5 C. J. Rowe’s arguments for a late dating of the Phaedrus – the second part of the Phaedrus

In my preceding post I argued that Plato wrote the first part of the Phaedrus independently, and circulated it among his friends as such. In the enthusiasm with which he wrote Socrates’ second speech, the Palinode, he included in it passages for which he, and Socrates, might be accused for introducing new deities. This compelled him to write the second part, in which Socrates downplayed the Palinode as a childish play, maintaining that the only important thing in it was the application of the two principles of dialectic in composing it. In this post I shall discuss the second part, and begin with its beginning. But this means that I must start with the end of the first part.

Socrates’ second speech ends with his prayer to Eros: ‘Turn Lysias to philosophy (Lusian … epi philosophian … trepson), so that his lover here (hina kai ho erastȇs hode autou) may no longer waver as he does now between the two choices (mȇketi epamphoterizȇi kathaper nun), but live for Love in singleness of purpose with the aid of philosophic discourse (all’ haplȏs pros Erȏta meta philosophȏn logȏn ton bion poiȇtai)’. The first part ends, in my view, with Phaedrus’ immediate response to it: ‘I join in your prayer (Suneuchomai soi), Socrates (ȏ Sȏkrates), if indeed it is better for us (eiper ameinon tauth’ hȇmin einai), that it becomes so (tauta gignesthai).’ (257b2-c1; translations from the Phaedrus are C.J. Rowe’s)

The second part begins with what Phaedrus says next: ‘For some time I have been amazed at how much finer you managed to make your speech than the one before (ton logon de sou palai thaumasas echȏ, hosȏi kalliȏ tou proterou apȇrgasȏ); so that I’m afraid (hȏste oknȏ) Lysias will appear wretched to me in comparison (mȇ moi ho Lusias tapeinos phanȇi), if he really does consent (ean ara kai ethelȇsȇi) to put up another in competition with it (pros auton allon parateinai, 256c1-4).’

What makes me think that the second part begins with the words of Phaedrus that appear to follow seamlessly the words with which he joined Socrates’ prayer? What Phaedrus says next brings in quite a new point: ‘For the fact is, my remarkable fellow, that just recently one of our politicians was railing at him and reproaching him on this very score (kai gar tis auton, ȏ thaumasie, enanchos tȏn politikȏn tout’ auto loidorȏn ȏneidize), constantly calling him a speech-writer (kai dia pasȇs tȇs loidorias ekalei logographon); so possibly we shall find him desisting from further composition to preserve his reputation (tach’ oun an hupo philotimias  epischoi hȇmin tou graphein, 257c1-7).’ The words that follow Phaedrus’ joining in Socrates’ prayer were needed to connect with the first part of the Phaedrus this new point, with which the theme of rhetoric, i.e. the main theme of the second part, actually begins. That the second part begins at this point is indicated in the closing section of the dialogue, where Socrates says: ‘Then now, Phaedrus, we can decide those other issues (Nun dȇ ekeina ȇdȇ, ȏ Phaidre, dunametha krinein), since we have agreed about these (toutȏn hȏmologȇmenȏn, 277a6-7).’

‘Since we have agreed about these’ signify the issues concerning ‘the propriety and impropriety of writing’ (To euprepeias graphȇs peri kai aprepeias, 274b6), discussed in 274b6-277a5, i.e. the section that begins with Socrates’ ‘Egyptian myth’ on the invention of writing and ends by contrasting the written speeches ‘which are incapable of speaking in their own support (adunatȏn men hautois logȏi boȇthein), and incapable of adequately teaching what is true (adunatȏn de hikanȏs t’alȇthȇ didaxai)’, with the spoken ‘words accompanied by knowledge (met’ epistȇmȇs logous), which are able to help themselves and the man who planted them (hoi heautois tȏi te phuteusanti boȇthein hikanoi), and are not without fruit (kai ouchi akarpoi) but contain a seed (alla echontes sperma) … and making the one who has it as happy as it is possible for a man to be (kai ton echonta eudaimonein poiountes eis hoson anthrȏpȏi dunaton malista, 276e7-277a4)’.

‘Those other issues’ signify the discussion of rhetoric that began with the reproach aimed at Lysias and ended with Socrates’ discussion on rhetoric with Tisias, conjured up from the dead, at 274a5. Phaedrus asks ‘What are they (i.e. what are ‘those other issues‘ referred to by Socrates),’ (Ta poia; 277a8), and Socrates answers: ‘The ones we wanted to look into (Hȏn dȇ peri boulȇthentes idein), which brought us to our present conclusion (aphikometha eis tode): how we were to weigh up the reproach aimed at Lysias (hopȏs to Lusiou te oneidos exetasaimen) about the writing of speeches (tȇs tȏn logȏn graphȇs peri), and speeches themselves (kai autous tous logous), which were written scientifically and which not (hoi technȇi kai aneu technȇs graphointo).’ (277a9-b2)

There are some additional reasons for seeing the Phaedrus divided – and interconnected – in this manner. In the discussion that preceded Socrates’ second speech there was no mentioning of any reproach raised against Lysias’ engagement in writing of speeches. Socrates: ‘… and I advise Lysias too (sumbouleuȏ de kai Lusiai) to put in writing as quickly as possible (hoti tachista grapsai) that one should grant favours to the lover rather than to the man who is not in love, in return for favours received (hȏs chrȇ erastȇi mallon ȇ mȇ erȏnti ek tȏn homoiȏn charizesthai).’ – Phaedrus: ‘You can be sure (All’ eu isthi) that that’s how it will be (hoti hexei touth’ houtȏ): once you have given your praise of the lover (sou gar eipontos ton tou erastou epainon), there will be every necessity (pasa anankȇ) for Lysias to be compelled (Lusian hup’ emou anankasthȇnai) to write a speech in his turn on the same subject (grapsai au peri tou autou logon).’ (243d5-e1)

Phaedrus’ words at 256c1-4 – ‘For some time I have been amazed at how much finer you managed to make your speech than the one before; so that I’m afraid Lysias will appear wretched to me in comparison, if he really does consent to put up another in competition with it’ – appear to be directly responding to the discussion that preceded Socrates’ second speech. Why don’t I view the first part as ending with these words of Phaedrus? As an addition to Phaedrus’ joining in Socrates’ prayer to Eros these words would have made a very poor ending to the first part. Furthermore, after adding the second part, Plato ends the whole dialogue similarly. Socrates prays: ‘Dear Pan (Ō phile Pan te) and all you gods of this place (kai alloi hosoi tȇide theoi), grant me that I may become beautiful within (doiȇte moi kalȏi genesthai t’andothen); and that what is in my possession outside me (exȏthen de hosa echȏ) may be in friendly accord with what is inside (tois entos moi einai phila). And may I count the wise man as rich (plousion de nomizoimi ton sophon); and may my pile of gold be (to de chrusou plȇthos eiȇ moi) of a size which only a man of moderate desires could bear or carry (hoson mȇte pherein mȇte agein dunaito allos ȇ ho sȏphrȏn). Do we still need anything else (Et’ allou deometha), Phaedrus (ȏ Phaidre;)? For me that prayer is enough (emoi men gar metriȏs ȇuktai).’ Phaedrus joins in: ‘Make the prayer for me too (Kai emoi tauta suneuchou); for what friends have they share (koina gar ta tȏn philȏn).’ – Socrates adds just one word: Iȏmen (‘Let’s go).’

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In ‘The argument and structure of Plato’s Phaedrus’ Rowe critically evaluates ‘the short but excellent introduction to Thompson’s edition of the Phaedrus, published in 1868’, ‘which provides for the proper integration of Socrates’ second speech into the structure of the whole’: ‘The key point of Thompson’s interpretation is that Socrates’ second speech is to be understood as an example of the kind of oratory which is described in the Politicus: “that part of oratory which persuades people of what is right, and so helps to guide behaviour in cities in partnership with the art of kingship”, and which “persuades the mass of people, the crowd, through muthologia rather than teaching” … This rhetoric, as understood by the Politicus and the Phaedrus, “was to be the handmaid at once of Philosophy and Political, or what in the ancient view was the same thing, of Ethical Science”.’ (pp. 107-8)

Let me confront this Rowe & Thompson’s view with Plato’s own view on rhetoric as expressed in the Phaedrus and in the Politicus. Concerning the former, Plato’s view on rhetoric comes to the fore in the opening section of the second part of the dialogue. In response to Phaedrus’ statement that ‘one of our politicians was railing at Lysias and reproaching him on the score of writing speeches, constantly calling him a speech-writer’ Socrates replied: ‘An absurd idea, young man (Geloion g’, ȏ neania, to dogma legeis); you much mistake your friend (kai tou hetairou suchnon diamartaneis), if you think him so frightened of mere noise (ei auton houtȏs hȇgȇi tina psophodea). But perhaps you really think that the man who was abusing Lysias meant what he said (isȏs de kai ton loidoroumenon autȏi oiei oneidizonta legein ha elegen).’ Phaedrus replied: ‘He seemed to (Ephaineto gar), Socrates (ȏ Sȏkrates); and I think you know yourself  (kai sunoistha pou kai autos) that the men with the most power (hoti hoi megista dunamenoi) and dignity (kai semnotatoi) in our cities (en tais polesin) are ashamed to write speeches (aischunontai logous te graphein) and leave compositions of theirs behind them (kai kataleipein sungrammata heautȏn), for fear of what posterity will think of them (doxan phoboumenoi tou epeita chronou) – they’re afraid they’ll be called sophists (mȇ sophistai kalȏntai).’ (257c8-d8)

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Hackforth notes: ‘The implication is that most prose works hitherto had come from the pens of Sophists; and a glance at the relevant testimonia in Diels-Kranz, Vors. II, makes this easy to believe.’ Dating the Phaedrus after the Republic, Hackforth does not realise the chronological implications of Phaedrus’ words.

It might be argued that Phaedrus’ statement must be taken as referring to the dramatic date; Phaedrus fled into exile in 415, having been accused of sacrilege by profaning the mysteries (Debra Nails, The People of Plato, p. 232). But this does not explain Socrates’ emphatic rebuttal of Phaedrus’ suggestion. Was it not Plato himself who on account of the first part of the Phaedrus became exposed to the reproach of having become a writer of speeches instead of devoting himself to his desired political career? On the dating I have proposed for the Phaedrus Plato wrote it in 405, at the time when his desire to ‘enter into public life’ (epi ta koina tȇs poleȏs ienai, Letter VII, 324b9-c1) was the strongest.

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Socrates: ‘You are unaware (lanthanei se) that the proudest of politicians (hoti hoi megiston phronountes tȏn politikȏn) have the strongest desire to write speeches (malista erȏsi logographias te) and bequeath compositions (kai kataleipseȏs sungrammatȏn); why, whenever they write a speech (hoi ge kai epeidan tina graphȏsi logon), they are so pleased to have admirers (houtȏs agapȏsi tous epainetas) that they put in a special clause at the beginning with the names of the persons who admire the speech in question (hȏste prosparagraphousi prȏtous hoi an hekastachou epainȏsin autous).’ – Phaedrus: ‘What do you mean (pȏs legeis touto;)? I don’t understand (ou gar manthanȏ).’ – Socrates: ‘You don’t understand (Ou manthaneis) that when a politician begins a composition the first thing he writes is the name of his admirer (hoti en archȇi andros politikou sungrammatos prȏtos ho epainetȇs gegraptai). – Ph.: ’Is it (Pȏs;)?’ – S.: ‘Yes, he says may be “Resolved by the Council” (“Edoxe” pou phȇsin “tȇi boulȇi”) or “by the People” (ȇ “tȏi dȇmȏi) or both (ȇ amphoterois): and then “Proposed by so-and-so” (kai hos eipen) – a pompous piece of self-advertisement on the part of the author (ton hauton dȇ legȏn mala semnȏs kai enkȏmiazȏn ho sungrapheus); after which he proceeds with what he has to say (epeita legei dȇ to meta touto), showing off his own wisdom to his admirers (epideiknumenos tois epainetais tȇn heautou sophian), sometimes in a very lengthy composition (eniote panu makron poiȇsamenos sungramma); or does such a thing seem to you to differ from a written speech (ȇ soi allo ti phainetai to toiouton ȇ logos sungegrammenos;)?’ – Ph.: ‘Not to me (Ouk emoige).’ – S.: ‘Then (Oukoun) if the speech holds its ground (ean men houtos emmenȇi), the author leaves the ground rejoicing (gegȇthȏs aperchetai ek tou theatrou ho poiȇtȇs); but if it is blotted out (ean de exaleiphthȇi), and he loses his status as a recognised speech-writer (kai amoiros genȇtai logographias te kai tou axios einai sungraphein), he goes into mourning (penthei autos te), and his friends with him (kai hoi hetairoi).’ – Ph.: ‘Quite so (Kai mala).’ – S.: ‘Which clearly implies (Dȇlon ge) that their attitude to the profession is not one of disdain (hoti ouch hȏs huperphronountes tou epitȇdeumatos), but of admiration (all’ hȏs tethaumakotes).’ – P.: ‘To be sure (Panu men oun).’ (257e2-258b9)

At the beginning of the second part of the Phaedrus, in his defence of writing within the framework of rhetoric and politics, Plato brings us into the midst of the Athenian political life. Let us see what he says on politics and on rhetoric in the Politicus. Towards the end of it the Eleatic stranger says that ‘all alien (eoike … ta men hetera) and uncongenial matter (kai hoposa allotria kai ta mȇ phila) has been separated from political science (politikȇs epistȇmȇs apokechȏristhai), and what is precious and of a kindred nature has been left (leipesthai de ta timia kai sungenȇ); there remain the nobler arts of the general (toutȏn d’esti pou stratȇgia) and the judge (kai dikastikȇ), and the higher sort of oratory which is an ally of the royal art (kai hosȇ basilikȇi koinȏnousa rȇtoreia), and persuades men to do justice (peithousa to dikaion), and assists in guiding the helm of States (sundiakubernai tas en tais polesi praxeis, 303e8-304a2, tr. B. Jowett).’

The Stranger undertakes to clear away these three arts from the science of the statesman, beginning with the oratory. He asks: ‘To what science do we assign the power of persuading (tini to peistikon oun apodȏsomen epistȇmȇi) a multitude (plȇthous te kai ochlou) by pleasing tale (dia muthologias) and not by teaching (alla mȇ dia didachȇs;)?’ – His interlocutor, the younger Socrates answers: ‘That power, I think, must clearly be assigned to rhetoric (Phaneron oimai kai touto rȇtorikȇi doteon on).’ – Stranger: ‘And to what science do we give the power of determining whether we are to employ persuasion or force towards any one, or to refrain altogether (To d’ eite dia peithous eite kai dia tinos bias dei prattein pros tinas hotioun ȇ kai to parapan hȇsuchian echein, tout’ au poiai prosthȇsomen epistȇmȇi;)?’ – Y. Socr.: ‘To that science which governs the arts of speech and persuasion (Tȇi tȇs peistikȇs archousȇi kai lektikȇs).’ – Str.: ‘Which, if I am not mistaken, will be politics (Eiȇ d’ an ouk allȇ tis, hȏs oimai, plȇn hȇ tou politikou dunamis).’ – Y. Socr.: ‘Very good (Kallist’ eirȇkas).’ – Str.: ‘Rhetoric seems to be quickly distinguished from politics (Kai touto men eoike tachu kechȏristhai politikȇs to rȇtorikon), being a different species (hȏs heteron eidos on), yet ministering to it (hupȇretoun mȇn tautȇi).’ – Y. Socr.: ‘Yes (Nai).’ (304c10-e2, tr. B. Jowett)

As can be seen, ‘rhetoric, as understood by the Politicus and the Phaedrus,’ as Rowe puts it when quoting Thompson, derives from and corresponds to Plato’s view of rhetoric in the Politicus, but it has nothing in common with the Phaedrus, in which politics, the art of the judge, of the lawgiver, and rhetoric are not separated. Socrates goes on to say: ‘Well then (Ti de;) – when he becomes an orator or king (hotan hikanos genȇtai rȇtȏr ȇ basileus) capable of acquiring the power of a Lycurgus, a Solon, or a Darius, and achieving immortality as a speech-writer in a city (hȏste labȏn tȇn Lukourgou ȇ Solȏnos ȇ Dareiou dunamin athanatos genesthai logographos en polei), doesn’t he think himself equal to the gods even while he is alive (ar’ ouk isotheon hȇgeitai autos te hauton eti zȏn), and don’t those who come later (kai hoi epeita gignomenoi) think the same of him (t’auta tauta peri autou nomizousi), when they observe his compositions (theȏmenoi autou ta sungrammata;)?’ – P.: ‘Indeed so (Kai mala).’ (258b10-c6)

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The discussion of the reproach against Lysias on account of his being a speech-writer ends by its rejection. Socrates asked: ‘So do you think that anyone of that kind (Oiei oun tina tȏn toioutȏn), whoever he is (hostis), and however ill-disposed towards Lysias (kai hopȏstioun dusnous Lusiai), reproaches him on this count (oneidizein auto touto) – that he is a writer (hoti sungraphei)?’ – Phaedrus replied: ‘It is not very likely (Oukoun eikos ge), from what you say (ex hȏn su legeis); if he did, it seems he would be reproaching what he himself desires (kai gar an tȇi heautou epithumiai, hȏs eoiken, oneidizoi).’ – Socrates concluded: ‘This much, then, is clear to everyone (Touto men ara panti dȇlon), that in itself, at least, writing of speeches is not something shameful (hoti ouk aischron auto ge to graphein logous).’ (258c7-d2)

This straightforward rejection of the reproach chimes strangely with the closing section of the dialogue, in which the question of the reproach is renewed, and can be resolved only thanks to the section devoted to the devaluation of writing.

It seems that when Plato wrote the opening section of the second part of the Phaedrus, his view on writing differed from the view he expressed in the closing section. I can’t help conjecturing that the second part originally ended, and thus the whole dialogue in its second edition, with Plato’s exposition of rhetoric founded on the principles of dialectic. What compelled him to add the part devoted to the criticism of writing was, I believe, the dramatic change of circumstances brought about by the disastrous battle at Aigos Potamoi, later in 405, which brought about the military collapse of Athens. In the ensuing months of the Spartan siege it became clear that the democracy could not survive and the only hope of the survival of the city was for aristocracy to be installed under the protection of Sparta. The question of writing, presumably viewed with misgivings in aristocratic circles interested in politics, became acute, and what is more, the section devoted to rhetoric, which was written in democracy and was profoundly marked by it, needed a drastic and credible downplaying as a mere play, just for amusement, which the closing section of the Phaedrus provided.  

Návrh dvou přednášek (respektive seminářů) pro české studenty

Na pozvání britského velvyslance Nicka Archera se účastním odhalení pamětní desky na oslavu tzv. Podzemní univerzity v Praze 7 v Keramické 3. Já své filozofické semináře za Podzemní univerzitu nepovažoval, můj filozofický seminář byl otevřený, zaměřený na mladé lidi, jimž komunistický režim vzal jakoukoli možnost vyššího vzdělání. Když jsem viděl, že se mi seminář podařilo proti policejním zásahům obhájit – mimo jiné desetidenní hladovkou, která měla velký ohlas – do semináře jsem pozval akademické pracovníky ze čtyř Západních univerzit, Oxfordské, Harvardské, Heidelberské a Západoberlínské. Návštěvy oxfordských filozofů zahájila Dr. Kathleen Wilkesová v dubnu 1979 v Keramické 3, kde se v našem bytě semináře konaly.

V Praze pobudu čtrnáct dní, během nichž bych rád měl pro studenty FFUK dvě přednášky, respektive semináře. První přednáška se týká seminářů, druhá se týká Platonova Faidru. Platon byl středobodem mých seminářů, jeho dialogy dokázaly mé studenty zaujmout. V nabízené přednášce bych rád zachytil něco z úsilí, jímž jsem se v oněch seminářích se svými studenty do Platonova myšlení pokoušel proniknout.

Samozřejmě bych byl rád, kdybych obě přednášky mohl přednést studentům filozofie; proto přednášky nabídnu jako prvnímu panu řediteli Ústavu pro filozofii a religionistiku, docentu Jakubu Čapkovi. Protože však tento ústav mé návrhy přednášek po leta odmítá, mám malou naději, že tentokrát prorazím. Proto budu přenášky nabízet ředitelům ostatních ústavů a vedoucím kateder FFUK. To bude v duchu mého pozvání akademikům oněch čtyř Západních univerzit. Do svého semináře jsem totiž zval výslovně ty univerzitní pracovníky, kteří by se nad svým oborem zamyslili a během své návštěvy nás tak obohatili, aby nám stálo za to podstupovat nebezpečí policejního stíhání jen proto, že nám šlo o poznání, které by náš život povzneslo, prosvítilo a posílilo.

Nástin navrhovaných dvou přednášek následuje:

I.

Předehra k filozofickým seminářům – účast oxfordských filozofů – ukončení na policii v Bartolomějské.

Začalo to Kosíkem a Sartrem v létě roku 1975. Navštívil jsem jako obvykle Francouzskou knihovnu; chodil jsem si tam půjčovat řecké klasiky v paralelním řeckém a francouzském Budé vydání. Knihovna byla v nejvyšším poschodí. Šel jsem dolů po schodech, a tu vidím dveře otevřené do místnosti, kde bylo řada studentů a na stole štos novin. Vešel jsem, ty noviny byl Le Monde, který jsem tak viděl poprvé v životě. Vzal jsem do rukou první, druhý, třetí výtisk – ten jsem si otevřel. A tu najednou vidím titulek ‚Le philosophe tchéchoslovaque Karel Kosík écrit à J.P. Sartre‘. Dopisy jsem si přečetl, zanechaly ve mně hluboký dojem. Nedalo mi to spát, a tak jsem napsal Rudému právu: ‚Ve francouzském listě Le Monde jsem si přečetl dopis českého filozofa dr. Karla Kosíka DrSc, který adresuje J.P. Sartrovi. V dopise Karel Kosík uvádí hned několik znepokojivých skutečností: 1/ Již leta je zbaven možnosti vykonávat práci, jež by odpovídala jeho vzdělání … Především by mne zajímalo, zda jsou tyto skutečnosti v souladu se zákony naší republiky. Nejsou-li v souladu s našimi zákony, jak mohu jakožto občan této země postupovat, abych svým úsilím napomohl obnovení zákonnosti? Jsou-li v souladu s našimi zákony, pak s kterými, a jaké zákonité cesty jsou mi otevřeny, abych mohl požadovat takovou jejich změnu, jež by podobné zacházení s občanem naší republiky napříště nedovolovala?‘

To je citát z ‚Moje korespondence s Rudým Právem‘, která tvoří úvodní část mého Kádrového dotazníku, publikovaného v Petlici v roce 1975.

To vše mě inspirovalo k tomu, že jsem zašel za Milanem Machovcem: ‚Milane, už leta jsme všichni vyhozeni z našich míst, a pořád zůstáváme zakleti ve svých malých skupinkách – lidi okolo Tebe, lidi okolo Kosíka, lidi okolo Patočky. Není na čase, abychom se sešli a jeden druhém pověděli o tom, co děláme, a jestli vůbec něco ve filozofii děláme?‘ A tak začaly semináře v Pařížské u Dani Horákové. Občasným návštěvníkem byl Václav Havel. Na posledním semináři roku 1976 si o přestávce Havel pozval Machovce, pak mě, každého zvlášť. Václav mi dal přečíst text Charty 77: ‚Přečti si to, a jestli s textem souhlasíš, podepiš.‘ Text se mi líbil, a tak jsem podepsal.

To však znamenalo konec seminářů v Pařížské, a tak jsem otevřel seminář u nás v Keramické, pro děti ‚vyvržených‘, kterým byla vzata možnost jakéhokoli vyššího vzdělání (děti Vaculíka, Klímy, Gruši, Němce, Rumla, Bednářové)

Posledním přednášejícím v mém semináři byl Dr Kenny, Master Balliol College oxfordské univerzity, v dubnu 1980. Přednáška byla přerušena policií. Mí studenti a já jsme byli odvezeni do Bartolomějské. Byli jsme ve velké místnosti, bez policajtů. A tak jsem studentům řek, že jsem řadu týdnů připravoval cyklus přednášek o Aristotelovi: ‚Chcete si poslechnout úvodní přenášku?‘ A tak se všichni okolo mě sesedli. Když jsem přednášku dokončil, do místnosti vešel muž v civilu): ‚Co tu děláte?‘ – ‚Filozofii. Chcete si přisednout?‘ Muž vymizel, za chvilku však do místnosti vtrhli ve velkém: ‚Všichni čelem ke zdi!‘

To bylo naposled, co jsem se viděl se svými studenty.

II.

Složení a interpretace Platonova Faidru

V poslední době jsem se zabýval (a zabývám) statí Christophera Rowe ‘The argument and structure of Plato’s Phaedrus’ (Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society, 1986, pp. 106-125). Rowe poukazuje na dvě pasáže v druhé části Faidru, jimiž Sokrates snižuje význam Palinodie, své druhé řeči o lásce. Protože Palinodie obsahuje Platonovy centrální myšlenky, zejména teorii Idejí [ačkoli Platon v dialogu Ideje Idejemi nezve, mluví o „Pravdě“ (alȇtheia) a o “skutečném bytí“ (ousia ontȏs ousa), že však jde o Ideje je jasné srovnáním s Ústavou], Rowe v rámci pozdního datování Faidru dovozuje, že Platon tím snižuje význam své teorie Idejí, které, jak Rowe soudí, Platon vzal v potaz v dialogu Parmenides.

V té první pasáži Sokrates mluví o své Palinodii následovně: „… když jsme, nevím už jak, vypodobňovali erotický stav – přitom jsme se snad dotýkali něčeho pravdivého, ale také asi zabíhali jinam“ (265b). Tou první alternativou se zabývám v předposledním anglickém příspěvku na svém blogu, alternativou druhou v příspěvku posledním.

V té druhé pasáži Sokrates Palinodii snižuje ještě okatěji: „Mně se zdá, že to ostatní, promluvené díky náhodě, poukazuje na dva principy, a nebyla by nevděčná práce, kdyby někdo dovedl odborně postihnout jejich význam.“ (265c-d)

Podle této pasáže to jediné skutečně cenné v Sokratových dvou řečech jsou dva dialektické principy, jimiž se tyto řeči řídí: 1) Princip souborného nazírání věci po různu rozptýlené, a jejího vymezení. 2) Rozdělování souborně nahlédnutého podle pojmových druhů.

Problém je v Sokratově pokusu obě ty řeči napasovat do kadlubu těchto dvou dialektických principů. Tyto principy, tak, jak je popisuje, tyto dvě řeči neobsahují. Mockrát jsem o tom přemýšlel; Platon přece musel nejen sám vědět, že to nehraje, ale musil si být vědom toho, že si to uvědomí každý inteligentní čtenář, který si Sokratovy dvě řeči pozorně přečte. Proč ta inkongruence?

A tu najednou, jak jsem o stati Rowea uvažoval, vyvstaly mi před očima tři pasáže, jimiž Platon v Palinodii vystavil sebe sama i Sokrata možnosti být obžalován ze zavádění nových božstev:

1    1) „… to celé spojení duše a těla dostalo jméno živé bytosti a dostalo příjmení ‚smrtelný‘; avšak pojem živé bytosti nesmrtelné nevznikl z žádného rozumového úsudku, nýbrž vytváříme si boha, jehož jsme ani neviděli, ani dostatečně myslí nepojali, jakousi živou bytost nesmrtelnou, mající duši, mající i tělo, u níž však jsou tyto složky srostlé po všechen čas.“ (246c-d)

      

      2)„… náležitě nabývá perutí jedině mysl filozofa, neboť ta je svou pamětí podle možnosti stále u oněch jsoucen, u kterých je bůh, jenž proto je božský.“ (249c4)

      3)  „A tak se octnou u miláčka a uvidí jeho zářící zjev. U vozataje [Platon připodobňuje lidskou duši k spřežení vozataje – intelektu – se dvěma koňmi], když ho uvidí, paměť se přenese ke skutečnosti krásy a opět ji uvidí stojící s uměřeností na posvátném podstavci.“ (254b)

V první pasáži Platon odmítá ustálené pojetí bohů řeckého pantheonu jakožto iracionální, v pasáži druhé a třetí představuje „Pravdu, tj. bytí skutečně jsoucí“ jako božstvo nové, od něhož bůh získává své božství (pros hoisper theos ȏn theios estin).

A tu jsem si uvědomil, že Platon zřejmě nechal kolovat mezi přáteli první část Faidru jako věc hotovou, pak však musil k pasáži první připojit pasáž druhou, aby tu první před nařčením ze zavádění nových božstev obránil.

Srovnejte s tím nekongruentním snížením Sokratových dvou řečí, zejména Palinodie, skutečné snížení druhé části věnované projektu rétoriky postavené na oněch dvou dialektických principech. Sokrates končí projekt imaginárním rozhovorem s dávno zesnulým průkopníkem „odborné“ rétoriky Teisiou, v němž dovozuje, že ten, kdo své řečnické umění nepostaví na principech dialektiky, „nikdy nebude odborníkem v řečnickém umění“. Pak však poznamenává, že „znalostí k tomu potřebných nenabude bez velké námahy, kterou rozumný člověk nemá podstupovat pro řečnění a jednání v lidské společnosti, nýbrž aby byl schopen mluviti vše milé bohům a také ve všem podle možnosti bohumile jednat.“ „Proto se nediv,“ Sokrates dodává, „že je ta cesta tak dlouhá; neboť je třeba ji podniknout pro velké věci, a ne jak se tobě zdá.“ (273e-274a)

Kde jinde nalezne čtenář odpověď na to, co tím Platon myslí, než v Sokratově Palinodii? Bezprostředně se tu nabízí pasáž, v níž Sokrates dovozuje, že pouze ty duše na sebe mohou vzít lidskou podobu, které před svou první inkarnací nahlížely „Pravdu“ (alȇtheian), tedy „bytí skutečně jsoucí“ (ousian ontȏs ousan), jež později [především v Ústavě, Faidonu, a Symposiu] nazývá Idejemi (idea, eidos). Lidská řeč totiž vyvěrá z toku smyslových vněmů, které jsou rozumovým myšlením vázány v pojmovou jednotu, a to je možné jen díky „rozpomínání se na ona jsoucna, která kdysi uviděla naše duše, když konala cestu spolu s bohem a povznesla se nad ty věci, o kterých nyní říkáme, že jsou, a pozdvihla hlavu ke skutečnému jsoucnu.“ (249b-c).

Jak moc dobře víme, lidé řeči užívají, ke skutečnému jsoucnu se tím však nedostávají. „Proto tedy náležitě nabývá perutí jedině mysl filozofova, neboť ta je svou pamětí podle možnosti stále u oněch skutečných jsoucen (249c, v překladech z řečtiny tu užívám Novotného, pokud mohu).“ To znamená, že veškerá dialektika, v druhé části dialogu ostensivně zaměřená na vybudování odborné rétoriky, má ve skutečnosti za úkol řečí proniknout k nahlížení skutečného jsoucna. V skrytu je tak celá druhá část zaměřena k pravdám, Platonem formulovaným v Sokratově Palinodii, jeho druhé řeči o lásce, která se tak ukazuje být láskou k pravdě, ke jsoucnu skutečně jsoucímu.

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)

***

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.