The celebration goes on

In ‘Celebrating with Homer’ I invited you to my celebration of the 35^th anniversary of the visit of the Master of Balliol to my philosophy seminar in Prague. The online celebration will go on until October. In October 15, 1980 the Czechoslovak Communist Party cultural weekly Tvorba published an article ‘How a campaign of provocation is produced’, which was devoted to the involvement of Oxford dons in my philosophy seminar. The article opens with a clarion call:

‘The necessity for international cooperation, the exchange of scientific knowledge, and dialogue are generally acknowledged by honest and respectable scientists throughout the world. This constitutes an important part of the endeavour to maintain and strengthen peace around the world. In the spirit of the stimuli provided by the Final Act at Helsinki, the scope for cooperation and the exchange of knowledge grows and intensifies even in the social sciences. The steadily increasing importance of scientific contact is expressed and actively endorsed by representative forums in the social sciences; and the stream of world congresses of philosophers, sociologists, political scientists, economists and historians has convincingly shown the advantages of this present dialogue.’

But then: ‘Side by side with this undoubtedly fruitful and beneficial policy, which is the only policy possible for the future, we have been confronted with the efforts of militant anti-communist forces to stop, prevent and reverse this hitherto positive development. In the last two years a provocative action against the Czechoslovak Republic, artificially raked around the so-called “Tomin case”, acquired such a character. Some people actually began to hunt after “protests” against the actions of the Czechoslovak authorities; without asking a single question and without establishing the true state of affairs they began to defend our “colleague philosopher” Tomin.’

The authors of the article Kořínek and Pulcman don’t say a word concerning the reasons for the “protests” and for defending “our colleague philosopher” Tomin. So let me quote a few lines from my article ‘Inside the Security State’ published in the New Statesman on May 16, 1980:

‘When I go out of the door of our flat I bump into the Security [two policemen in uniform; after the Communist takeover of 1948 the police were called ‘bezpečnost’, security, to emphasize their new, people-friendly role]. Four months ago members of the Security carried a table and two chairs into the third floor of the house in which we live, right in front of our door. Against our will, two of them stay there twenty-four hours a day, in four-hour shifts. The Security does not interfere in our flat but its presence outside the doors has changed everything within. I start to play with my ten-year-old son Marek, but only because I forget for a while about Security. The moment I realize that they are outside the door through which every word is heard, let alone shouts and laughter, we stop. I like to sing – but I don’t sing well. I used to sing when no-one was at home. I start to sing – then I realize that the Security is outside and stop singing. My wife and I start talking but inevitably, the ears of the Security intrude. Our words sound artificial. We become unwilling actors in front of an unwanted audience. The possibility of being alone with each other and therefore of being ourselves is taken away from us.’

But back to the Tvorba article: ‘Some English, French, American, and West German bourgeois philosophers began to write up protests and even to put pressure upon the President of the International Association of Philosophical Sicieties (FISP), Professor A. Diemer, to “interfere”. But it sufficed for the president of this international association to do the most natural thing, viz. to inform himself by asking the representatives of Czechoslovak philosophy – and the bubble of the “Tomin case”, blown up to monstrous dimensions, immediately burst.’

The article follows a Letter from Professor Radovan Richta, Director of the Institute for Philosophy and Sociology, to Professor A. Diemer, from which I quote: ‘Tomin 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. I think that the people who supported and visited Mr Tomin will find themselves convinced, in a short time and on the basis of their own experience, that there has been no case of “suppression of philosophers in the Czechoslovak Republic”, but rather that it was a case of one person who wanted to profit from the hopes of some circles to intensify the world crisis and to poison efforts at international cooperation.’

Let me end this post with another quotation from my article ‘Inside the Security State’:

‘Plato gave mankind a vision of the philosopher-ruler. It is based on fairly simple concepts: power which is not guided by knowledge is blind and destructive; it can be of no real use to anyone who does not understand the meaning of a virtuous life; it will destroy the society which is ruled by it, destroy those close to the ruler and, above all, it will destroy the ruler himself. Only the knowledge of Good and Truth enables one to return power to its rightful place, to change it from a purely destructive force into an instrument for forging a well-ordered society and the means of achieving a virtuous and happy life. The correct perception and use of power requires knowledge. It is therefore knowledge which bestows the right to govern.

Although there are many differences in content (Plato saw reality only in what is immutable and Ideal; Marx only in what is historical and material) Platonism does have something in common with Marxism. Marx perceived that capitalist society, created by the free play of economic forces, contains within itself the elements of its own destruction. The production of goods, which should merely fulfil the needs of material existence, has become an end in itself, man becoming merely the means for creation of an abstract value – capital. It is necessary radically to change the world, and the key to such a revolutionary change is a true theory of reality and its dynamics. Marxism discovers the motive force of revolution – the proletariat – and unites with it.  After the revolution Marxism provides legitimation for the most developed representatives of the victorious proletariat to rule the society. Just as in Plato’s ideal state, the possession of proper theory authorises those who will rule and govern.

As attempts to gain knowledge about the world, Platonism and Marxism are poles apart in content. So, what could be the meaning of that small agreement in form: that the correct view of the world – the scientific world-view – gives the right to govern?

An answer comes to mind. Just as Plato found it necessary to exclude from the community of his Republic the artist, the fashion-monger and the purveyor of unacceptable myths, so, in pursuit of Marx’s vision of communism as the liberation of all creative forces, it became necessary for the authorized vanguard of the working class – the Communist Party – to exclude from participation in government all those who, because of their class origin, were unqualified to direct the society.

Especially dangerous were those who paid lip-service to Marxism, but in reality tried to revise it and dilute it with divisive foreign elements. It soon became apparent that new and spontaneous forms of cultural expression, beginning with dress and hair-style and ending with poetry, song and dance, were especially dangerous for the journey of the people towards communism.

As it was very difficult to recognise who was a true Marxist, it was necessary to find a simple, accessible, and practical criterion. In Marx’s attempt to find a theory which would enable man to change the world and to create conditions for his own full development within a framework of free interpersonal relations, the destruction of all forms of idealism played a central role.

Crucial above all was the unmasking of the true nature of religion – ‘the opium of the people’ – which inculcated passive resignation in the face of poverty, repression, lawlessness and bondage. So faith in God, belief in the after-life, the burden of idealism – these were the issues on which people could be examined during interviews in the course of vetting.

It was possible to see with one’s own eyes who still went to church; it was possible to hear with one’s own ears, among neighbours, friends and even family, whether those who stopped going to church had really departed from their misguided beliefs and prejudices and whether their conversion to the scientific world-view was complete.

The problem of good government is a pressing one today, but I do not want philosophy to provide me with a solution, or credentials to be a ruler and so to propagate the Platonic “Noble Lie”. I see in philosophy the possibility of living freely, but when I speak about living freely I don’t mean some absolute freedom, but simply freedom within the framework of law. I should be able to speak as I think, and to act as I feel is correct. I should be able to relate responsibly to my words and actions, and not to have to disguise them. Confronted with power I should not have to produce some other persona, some other face, some other morality. I do not think one can do so with impunity. I do not believe one can maintain two faces without losing inner unity. One cannot “lie” face-to-face with power – even if “they don’t deserve anything better” – without one’s inner truth suffering. Philosophy which becomes the base of a free life poses a problem for the state power – how to rule free people. Charter 77 [a petition that asked the Czechoslovak government to respect basic human rights] has turned this dilemma into a problem which encompasses the whole society and which is beyond the capacities of the present power in this state to solve. To resolve this difficulty the power would have to change internally.

However, instead of this necessary inner change the power ostentatiously flaunts its repressive mechanisms. It economises on medicines, on children’s clothing and on pensions but, when it comes to curbing the activity of people trying to live a little freely, it spares neither expense nor effort. When it does not succeed in destroying one’s integrity by external limitations, it seeks to undermine it from inside.

The security outside our doors is not merely an external restriction of our freedom against which one can successfully build an inner freedom. The Security controlling all our visitors penetrates into our relationships with other people and into the most intimate recesses of our own lives. Is it possible in such a situation to maintain the search for a philosophy which would give one the strength to live freely in this society? With every freely said word and with each freely taken step we invite each other to a free life – with all the implications that the refusal of such an invitation has for every one of us. Can we, in the given conditions, relate to each other responsibly and at the same time invite one another to a free existence?’

I wrote the article in Czech in December 1979 and distributed a copy to a few friends, mostly Charter 77 signatories. The next day the Security disappeared from our house. It was one of my greatest victories.

Dr Kathleen Wilkes (she was the first from Oxford that gave a talk in my philosophy seminar, in April 1979) visited me in Prague in May 1980. On that occasion she asked me why Petr Pithart, a prominent signatory of the Charter 77, organised a petition among signatories against the publication of my article ‘Inside the Security State’; it was signed by 60 of them, Kathy told me. I replied: ‘Ask Petr Pithart.’ I do not know whether she did so; we never discussed the issue again.

The Petition did not prevent the publication of the article in the New Statesman, but it appears to have exercised its influence. When a Dutch journal wanted to publish it – it was already translated into Dutch – the Editor of the New Statesman refused to give permission for its publication. I learnt this from the Editor. He told me while donating to me Julien Benda’s La Trahison des Clercs (The Betrayal of the Intellectuals). Coincidentally, Alan Montefiore, one of the Oxford dons who had visited my seminar in 1979, asked me: ‘Do you think we have betrayed you?’ I answered: ‘How could you betray me? It is you whom you have betrayed.’

As the Tvorba article said, Professor Richta wrote to Professor Diemer, and the bubble of the “Tomin case” immediately burst. Or was it more complicated? It was, as my blog post of November 18, 2014 “The 25^th anniversary of Nick Cohen’s ‘The Pub Philosopher’” indicates.

Petr Pithart became the Prime Minister of the Czechoslovak Republic in February 1990 in the wake of the Velvet Revolution that took place in November-December 1989.

‘Invitation’ that has a tendency to vanish from my website

After publishing the ‘Celebration with Homer – an invitation’ on my blog, I sent a Czech version of it to Czech classicists and philosophers. One of them was amazed that in my reading of Homer I read the iota subscript. I wanted to direct him/her to my website, for in my ‘Invitation to Olympian Odes of Pindar’ I explain that beginning with my reading of The 4^th Pythian Ode I decided to read the iota subscript as recommended by W. S. Allen in his Vox Greca. To my surprise, the ‘Invitation’ disappeared from my website. Even worse, it disappeared from my computer as well. It was not for the first time that this happened. When it happened the first time, in 2012, my wife found it on the back-up of files she had luckily made, and so I could restore it on my website.

This time I did not want to bother my wife; I found it on the website statistics for March among files visited on that month, clicked on it, and it miraculously appeared on my screen, so that I could restore it on my website. May I recommend it to your attention?

The text is based on my correspondence with classicists at universities around the world. It began with my letter to Oxford classicists, concerning which I wrote to the Vice-Chancellor of Oxford University in 2012:

‘In January I wrote to Members of the Faculty of Classics at Oxford University: 'Allow me to inform you that I have put on my website www.juliustomin.org my reading of Pindar’s First Olympian Ode in the original. Would you accept this as a challenge, in this Olympic year, to record in the original all of Pindar’s Olympian Odes? It would be great if a special website could be opened for this purpose under the auspices of Oxford University. It should be open to a competition of all the willing, the best recordings should be crowned by publication on the website.'

In the meantime I have informed Oxford classicists that I put on my website all fourteen of Pindar’s Olympian Odes and I reiterated my challenge. To date I have received no reply. The Olympic games are approaching, and I begin to fear that a great opportunity to promote an active interaction with Pindar’s poetry will be missed. I hope you will agree with me that the experience of reading Pindar’ Odes aloud, recording them, and listening to the recordings in the original is a cultural, aesthetic, and intellectual experience that should be open to every student of Ancient Greek. I therefore hope that you will encourage Oxford classicists to accept my challenge.’

My letter to the Vice-Chancellor was of no avail, the opportunity had been missed.

From the ‘Invitation’ I quote:

“Contributors to the website of the ‘Society for the oral Reading of Greek and Latin Literature’ (http://www.rhapsodes.fll.vt.edu/PindarOlympia.htm) have restored in their readings the iota subscript, read ‘zd’ for ‘Zeta’, and adopted labial reading of ‘Phi’. Inspired by them, in my reading and recording of The 4th Pythian Ode I read the iota subscript and the labial ‘Phi’; see my website www.juliustomin.org. I have not adopted ‘zd’ for ‘Zeta’, for Plato prevents me from doing so. I reproduce the relevant passage in Jowett’s translation:

‘By the letter i (Iota) he [the giver of names] expresses the subtle elements which pass through all things. This is why he uses the letter i (Iota) as imitative of motion, i0e/nai (ienai), i3esqai (hiesthai). And there is another class of letters, f (Phi), y (Psi), s (Sigma) and c (Xi), of which the pronunciation is accompanied by great expenditure of breath; these are used in the imitation of such notions as yuxro/n (psuchron ‘shivering’), ce/on (xeon ‘seething’), sei/esqai (seiesthai ‘to be shaken’), seismo/j (seismos ‘shock’), and are always introduced by the giver of names when he wants to imitate what is fusw~dej (phusôdes ‘windy). He seems to have thought that the closing and the pressure of the tongue in the utterance of d and t was expressive of binding and rest in place.’ Cratylos (426e-427a)

What has this passage to do with the reading of Zeta? It does not even mention Zeta.

Jowett misrepresents the original. Jowett’s ‘And there is another class of letters, f (Phi), y (Psi), s (Sigma) and c (Xi)’ stands for w#sper ge dia\ tou= fei= kai\ tou= yei= kai\ tou= si=gma kai\ tou= zh=ta (hôsper ge dia tou phei kai tou psei kai tou sigma kai tou dzêta) Jowett’s ‘such notions as yuxro/n (psuchron ‘shivering’), ce/on (xeon ‘seething’)’ stands for oi[on to\ “yuxro/n” kai\ to\ “ze/on” (hoion to “psuchron” kai to “dzeon”). Jowett’s ‘He seems to have thought that the closing and the pressure of the tongue in the utterance of d and t was expressive of binding and rest in place’ stands for th=j d’ au] tou= de/lta sumpie/sewj kai\ tou= tau] kai\ a0perei/sewj th=j glw&tthj th\n du/namin xrh/simon fai/nesqai h9gh/sasqai pro\j th\n mi/mhsin tou= “desmou=” kai\ th=j “sta/sewj.” (tês d’ au tou delta sumpieseôs kai tou tau kai apereiseôs tês glôttês tên dunamin chrêsimon phainesthai hêgêsasthai pros tên mimêsin tou “desmou” kai tês “staseôs.”)”

***

Another curious case of vanishing? This time the vanishing of dzêta from Jowett’s translation of the relevant passage in Plato’s Cratylus?

***

“Note that Jowett’s ‘rest in place’ for Plato’s “staseôs” covers up the fact that the pronunciation of z (zeta) is viewed by Plato as directly opposite to the ‘st’ sound, that is the sound that ends with d (d) or t (t). Furthermore, note that although Jowett replaced “ze/on” with “ce/on”, in line with his omission of z, he translated his ce/on ‘seething’, i.e. he translated the original “ze/on”. For ce/on means ‘shaving (timber)’, ‘whittling’, ‘scraping’, which, as he obviously realized, would not suit the context.”

Celebrating with Homer – an invitation

Thirty five years ago, on Saturday 12^th April 1980 Dr Anthony Kenny, the Master of Balliol was giving a lecture in my philosophy seminar in Prague on a contrast between the ideals of Aristotle’s Nicomachean and Eudemian Ethics. I would have liked to celebrate the occasion at Charles University in Prague and at the University of Oxford. With that aim in mind, on February 8 2015 I offered a lecture on ‘Plato’s Parmenides in the light of Aristotle’s testimony’ to the President of the Institute for Philosophy and Religion at Charles University, and on February 9 2015 I offered it to the Master of Balliol at Oxford University. I have received no reply from Prague and no reply from Oxford, and so I decided to celebrate the occasion online, with Homer. Why Homer? There is nothing better I can think of. And so, to celebrate the event, allow me to invite you to my reading in the original of the 1^st Book of The Iliad of Homer on my website www.juliustomin.org.

When I think of the benefits I derive from the Ancient Greeks, from Plato, Aristotle, and Homer in particular, I can’t help thinking that such benefits should be open to all. What a thought! – one might exclaim. There is a saying ‘It’s Greek to me’, i.e. ‘It’s beyond my grasp’ and ‘not worth bothering about’. It must come from the days when children in public schools were drilled in translating Greek into English, English into Greek. Good riddance, you may say – and I fully agree. If people are to reap the benefits the world of the Ancient Greeks is offering us, we must approach the Greek language, literature, prose and poetry, rhetoric and philosophy in a completely different way. A good teacher would direct his pupils/students from the very beginning to understanding Greek in Greek, using his English to elucidate the Greek not to translate it. There are plenty of translations of any text of importance, which the students ought to be taught to use to elucidate the Greek, when their teacher is not around.

Imagine I am talking to my students, opening the first lesson as follows: ‘Listen to the first line of the Iliad: Mênin aeide thea Pêlêiadeȏ Achilêos. I may translate ‘Goddess, sing the wrath of Achilles, the son of Peleus.’ To render the sentence in English, I had to change the word order. Greek is a language that declines its nouns and conjugates its verbs, which allows the poet to open his poem with ‘Wrath’ by putting mênis (‘wrath’ in the nominative) into the accusative mênin. And so the poet can compress the whole of his poem, the Iliad in its entirety, into the opening word; the poet brings Achilles’ wrath to life in his song.

The poet goes on to describe how the King Agamemnon dishonored Achilles, how Achilles, overcome with woe, begged his mother Thetis to persuade Zeus to support the Trojans against the Achaians, so that Agamemnon will learn that without Achilles he and his army are doomed. Here the theme of ‘mênis’ is reemphasized by Thetis. She promises to go to Olympus, persuade Zeus to bestow honor on her son; in verses 421-2 she tells Achilles alla su men nun nêusi parêmenos ȏkuporoisin // mêni’ Achaioisin, polemou d’ apopaueo pampan. ‘But you, now, sitting by the swift ships, // give vent to your wrath against the Achaians, and completely abstain from the war.’ The Ancient Greek language can turn the noun mênis, ‘wrath’, into a verb mêniȏ, and put it into the imperative mênie, which I must translate in a cumbersome way ‘give vent to your wrath’ to preserve the connection between mênis and mêniȏ. Putting the noun Achaios into the dative plural allows the Greek to use one word Achaioisin, which I must translate ‘against the Achaians’, losing much of the intimate connection between Achilles’ wrath and the Achaians, which the Greek mênie Achaioisin conveys.

But let us return to the beginning of the poem. Take the second verse: oulomenên hê muri’ Achaiois alge ethêken, which means ‘the accursed wrath that gave grief to countless Achaians’. Oulomenên ‘accursed’ does not need the support of ‘wrath’ to make sense of it; as an adjective in the accusative it points to mênin, which it describes; but not just to mênin; it qualifies mênin Pêlêiadeȏ Achilêos, thus bringing Achilles’ wrath once more in front of our mind’s eye – as an accursed wrath. A cognate adjective oulos ‘destructive’ comes up at the beginning of the 2^nd Book. Zeus gets a brilliant idea of how to bestow honour on Achilles. He sends Agamemnon oulon oneiron, a ‘destructive dream’, which will persuade him to unleash an all-out battle against the Trojans, convinced that Zeus will grant him the capture of Troy on that day …’

I believe that any student whose mother tongue is English would benefit from getting acquainted with the very notion of a language that can change nouns and verbs according to different functions they perform in different contexts. I don’t know of a better suited language for this purpose than Ancient Greek, and of no text that is better suited for this purpose than the opening verses of the Iliad. Teaching pupils to recite a few lines of the Iliad in hexameters might be suitable even for year 6 of primary school. Those few, who would find the study attractive and worthwhile, might then choose Ancient Greek as their subject in secondary school, having been warned that if they really want to enjoy all the benefits that their time-travels to the world of Homer can open for them, they would be committing themselves to a life-long task.

I began to learn Ancient Greek in my mid-twenties, after finishing my university study of philosophy. I worked as an editor in philosophy in the publishing house of the Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences. Onto my desk arrived a translation of the 2^nd volume of Hegel’s Lectures on the History of Philosophy. After reading a few pages I realised that the translation was faulty, revised the first thirty pages and brought it to Professor Patočka, the head of the editorial commission for the publication of the philosophy classics. Patočka then persuaded the publishing house to relieve me of all other duties and devote myself fully to the revision of the text. I accepted the task on the condition that I would visit Patočka after revising every 50 pages and that we would go together through all my revisions. Patočka was a disciple of Edmund Husserl, one of the greatest German philosophers; the 2^nd volume of Hegel’s Lectures on the History of Philosophy is devoted to Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, and Hegel in the text quotes in the original every important philosophical concept he is elucidating. Of course, proper understanding of Hegel’s German depends on proper understanding of the Greek; I could not do it without Patočka, and our meetings were the best thing that ever happened to me. During our meetings always came a moment when Hegel, Socrates, Plato, or Aristotle inspired him to make captivating excursions into the thought of these giants of philosophy. And yet, perhaps even thanks to these journeys into philosophy with Patočka, I was deeply frustrated by my handicap.

I chose Patočka as the opponent of my doctoral thesis. After obtaining my doctor's degree I asked him in which direction I should pursue my further study of philosophy: towards natural sciences, which would mean that I should study mathematics, at which I was not very good, or to the history of philosophy, which would mean that I should study Ancient Greek and Latin. Patočka told me: ‘Husserl asked me on my first visit to his seminar: “Do you know Ancient Greek?” I replied “No, I don’t” “And how do you want to do philosophy?” he asked. And so I started to learn Ancient Greek.’ I decided to follow in Patočka’s footsteps.

My motivation to learn Ancient Greek was thus very powerful; it was very personal, and the question is, whether anybody in the present day and in this society can be sufficiently motivated to undertake the life-long task of getting properly engaged with the Ancient Greeks. I intend to explore this problem in my blog as part of my celebration. I shall be asking what light neurophysiology can shed on the benefits that can be derived from Ancient Greek. I shall use as a point of reference Carpenter’s and Reddi’s Neurophysiology, as I have done in ‘Self-knowledge as an imperative’ on my website. The authors write: “Conceptually, a neuron is quite simple. But brains are not. On the one hand we have all the unspeakable wonders of our minds, of which we are so inordinately proud; on the other hand, when we open up the skull and peep inside all we see is a porridgy lump containing millions and millions of these untidy little neurons. The fundamental problem of neuroscience is that of linking these two scales together: can we trace the relationship between molecular and cellular mechanisms all the way to what was going on in Michelangelo’s head as he painted the Sistine Chapel? Very nearly, and the trick is to force yourself to think of the brain as a machine that carries out a well-defined job. The job is to turn patterns of stimulation, S, into patterns of response, R: the sight of dinner into attack and jaw-opening; a page of music into finger movements. How it does this is clear, in principle at least. The brain is a sequence of neuronal levels, successive layers of nerve cells that project on to one another. At each level, a pattern of activity in one level gets transformed into a different pattern in the next. Thus the incoming sensory pattern S is transmitted from level to level, modified at each stage until it becomes an entirely different pattern of response R at the output.” (Roger Carpenter and Benjamin Reddi, Neurophysiology, A conceptual approach, 5 edition, Hodder Arnold, London 2012, p. 9.) – Since neurophysiology aspires to explain what was going on in Michelangelo’s head as he painted the Sistine Chapel, I feel entitled to ask in what way and to what extent it can help me to understand what goes on in my head when I am recording Homer’s Iliad.

I hope you will enjoy my reading of Homer’s Iliad.

Aristotle on Plato in Metaphysics A and Λ, and the strange case of the Phaedrus

In Metaphysics A Aristotle proposes four original causes of things: 1) the substance or the essence (tên ousian kai to ti ên einai), i.e. the formal cause, 2) the matter or substratum (tên hulên kai to hupokeimenon), i.e. the material cause, 3) the source of the movement (hothen hê archê tês kinêseȏs), i.e. the efficient or moving cause, 4) the purpose and the good (to hou heneka kai t’agathon), that is the final cause, which is opposed (antikeimenên) to the third cause, for it is the end (telos gar) of all generation and movement (geneseȏs kai kinêseȏs pasês) (983a24-32). Aristotle says that ‘it is clear (phaneron) that Plato has used only two causes (duoin aitiain monon kechrêtai), that of the essence (têi te tou ti esti) and the material cause (kai têi kata tên hulên), for the Forms (ta gar eidê) are the causes of the essence (tou ti estin aitia) of all other things (tois allois), and the One is the cause of the essence of the Forms (tois d’ eidesi to hen); and it is evident what the underlying matter is (kai tis hê hulê hê hupokeimenê), of which the Forms (kath’ hês ta eidê men) are predicated (legetai) in the case of sensible things (epi tȏn aisthêtȏn) and the One in the case of the Forms (to d’ hen en tois eidesi), viz. that this is a dyad (hoti hautê duas esti), the great and the small (to mega kai to mikron). Further (eti de), he has assigned the cause of good and of evil (tên tou eu kai tou kakȏs aitian) to the elements (tois stoicheiois), one to each of the two (hekaterois hekateran).’ (988a7-15, tr. Ross). [Ross notes on 988a14: ‘The origin of good is distinctly ascribed to limit in Plato Philebus 25 E – 26 B.’]

W. D. Ross notes: ‘Aristotle ignores various suggestions of an efficient cause in Plato – the self-moving soul of Phaedrus 245C, D, Laws 891-899, the demiurge of Sophist 265 B-D and of Timaeus 28C ff., the aitia tês mixeȏs (‘cause of the mixture’) of Philebus 23d, 26 E- 27 B, and various suggestions of a final cause – the ultimate good or hou charin (‘for the sake of what’) Philebus 20 D, 53 E, the object of the creator’s purpose in Timaeus 29 D ff., and in Laws 903 C. He doubtless thinks Plato’s treatment of these causes inadequate, but that does not justify him in speaking as if Plato had ignored them completely.’ (Ross’ Commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics, op. cit. pp. 176-7)

Since Ross believes that Plato wrote all books of the Metaphysics after the death of Plato, he cannot but accuse Aristotle of misrepresenting Plato. On the dating that I have proposed – Aristotle wrote Metaphysics A after Plato went to Sicily in 361 BC and before he returned to Athens in 360 BC – the matter appears to be very different. According to the currently accepted dating of Plato’s dialogues, those mentioned by Ross followed his Sicilian adventure, so that Plato’s attempts to do justice to the efficient and the final cause may be viewed as his response to Aristotle’s criticism.

Does this mean that I should recant my dating of the Phaedrus as Plato’s first dialogue? (For my dating of the Phaedrus see The Lost Plato on my website www.juliustomin.org, especially Ch. 2 ‘A critical review of doctrinal arguments for and against the late dating of the Phaedrus’, Ch. 3 ‘Stylometric arguments for and against the late dating of the Phaedrus’, and Ch. 4 ‘The dating of the Phaedrus: Ancient Sources’.) No, it does not, for on the testimony of Metaphysics Λ, the Phaedran view of the soul as the first principle of motion that was not created was not held by Plato Aristotle knew; it must have been discarded by Plato himself as a youthful aberration. In Metaphysics Λ Aristotle writes that ‘Plato can’t say (oude Platȏni hoion te legein) that “that which moves itself” (to auto heauto kinoun) is the primary cause (archên einai), which he sometimes views as such (hên oietai eniote), for the soul is later and coeval with heavens (husteron gar kai hama ouranȏi hê psuchê), according to his account (hȏs phêsin)’ (1071b37-1072a3). The expression to auto heauto kinoun is used by Plato in the Phaedrus, where it figures as the definition of the soul (245e7-246a1) and the first principle of motion (kinêseȏs archê to auto hauto kinoun, 245d7). Aristotle’s quoting it clearly indicates that he had the Phaedrus in front of his mind when he wrote the given passage. In the Laws 891-899, to which Ross refers, Plato uses the expression ‘motion that moves itself’ (kinêsin autên heautên kinousan, 894c4-5, 895b1, 896a1-2, which is equivalent to the Phaedran to auto heauto kinoun but is verbally different. The nearest Plato in the Laws approximates to the Phaedran expression is at 896a3: to heauto kinein ‘to move itself’.

There is a major difference between the Phaedrus and the Laws. In the Phaedrus Plato defines the soul, ‘that which moves itself’ as a first principle, which cannot come into being (archê de agenêton), for anything that comes to be must come to be from the first principle (ex archês gar anangkê pan to gignomenon gignesthai), whereas the first principle cannot come to be from anything whatsoever (autên de mêd’ ex henos, 245d1). In the Laws Plato emphatically insists that the soul, that is ‘motion that moves itself’, is a created cause, genomenên 895b4, 896b3, c1; he describes the creation of the soul in Timaeus 41d.

Plato’s Academy in the light of Aristotle’s Metaphysics A

In Metaphysics A Aristotle criticises the Platonic identification of the Forms with numbers. ‘If the Forms are numbers, how can they be causes,’ he asks (991b9). Speaking of himself as a Platonist, he says: ‘When we wish to reduce substances to their principles (boulomenoi de tas ousias anagein eis tas archas), we state that lines come from short and long (i. e. from a kind of small and great), and the plane from the broad and narrow, and body from the deep and shallow (992a10-13) … from what principle will the presence of the points in the line be derived (hai stigmai ek tinos enuparxousin)? Plato even used to object to this class of things (toutȏi men oun tȏi genei kai diemacheto Platȏn) as being a geometrical fiction (hȏs onti geȏmetrikȏi dogmati). He gave the name of principle of line (all ekalei archên grammês) – and this he often posited (touto de pollakis etithei) – to the indivisible lines (tas atomous grammas) (992a19-22, tr. W. D. Ross).’

Ross comments: ‘The imperfects diemacheto (‘used to object’), ekalei (‘gave the name’), etithei (‘posited’) indicate that Aristotle is thinking of frequently repeated oral teaching of Plato … The imperfects probably also indicate that Book A was written after Plato’s death in 348-347.’ (Aritotle’s Metaphysics, A revised text with Introduction and Commentary by W. D. Ross, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1997, vol. I, p. 207). Pace Ross, the imperfects may equally well indicate that Plato left his Academy having gone to Sicily on his third journey, where he intended to stay to the end of his days.

The same can be said of the aorist ȏiêthê (‘thought’) and the imperfect elege (‘agreed in saying’) in an earlier passage in Book A where Aristotle speaks of Plato’s oral teaching: ‘Since the Forms were the causes of all other things (epei d’ aitia ta eidê tois allois), he thought (ȏiêthê ) their elements were the elements of all things. As matter, the great and small were principles; as essential reality, the One; for from the great and the small, by participation in the One, come the Numbers. But he agreed with the Pythagoreans in saying (paraplêsiȏs tois Puthagoreiois elege) that the One is substance and not a predicate of something else’ (987b22-24, tr. Ross).

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Concerning Plato’s rejection of points as a geometrical fiction Ross remarks: ‘The point, if it was to be real, should have been a combination of form and matter. Now a matter could be assigned to the line, the plane, and the solid (the long and short &c.), but no such matter could be assigned to the point, since it had no dimensions at all. We have, however, no evidence to show that this difficulty was in Plato’s mind.’ (Ross, p. 207)

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Aristotle’s tithemen (‘we state’) at 992a11 clearly indicates that Plato at the time of writing Book A considered himself as a member of the school. In the same vein, using the first person plural, Aristotle speaks as a Platonist throughout his critical remarks on the views prevalent in the Academy at that time. At 990b8-17 he says: ‘Of the ways in which we prove that the Forms exist (kath’ hous tropous deiknumen hoti esti ta eidê), none is convincing (kat’ outhena phainetai toutȏn); for from some no inference necessarily follows, and from some arise Forms even of things of which we think there are no Forms (ex eniȏn de kai ouch hȏn oiometha toutȏn eidê gignetai) … according to the ‘one over many’ (kai kata to hen epi pollȏn) argument there will be Forms even of negations … of the more accurate arguments (hoi akribesteroi tȏn logȏn), some lead to Ideas of relations (hoi men tȏn pros ti poiousin ideas), of which we say there is no independent class (hȏn ou phamen einai kath’ hauto genos), and others introduce ‘the third man’ (hoi de triton anthrȏpon legousin).’ (Tr. Ross)

Ross notes ‘It is quite clear that Platonism soon departed from the doctrine of the Republic (596 A) that there is an Idea answering to every group of things.’ At 596 A Socrates tells Glaukon: ‘Let us begin the enquiry (arxȏmetha episkopountes) in our usual manner (ek tês eiȏthuias methodou): We posit a Form, one each (eidos gar pou ti hen hekaston eiȏthamen tithesthai), for each group of many things (peri hekasta ta polla) to which we give the same name (hois t’auton onoma epipheromen).’ For the Forms of negations Ross refers to Republic 402 C where Socrates refers to virtues, such as sȏphrosunê (temperance, prudence, self-control), andreia (courage), eleutheriotês (liberality, generosity) and megaloprepeia (magnificence) and their opposites (ta toutȏn au enantia), as Forms (eidê). – Concerning this point, one might argue against Ross that the opposites of virtues are vices, such as aphrosunê, aneleutheriotês, which have a specific force in determining behaviour; they are not just negations.

Concerning the Forms of relations Ross refers to Phaedo 74 A where Socrates speaks of ‘the equal itself’ (auto to ison), 75 C where he speaks of ‘the equal’, the ‘greater’, ‘the smaller’, and 100 E where he points to ‘largeness’ by which large things are large and larger things are larger, and to ‘smallness’ by which smaller things are smaller. To this may be added Parmenides 129d8 where we find homoiotês ‘likeness’ and anomoiotês ‘unlikeness’, 131c12 auto to megethos ‘largeness itself’, 131d5 auto to ison ‘the equal itself’, d7 to smikron ‘the small’.

At 990b17-22 Aristotle writes: ‘And in general the arguments for the Forms destroy the things for whose existence we are more zealous than for the existence of the Ideas (ha mallon boulometha tou tas ideas einai); for it follows (sumbainei gar) that not the dyad but number is first (mê einai tên duada prȏtên alla ton arithmon), and that the relative is prior to the absolute (kai to pros ti tou kath’ hauto), – besides all the other points on which certain people (kai panth’ hosa tines) by following out the opinions held about the Ideas (akolouthêsantes tais peri tȏn ideȏn doxais) have come into conflict with the principles of the theory (ênantiȏthêsan tais archais).’ (Tr. Ross)

When Aristotle wrote Metaphysics A, the theory of Forms appears to have been hotly discussed, criticised, and profoundly modified even by those Platonists, who accepted the Forms. On the dating that I propose for Metaphysics A – after Plato went on his last journey to Sicily and before he returned to Athens – we may presume that the picture of the Academy he gives in it reflects on the situation in the school not only during Plato’s last stay in Sicily, but even prior to it. Plato went on his second journey to Sicily in 367-6, just at the time when the 17 years old Aristotle entered Plato’s Academy. When Plato was leaving Sicily in 366, his departure was to be short, as he says in the Seventh Letter: ‘I urged Dionysius by all means possible to let me go, and we both made a compact that when peace was concluded (for at that time there was war in Sicily) Dionysius, for his part, should invite Dion and me back again, as soon as he had made his own power more secure; and he asked Dion to regard the position he was now in not as a form of exile but rather as a change of abode; and I gave a promise that upon these conditions I would return. When peace was made he kept sending for me; but he asked Dion to wait still another year, although he kept demanding most insistently that I should come. Dion, then, kept urging and entreating me to make the voyage.’ (338a3-b5, tr. Bury)

It thus appears that after his return from his second journey to Sicily Plato’s thoughts were mainly preoccupied with Dion, with Dionysius, with the prospect of establishing a state in which a philosopher rules, Dionysius becoming a philosopher. In the Seventh Letter Plato says that from his youth he was strongly attracted to politics, looked for a possibility to take part in establishing a true aristocracy, the rule of the best citizens for the good of the whole city: ‘As regards political action I kept constantly waiting for an opportune moment; until, finally … in my praise of the right philosophy (epainȏn tên orthên philosophian) I was compelled to declare (legein te ênangkasthên) that by it (hȏs ek tautês) one is enabled to discern all forms of justice both political and individual (estin ta te politika dikaia kai ta tȏn idiȏtȏn panta katidein). Wherefore the classes of mankind (I said) will have no cessation from evils (kakȏn oun ou lêxein ta anthrȏpina genê) until (prin an) either the class of those who are right and true philosophers (ê to tȏn philosophountȏn orthȏs genos) attains political supremacy (eis archas elthêi tas politikas), or else the class of those who hold power in the States (ê to tȏn dunasteuontȏn en tais polesin) becomes, by some dispensation of Heaven, really philosophic (ek tinos moiras theias ontȏs philosophêsêi). This was the view I held when I went to Italy and Sicily, at the time of my first arrival.’ (325e3-326b6, tr. Bury) It was on that occasion, that he ‘associated with Dion, who was then a youth, instructing him verbally in what I believed was the best for mankind and counselling him to realise it in action’ (327a1-4, tr. Bury).

During the time Plato spent in Athens after his return from Sicily he did his best to keep Dion quiet (hêsuchian agein) and prevent him from attempting any revolution (kai mêden neȏterizein) and from saying anything evil against him to the Greeks (Plutarch, Dion, xvi. 6). Plutarch says that Plato ‘kept Dion with him in the Academy, where he turned his attention to philosophy … Plato desired that Dion’s disposition should be tempered and sweetened by association with men of charming presence who indulged seasonably in graceful pleasantries. And such a man was Speusippus [Plato’s nephew who after Plato’s death succeeded him as the head of the Academy]; wherefore Timon, in his Silli spoke of him as “good at jest”. And when Plato himself was called upon to furnish a chorus of boys, Dion had the chorus trained and defrayed all the expense of its maintenance … ‘(Plutarch, Dion xvii. 1-5, tr. Bernadotte Perrin)

As can be seen from Aristotle’s Metaphysics A, the theory of Forms as such was exposed to criticism, and as can be seen from the Parmenides, instead of attempting to defend the Forms by arguments, he simply believed that those who are by nature capable of seeing the Forms, will in the end see them in spite of all the arguments against their existence and knowability. On the testimony of the Second Letter Plato avoided discussing the Forms with Dionysius, for he does not mention them when he speaks of the nature of the First where we might expect them mentioned: ‘The matter stands thus: Related to the King of All are all things, and for his sake they are, and of all things fair He is the cause (kai ekeino aition hapantȏn tȏn kalȏn). And related to the Second are the second things; and related to the Third are the third. About these, then, the human soul strives to learn, looking to the things that are akin to itself, whereof none is fully perfect. But as to the King and the objects I have mentioned (tou dê basileȏs peri kai hȏn eipon), they are of quite different quality (ouden esti toiouton). In the next place the soul inquires – “Well then, what quality have they (alla poion ti mên)?” But the cause of all the mischief, O son of Dionysius and Doris, lies in this very question, or rather in the travail which this question creates in the soul; and unless a man delivers himself from this he will never attain the truth. You, however, declared to me in the garden, under the laurels, that you had formed this notion yourself and that it was a discovery of your own.’ (312e1-313b1, tr. Bury).

When Plato speaks here of all things fair of which the King/the Good is the cause – ‘the objects I have mentioned’ (peri hȏn eipon) at 313a1 refers to ‘all things fair’ at 312e3 – we are reminded of the passage in Republic VI where he says that the Good is not only the cause of knowing the entities that can be known (only the Forms can be known in this sense) but is the cause of their being and there substance (alla kai to einai te kai tên ousian hup’ ekeinou autois einai, 509b6-8). But while in the Republic passage Plato clearly speaks about the Forms, in the Second Letter passage he avoids speaking about them, as he did in his discussion with Dionysius in the garden under the laurels to which he refers; had he discussed the Forms, Dionysius would hardly have claimed that it was his own discovery.

All this can help us to better understand and take more seriously the passage ‘I myself have never yet written on these subjects, and no treatise by Plato exists or will exist, but those which now bear his name belong to a Socrates who became fair and young (314c2-4, tr. Bury)’ in the Second Letter. On this passage Bury notes: ‘This curious statement seems based on Ep. vii. 342c, combined perhaps with an allusion to the Parmenides.’

Plato’s primary concern in writing this statement was to prevent Dionysius from publishing what he told him during their discussion ‘on the nature of the First’ and the passage in the Seventh Letter to which Bury refers was motivated by similar concerns. Speaking of ‘the test’ to which he subjected Dionysius on his last stay with him, Plato says: ‘I did not expound the matter fully (panta men oun out egȏ diexêlthon), nor did Dionysius ask me to do so (oute Dionusius edeito)… And I am even told that later on (husteron de kai akouȏ) he himself wrote a treatise (gegraphenai auton) on the subjects in which I then instructed him (peri hȏn tote êkouse)… I know indeed that certain others have written on these same subjects (allous men tinas oida gegraphotas peri tȏn autȏn toutȏn) … it is impossible, in my judgement at least, that these men should understand anything about this subject (toutous ouk estin kata ge tên emên doxan peri tou pragmatos epaiein ouden). There does not exist, nor will there ever exist, any treatise of mine dealing therewith (oukoun ge peri autȏn estin sungramma oude mêpote genêtai). For it does not at all admit of verbal expression like other studies (rêton gar oudamȏs estin hȏs alla mathêmata), but, as a result of continued application to the subject itself and communion therewith (all’ ek pollês sunousias gignomenês peri to pragma auto kai tou suzên), it is brought to birth in the soul (en têi psuchêi genomenon) on a sudden, as light that is kindled by a leaping spark (exaiphnês hoion apo puros pêdêsantos exaphthen phȏs), and thereafter nourishes itself (auto heauto êdê trephei).’ (341a8-d2, tr. Bury) At 342a8-343a4 Plato makes it then clear that the ineffable subject to which he thus refers are the Forms; it is in the very nature of the Forms that they cannot be verbally expressed.

The passage 341a8-d2 in the Seventh Letter is closely related to Parmenides 133b4-c1, as I have pointed out in my entry of January 10 ‘Plato’s defence of the Forms in the Parmenides’ in which I expanded on my view that Plato wrote the Parmenides in preparation for his third journey to Sicily, which I expressed in my entry of October 16, 2014 ‘A note on the 3^rd book of Aristotle’s Metaphysics’. In the Parmenides Plato presents us a young Socrates discussing a theory of Forms, and Bury is probably right when he believes that there is a connection between it and ‘a Socrates who became fair and young’ in the Second Letter. But if it is so, it does in no way negatively affect the authenticity of the Second Letter; on my dating of the Parmenides, Plato was most likely in the middle of writing it when he composed the Second Letter. The difficulties raised there against the theory of Forms by Parmenides are closely connected with Aristotle’s criticism of the Forms in Metaphysics A. On the dating that I have proposed, Plato’s Second and Seventh Letter, his Parmenides, and Aristotle’s Metaphysics A allow us an insight into Plato’s own thoughts and those of his disciples in the Academy after Plato left Athens for his second and before he returned from his third journey to Sicily.

Plato’s Second Letter in the light of his Seventh Letter, with a cursory glance at Plutarch’s Dion and Plato’s Phaedrus

In the Seventh Letter Plato speaks of his meeting with Dionysius after arriving at Syracuse: ‘On my arrival, I thought that first I must put to the test the question (toutou prȏton elengchon dein labein) whether Dionysius had really been kindled with the fire of philosophy (poteron ontȏs eiê Dionusios exêmmenos hupo philosophias hȏsper puros), or whether all the reports which had come to Athens were empty rumours (ê matên ho polus houtos elthoi logos Athênaze). Now there is a way of putting such things to the test which is not to be despised and is well suited to monarchs, especially to those who have got their heads full of erroneous teaching (parakousmatȏn; Bury ‘borrowed doctrines’) which immediately on my arrival I found to be very much the case with Dionysius. One should show such men what philosophy is in all its extent (ho ti esti pan to pragma hoion te), what the range of studies is by which it is approached (kai di’ hosȏn pragmatȏn), and how much labour it involves (kai hoson ponon echei). For the man who has heard this, if he has the true philosophic spirit (ean men ontȏs êi philosophos) and that godlike temperament which makes him akin to philosophy and worthy of it (oikeios te kai axios tou pragmatos theios ȏn), thinks that he has been told of a marvellous road lying before him (hodon te hêgeitai thaumastên akêkoenai), that he must forthwith press on with all his strength (suntateon te einai nun), and that life is not worth living if he does anything else (kai ou biȏton allȏs poiounti; Bury: ‘and that life will not be worth living if he does otherwise’). After this he uses to the full his own powers (meta touto dê sunteinas autos te) and those of his guide in the path (kai ton hêgoumenon tên hodon), and relaxes not his efforts (ouk aniêsin), till he has either reached the end of the whole course of study (prin an ê telos epithêi pasin) or gained such power (ê labêi dunamin) that he is not incapable of directing his steps without the aid of a guide (hȏste autos hauton chȏris tou deixontos dunatos einai podêgein).’ (340b1-d1; tr. J. Harward)

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Plato’s parakousmatȏn at 340b6, which Harward translates ‘erroneous teaching’, Bury ‘borrowed doctrines’, and Liddell&Scott’s Greek-English Lexicon as ‘thing heard amiss’, ‘false notion’ with reference to 338d in the Seventh Letter, can be properly understood only if viewed in its context. Plato speaks about the pressures to which he was exposed by his friends: ‘Dion now kept urging and entreating me to make the voyage; for in truth constant accounts were pouring in from Sicily how Dionysius was now once more marvellously enamoured of philosophy; and for this reason Dion was strenuously urging me not to decline his invitation (338b4-8) … There were some others in Syracuse who had had some teaching from Dion (Diȏnos te atta diakêkootes), and others again who had been taught by these (kai toutȏn tines alloi), men who were stuffed with what they heard on philosophy (parakousmatȏn tinȏn emmestoi tȏn kata philosophian). These men, I believe, tried to discuss these subjects with Dionysius, on the assumption that Dionysius was thoroughly instructed in all my systems of thought.’ (338d1-6). I translate parakousma ‘what they heard on philosophy’; it clearly refers to what those people heard second hand concerning Plato’s philosophy. At 340b6 Plato refers to the same parakousmata.

Plato’s words ‘hearing some things from Dion’ should be viewed in the light of Plutarch’s Dion. Plutarch says that when Dionysius became the ruler of Syracuse ‘Dion exhorted him to apply himself to study, and to use every entreaty with the first of philosophers to come to Sicily, and when he came (elthonti de), to become his disciple (paraschein hauton), in order that his character might be regulated (hopȏs diakosmêtheis to êthos) by the principles of virtue (eis arêtês logon), and that he might be conformed to that divinest and most beautiful model of all being (kai pros to theiotaton aphomoiȏtheis paradeigma tȏn ontȏn kai kallistȏn), in obedience to whose direction the universe (hȏi to pan hêgoumenȏi peithomenon) issues from disorder to order (ex akosmias kosmos esti); in this way he would procure (mêchanêsetai) great happiness for himself (pollên men eudaimonian heautȏi), and great happiness to his people (pollên de tois politais)… Since Dion frequently gave him such advice, and artfully mingled with it some of Plato’s doctrines (kai tȏn logȏn tou Platȏnos estin houstinas hupospeirontos), Dionysius was seized with a keen and even frenzied passion for the teachings and the companionship of Plato.’ (Plutarch, Dion X. 1-XI. 1, tr. Bernadotte Perrin)

Plutarch’s kai tȏn logȏn tou Platȏnos estin houstinas hupospeirontos, which Perrin translates ‘artfully mingled with it some of Plato’s doctrines’, simply means ‘sowing some of Plato’s words’. In his relation to Dionysius Dion assumed the role of a philosopher whom Plato in the Phaedrus likens to a competent farmer sowing seeds in suitable ground (speiras eis to prosêkon, 276b7). Like such a farmer, the philosopher ‘selects a soul of the right type (labȏn psuchên prosêkousan), and in it he plants and sows (phuteuêi te kai speirêi) his words founded on knowledge (met epistêmês logous)’ (276e6-7; tr. Hackforth) Dion drew on the Phaedran love-song, the Palinode on Eros, where Plato depicts philosophers as followers of Zeus – ‘we follow Zeus’ (hepomenoi meta Dios hêmeis, 250b7) – ‘the mighty leader in heaven (ho megas hêgemȏn en ouranȏi) who is beautifully ordering all things and caring for all’ (diakosmȏn panta kai epimeloumenos, 246e4-6). Philosophers ‘belong to Zeus (hoi men dê oun Dios) and seek (zêtousi) that the one they love (ton huph’ hautȏn erȏmenon) should be someone like Zeus (dion tina zêtousi) in respect of his soul (einai tên psuchên); so they look to see (skopousin oun) whether he is naturally disposed towards philosophy and towards leadership (ei philosophos te kai hêgemonikos tên phusin), and when they have found him and fall in love (kai hotan heurontes auton erasthȏsi) they do everything (pan poiousi) to make him of such a kind (hopȏs toioutos estai).’ (252e1-5; tr. C. J. Rowe)

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Dionysius failed the test, and the question is, how could Plato leave the test only after his arrival to Sicily, venturing the journey on the basis of mere hearsay, however well-meaning, trustworthy, and well known to him were those ‘who all brought the same report (êngellon pantes ton auton logon), that Dionysius had made remarkable progress in philosophy’ (hȏs thaumaston hoson Dionusios epidedȏkȏs eiê pros philosophian, 339b2-4; tr. J. Harward). Couldn’t he test Dionysius before leaving Athens for Sicily? In fact, the Second Letter can be viewed as such a test.

To Dionysius’ request that he and his friends should refrain from doing or saying anything bad about him, excepting Dion, Plato replied: ‘Now your saying this, that Dion is excepted, implies that I have no control over my friends; for had I had this control over you and Dion, as well as the rest, more blessings would come to us all and to the rest of the Greeks also, as I affirm (310c1-5; tr. Bury). Bury’s ‘that I have no control’ stands for Plato’s hoti ouk archȏ; archȏ means ’lead’, ‘rule’, ‘govern’. If Plato is to accept Dionysius’ invitation, he must submit to Plato’s guidance.

Dionysius must change: ‘You showed that you did not fully trust me (ephainou ou panu emoi pisteuein su) but wished rather to get rid of me somehow (all’ eme men pȏs apopempsasthai ethelein) and invite others in my place’ (heterous de metapempsasthai, 312a4-5) … If you altogether despise philosophy, leave it alone. If, again, you have been taught by someone else or have yourself invented better doctrines than mine, hold them in honour. But if you are contented with my doctrines, then you should hold me also in special honour.’ (312b4-7, tr. Bury)

Dionysius complained that Plato did not sufficiently explained to him the nature of the First (ouch hikanȏs apodedeichthai soi peri tês tou prȏtou phuseȏs, 312d6-7). So Plato explains: ‘All things are related to the King of All (peri ton pantȏn basilea pant’ esti), for his/its sake all things are (ekeinou heneka panta); and it (i.e. to agathon, the Good; Plato’s thought slides from the King of All to the Good, which is neuter; the two are identical) is the cause of all beautiful things’ (kai ekeino aition hapantȏn tȏn kalȏn, 312e1-3) … Nothing is like (ouden estin toiouton ) the King and all those beautiful things of which I spoke (tou de basileȏs peri kai hȏn eipon) – the soul then says (to dê meta touto hê psuchê phêsi) –  “but of what quality is it?” (alla poion ti mên), and this is the question that is the cause of all the mischief (to erȏtêma ho pantȏn aition esti kakȏn) [František Novotný in his Latin commentary to the Epistles notes: questio animi interrogantis quale (poion ti) non quid (ti) sit illud primum – ‘a question of the soul asking “of what quality” not “what” is that First’. (František Novotný , Platonis Epitulae, Brno 1930)], or rather the travail which this question creates in the soul (mallon de hê peri toutou ȏdis en têi psuchêi engignomenê); and unless a man delivers himself from this (hên ei mê tis exairethêsetai) he will never attain the truth (tês alêtheias ontȏs ou mê pote tuchêi, 313a3-6).’

The fault was not with Plato not explaining all this sufficiently: ‘You, however, declared to me in the garden (su de touto pros eme en tȏi kêpȏi), under the laurels (hupo tais daphnais), that you had formed this notion yourself (autos ephêstha ennenoêkenai) and that it was a discovery of your own (kai einai son heurêma); and I made answer (kai egȏ eipon) that if it was plain to you that this was so (hoti touto ei phainoito soi houtȏs echein), you would have saved me from a long discourse (pollȏn an eiês logȏn eme apolelukȏs). I said, however, that I had never met with any other person who had made this discovery (ou mên allȏi ge pot’ ephên entetuchêkenai touth’ hêurêkoti); on the contrary most of the trouble I had was about this very problem (alla hê pollê moi pragmateia peri tout’ eiê). So then, after you had either, as is probable, got the true solution from someone else (su de isȏs men akousas tou, ‘you probably heard it from somebody’ ), or had possibly (by Heaven’s favour) hit on it yourself (tacha d’ an theiai moirai kata tout’ hormêsas), you fancied you had a firm grip on the proofs of it (epeita autou tas apodeixeis hȏs echȏn bebaiȏs), and so you omitted to make them fast (ou katedêsas); thus your view of the truth sways now this way (all’ aittei soi tote men houtȏs, ‘thus it darts for you now in this way’), now that (tote de allȏs, ‘now in a different way’), round about the apparent object (peri to phantazomenon); whereas the true object is totally different (to de ouden esti toiouton). [Novotný notes that to signifies ‘res ipsa per se, idea’ = ‘thing itself’, and that toiouton points to hoion to phantazomenon, ‘like the imaginary object’]. Nor are you alone with this experience (kai touto ou soi monȏi gegonen); on the contrary, there has never yet been anyone, I assure you, who has not suffered the same confusion at the beginning (all’ eu isthi mêdena pȏpote echein allȏs pȏs ê houtȏs kat’ archas), when he first learnt this doctrine from me (mou to prȏton akousanta, ‘who hears it from me for the first time’); and they all overcome it with difficulty (mogis apallattontai), one man having more trouble (ho men pleiȏ echȏn pragmata) and another less (ho de elattȏ), but scarcely a single one of them escapes with but little (schedon de oudeis oliga).’ (313a6-c5) – If Dionysius wants Plato back, he must accept him as his teacher, become his disciple, and stop playing at being wise.

Plato then determines how they are to behave to each other in future: ‘So now that this has occurred (toutȏn dê gegonotȏn), and things are in this state (kai echontȏn houtȏ), we have pretty well found an answer (schedon hêurêkamen), as I think (kata tên emên doxan), to the question (ho su epesteilas) how we ought (hopȏs dei) to behave towards each other (pros allêlous hêmas echein). For seeing that you are testing my doctrines (epei gar basanizeis auta) both by attending the lectures of other teachers (sungignomenos te allois means simply ‘in company with others’, which implies ‘discussing my views on philosophy with others’; ‘attending the lectures of other teachers’ appears to be implied) and by examining my teaching side by side with theirs (kai paratheȏmenos para ta tȏn allȏn), as well as by itself (kai auta kath’ hauta), then (nun), if the test you make is true one (ei alêthês hê basanos), not only will these doctrines implant themselves now in your mind (prosphusetai), but you also will be devoted both to them and to us (kai oikeios toutois te kai hêmin esêi).’ (313c5-d3)

Plato does not say in the Seventh Letter what Dionysius replied to him, but he says that he wrote a very long letter (epistolên panu makran, 339b5), from which he mentions only what Dionysius said concerning Dion: ‘Since he knew how I was disposed towards Dion and also Dion’s eagerness that I should make the voyage and come to Syracuse,’ Dionysius wrote ‘If you are persuaded by us and come now to Sicily, in the first place you will find Dion’s affairs proceeding in whatever way you yourself may desire – and you will desire, as I know, what is reasonable, and I will consent thereto; but otherwise none of Dion’s affairs, whether they concern himself or anything else, will proceed to your satisfaction.’ (339b5-c7) Yet it is clear from the words in which Plato reflects on the letter that Dionysius devoted the main part of his letter to responding more than satisfactorily to Plato’s strictures, demands, and hopes. In other words, in Plato’s view Dionysius had passed the test of the Second Letter: ‘And I felt also myself (autȏi de moi hupên) that there would be nothing surprising (hȏs ouden thaumaston) if a young man (neon anthrȏpon), who was apt at learning (eumathê), attained to a love of the best life (pros erȏta elthein tou aristou biou) through hearing about subjects of importance (parakouonta axiȏn logou pragmatȏn). So it seemed to be my duty to determine clearly (dein oun auto exelenxai saphȏs) which way the matter really stood (hopoterȏs pote ara echoi), and in no wise to prove false to this duty (kai tout’ auto mêdamêi prodounai).’ (339e3-6; Bury’s translation with some changes: Bury translates 339e3-5 ‘And I felt also myself that there would be nothing surprising in a young man, who was apt at learning, attaining to a love of the best life through hearing lectures on subjects of importance (parakouonta axiȏn logou pragmatȏn).’ Bury’s translation can only mean that Plato is thinking about the possible effect of his own lectures which he would give after arriving in Syracuse. But parakouonta axiȏn logou pragmatȏn cannot mean ‘through hearing lectures on subjects of importance’. Plato must be referring to reports about his own teachings, which came to Dionysius’ ears, and of which Dionysius wrote in his long letter to Plato; J. Harward translates: ‘hearing talk of the great truths of philosophy’.)