4a C. J. Rowe’s arguments for a late dating of the Phaedrus – the structure of the Phaedrus

Christopher Rowe opens his article on ‘The argument and structure of Plato’s Phaedrus’  (Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society, 1986, pp. 106-125) as follows:

‘The Phaedrus falls by design into two distinct movements. The first movement includes three speeches, one a written speech which claims to be by Lysias, the other two given impromptu by Socrates; the second then uses these speeches as the basis for a general discussion of rhetoric and of the value of writing as a medium of communication and teaching. Whatever else we may want to say about the structure of the dialogue, this much is clear enough. But there is a problem. So powerful is the impact of the second speech, with its eloquent account of divine love and the peregrinations of the immortal soul, that everything which follows it is likely to appear to any ordinary reader as mostly dull and insignificant by comparison. If Socrates suggests, as he does at 265c-d, that the only fully serious aspect of the speech was as a demonstration of the method of the collection and division, the rest being ‘really playfully done, by way of amusement’ that looks merely disingenuous; for it is hard not to feel, with Ficino, that it is in this main speech of Socrates ‘the principal mysteries’ of the Phaedrus are contained. Yet if this is so, the dialogue is intolerably misshapen. At the end of their discussion of Lysias’ written logos, Socrates and Phaedrus agree on the principle that ‘every logos should be put together like a living creature, as it were with a body of its own, so as not to lack either a head or feet, but to have both middle parts and extremities, so written as to fit both each other and the whole’ (264c). If we accept Ficino’s view, the Phaedrus seems to be even worse case than Lysias’ Eroticus: instead of having no head, it will have two – a large one consisting in Socrates’ speech, and a much smaller one, consisting in the final conclusions about speaking and writing.’ (p. 106)

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At 263d2-3 Socrates asks Phaedrus: ‘Tell me this (eipe tode) – for of course because of my inspired condition then, I don’t quite remember (egȏ gar dia to enthousiastikon ou panu memnȇmai) – whether I defined love (ei hȏrisamȇn erȏta) when beginning my speech (archomenos tou logou).’ – Phaedrus: ‘Yes indeed you did, most emphatically (Nȇ Dia amȇchanȏs hȏs sphodra).’ – Socrates: ‘Hey now (Pheu)! How much more scientific you’re saying (hosȏi legeis technikȏterous) the Nymphs, daughters of Achelous (Numphas tas Achelȏiou), and Pan (kai Pana), son of Hermes (ton Hermou), are than Lysias son of Cephalus (Lusiou tou Kephalou) in the business of speaking (pros logous einai).’ (263d4-6)

It is noteworthy that Socrates considers his second speech as far surpassing his own powers. He delivered it profoundly inspired by the place with its atmosphere full of enchantment, which Plato conjured up at the beginning of the dialogue.

Socrates continued: ‘Or am I wrong (ȇ ouden legȏ)? Did Lysias too compel us when beginning his speech on love (alla kai ho Lusias archomenos tou erȏtikou ȇnankasen hȇmas) to take love (hupolabein ton erȏta) as some one definite thing (hen ti tȏn ontȏn), which he himself had in mind (ho autos eboulȇthȇ), and did he then bring the whole speech which followed to its conclusion by ordering it in relation to that (kai pros touto ȇdȇ suntaxamenos panta ton husteron logon dieperanato;)? Shall we read the beginning again (boulei palin anagnȏmen tȇn archȇn autou;)?’ – Phaedrus: ‘What you’re looking for (ho mentois zȇteis) isn’t there (ouk est’ autothi).’ (263d7-e4)

After dismissing Lysias’ speech as technically inept – ‘its elements having been thrown in a random heap’ –  (chudȇn beblȇsthai ta tou logou, 264b3-4), and contrasting it with his own second speech – in which he at the beginning defined love as some definite thing and then brought the whole speech which followed to its conclusion by ordering it in relation to that – comes the first passage in which Socrates downplays his second speech, as Rowe puts it: ‘… by expressing the experience of love through some kind of simile (ouk oid’ hopȇi to erȏtikon pathos apeikazontes), which allowed us perhaps to grasp some truth (isȏs men alȇthous tinos ephaptomenoi), though may be it also took us in a wrong direction (tacha d’ an allose parapheromenoi), and mixing together a not wholly implausible speech (kerasantes ou pantapasin apithanon logon), we sang a playful hymn in the form of a story (muthikon tina humnon prosepaisamen) … to my master, and yours (ton emon te kai ton son despotȇn), Phaedrus (ȏ Phaidre) – Love (Erȏta), watcher over beautiful boys (kalȏn paidȏn ephoron, 265b6-c3)’.

In my preceding post I discussed the question to what Socrates eluded to when he said that the speech ‘allowed us perhaps to grasp some truth’. Now I shall turn attention to what he may have meant by saying that ‘may be it also took us in a wrong direction’ (tacha d’ an allose parapheromenoi).

I can see two such themes. The first concerns the attempt to transform and integrate the ancient story about Ganymede into the Platonic conception of love.

Homer says that ‘Ganymede became the most beautiful among the mortal men (Ganumȇdȇs, hos dȇ kallistos geneto thnȇtȏn anthrȏpȏn), whom gods snatched to become the cupbearer of Zeus (ton kai anȇreipsanto theoi Dii oinochoeuein), because of his beauty (kalleos heineka hoio, Il. 20, 232-235)’ In Socrates’ second speech, in the description of the lover’s experience face to face with his beloved a concept of desire (himeros) plays an important role: ‘So when his soul gazes at the boy’s beauty (hotan men oun blepousa pros to tou paidou kallos), and is nourished and warmed by receiving particles which come to it in a flood  from there (ekeithen merȇ epionta kai reonta dechomenȇ ardȇtai te kai thermainȇtai) – hence, of course, the name we give them, “desire” (ha dȇ dia tauta himeros kaleitai) – it experiences relief from its anguish and is filled with joy (lȏphai te tȇs odunȇs kai gegȇthen, 251c5-d1).’ Then, when the lover succeeds in ‘catching’ the boy (ean hairethȇi, 253c5-6), and their association ‘is combined with physical contact in the gymnasium (hotan plȇsiazȇi meta tou haptesthai en te gumnasiois) and on the other occasions when people come together (kai en tais allais homiliais), then it is that the springs of that stream (tot’ ȇdȇ hȇ tou reumatos ekeinou pȇgȇ) which Zeus as lover of Ganymede named “desire” (hon himeron Zeus Ganumȇdous erȏn ȏnomase) flow in abundance upon the lover (pollȇ pheromenȇ pros ton erastȇn), some sinking within him (hȇ men eis auton edu), and some flowing off outside him as he brims over (hȇ d’ apomestoumenou exȏ aporrei); and as a breath of wind (kai hoion pneuma) or an echo (ȇ tis ȇchȏ) rebounds from smooth and hard surfaces (apo leiȏn te kai stereȏn hallomenȇ) and returns to the source from which it is issued (palin hothen hȏrmȇthȇ pheretai), so the stream of beauty (houtȏ to tou kallous reuma) passes back to its possessor through his eyes (palin eis ton kalon dia tȏn ommatȏn ion), which is its natural route to the soul (hȇi pephuken epi tȇn psuchȇn ienai); arriving there (aphikomenon) and setting him all of a flutter (kai anapterȏsan), it waters the passages of the feathers (tas diodous tȏn pterȏn ardei te) and causes the wings to grow (kai hȏrmȇse pterophuein te), and fills the soul of the loved one in turn with love (kai tȇn tou erȏmenou au psuchȇn erȏtos eneplȇsen, 255b7d3, translations from the Phaedrus are C.J. Rowe’s, unless I say otherwise).’

Martha Nussbaum used this passage in arguing that in the Phaedrus ‘the sexual pleasure of the passive homosexual … appears as a metaphor for the good life … we have only to consider the role played in the Phaedrus by Ganymede, boy beloved of Zeus, carried off to be cup-bearer of the gods – whose name gives our English word “catamite” its origin.’ (The fragilty of goodness, Cambridge University Press 1986, p.231) There are reasons to believe that some of Plato’s contemporaries read the passage similarly. Cicero says in his Tusculan Disputations: ‘We philosophers have come forward (Philosophi sumus exorti), and on the authority indeed of our Plato (et auctore quidem nostro Platone) whom Dicaearchus not unjustly upbraids (quem non iniuria Dicaearchus accusat), to attribute authority to love (qui amori auctoritatem tribueremus, IV. 71, tr. J.E. King).’ Dicaearchus was a disciple of Aristotle, and he presumably, in his book On the soul, upbraided Plato’s views on love expressed in the Phaedrus.

To clarify this point for posterity, Plato says in the Laws: ‘Whether such matters are to be regarded jestingly or seriously (kai eite paizonta eite spoudazonta ennoein dei ta toiauta), I think that the pleasure is to be deemed natural which arises out of the intercourse between men and women (ennoȇteon hoti tȇi thȇleiai kai tȇi tȏn arrenȏn phusei eis koinȏnian iousȇi tȇs gennȇseȏs hȇ peri tauta hȇdonȇ kata phusin apodedosthai dokei); but that the intercourse of men with men (arrenȏn de pros arrenas), and of women with women (ȇ thȇleiȏn pros thȇleias), is contrary to nature (para phusin), and that the bold attempt was originally due to unbridled lust (kai tȏn prȏtȏn to tolmȇm’ einai di’ akrateian hȇdonȇs). We all always accuse the Cretans of having invented the story of Ganymede and Zeus (pantes de dȇ Krȇtȏn ton peri Ganumȇdȇ muthon katȇgoroumen hȏs logopoiȇsantȏn autȏn); because they believed Zeus to have been their lawgiver (epeidȇ para Dios autois hoi nomoi pepisteumenoi ȇsan gegonenai) they added this myth concerning Zeus (touton ton muthon prostethȇkenai kata tou Dios) so that following the god (hina hepomenoi dȇ tȏi theȏi) they might enjoy this pleasure as well (karpȏntai kai tautȇn tȇn hȇdonȇn, 636c1d4).

But if already when Plato wrote the Phaedrus he was aware that his enthusiasm may have taken him in a wrong direction, as 265b-c suggests, why didn’t he simply omit the story of Ganymede? I believe that he could not do so, for he let the first part circulate among his friends, presumably as the finished thing. After all, the first part of the Phaedrus provided the answer to Aristophanes’ comic song in the Frogs, which compelled him to write the dialogue in the first place (see ‘Plato’s first two dialogues’, on my website).

I find a confirmation of this hypothesis in the last section of the dialogue, where Socrates says that ‘once a thing is put in writing (hotan de hapax graphȇi), the composition, whatever it may be, drifts all over the place (kulindeitai men pantachou pas logos), getting into the hands not only of those who understand it (homoiȏs para tois epaiousin), but equally of those who have no business with it (hȏs d’autȏs par’ hois ouden prosȇkei); it doesn’t know how to address the right people, and not address the wrong (kai ouk epistatai legein hois dei ge kai mȇ). And when it is ill-treated (plȇmmeloumenos de) and unfairly abused (kai ouk en dikȇi loidorȇtheis) it always needs its parent to come to its help (tou patros aei deitai boȇthou), being unable to defend or help itself (autos gar out’ amunasthai oute boȇthȇsai dunatos hautȏi, 275d9-e5, tr. R. Hackforth).’

The second theme, where Socrates ‘went wrong’ (allose parapheromenos, ‘got carried away’) in his second speech, concerns the following passages: 1) ‘… because we have not seen or adequately conceived a god we imagine (alla plattomen oute idontes oute hikanȏs noȇsantes theon) a kind of immortal living creature (athanaton ti zȏion) which has both a soul and body (echon men psuchȇn, echon de sȏma), combined for all time (ton aei de chronon tauta sumpephukota, 246c7-d2)’. 2) ‘… 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 (pros gar ekeinois aei estin mnȇmȇi kata dunamin) his closeness to which gives god his divinity (pros hoisper theos ȏn theios estin, 249c6)’ … 3) ‘Now they’ – i.e. the soul of the philosopher-lover imaginatively depicted as a charioteer with two horses – ‘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 dȇ tou hȇniochou), his memory (hȇ mnȇmȇ) is carried back to the nature of beauty (pros tȇn tou kallous phusin ȇnechthȇ), and again sees it (kai palin eiden autȇn) standing together with self-control on a holy pedestal (meta sȏphrosunȇs en hagnȏi bathrȏi bebȏsan, 254b3-7).’

In the first passage the traditional conception of the gods is dismissed as irrational. In the following two passages the ‘truth’ (alȇtheia) – i.e. ‘being which really is, which is without colour or shape, intangible (hȇ achrȏmatos te kai aschȇmatistos kai anaphȇs ousia ontȏs ousa), observable by the steersman of the soul alone, intellect (psuchȇs kubernȇtȇi monȏi theatȇ nȏi), and to which the class of true knowledge relates (peri hȇn to tȇs alȇthous epistȇmȇs genos, 247c6-8)’ – is clearly introduced as the new, supreme deity, from which gods derive their divinity.

These passages convince me that Plato circulated the first part of the Phaedrus independently. Once in circulation, these passages, for which he and Socrates could be incriminated for ‘introducing new deities’, could not be simply taken away. A new part had to be added, in which Socrates’ second speech could be played down as a mere paidia, a myth told for amusement.

But if Plato ‘downplayed’ Socrates’ second speech to placate a religious inquisitor, shouldn’t he have found a way of indicating it to an intelligent reader? But this is precisely what he did in the second passage, in which Socrates plays down his second speech even further.

Socrates: ‘To me it seems (Emoi men phainetai) that the rest really was playfully done, by way of amusement (ta men alla tȏi onti paidiai pepaisthai); but by chance two principles of method of the following sort were expressed (toutȏn de tinȏn ek tuchȇs rȇthentȏn duoin eidoin), and it would be gratifying if one could grasp their significance in a scientific way (ei autoin tȇn dunamin technȇi labein dunaito tis, ouk achari, 265c8-d1).’

[Rowe translates Socrates’ toutȏn de tinȏn ek tuchȇs rȇthentȏn duoin eidoin as if it were the two principles that were expressed by chance. I believe that ‘these things (toutȏn de tinȏn) expressed by chance (ek tuchȇs rȇthentȏn)’ refer to ‘the other things’ (ta men alla, Rowe’s ‘the rest’) of the preceding clause, which ‘were really’ (tȏi onti) playfully done, by way of amusement (paidiai pepaisthai)’. I take on board Hermeias’ suggestion: ‘Just as earlier on he attributed his speech to Pan and Nymphs and Muses (hȏsper anȏterȏ eis Pana kai Numphas kai Mousas anetithei ton logon, to Muses at 237a), so now he attributes it to chance (houtȏ kai nun eis tuchȇn anagei ton logon, Hermiae Alexandrini in Platonis Phaedrum Scholia, ed. P. Couvreur, 1901, note ad loc.)]

Phaedrus asked what two principles Socrates had in mind, and the latter answered: ‘First, there is perceiving together and bringing into one form items that are scattered in many places (Eis mian idean sunorȏnta agein ta pollachȇi diesparmena), in order that one can define each thing (hina hekaston horizomenos) and make clear (dȇlon poiȇi) whatever it is that one wishes to instruct one’s audience about on any occasion (peri hou an aei didaskein ethelȇi). Just so with the things said just now about love (hȏsper ta nundȇ peri erȏtos), about what it is when defined (ho estin horisthen): whether it was right or wrong (eit’ eu eite kakȏs elechthȇ), the speech was able to say what was at any rate clear and self-consistent because of that (to g’oun saphes kai to auto hautȏi homologoumenon dia tauta eschen eipein ho logos).’ – Phaedrus: ‘And what is the second kind of principle you refer to (To d’ heteron dȇ eidos ti legeis), Socrates (ȏ Sȏkrates;)?’ – Socrates: ‘Being able to cut it up again, form by form (To palin kat’ eidȇ dunasthai diatemnein), according to its natural joints (kat’ arthra hȇi pephuken), and not try to break any part into pieces (kai mȇ epicheirein katagnunai meros mȇden), like an inexpert butcher (kakou mageirou tropȏi chrȏmenon); as just now the two speeches (all’ hȏsper arti tȏ logȏ) took the unreasoning aspect of the mind as one form together (to men aphron tȇs dianoias hen ti koinȇi eidos elabetȇn), and just as a single body naturally has its parts in pairs, with both members of each pair having the same name (hȏsper de sȏmatos ex henos dipla kai homȏnuma pephuke), and labelled respectively left and right (skaia, ta de dexia klȇthenta), so too the too speeches regarded derangement as naturally a single form in us (houtȏ kai to tȇs paranoias hȏs hen en hȇmin pephukos eidos hȇgȇsamenȏ tȏ logȏ), and the one cut off the part on the left-hand side (ho men to ep’ aristera temnomenos meros), then cutting it again (palin touto temnȏn), and not giving up (ouk epanȇken) until it had found among the parts a love which is, as we  say, “left-handed” (prin en autois epheurȏn onomazomenon skaion tina erȏta), and abused it with full justice (eloidorȇsen mal’ en dikȇi), while the other speech led us to the parts of madness on the right-hand side (ho d’ eis ta en dexiai tȇs manias agagȏn hȇmas), and discovering and exhibiting a love which shares the same name as the other, but is divine (homȏnumon ekeinȏi, theion d’ au tina erȏta epheurȏn kai proteinamenos), it praised it (epȇinesen) as cause of our greatest goods (hȏs megiston aition hȇmin agathȏn).’ (265d3-266b1)

On hearing all this Phaedrus remarks: ‘Very true’ (Alȇthestata legeis). But is he right, and is this how Socrates’ two speeches were structured? Hackforth notes: ‘There are serious difficulties in this paragraph. Socrates speaks as though the generic concept of madness (to aphron, paranoia, mania) had been common to his two speeches, and there had been a formal divisional procedure followed in both of them. Neither of these things is true. In the first speech Socrates starts by bringing erȏs under the genus epithumia but this is superseded by hubris, which is declared to be polumeles kai polueides [‘it has many branches and forms’] (238a); it is then shown that erȏs is a species of hubris, but this is done not by successive dichotomies, but by an informal discrimination from an indefinite number of other species, of which only two are named. It is only in the second speech that Socrates starts with a clear concept of “madness”; but here again there is no scheme of successive divisions, whether dichotomous or other: there is merely the single step of a fourfold division.’ (Plato’s PHAEDRUS, Translated with an Introduction and Commentary by R. Hackforth, Cambridge at the University Press, 1952, repr. 1972, p. 133, n. 1)’

When Plato attributed to Socrates’ two speeches the dialectical structure outlined in his elucidation of the second principal of dialectic, he must have been pretty sure that attentive and intelligent readers would become aware of the incongruity; if not immediately, then by rereading the second speech they would have realised why Plato was compelled to declare that ‘the rest really was playfully done, by way of amusement’.

Compare the very serious way in which Plato in Socrates’ imaginary discussion with Tisias plays down his project of scientific rhetoric, which was based on the two principles of dialectic, quoted above. Having outlined what knowledge a rhetorician must acquire if he is to be ‘an expert in the science of speaking (technikos logȏn peri) to the degree possible for mankind (kath’ hoson dunaton anthrȏpȏi)’, Socrates went on to say: ‘Yet he will assuredly never acquire such competence without considerable diligence (tauta de ou mȇ pote ktȇsȇtai aneu pollȇs pragmateias), which the wise man should exert not for the sake of speaking to and dealing with his fellow-men (hȇn ouch heneka tou legein kai prattein pros anthrȏpous dei diaponeisthai ton sȏphrona), but that he may be able to speak what is pleasing to the gods (alla tou theois kecharismena men legein dunasthai), and in all his dealings to do their pleasure to the best of his ability (kecharismenȏs de prattein to pan eis dunamin). For you see, Tisias, what we are told by those wiser than ourselves is true, that a man of sense ought never to study the gratification of his fellow-slaves (ou gar dȇ ara, ȏ Teisia, phasin hoi sophȏtatoi hȇmȏn, homodoulois dei charizesthai meletan ton noun echonta), save as a minor consideration (hoti mȇ parergon), but that of his most excellent masters (alla despotais agathois kai ex agathȏn). So don’t be surprised that we have to make a long detour (hȏst’ ei makra hȇ periodos, mȇ thaumasȇis): it is because the goal is glorious (megalȏn gar heneka periiteon), though not the goal you think of (ouch hȏn su dokeis). Not but what those lesser objects also, if one is willing [viz. to go the whole of the long detour], can best be attained (so our argument assures us) as a consequence of the greater (estai mȇn, hȏs ho logos phȇsin, ean tis ethelȇi, kai tauta kallista ex ekeinȏn gignomena).’ (273e3-274a5, tr. Hackforth)

Rhetoric founded on dialectic in the second part was directed at acquiring the ability to persuade people, be it in the law courts, in public assemblies or in private discussion of whatever one would want to persuade them, and to do so with certainty, in a scientific way. If rhetoric were to acquire this ability, it had to be founded on dialectic: one had to make the long detour. If we ask what Plato means when he says that this long detour was to be done to gratify gods, where else we can find the answer than in Socrates’ second speech? The passage springs to mind, in which Socrates says that only those souls can enter human bodies that had seen ‘the truth’ (tȇn alȇtheian, 249b6), i.e. the ‘true being’ (tȇn ousian ontȏs ousan, 247c6-7): ‘A man must comprehend what is said universally (dei gar anthrȏpon sunienai kat’ eidos legomenon), arising from many sensations (ek pollȏn ion aisthȇseȏn) and being collected together into one through reasoning (eis hen logismȏi sunairoumenon); and this is a recollection of those things (touto d’estin anamnȇsis ekeinȏn) which our soul once saw (ha pot’ eiden hȇmȏn hȇ psuchȇ) when it travelled in company with a god (sumporeutheisa theȏi) and treated with contempt the things we now say are (kai huperidousa ha nun einai phamen), and when it rose up to what really is (kai anakupsasa eis to on ontȏs). Hence 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 (pros gar ekeinois aei estin mnȇmȇi kata dunamin) his closeness to which gives god his divinity (pros hoisper theos ȏn theios estin, 249b6-c6)’ The ‘recollection’ that makes speech possible does not lead men to the contemplation of true being, but the application of the two principles of dialectic in an effort to reach the truth, ‘the long detour,’ can achieve this goal, as Plato hopes.

Rowe is right when he says that the main themes of Socrates’ second speech don’t ‘play any obvious role in the second part of the dialogue’ (p.106), but they are present in a subterranean way throughout it all.