In A
Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man Stephen Dedalus discusses art with a
fellow student.
“Stephen, following his own thought, was silent for an instant. ‘The soul is born, he said vaguely, first in those moments I told you of. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.
…
Stephen
began: ‘Aristotle has not defined pity and terror. I have. I say …’
Lynch halted
and said bluntly: ‘Stop! I won’t listen! I am sick. I was out last night on a
yellow drunk with Horan and Goggins.’
Stephen went
on: ‘Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever
is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human
sufferer. Terror is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of
whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the
secret cause … The tragic emotion, in fact, is a face looking two ways, towards
terror and towards pity, both of which are phases of it. You see I use the word
arrest. I mean that tragic emotion is static. Or rather the dramatic
emotion is. The feelings excited by improper art are kinetic, desire or
loathing. Desire urges us to possess, to go to something; loathing urges us to
abandon, to go from something. These are kinetic emotions. The arts which
excite them, pornographical or didactic, are therefore improper arts. The
esthetic emotion (I use the general term) is therefore static. The mind is
arrested and raised above desire and loathing.’
‘You say
that art must not excite desire,’ said Lynch. ‘I told you that one day I wrote
my name in pencil on the backside of the Venus of Praxiteles in the Museum. Was
that not desire?’
‘I speak of
normal natures,’ said Stephen. ‘You also told me that when you were a boy in
that charming Carmelite school you ate pieces of dried cowdung.’ – ‘O I did!
Idid!’ he cried.
…
‘As for
that,’ Stephen said in polite parenthesis, we are animals. I also am an animal.’
– ‘You are,’ said Lynch. – ‘But we are just now in a mental world,’ Stephen
continued. ‘The desire and loathing excited by improper esthetic means are
really esthetic emotions not only because they are kinetic in character but
also because they are not more than physical. Our flesh shrinks from what it
dreads and responds to the stimulus of what it desires by a purely reflex
reaction of the nervous system. Our eyelid closes before we are aware that the
fly is about to enter our eye.’ – ‘Not always,’ said Lynch critically. – ‘In
the same way,’ said Stephen, ‘your flesh responded to the stimulus of a naked
statue but it was, I say, simply a reflex reaction of the nerves. Beauty
expressed by the artist cannot awaken in us an emotion which is kinetic or a
sensation which is purely physical. It awakens, or ought to awaken, or induces,
or ought to induce, an esthetic stasis, an ideal pity or an ideal terror, a
stasis called forth, prolonged and at last dissolved by what I call the rhythm
of beauty.’ – ‘What is that exactly?’ asked Lynch – ‘Rhythm,’ said Stephen, ‘is
the first formal esthetic relation of part to part in any esthetic whole or of
an esthetic whole to its part or of any part to the esthetic whole of which it
is part.’ – ‘If that is rhythm,’ said Lynch, ‘let me hear what you call beauty;
and, please remember, though I did eat a cake of cowdung once, that I admire
only beauty.’
…
‘Aquinas,’
said Stephen, ‘says that is beautiful the apprehension of which pleases.’ Lynch
nodded. ‘I remember that,’ he said, Pulcra sunt quae visa placent.’ –
‘He uses the word visa,’ said Stephen, ‘to cover esthetic apprehensions
of all kinds, whether through sight or hearing or through any other avenue of
apprehension. This word, though it is vague, is clear enough to keep away good
and evil which excite desire and loathing. It means certainly a stasis and not
a kinesis. How about the true? It produces also a stasis of the mind. You would
not write your name in pencil across the hypothenuse of a right-angled
triangle.’ – ‘No,’ said Lynch, give me the hypotenuse of the Venus of
Praxiteles.’ – ‘Static therefore, said Stephen. ‘Plato, I believe, said that
beauty is the splendour of truth. I don’t think that it has a meaning, but the
true and the beautiful are akin. Truth is beheld by the intellect which is
appeased by the most satisfying relations of the intelligible: beauty is beheld
by the imagination which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of the
sensible. The first step in the direction of truth is to understand the frame
and scope of the intellect itself, to comprehend the act itself of
intellection. Aristotle’s entire system of philosophy rests upon his book of
psychology and that, I think, rests on his statement that the same attribute
cannot at the same time and in the same connection belong to and not to belong
to the same subject. The first step in the direction of beauty is to understand
the frame and the scope of the imagination, to comprehend the act itself of
esthetic apprehension. Is that clear?’ – ‘But what is beauty?’ Asked Lynch
impatiently. ‘Out with another definition. Something we see and like! Is that
the best you and Aquinas can do? – ‘Let us take woman,’ said Stephen. – ‘Let us
take her!’ said Lynch fervently. – ‘The Greek, the Turk, the Chinese, the Copt,
the Hottentot,’ said Stephen, ‘all admire a different type of female beauty.
That seems to be a maze out of which we cannot escape. I see however two ways out.
One is this hypothesis: that every physical quality admired by men in women is
in direct connection with the manifold functions of women for the propagation
of the species. It may be so. The world, it seems, is drearier than even you,
Lynch, imagined. For my part I dislike that way out. It leads to eugenics
rather than to esthetic. It leads you out of the maze into a new gaudy
lectureroom where MacCann, with one hand on The Origin of Species and
the other hand on the new testament, tells you that you admired the great
flanks of Venus because you felt that she would bear you burly offspring and
admired her great breasts because you felt she would give good milk to her
children and yours.’ – ‘Then MacCann is a sulphuryellow liar,’ said Lynch
energetically. – ‘There remains another way out,’ said Stephen laughing. – ‘To
wit?’ said Lynch. – This hypothesis,’ Stephen began.
A long dray
laden with old iron came round the corner of Sir Patrick Dun’s hospital
covering the end of Stephen’s speech with the harsh roar of jangled and
rattling metal.
…
‘This
hypothesis,’ Stephen repeated, ‘is the other way out: that, though the same
object may not seem beautiful to all people, all people who admire a beautiful
object find in it certain relations which satisfy and coincide with the stages
themselves of all esthetic apprehension. These relations of the sensible,
visible to you through one form and to me through another, must be therefore
the necessary qualities of beauty. Now, we can return to our old friend saint
Thomas for another pennyworth of wisdom.’ Lynch laughed. ‘It amuses me vastly,’
he said, ‘to hear you quoting him time after time like a jolly round friar. Are
you laughing in your sleeve?’ – ‘MacAlister,’ answered Stephen, ‘would call my
esthetic theory applied Aquinas. So far as this side of esthetic philosophy
extends Aquinas will carry me all along the line. When we come to the phenomena
of artistic conception, artistic gestation and artistic reproduction I require
a new terminology and a new personal experience.’
…
‘To finish
what I was saying about beauty,’ said Stephen, ‘the most satisfying relations
of the sensible must therefore correspond to the necessary phases of artistic
apprehension. Find these and you find the qualities of universal beauty.
Aquinas says: ad pulcritudinem tria requiruntur, integritas, consonantia,
claritas. I translate it so: Three things are needed for beauty,
wholeness, harmony, and radiance. Do these correspond to the phases of
apprehension?’
…
‘The fist phase of apprehension is a bounding line drawn
about the object to be apprehended. An esthetic image is presented to us either
in space or in time. What is audible is presented in time, what is visible is
presented in space. But, temporal or spatial, the esthetic image is first
luminously apprehended as selfbounded and selfcontained upon the immeasurable
background of space or time which is not it. You apprehend it as one thing. You
see it as one whole. You apprehend its wholeness. That is integritas.’ –
‘Bull’s eye!’ said Lynch, laughing. ‘Go on.’ – ‘Then,’ said Stephen, ‘you pass
from point to point, led by its formal lines; you apprehend it as a balanced
part against part within limits; you feel the rhythm of its structure. In other
words the synthesis of immediate perception is followed by the analysis of
apprehension. Having first felt that it is a one thing you feel now that
it is a thing. You apprehend it as a complex, multiple, divisible,
separable, made up of its parts, the result of its parts and their sum,
harmonious. That is consonantia.’ – ‘Bull’s eye again!’ said Lynch
wittily. ‘Tell me now what is claritas and you win a cigar.’ – ‘The
connotation of the word,’ Stephen said, ‘is rather vague. Aquinas uses a term
which seems to be inexact. It baffled me for a long time. It would lead you to
believe that he had in mind symbolism or idealism, the supreme quality of
beauty being a light from some other world, the idea of which the matter is but
the shadow, the reality of which it is but a symbol. I thought he might mean
that claritas is the artistic discovery and representation of the divine
purpose in anything or a force of generalization which would make the esthetic
image a universal one, make it outshine its proper conditions. But that is
literary talk. I understand it so. When you have apprehended that basket as one
thing and have then analysed it according to its form and apprehended it as a
thing you make the only synthesis which is logically and esthetically
permissible. You see that it is that thing which it is and no other thing. The
radiance of which he speaks is the scholastic quidditas, the whatness
of a thing. This supreme quality is felt by the artist when the esthetic image
is first conceived in his imagination. The mind in that mysterious instant
Shelly likened beautifully to a fading coal. The instant wherin the supreme
quality of beauty, the clear radiance of the esthetic image, is apprehended
luminously by the mind which has been arrested by its wholeness and fascinated
by its harmony in the luminous silent stasis of esthetic pleasure, a spiritual
state very like that cardiac condition which the Italian physiologist Luigi
Galvani, using a phrase almost as beautiful as Shelly’s, called the enchantment
of the heart’.”
***
Plato does
not discuss art in the Phaedran Palinode, he discusses love, but within that
discussion he talks about the soul, truth and beauty in terms that are akin to
Joyce’s stasis and kinesis.
Why Palinode?
Phaedrus read to Socrates a speech of Lysias, his beloved (paidika,
236b5). In the speech ‘Lysias has described (gegraphe gar dȇ ho Lusias) how a handsome boy was tempted (peirȏmenon tina tȏn kalȏn),
but not by a lover (ouch hup’ erastou de): that’s the clever part of it
(all’ auto ge touto kai kekompseutai): he maintains (legei gar)
that surrender should be to one who is not in love (hȏs charisteon mȇ erȏnti)
rather than to one who is (mallon ȇ erȏnti, 227c5-8).’ When he finished reading, Phaedrus maintained
that nobody could make a better speech on the same subject (235b1-5). Socrates
could not agree with him: ‘There is something welling up within my breast (plȇres to stȇthos echȏn aisthanomai), which makes me feel that I could find something different,
and something better to say (para tauta an echein eipein hetera mȇ cheirȏ, 235c5-6).’ So Socrates gave a
speech on the same theme, or rather the first half of it, in which he painted
the lover and his vices in the worst possible colours; he could not make
himself to make the second half, in which he was to extol the virtues of the
non-lover.
Socrates
wanted to go away, but as he was about to cross the river, his ‘familiar divine
sign’ (to daimonion kai to eiȏthos sȇmeion moi gignesthai, 242b8-9) stopped him; he seemed to hear a voice forbidding
him to leave until he made atonement for some offence to heaven. ‘Do you not
hold Love to be a god, the child of Aphrodite (ton Erȏta ouk Aphroditȇs kai theon tina hȇgȇi;)?’ Socrates asked. ‘He is certainly said to be (Legetai
ge dȇ,
242d9-10),’ Phaedrus
replied. Not by Lysias’ speech and not by the speech that Socrates uttered
‘bewitched’ (katapharmakeutheis, 242e1) by Phaedrus: ‘And so I have to
purify myself (emoi men oun kathȇrasthai anankȇ). Now for such as offend in speaking of gods and heroes
there is an ancient mode of purification (estin de tois hamartanousi peri
muthologian katharmos archaios), which was known to Stesichorus, though not
to Homer (hon Homȇros men ouk ȇistheto, Stȇsichoros de). When Stesichorus lost the sight of
his eyes (tȏn gar ommatȏn sterȇtheis) because of his defamation of Helen
(dia tȇn Helenȇs kakȇgorian), he was not, like Homer, at a loss to
know why (ouk ȇgnoȇsen hȏsper Homȇros):
as a true artist (all hate mousikos ȏn) he understood the reason (egnȏ tȇn aitian), and promptly wrote the lines (kai
poiei euthus):
“False,
false, the tale (Ouk est etumos logos houtos)
Thou never
didst sail the well-decked ships (ouk ebas en nȇusin euselmois)
Nor come to
the Towers of Troy. (Ouk hikeo Pergama Troias)”
And after
finishing the composition of his so called Palinode (kai poiȇsas dȇ pasan tȇn kaloumenȇn Palinȏidian) he straightaway recovered his sight (parachrȇma aneblepsen). Now it’s here that I shall show greater wisdom than these
poets (egȏ oun sophȏteros ekeinȏn genȇsomai): I shall attempt to make my due palinode to Love before any harm comes
to me for my defamation of him (prin gar ti pathein dia tȇn tou Erȏtos kakȇgorian peirasomai autȏi apodounai tȇn palinȏidian).’ (243a2-b5)
Socrates’
task will be to prove that ‘love (ho erȏs)’, which he views as divine madness (mania,
245c1) – poetic inspiration is in his view ‘possession and madness, of which
the Muses are the source’ (apo Mousȏn katokȏchȇ kai mania, 245a1-2) – ‘is sent to men by gods
(ek theȏn epipempetai) for the benefit both of lover and
beloved (tȏi erȏnti kai tȏi erȏmenȏi), and for their greatest good fortune (ep’
eutuchiai tȇi megistȇi,
245b5-7)’. (Translation R. Hackforth)
‘First, we
must comprehend the truth about the nature of the soul’, Socrates says, ‘both
divine and human, by observing experiences and actions belonging to it (dei
oun prȏton psuchȇs phuseȏs peri theias te kai anthrȏpinȇs idonta pathȇ te kai erga t’alȇthes noȇsai,
245c2-4, tr. C.J. Rowe).’ ‘All soul is immortal (psuchȇ pasa athanatos), for it is the self-mover (to auto heauto kinoun), the
source and first principle of motion for all other things that are moved (kai
tois allois hosa kineitai touto pȇgȇ kai archȇ kinȇseȏs); as the first principle, it cannot come into being (agenȇton),
and it is of necessity imperishable (adiaphthoron auto anankȇ einai). (245c5-246a2)
‘To say what kind of thing the soul is (hoion men esti)’
a god alone could tell (theias einai diȇgȇseȏs),’ he says, ‘but what it resembles (hȏi de eoiken) a man can tell (anthrȏpinȇs). Let it be likened (eoiketȏ dȇ) to the union of powers (sumphutȏi dunamei) of a winged team of horses (hupopterou zeugous te) and their
charioteer (kai hȇniochou, 246a4-7).’ The god’s steeds are all
good. With us man, the charioteer controls a pair of horses, one of which is
good and one bad; hence the task of controlling it is difficult. ‘When the soul
is perfect (telea men oun ousa) and winged (kai empterȏmenȇ) it journey’s on high (meteȏroporei te) and controls the whole world (kai panta ton kosmon
dioikei); but one that has shed its wings (hȇ de pterorruȇsasa) sinks down (pheretai) until
it can fasten on something solid (heȏs an stereou tinos antilabȇtai),
and settling there (hou katoikistheisa) it takes to itself an earthy
body (sȏma gȇïnon labousa) which seems by reason of the soul’s power to move itself (auto
hauto dokoun kinein dia tȇn ekeinȇs dunamin). This composite structure of soul and body is called a living being (zȏion to sumpan eklȇthȇ, psuchȇ kai sȏma pagen), and is further termed “mortal” (thnȇton eschen epȏnumian). (246b7-c6, tr. Hackforth)
The souls periodically climb the steep ascent unto the summit
of the heavens to behold the supra celestial Plain of Truth (alȇtheias pedion, 248b6). Socrates continues: ‘The souls that are called
immortal (hai athanatoi kaloumenai), so soon as they are at the summit (hȇnik’ an pros akrȏi genȏntai), come forth (exȏ poreutheisai) and stand upon the back of the
world (estȇsan epi tȏi tou ouranou topȏi): and straightway the revolving heaven carries them
round (stasas de autas periagei hȇ periphora), and they look upon the regions
without (hai de theȏrousi ta exȏ tou ouranou, 247b6-c2) … It is there that rue Being dwells, without
colour or shape, that cannot be touched; reason alone, the soul’s pilot, can
behold it, and all true knowledge is knowledge thereof (hȇ achrȏmatos te kai aschȇmatistos kai anaphȇs ousia ontȏs ousa, psuchȇs kubernȇtȇi monȏi thatȇ nȏi, peri hȇn to tȇs alȇthous epistȇmȇs genos, touton echei ton topon). Now even as the mind of a god is
nourished by reason and knowledge (hat’ oun theou dianoia nȏi te kai epistȇmȇi akȇratȏi trephomenȇ), so also it is with every soul that
has a care to receive her proper food (kai hapasȇs psuchȇs hosȇi an melȇi to prosȇkon dexastsai); wherefore when at last she has beheld Being (idousa dia
chronou to on) she is well content (agapai te), and contemplating
truth (kai theȏrousa t’alȇthȇ) she is nourished (trephetai)
and prospers (kai eupathei), until the heaven’s revolution brings her
back full circle (heȏs an kuklȏi hȇ periphora eis tauton perienenkȇi).
And while she is borne around (en de tȇi periodȏi)
she discerns justice, its very self (kathorai men autȇn dikaiosunȇn), and likewise temperance (kathorai de sȏphrosunȇn), and knowledge (kathorai de epistȇmȇn), not the knowledge that is neighbour to Becoming (ouch
hȇi genesis prosestin) and varies with the various objects to which we commonly
ascribe being (oud hȇ estin pou hetera en heterȏi ousa hȏn hȇmeis nun ontȏn kaloumen), but the veritable knowledge of
Being that veritably is (alla tȇn
en tȏi ho estin on ontȏs epistȇmȇn ousan). And when she has contemplated
likewise and feasted upon all else that has true being (kai t’all hȏsautȏs ta onta ontȏs theasamenȇ kai hestiastheisa), she descends again within the
heavens (dusa palin eis to eisȏ tou ouranou) and comes back home (oikade ȇlthen).’ (247c6-e4, tr. Hackforth)
The human souls that do not make it to the top of the heaven,
unable to behold the true being they lose their wings and get incarnated. It
takes each ten thousand years before it regains its wings, ‘except for that of
the man who has lived the philosophical life without guile (plȇn hȇ tou philosophȇsantos adolȏs) or who has united his love for his boy with
philosophy (ȇ paiderastȇsantos meta philosophias); these souls (hautai de), with the third
circuit of a thousand years (tritȇi periodȏi tȇi chilietei), if they choose this life three times in succession (ean helȏntai tris ephexȇs ton bion
touton), on that condition (houtȏ) become winged and depart, in the three-thousandth year (pterȏtheisai trischiliostȏi etei aperchontai, 249a1-5) … It is with justice that
only the mind of the philosopher becomes winged (dikaiȏs monȇ pteroutai hȇ tou philosophou dianoia): for so far as it can it is close, through memory,
to those things his closeness to which gives a god his divinity (pros gar
ekeinois aei esti mnȇmȇi kata dunamin, pros hoisper theos ȏn theios estin, 249c4-6, tr. Rowe).’
The earthly likenesses of justice and temperance and the
other entities that are of the highest value to souls are without lustre, so
that only a few and with difficulty observe the nature of what is imagined in
them. ‘But beauty was ours to see in all its brightness in those days (kallos
de tot’ ȇn idein lampron) when, amidst that happy company (hote
sun eudaimoni chorȏi), we beheld with our eyes that blessed vision,
ourselves in the train of Zeus, others following some other god (makarian
opsin te kai thean, hepomenoi meta men Dios hȇmeis, alloi de met’ allȏn theȏn, eidon te) ; then were we all initiated into that mystery which is
rightly accounted blessed beyond all others (kai etelounto tȏn teletȏn hȇn themis legein makariȏtatȇn);
whole and unblemished were we that did celebrate it (holoklȇroi men autoi ontes), untouched by the evils that awaited us in days to come (kai
apatheis kakȏn hosa hȇmas en husterȏi chronȏi hupemenen); whole and unblemished likewise, free from all alloy (holoklȇra de kai hapla), steadfast (kai atremȇ) and blissful were the spectacles (kai eudaimona phasmata)
on which we gazed in the moment of final revelation; pure was the light that
shone around us (muoumenoi te kai epopteuontes en augȇi katharai), and pure we were (katharoi ontes), without taint of
that prison-house (kai asȇmantoi toutou) which now we are encompassed
withal, and call a body (ho nun dȇ sȏma peripherontes onomazomen), fast bound therein as an oyster in its shell (ostreou
tropon dedesmeumenoi).’ (250b5-c6, tr. Hackforth)
But in what way does love come to the assistance of a philosopher?
The memory of a philosopher beholds the true beauty in the presence of his
beloved boy. But the boy must be captured first. ‘One who is caught is captured
in the following way (halisketai de dȇ ho hairetheis toiȏide tropȏi). Just as at the beginning of our tale (Kathaper
en archȇi toude tou muthou) we divided each soul into three forms (trichȇi dieilomen psuchȇn hekastȇn),
two like horses (hippomorphȏ men duo tine eidȇ) and the third with the role of charioteer (hȇniochikon de eidos triton), so now let this still stand (kai nun eti hȇmin tauta menetȏ). Of the horses (tȏn de dȇ hippȏn),
one (ho men), we say (phamen), is good (agathos), the
other not (ho d’ ou). (253c6-d2) … So when the charioteer first catches
sight of the light of his love (hotan d’oun ho hȇniochos idȏn to erȏtikon omma), warming the whole soul through the medium of perception (pasan
aisthȇsei diathermȇnas tȇn psuchȇn), and begins to be filled with tickling and pricks of
longing (gargalismou kai pothou kentrȏn hupoplȇsthȇi), the horse which is obedient to the charioteer (ho
men eupeithȇs tȏi hȇniochȏi tȏn hippȏn),
constrained then as always by shame (aei te kai tote aidoi biazomenos),
holds itself back (heauton katechei) from leaping on the loved one (mȇ epipȇdan tȏi erȏmenȏi);
while the other no longer takes notice of goading or the whip from the
charioteer (ho de oute kentrȏn hȇniochikȏn oute mastigos eti entrepetai), but springs powerfully forward (skirtȏn de biai pheretai), and causing all kinds of trouble to his companion (kai
panta pragmata parechȏn tȏi suzugi te) and the charioteer (kai hȇniochȏi) forces them to move towards the beloved (anankazei
ienai te prosta paidika) and mention to him the delights of sex (kai
mneian poiȇsai tȇs tȏn aphrodisiȏn charitos). At the start the two of them resist (tȏ de kat’ archas men antiteineton), indignant (aganaktounte) at
being forced to do terrible and improper things (hȏs deina kai paranoma anankazomenȏ); but finally (teleutȏnte de), when there is no limit to their plight (hotan mȇden ȇi peras kakou), they follow its lead (poreuesthon
agomenȏ), giving in (eixante) and agreeing (kai
homologȇsante) to do what it tells them (poiȇsein to keleuomenon). Now they come close to the beloved (kai pros autȏi t’ egenonto) and see the flashing of his face (kai eidon tȇn opsin tȇn tȏn paidikȏn astraptousan). As the charioteer sees it (idontos
de tou hȇniochou), his memory is carried back to the
nature of beauty (hȇ mnȇmȇ pros tȇn tou kallous phusin ȇnechthȇ), and again sees it (kai palin eiden autȇn)
standing together with self-control on the holy pedestal (meta sȏphrosunȇs en hagnȏi bathrȏi bebȏsan);
at the sight he becomes frightened (idousa de edeise te), and in sudden
reverence he falls on his back (kai sephtheisa anepesen huptia), and is
forced at the same time to pull back the reins so violently (kai hama ȇnankasthȇ eis t’oupisȏ helkusai tas hȇnias houtȏ sphodra) as to bring both horses down on their haunches (hȏst’ epi ta ischia amphȏ kathisai tȏ hippȏ), the one willingly (ton men
hekonta), because of its lack of resistance to him (dia to mȇ antiteinein), but the unruly horse much against its will (ton de
hubristȇn mal’ akonta). When they are a little way off (apelthonte de apȏterȏ), the first horse drenches the whole
soul with sweat from shame and alarm (ho men hup’ aischunȇs te kai thambous hidrȏti pasan ebrexe tȇn psuchȇn), while the other, when it has recovered from the
pain (ho de lȇxas tȇs odunȇs) caused to it by the bit (hȇn hupo tou chalinou te eschen) and its fall (kai tou ptȏmatos), scarcely gets its breath back (mogis exanapneusas) before it
gets into angry abuse (eloidorȇsen orgȇi),
repeatedly reviling the charioteer (polla kakizȏn ton te hȇniochon) and its companion (kai ton
homozuga) for cowardly and unmanly desertion of their agreed position (hȏs deiliai te kai anandriai liponte tȇn taxin kai homologian); and again it tries to compel them to approach, unwilling
as they are (kai palin ouk ethelontas prosienai anankazȏn),
and barely concedes when they beg him to postpone it until a later time (mogis
sunechȏrȇsen deomenȏn eis authis huperbalesthai). When the agreed time comes (elthontos de tou
suntethentos chronou), and they pretend not to remember (hou amnemonein
prospoioumenȏ), it reminds them (anamimnȇiskȏn); struggling (biazomenos), neighing (chremetizȏn),
pulling (helkȏn), it forces them to approach the beloved again (ȇnankasen au proselthein tois paidikois) to make the same proposition (epi
tous autous logous), and when they are nearby (kai epeidȇ engus ȇsan), head down and the tail outstretched (enkupsas
kai ekteinas tȇn kerkon), teeth clamped at its bit (endakȏs ton chalinon), it pulls shamelessly (met’ anaideias helkei); but
the same happens to the charioteer as before, only still more violently (ho
d’ hȇniochos eti mallon t’auton pathos pathȏn),
as he falls back as if from a husplȇx [a starting-barrier in a race] (hȏsper apo husplȇgos anapesȏn);
still more violently he wrenches the bit back, and forces it from the teeth of
the unruly horse (eti mallon tou hubristou hippou ek tȏn odontȏn biai opisȏ spasas ton chalinon), spattering its evil speaking tongue and its jaws with
blood (tȇn te kakȇgoron glȏttan kai tas gnathous kathȇimaxen), and thrusting its legs and haunches to the ground delivers it to the
pains (kai ta skelȇ te kai ta ischia pros tȇn gȇn ereisas odunais edȏken).
When the same thing happens to the evil horse many times (hotan de t’auton pollakis
paschȏn ho ponȇros), and it ceases from its excesses (tȇs hubreȏs lȇxȇi), now humbled (tapeinȏtheis) it allows the charioteer with his foresight to lead (hepetai ȇdȇ tȇi tou hȇniochou pronoiai), and when it sees the boy in his
beauty (kai hotan idȇi ton kalon), it nearly dies with fright (phobȏi diollutai); and the result is (hȏste sumbainei) that now (tot’ ȇdȇ) the soul of the lover follows the beloved in reverence and
aw (tȇn tou erastou psuchȇn tois paidikois aidoumenȇn te kai dediuian hepesthai). So because (hate oun) he receives every kind
of service, as if equal to the gods (pasan therapeian hȏs isotheos therapeuomenos), from a lover who is not pretending but genuinely in
love (ouch hupo schȇmatizomenou tou erȏntos all’ alȇthȏs touto peponthotos), and because he naturally feels affection for a man who
renders him service (kai autos ȏn phusei philos tȏi therapeuonti), even if perhaps in the past (ean ara kai en tȏi prosthen) he has been prejudiced against him by hearing his
schoolfellows or others say that it is shameful to associate with a lover (hupo
sumphoitȇtȏn ȇ tinȏn allȏn diabeblȇmenos ȇi, legontȏn hȏs aischron erȏnti plȇsiazein), and repulses the lover for that
reason (kai dia tauta apȏthȇi ton erȏnta), as time goes on (proïontos ȇdȇ tou chronou) he is led both by his age, and by necessity, to admit him
to his company (hȇ te hȇlikia kai to chreȏn ȇgagen pros to prosesthai auton eis homilian); for it is fated that evil shall
never be friend to evil, nor good fail to be friend to good (ou gar dȇpote heimartai kakon kakȏi philon oud’ agathon mȇ philon agathȏi einai). Once he had admitted him (prosemenou
de) and accepted his conversation and his company (kai logon kai
homilian dexamenou), the goodwill that he experiences at close quarters (enguthen
hȇ eunoia gignomenȇ) from his lover (tou erȏntos) amazes the beloved (ekplȇttei ton erȏmenon), as he clearly sees (diaisthanomenon) that not even all his
other friends and his relations together (hoti oud’ hoi sumpantes alloi
philoi te kai oikeioi) have anything to offer by way of affection in
comparison with the friend who is divinely possessed (moiran philias
oudemian parechontai pros ton entheon philon). (253c6-255b7, translation
Rowe) … And so, if the victory be won by the higher elements of mind guiding
them 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 men kai homonoȇtikon ton enthade bion diagousin); for the power of evil in the soul
has been subjected, and the power of goodness liberated: they have won
self-mastery and inward peace (enkrateis hautȏn kai kosmioi ontes, doulȏsamenoi men hȏi kakia psuchȇs enegigneto, eleutherȏsantes de hȏi aretȇ). And when life is over (teleutȇsantes de dȇ), with burden shed and wings
recovered (hupopteroi kai elaphroi gegonotes) they stand victorious in
the first of the three rounds in that truly Olympic struggle (tȏn triȏn palaismatȏn hȏs alȇthȏs Olumpiakȏn hen nenikȇkasin) – and neither human sanity nor
divine madness has any greater good to offer a man than this (hou meizon
agathon oute sȏphrosunȇ anthrȏpinȇ oute theia mania dunatȇ porisai anthrȏpȏi). (256a7-b7, tr. Hackforth).
***
Hackforth
notes on the ‘Olympic struggle’: ‘The reference is partly to 249a (tris
ephexȇs [if the soul chooses the life of a true philosopher three times in
succession, it becomes winged and departs in the three-thousandth year]),
partly to the requirement of three throws in an Olympic wrestling match.’
***
Socrates continues: ‘But if they turn to a coarser way of
life, devoted not to wisdom but to honour (ean de dȇ diaitȇi phortikȏterai te kai aphilosophȏi, philotimȏi de chrȇsȏntai), then perhaps, I suppose, when they are drinking (tach’ an pou en
methais) or in some other moment of carelessness (ȇ tini allȇi ameleiai) the licentious horses in the two of
them (tȏ akolastȏ autoin hupozugiȏ) catch them off their guard (labonte
tas psuchas aphrourous), and bringing them together (sunagagonte eis
t’auton) take that choice which is called blessed by the many (tȇn hupo pollȏn makaristȇn hairesin heiletȇn te), and carry it through (kai
diepraxatȇn); and once having done so (kai diapraxamenȏ), they continue with it (to loipon ȇdȇ chrȏntai men autȇi), but sparingly (spaniai de), because what
they are doing has not been approved by their whole mind (hate ou pasȇi dedogmena tȇi dianoiai prattontes). So these two spend their lives as
friends, though not to the same degree as the other pair, both during their
love and when they have passed beyond it (philȏ men oun kai toutȏ, hȇtton de ekeinȏn, allȇloin dia te tou erȏtos kai exȏ genomenȏ diagousi), believing that they have given and
received the most binding pledges (pisteis tas megistas hȇgoumenȏ allȇloin dedȏkenai te kai dedechthai), which it would be wrong (has ou
themiton einai) to break by ever becoming enemies (lusantas eis echthran
pote elthein). On their death (en de tȇi teleutȇi) they leave the body without wings but with the
impulse to gain them (apteroi men, hȏrmȇkotes de pterousthai ekbainousi tou sȏmatos), so that they carry off no small reward for their lovers’ madness (hȏste ou smikron athlon tȇs erȏtikȇs manias pherontai); for it is ordained that those who
have already begun on the journey under the heavens shall no longer pass into
the darkness of the journey under the earth (eis gar skoton kai tȇn hupo gȇs poreian ou nomos estin eti elthein
tois katȇrgmenois ȇdȇ tȇs hupouraniou poreias), but rather live in the light and be happy as they travel
with each other (alla phanon bion diagontas eudaimonein met’ allȇlȏn poreuomenous), and acquire matching plumage, when
they acquire it, because of their love (kai homopterous erȏtos charin, hotan genȏntai, genesthai).’ (256b7-e2, tr. Rowe)
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