in the work of our academic institutions. He cannot publish, his books were removed from public libraries. 1000 pages of his manuscripts concerning two books, ‘On praxis’ and ‘On truth’, have been confiscated.

I should like to know whether all this is true. If it is true, I should like to know whether it is in agreement with our laws. If it is not in agreement with our laws, what can I do as a citizen of this country so that the adherence to the law may be restored. If it is in agreement with our laws, what legal means are open to me to demand such change in our laws that this kind of treatment of a citizen of our republic might be prevented.’

The Deputy Editor Jaroslav Kořínek replied: ‘I am confirming the reception of your letter of 4. 7. 1975 and informing you that we cannot give you any further details concerning the case of Karel Kosík … We cannot express any views concerning it, for it is within the area of competence of the state organs concerned with it.’

‘My Correspondence with Rudé Právo‘ was published in the Samizdat Petlice in 1975, and it can be read in full on my website www.juliustomin.org.

***
Someone is obviously ‘playing’ with my notebook. I sent both these texts to Dr Kryštof Boháček, who replied telling me that I had chosen a wrong date for my ‘Three days’, for on 16 – 18 November there would be no students at the Faculty of Arts. I replied that the dates are of importance concerning my ‘Celebration and Protest’; it is meant to be a symbolic act. I informed him that in the last two years all my work is concentrated on my blog, and that a number of people begin to find my work important. For when I look for ‘Plato’, ‘Plato’s Phaedo’, ‘Plato’s Republic’, … Bertrand Russell on Google, I find there references to my latest contributions concerning these, and if I click on a given heading, it takes me to the relevant posts on my blog: ‘In the last few weeks my blog got “mad”; the statistics shows 150 pageviews a day on average. By far the greatest number of visitors is from the USA, then Britain, then France, then Germany. Very rarely the statistics records any visits from the Czech Republic. Would you be so kind and look on Google at ‘Plato’ etc. and write to me, whether you find there references to the relevant posts on my blog? (At the given moment, the statistics shows 19. 234 pageviews overall.)’

I have been waiting for his reply in vain. The email Kryštof Boháček sent to me and the email I sent to him have disappeared from my notebook.

I addressed a similar request to Dr Josef Moural, and have been waiting for a reply in vain. My correspondence with him too disappeared from my notebook, but in his case not without a trace. I found the beginning of my email to him in my Inbox:

‘Milý Josefe [Dear Joseph],
mám k Tobě prosbu [may I ask you a favour]. V posledních dvou letech se veškerá má práce soustřeďuje na můj blog [During the last two years all my work has been focussed on my blog]. Zdá se [It seems], že si aspoň pár lidí uvědomuje význam toho [that at least a few people begin to realise the importance], co dělám [of my work]. Když si na Googlu najdu Bertranda Russella [When I find on Google Bertrand Russell], naskočí mi tam [I find there] 
1.       
11 Oct 2016 - From Bertrand Russell on Plato's Phaedo and Meno to my forthcoming protest in Prague Russell writes in his History of Western Philosophy that in the Phaedo and …

když si najdu 'Plato' [when I find ‘Plato’], naskočí mi [there appears]
1.       
3 days ago - Plato's Seventh Letter, Phaedrus, and Laws Plato says in the Seventh Letter that Dionysius had supposedly 'written about what he heard from me' ( gegraphenai ...

***
The request I addressed to these two Czech philosophers has become pointless. In the last few days I put on my blog three important texts: A discrepancy‘ between Republic V and X, with a glance at the Parmenides“ (1. 10.), More on the discrepancy‘ between Republic V and X (2.10), Yet more on the discrepancy‘ between Republic V and X“(3.10) . In these texts I have shown that the late dating of the Phaedrus distorts our perception of the Republic, Plato’s most important work. When I find on Google ‘Plato’ and ‘Plato’s Republic’, the only information I get refers to my previous, several weeks old posts. It appears that Google has stopped informing about my work its visitors interested in philosophy.

***
This Monday I put on my blog “Socrates in Plato’s Republic X, in Xenophon’s Symposium and Memorabilia – contrasted with Socrates in Republic V”. I have now (Wednesday November 9, 2016) looked on Google on ‘Plato’ and was pleased to find:

Socrates in Plato's Republic X, and in Xenophon's Symposium and ...

https://plus.google.com/100721692144070391470/posts/TxeYFg9Myhj
1.       
2 days ago - Socrates in Plato's Republic X, and in Xenophon's Symposium and Memorabilia – contrasted with Socrates in Republic V Socrates says in Republic X that 'the …

***
In the days of November 16 – 18 I was in Prague, but I did not find strength to celebrate and protest in front of the Faculty of Arts.

***

In the evening of November 16 I gave a talk on Plato to students at the Faculty of Humanities at Charles University in Prague. I have greatly appreciated this opportunity to rethink Plato with Czech students, and I am grateful for it to Marie Pĕtková, the Dean of the Faculty.





Monday, November 21, 2016

Plato‘s Phaedrus contrasted with his Republic - with a glance at the Parmenides and the Phaedo, and at Aristophanes' Clouds

In the Phaedrus Plato’s Socrates introduces the Forms to prove that ‘love is sent by the gods to lover and beloved for their benefit (ep’ ȏpheliai ho erȏs tȏi erȏnti kai tȏi erȏmenȏi ek theȏn epipempetai)’, and ‘that this sort of madness is given by the gods to allow us to reach the greatest happiness (ep’ eutuchiai tȇi megistȇi para theȏn hȇ toiautȇ mania didotai, 245b5-c1)’. The philosopher-lover and his beloved direct their lives towards Love (pros Erȏta), spending their time in philosophic discussions (meta philosophȏn logȏn, 257b6). At the sight of the beauty of his beloved the philosopher-lover is reminded of true Beauty (to tȇide horȏn kallos, tou alȇthous anamimnȇiskomenos, 249d5-6), which he saw prior to his fall and incarnation, when he followed his god. Getting in touch with it by memory (ephaptomenos autou tȇi mnȇmȇi), he fills the soul of the loved one with love as well (kai tȇn tou erȏmenou psuchȇn erȏtos eneplȇsen, 255d2-3), and their days on earth are blessed with happiness and concord (makarion kai homonoȇtikon ton enthade bion diagousin, 256a8-b1).

The role that the lover’s reminiscence of the Form of beauty plays in this is described as follows (in Hackforth’s translation): ‘In the beginning of our story we divided each soul into three parts (Kathaper en archȇi toude tou muthou trichȇi dieilomen psuchȇn), two being like steeds (hippomorphȏ men duo tine eidȇ) and the third like a charioteer (hȇniochikon de eidos triton). Well and good (kai nun eti hȇmin tauta menetȏ). Now of the steeds (tȏn de dȇ hippȏn), so we declare, one is good (ho men, phamen, agathos,) and the other is not (ho d’ ou, 253c7-d2) … Now when the driver beholds the person of the beloved (hotan d’oun ho hȇniochos idȏn to erȏtikon omma), and causes a sensation of warmth to suffuse the whole sole (pasan aisthȇsei diathermȇnas tȇn psuchȇn), he begins to experience a tickling or prickling of desire (gargalismou te kai pothou kentrȏn hupoplȇsthȇi); and the obedient steed (ho men eupeithȇs tȏi hȇniochȏi tȏn hippȏn), constrained now as always by modesty (aei te kai tote aidoi biazomenos), refrains from leaping upon the beloved (heauton katechei mȇ epipȇdan tȏi erȏmenȏi); but his fellow (ho de), heeding no more the driver’s goad or whip (oute kentrȏn hȇniochikȏn oute mastigos eti entrepetai), leaps and dashes on (skirtȏn de biai pheretai), sorely troubling his companion (kai panta pragmata parechȏn tȏi suzugi te) and his driver (kai hȇniochȏi), and forcing them to approach the loved one (anankazei ienai te pros ta paidika) and remind him (kai mneian poieisthai) of the delights of love’s commerce (tȇs tȏn aphrodisiȏn charitos). For a while they struggle (tȏ de kat’ archas men antiteineton), indignant (aganaktounte) that he should force them to as monstrous and forbidden act (hȏs deina kai paranoma anankazomenȏ); but at last (teleutȏnte de), finding no end to their evil plight (hotan mȇden ȇi peras kakou), they yield and agree to his bidding. And so he draws them on (poreuesthon agomenȏ, eixante kai homologȇsante poiȇsein to keleuomenon), and now they are quite close (kai ep’ autȏi t’ egenonto) and behold the spectacle of the beloved flashing on them (kai eidon tȇn opsin tȇn tȏn paidikȏn astraptousan). At that sight (idontos de) the driver’s memory (tou hȇniochou hȇ mnȇmȇ) goes back to that form of Beauty (pros tȇn tou kallous phusin ȇnechthȇ), and he sees her once again (kai palin eiden autȇn) enthroned by the side of Temperance upon her holy seat (meta sȏphrosunȇs en hagnȏi bathrȏi bebȏsan); then in awe and reverence he falls upon his back (idousa de edeise te kai sephtheisa anepesen huptia), and therewith is compelled (kai hama ȇnankasthȇ) to pull the reins so violently (eis t’oupisȏ helkusai tas hȇnias houtȏ sphodra) that he brings both steeds down on their haunches (hȏst’ epi ta ischia amphȏ kathisai tȏ hippȏ), the good one willing and unresistant (ton men hekonta dia to mȇ antiteinein), but the wanton sore against his will (ton de hubristȇn mal’ akonta.’ (253e5-254c3)

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Hackforth (and similarly C. J. Rowe ‘at the sight he becomes frightened’ - idousa de edeise te) misrepresents Plato’s text by making the charioteer the subject of beholding the Form of beauty ‘once again enthroned by the side of Temperance upon her holy seat’. It is the charioteer’s memory (mnȇmȇ) that sees the Form of beauty, as the feminine idousa ‘seeing’ indicates.

Plato struggles to be true to the Phaedran thesis that the incarnated souls can only reminisce the Forms, they cannot see them. Socrates is introduced in the Phaedrus steeped in his philosophic ignorance: ‘I can’t as yet (ou dunamai pȏ) “know myself”, as the inscription at Delphi enjoins (kata to Delphikon gramma gnȏnai emauton); and so long as that ignorance remains it seems to me ridiculous to inquire into extraneous matters (geloion dȇ moi phainetai touto eti agnoounta ta allotria skopein, 229e5-230a1, tr. Hackforth).’


When Plato wrote the Phaedrus, his first dialogue, he had seen the Forms, to which testifies his enthusiastic description of ‘that place beyond heaven’ (ton huperouranion topon, 247c3), the Plain of Truth (to alȇtheias pedion, 248b6), where the Forms reside. But when he wrote the Phaedrus he did not have an inkling of his ideal State, in which true philosophers would be rulers, and he was happy to present the Forms through the prism of the Socratic not-knowing.

Socrates never saw the Forms. For him the Forms were a hypothesis: from his youth, when he confronted with them Zeno and Parmenides (in the Parmenides), to his last day (in prison, in the Phaedo). He viewed them as coming to us from the divine sphere, which he could at best reminisce. In the Clouds, staged when Plato was a little boy, Aristophanes in his comic way masterfully represented this aspect of Socrates’ not-knowing. As the Clouds enter the stage, Socrates introduces them as the goddesses ‘that give us thought, discussion, and intellect’ (haiper gnȏmȇn kai dialexin kai nous hȇmin parechousin, 317).

In the Phaedrus Socrates maintains that ‘the soul that has never beheld the truth (i.e. the Forms) (ou gar hȇ ge mȇpote idousa tȇn alȇtheian) may never enter into this our human form (eis tode hȇxei to schȇma): seeing that man needs understand (dei gar anthrȏpon sunienai) what is said according to Forms (kat’ eidos legomenon), as it passes from a plurality of perceptions (ek pollȏn ion aisgthȇseȏn) to a unity gathered together by reasoning (eis hen logismȏi sunairoumenon, 249b5-c1)’. And again: ‘every human soul (pasa men anthrȏpou psuchȇ) has seen true Beings (that is the Forms) by reason of her nature (phusei tetheatai ta onta), else she would never enter into this living being (ȇ ouk an ȇlthen eis tode to zȏion, 249e4-250a1).

In stark contrast to the view expressed by Socrates in the Phaedrus, in the Republic only very few can see the Forms, and those who can do so, see the Forms here on earth; if they become rulers of a State, they organize everything in it in accordance with the Forms that they behold.

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In Republic V, Plato’s brother Glaucon compelled Socrates to overcome his not-knowing. The latter introduces there the Forms to define the philosophers (diorisasthai tous philosophous) as those who can see (dunatoi horan, 476b10) the truth (tȇn alȇtheian, 475e4), i.e. the Forms. Only true philosophers can do so, and that’s why ‘they are to rule in the State (tous philosophous … dein archein, 474b5-6)’. The Forms are absolute, eternal, and immutable (aei kata t’auta hȏsautȏs onta, 479e7); with their mind’s eye directed at them only philosophers can properly guard the laws and the institutions of the States (phulaxai nomous te kai epitȇdeumata poleȏn, 484b9-10). The motive of love (erȏs) inspired by the Forms reappears in the Republic as follows: ‘Let us suppose it agreed that philosophical minds love any form of science (Touto men dȇ tȏn philosophȏn phuseȏn peri hȏmologȇsthȏ hȇmin hoti mathȇmatos aei erȏsi) which may give them a glimpse of an eternal reality (ho an autois dȇloi ekeinȇs tȇs ousias tȇs aei ousȇs) not disturbed by generation and decay (kai mȇ planȏmenȇs hupo geneseȏs kai phthoras, 485a10-b3, tr. Jowett).

Jowett’s ‘which may give them a glimpse of an eternal reality’ for ho an autois dȇloi ekeinȇs tȇs ousias tȇs aei ousȇs may suggest the glimpses of the Forms of beauty and temperance that the Phaedran philosopher-lover’s memory recalls as he approaches his beloved. But in the Republic there can be no reference to such glimpses, no reference to the memory of the Forms that the soul had seen prior to her incarnation. In the given passage Socrates speaks of the philosophical natures’ (tȏn philosophȏn phuseȏn peri) abiding desire (aei erȏsi) of any learning (mathȇmatos) that makes visible, manifest, known to them (ho an autois dȇloi) something concerning the eternal reality (ekeinȇs tȇs ousias tȇs aei ousȇs). Here, at the beginning of Republic VI, Socrates points out what the philosophical nature must be so that it can be led to the Forms in the course of education outlined in Republic VII.

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Let us return to the Phaedrus and see what happens to the philosopher-lover after his memory had recalled true Beauty at the sight of his beloved and thus prevented the bad horse from ‘leaping upon the beloved’ and committing a ‘monstrous and forbidden act’: ‘Now that they are a little way off (apelthonte de apȏterȏ), the good horse (ho men) in shame and horror (hup’ aischunȇs te kai thambous) drenches the whole soul with sweat (hidrȏti pasan ebrexe tȇn psuchȇn), while the other (ho de), contriving to recover his wind after the pain of the bit and his fall (lȇxas tȇs odunȇs, hȇn hupo tou chalinou te eschen kai tou ptȏmatos, mogis exanapneusas), bursts into angry abuse (eloidorȇsen orgȇi), railing at the charioteer (polla kakizȏn ton te hȇniochon) and his yoke-fellow (kai ton homozyga) as cowardly and treacherous deserters (hȏs deiliai te kai anandriai liponte tȇn taxin kai homologian). Once again (kai palin) he tries to force them to advance (ouk ethelontas prosienai anankazȏn), and when they beg him to delay awhile he grudgingly consents (mogis sunechȏrȇsen deomenȏn eis authis huperbalesthai). But when the time appointed is come (elthontos de tou suntethentos chronou), and they feign to have forgotten, he reminds them of it (amnȇmonein prospoioumenȏ anamimnȇiskȏn), struggling (biazomenos, ‘overpowering by force’) and neighing (chremetizȏn) and pulling (helkȏn) until he compels them a second time to approach the beloved (ȇnankasen au proselthein tois paidikois) and renew their offer (epi tous autous logous); and when they have come close (kai epeidȇ engus ȇsan), with head down (enkupsas) and tail stretched out (kai ekteinas tȇn kerkon) he takes the bit between his teeth (endakȏn ton chalinon) and shamelessly plunges on (met’ anaideias helkei). But the driver (ho d’ hȇniochos), with resentment even stronger than before (eti mallon t’auton pathos pathȏn), like a racer recoiling from the starting-rope (hȏsper apo husplȇgos anapesȏn), jerks back the bit in the mouth of the wanton horse with an even stronger pull (eti mallon tou hubristou hippou ek tȏn odontȏn biai opisȏ spasas ton chalinon), bespatters his railing tongue and his jaws with blood (tȇn te kakȇgoron glȏttan kai tas gnathous kathȇimaxen), and forcing him down on legs and haunches (kai ta skelȇ te kai ta ischia pros tȇn gȇn ereisas) delivers him to anguish (odunais edȏken). And so it happens time and again (hotan de t’auton pollakis paschȏn), until the evil steed casts off his wantonness (ho ponȇros tȇs hubreȏs lȇxȇi); humbled in the end (tapeinȏtheis), he obeys the counsel of his driver (hepetai ȇdȇ tȇi tou hȇniochou pronoiai), and when he sees the fair beloved (kai hotan idȇi ton kalon) is like to die of fear (phobȏi diollutai). Wherefore at long last (hȏste sumbainei tot’ ȇdȇ) the soul of the lover (tȇn tou erastou psuchȇn) follows after the beloved with reverence and awe (tois paidikois aidoumenȇn te kai dediuian hepesthai).’ (254c3-255a1, tr. Hackforth)

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Could the philosopher-lover of the Phaedrus be presented in the Republic as the man who should rule in the States on account of his seeing the Forms? In Republic VI Socrates describes the philosopher’s-to-be erotic attraction to the Forms as follows: ‘The true lover of knowledge is always striving after being – that is his nature (pros to on pephukȏs eiȇ hamillasthai ho ge ontȏs philomathȇs); he will not rest in the multiplicity of individuals which is an appearance only (kai ouk epimenoi epi tois doxazomenois einai pollois hekastois), but will go on (all’ ioi) – the keen edge will not be blunted (kai ouk amblunoito) nor the force of his desire abate (oud’ apolȇgoi tou erȏtos) until he has attained the knowledge of the true nature of every essence (prin autou ho estin hekastou tȇs phuseȏs hapsasthai) by a sympathetic and kindred power in the soul (hȏi prosȇkei psuchȇs ephaptesthai tou toioutou - prosȇkei de sungenei), and by that power drawing near and mingling and becoming incorporate with very being (hȏi plȇsiasas kai migeis tȏi onti ontȏs), having begotten mind and truth (gennȇsas noun kai alȇtheian), he will have knowledge (gnoiȇ te) and will truly live (kai alȇthȏs zȏiȇ) and grow (kai trephoito); and then and not till then will he cease from his travail (kai houtȏ lȇgoi ȏdinos, prin d’ ou). (490a8-b7) … And the philosopher, holding converse with the divine order (Theiȏ dȇ kai kosmiȏi ho ge philosophos homilȏn), becomes orderly and divine as far as the nature of man allows (kosmios te kai theios eis to dunaton anthrȏpȏi gignetai, 500c9-d1) … And if a necessity be laid upon him (An oun tis autȏi anankȇ genȇtai) of striving to transfer what he sees there to the characters of men, whether in States or individuals (ha ekei horai meletȇsai eis anthrȏpȏn ȇthȇ kai idiai kai dȇmosiai tithenai), instead of fashioning himself only (kai mȇ monon heauton plattein): will he, think you, be an unskilful artificer (ara kakon dȇmiourgon auton oiei genȇsesthai) of justice, temperance (sȏphrosunȇs te kai dikaiosunȇs), and every civil virtue (kai sumpasȇs tȇs dȇmotikȇs aretȇs; 500d4-8)?’ (Tr. Jowett)