5a C. J. Rowe’s arguments for a late dating of the Phaedrus – the second part of the Phaedrus, with reference to the Republic and the Laws

Christopher Rowe calls his article ‘The argument and structure of Plato’s Phaedrus’, but although the second part of the dialogue plays a central role in his reinterpretation of the Phaedrus, he says very little, if anything, about its structure, which is rich and varied and worth attending to. In my last post I discussed its first section, which is devoted to Socrates’ defence of writing, triggered by Phaedrus’ fear that Lysias might stop writing his speeches because a politician reproached him for being a speech-writer. Socrates ended his defence of writing by stating that ‘in itself writing of speeches is not something shameful’. He went on to say: ‘What is shameful, I think (All’ ekeino oimai aischron ȇdȇ), is speaking and writing not in an acceptable way (to mȇ kalȏs legein te kai graphein), but shamefully and badly (all’ aischrȏs te kai kakȏs, 258d4-5, translations from the Phaedrus are C. J. Rowe’s).’ When Phaedrus agreed, Socrates asked: ‘So what is the way to write acceptably and not acceptably (Tis oun ho tropos tou kalȏs te kai mȇ graphein;)?’ Do we need (deometha ti), Phaedrus (ȏ Phaidre), to examine Lysias on this subject (Lusian te peri toutou exetasai), and anyone else who has so far written anything (kai allon hostis pȏpote ti gegraphen), or will write anything (ȇ grapsei), whether it is a composition relating to the city’s affairs (eite politikon sungramma), or a private one (ȇ idiȏtikon), and whether he writes as a poet, in verse (en metrȏi hȏs poiȇtȇs), or in plain man’s prose (ȇ aneu metrou hȏs idiȏtȇs;)?’ (258d7-11)

With this question Socrates opened the main subject of the second part of the Phaedrus. His suggestion that they should investigate what is the way to write beautifully (kalȏs)’, and what is its opposite, filled Phaedrus with enthusiasm: ‘You really ask if we need to (Erȏtais ei deometha;)? What would one live for, if I may put it as strongly as that, if not for such pleasures as this (tinos men oun heneka k’an tis hȏs eipein zȏiȇ, all’ ȇ tȏn toioutȏn hȇdonȏn heneka;)?’ Not, I think, for those (ou gar pou ekeinȏn ge) which have to be preceded by pain (hȏn prolupȇthȇnai dei) if one is to enjoy pleasure at all (ȇ mȇde hȇsthȇnai) – a feature possessed by nearly all the pleasures relating to the body (ho dȇ oligou pasai hai peri to sȏma hȇdonai echousi); which is why indeed they are rightly called slavish (dio kai dikaiȏs andrapodȏdeis keklȇntai, 258e1-5).’

Socrates appears to have dampened his enthusiasm with his reply: ‘We have plenty of time (Scholȇ men dȇ), it seems (hȏs eoike, 258e6)’. But the English translation is deceptive, for Rowe’s ‘plenty of time’ stands for scholȇ, and for Socrates scholȇ was the time for philosophy, time for his enquiries. The term figures prominently in the opening scene of the dialogue. Socrates surmised that in the morning Lysias entertained his friends with his speeches, and Phaedrus suggested: ‘You’ll find about that (Peusȇi), if you have the leisure (ei soi scholȇ) to walk along and listen (proïonti akouein).’ Socrates replied: ‘What (Ti de;)? Don’t you think I shall be likely to regard it – to quote Pindar (ouk an oiei me kata Pindaron) – as “a thing above even want of leisure” (kai ascholias huperteron pragma poiȇsasthai) to hear how Lysias and you spent your time (to sȇn te kai Lusiou diatribȇn akousai)?’ (227b8-11) At this point Socrates’ insistence on having scholȇ appears to be tinged with irony, but it soon reappears in its unmistakably Socratic significance. Phaedrus asks him whether he believes in the local myth: ‘wasn’t it from somewhere just here that Boreas is said to have seized Oreithuia from the Ilissus? (ouk enthende mentoi pothen apo tou Ilissou legetai ho Boreas Ōreithuian harpasai, 229b5-6) … do you believe this fairy-tale true (su touto to muthologȇma peithȇi alȇthes einai; 229c5)?’ Socrates replies that he has no scholȇ to investigate such things (emoi de pros auta oudamȏs esti sholȇ): ‘I am not capable (ou dunamai pȏ), in accordance with the Delphic inscription (kata to Delphikon gramma), of “knowing myself” (gnȏnai emauton); it therefore seems absurd to me (geloion dȇ moi phainetai) that while I am still ignorant of this subject (touto eti agnoounta) I should inquire into things which do not belong to me (ta allotria skopein, 229e4-230a1). The Phaedrus in its entirety is thus presented by Plato as Socrates’ endeavour to make progress in his ‘knowing himself’. How can this be, Plato indicates a few lines later. Socrates gives an expression to his enchantment by the place they found to stop – ‘how welcome it is, the freshness of the place, and very pleasant (to eupnoun tou topou hȏs agapȇton kai sphodra hȇdu); it echoes with a summery shrillness to the cicadas’ song (therinon te kai liguron hupȇchei tȏi tȏn tettigȏn chorȏi) … So you have been the best of guides for a stranger (hȏste arista soi exenagȇtai), my dear Phaedrus (ȏ phile Phaidre, 230c1-5).’ When Phaedrus remarks that Socrates really behaves like a stranger on a visit, Socrates explains: ‘You see, I’m a lover of learning (Philomathȇs gar eimi), and the country places (ta men oun chȏria) and the trees (kai ta dendrea) won’t teach me anything (ouden m’ ethelei didaskein), as the people in the city will (hoi d’en tȏi astei anthrȏpoi, 230d3-5). In the Phaedrus Plato engages Socrates in an arduous pursuit of self-knowledge.

In the second part, having expressed his satisfaction that Phaedrus’ response makes it clear that they have scholȇ to discuss the subject he proposed, Socrates emphasizes the importance of scholȇ for their forthcoming discussion by narrating a myth of cicadas: ‘We have plenty of time (Scholȇ men dȇ), it seems (hȏs eoike); and I think, too, as the cicadas sing above our heads in their usual fashion in the heat (kai hama moi dokousin hȏs en tȏi pnigei huper kephalȇs hȇmȏn hoi tettiges aidontes), and converse with each other (kai allȇlois dialegomenoi), they look down on us too (kathoran kai hȇmas). So if they saw us as well (ei oun idoien kai nȏ), just like most people (kathaper tous pollous) at midday (en mesȇmbriai), not conversing (mȇ dialegomenous) but nodding off (alla nustazontas) under their spell (kai kȇloumenous huph’ hautȏn) through lazy-mindedness (di’ argian tȇs dianoias), they would justly laugh at us (dikaiȏs an katagelȏien), thinking that some slaves had come to their retreat (hȇgoumenoi andrapod’ atta sphisin elthonta eis to katagȏgion) and were having their midday sleep around the spring, like sheep (hȏsper probatia mesȇmbriazonta peri tȇn krȇnȇn heudein); but if they see us conversing (ean de horȏsi dialegomenous) and sailing past them unbewitched by their Siren song (kai parapleontas sphas hȏsper Seirȇnas akȇlȇtous), perhaps they may respect us and give us the gift which they have from the gods to give to men (ho geras para theȏn echousin anthrȏpois didonai, tach’ an doien agasthentes).’ (258e1-259b2)

In ‘Plato’s first two dialogues’ (on my website) I argued that Plato wrote the Phaedrus in response to the choric song in which Aristophanes disparaged Socrates and his well known, though unnamed, disciple, who for the sake of ‘sitting around Socrates in idle talk’ (Sȏkratei parakathȇmenon lalein) ‘had thrown away the art’ (apobalonta mousikȇn) ‘wearing away time in fruitless activity’ (diatribȇn argon poieisthai, Frogs, 1491-8). To this choric song the myth of the ‘cicada-choir’ (ho tȏn tettigȏn choros, 230c2-3) presents a reply. Socrates opened the preamble to it with his emphasis on scholȇ, the free time he and Phaedrus are to enjoy together in their discussion, which directly responds to Aristophanes’ invective of ‘idle talk’, and ‘fruitless activity’. The myth itself, which follows, answers Aristophanes’ invective of ‘having thrown away mousikȇ’; for in the light of the myth, discussing philosophy with Socrates is the greatest mousikȇ, the greatest art.

Phaedrus asks what is the gift the cicadas give: ‘I don’t seem to have heard of it.’ Socrates replies: ‘It certainly isn’t appropriate (Ou men dȇ prepei ge) for a man who loves the Muses (philomouson andra) not to have heard of things like this (tȏn toioutȏn anȇkoon einai). The story is (legetai d’) that these cicadas were once men (hȏs pot’ ȇsan houtoi anthrȏpoi), belonging to a time before the Muses were born (tȏn prin Mousas gegonenai), and that with the birth of Muses (genomenȏn de Mousȏn) and the appearance of song (kai phaneisȇs ȏidȇs) some of the men of the time were so unhinged by pleasure (houtȏs ara tines tȏn tote exeplagȇsan huph’ hȇdonȇs) that in their singing (hȏste aidontes) they neglected (ȇmelȇsan) to eat (sitȏn te) and drink (kai potȏn), and failed to notice that they had died (kai elathon teleutȇsantes hautous); from them (ex hȏn) the race of cicadas (to tettigȏn genos) was afterwards born (met’ ekeino phuetai), with this gift from the Muses (geras touto para Mousȏn labon), that from their birth they have no need of sustenance (mȇden trophȇs deisthai genomenon), but immediately sing, without food or drink (all’ asiton te kai apoton euthus aidein), until they die (heȏs an teleutȇsȇi), and after that go and report to Muses (kai meta tauta elthon para Mousas apangellein) which among those here honours which of them (tis tina autȏn timai tȏn enthade). To Terpsichore (Terpsichorai men oun) they report those who have honoured her in the choral dance (tous en tois chorois tetimȇkotas autȇn apangellontes), and make them dearer to her (poiousi prosphilesterous); to Erato (tȇi de Eratoi), those who have honoured her in the affairs of love (tous en tois erȏtikoios); and to the other Muses similarly (kai tais allais houtȏs), according to the form of honour belonging to each (kata to eidos hekastȇs timȇs); but to Calliope, the eldest (tȇi de presbutatȇi Kalliopȇi), and to Ourania who comes after her (kai tȇi met’ autȇn Ouraniai), they announce those who spend their time in philosophy and honour the music which belong to them (tous en philosophiai diagontas te kai timȏntas tȇn ekeinȏn mousikȇn angellousin) – who most of all the Muses have as their sphere both the heavens and talk both divine and human (hai dȇ malista tȏn Mousȏn peri te ouranon kai logous ousai theious te kai anthrȏpinous), and whose utterances are the most beautiful (hiasin kallistȇn phȏnȇn). So there are many reasons why we should say something (pollȏn dȇ oun heneka lekteon ti), and not sleep (kai ou katheudȇteon) in the midday heat (en tȇi mesȇmbriai).’ (259b3-d8)

Socrates resumed the discussion where he had left it before the interlude of the myth: ‘So (Oukoun) we must consider what we proposed for consideration just now: in what way it is acceptable to make and write a speech, and in what way it is not (hoper nun prouthemetha skepsasthai, ton logon hopȇi kalȏs echei legein te kai graphein kai hopȇi mȇ, skepteon).’ – Phaedrus: ‘Clearly (Dȇlon).’ – S.: ‘Well then, for things that are going to be said well and acceptably, at least, mustn’t there be knowledge in the mind of the speaker of the truth about whatever he intends to speak about (Ar’ oun ouch huparchein dei tois eu ge kai kalȏs rȇthȇsomenois tȇn tou legontos dianoian eiduian to alȇthes hȏn an erein peri mellȇi;)?’ (259e1-6)

What does Socrates mean with his question ‘mustn’t there be knowledge in the mind of the speaker of the truth about whatever he intends to speak about’? Is he referring to the truth of which he spoke (peri alȇtheias legonta, 247c5-6) in the first part of the dialogue, in his second speech, truth which he declared as ‘being that really is’ (ousia ontȏs ousa, 247c7), which in the light of the Republic can be seen as the Forms?

In view of Rowe’s article this can hardly be the case, for he claims that the ‘idea of separated Forms’, presented in Socrates’ second speech, doesn’t  play ‘any obvious role in the second part of the dialogue, which for the most part considers only the form of the three speeches in the first half, not their content’ (p. 106-121).

This appears to chime with Phaedrus’ reply to Socrates’: ‘What I have heard about this (Houtȏsi peri toutou akȇkoa), my dear Socrates (ȏ phile Sȏkrates), is that there is no necessity for the man who intends to be an orator (ouk einai anankȇn tȏi mellonti rȇtori esesthai) to understand what is really just (ta tȏi onti dikaia manthanein), but only what would appear so to the majority (alla ta doxant’ an plȇthei) of those who will give judgement (hoiper dikasousin), and not what is really good (oude ta ontȏs agatha) or fine (ȇ kala) but whatever will appear so (all’ hosa doxei); because persuasion comes from that (ek gar toutȏn einai to peithein) and not from the truth (all’ ouk ek tȇs alȇtheias).’ (259e7-260a4) According to the accepted view of rhetoric as technȇ (Hackforth’s ‘art’, Rowe’s ‘science’), echoed by Phaedrus, knowledge of the truth is not what a rhetorician must have in mind if he is to speak well. But since Phaedrus in his response speaks of the instances of ‘what is really just’ (ta tȏi onti dikaia), which can be properly understood only with reference to the ‘justice itself’ – of which Socrates spoke in his second speech – and of instances of ‘what is really good (ta ontȏs agatha) or beautiful (ȇ kala)’, which can be properly understood only with reference to the good itself or beautiful itself, he thus prepares the affirmative answer to Socrates’ question, which Socrates’ response to Phaedrus’ suggestion will imply: There must be knowledge in the mind of the speaker of the truth about whatever he intends to speak about, if he is to speak well.

Pace Rowe, this section of the second part of the Phaedrus cannot be properly understood without its relation to Socrates’ second speech. The notion of the truth played an important role in it, and Socrates’ and Phaedrus’ discussion on this theme in the early stage of the second part of the dialogue links the two parts to each other in a manner which is philosophically significant. But there is a problem: In his second speech Socrates spoke of the ‘justice itself’ (autȇ dikaiosunȇ, 247d6) and of the ‘beautiful itself’ (auto to kallos, 250e2), but not of the ‘good itself’, to which Phaedrus in his entry points in the same breath. Can Socrates’ response to Phaedrus shed any light on his having omitted it in his second speech?

Socrates responds to Phaedrus’ suggestion with biting irony: ‘”Not to be cast aside” (outoi apoblȇton epos, Illiad 2, 361)”, Phaedrus, must apply to whatever wise people say (einai dei, ȏ Phaidre, hon an eipȏsi sophoi) … let us consider it like this (Hȏde dȇ skopȏmen auto) … If I were persuading you (Ei se peithoimi egȏ) to defend yourself against the enemy by getting a horse (polemious amunein ktȇsamenon hippon), and neither of us knew what a horse was (amphȏ de hippon agnooimen), but I happened to know just so much about you (tosonde mentoi tunchanoimi eidȏs peri sou), that Phaedrus thinks a horse is that tame animal which has the largest ears (hoti Phaidros hippon hȇgeitai to tȏn hȇmerȏn zȏiȏn megista echon ȏta)’ – Phaedrus: ‘It would be ridiculous, Socrates (Geloion g’ an ȏ Sȏkrates, eiȇ).’ (260a5-b5) … S.: ‘Well then, isn’t it better (Ar’ oun ou kreitton) to be ridiculous and well-intentioned (geloion kai philon) than to be clever and full of hostile intentions (ȇ deinon te kai echthron;)? … So when an expert on rhetoric who is ignorant of good and evil (Hotan oun ho rȇtorikos agnoȏn agathon kai kakon) finds a city in the same condition (labȏn polin hȏsautȏs echousan) and tries to persuade it (peithȇi), not by making a eulogy about a miserable donkey as if it were a horse (mȇ peri onou skias hȏs hippou ton epainon poioumenos), but about what is evil (alla peri kakou) as if it were good (hȏs agathou), and having applied himself to popular opinions (doxas de plȇthous memeletȇkȏs) actually persuades the city to do evil (peisȇi kaka prattein) instead of good (ant’ agathȏn), what harvest do you think rhetoric reaps after that from the seed it sowed (poion tin’ an oiei meta tauta tȇn rȇtorikȇn karpon hȏn espeire therizein;)?’ (260c3-d1)

In his response to Phaedrus’ suggestion Socrates put knowledge of what is truly good into the centre of the rhetorical, that is of political activity (in the Athenian political life the two were inseparable). In its light the omission of ‘the good itself’ in Socrates’ second speech cannot be accidental. Within the framework of the second speech the ‘being that really is’ (ousia ontȏs ousa) is accessible only through memory that reaches back to the time when the soul was intact, that is prior to its first incarnation. The politician who is to persuade the city of what is truly good cannot rely on memory, on reminiscence, on recollection; he must know what is truly good. He must therefore reach a higher level of philosophical awareness than the lover in Socrates’ second speech, for ‘the good itself’, which is only hinted at in his response to Phaedrus, is on a higher level than the ‘being that really is’, which is discussed in the second speech.

It may be pointed out that in reading the Phaedrus in this way I am interpreting it in the light of Republic VI: ‘The good may be said to be not only the author of knowledge to all things known (tois gignȏskomenois toinun mȇ monon to gignȏskesthai phanai hupo tou agathou pareinai), but of their being and essence (alla kai to einai te kai tȇn ousian hup’ ekeinou autois proseinai), and yet the good is not essence (ouk ousias ontos tou agathou), but far exceeds essence in dignity and power (all’ eti epekeina tȇs ousias presbeiai kai dunamei huperechontos, 509b6-10, tr. B. Jowett).’

I don’t deny it; I simply cannot understand in any other way the omission of ‘the good itself’ in Socrates’ second speech, and Plato’s gesturing towards it in Socrates-Phaedrus discussion in the opening stage of the second part of the dialogue.

But if this is so, how can I view Plato’s first dialogue through the prism of a much later dialogue? Here I must refer to what Plato says, undoubtedly with reference to himself, in Laws V: ‘Truth is the beginning of every good thing, both to Gods and to men (alȇtheia dȇ pantȏn men agathȏn theois hȇgeitai, pantȏn de anthrȏpois); and he who would be blessed and happy, should be from the first a partaker of the truth (hȇs ho genȇsesthai mellȏn makarios te kai eudaimȏn ex archȇs euthus metochos eiȇ), that he may live a true man as long as possible (hina hȏs pleiston chronon alȇthȇs diabioi), for then he can be trusted (pistos gar, 730c1-4, tr. B. Jowett).’

In the light of the Phaedrus, Plato held not only his theory of ‘being that really is’, i.e. of the Forms, prior to writing his first dialogue, but his theory of the good as well.