Philosophy: A Very Short Introduction – Edward Craig (from p. 35)

March 4, 2011 dsiloha Leave a comment

Page 1, 2, 3, 4

Chapter 4 What am I?

An unknown Buddhist on the self:

King Milinda’s chariot

It is generally true of Indian philosophy that we do not know much about the people who wrote it. If we know their names, the region in which they lived, and their dates within fifty years, that counts as scholarly success. But in the case of the Milindapañha, the Questions of King Milinda, no such ‘success’ has been achieved – we really know next to nothing. Here a Buddhist monk, Nagasena, debates with a regional king and answers his questions. Nagasena is probably a real figure, grown legendary; King Milinda is generally thought to be Menander, one of the Greek rulers in north-west India left over from the conquests of Alexander the Great. Even that is speculative – so let us just go straight to the text.

Only a few lines into it a shock awaits us. Plato’s Crito, we saw, is built of elements nearly all of which most readers will have found quite familiar. Hume’s argument in Of Miracles aimed to start from everyday commonsense observations about testimony plus an unsurprising definition of a miracle, and then arrive at a remarkable conclusion by showing that it is an inevitable consequence. But sometimes authors will adopt different tactics, pitching us straight in at the deep end with an assertion which seems frankly preposterous. We should learn to ride out the shock and read on, seeking to discover what the preposterous assertion really amounts to (it may be what it seems, or it may just be an unusual way of saying something rather less startling), and why they made it. Notice

that ‘why they made it’ means two things, both important: their reasons for thinking it true – and their motives for being interested in it, what they are aiming at. All of these points are highly relevant to the passage we are about to look at.

First, the shock. The party gathers; the king asks Nagasena’s name, Nagasena tells him: ‘Sire, I am known as Nagasena’ – but then adds that this word ‘Nagasena’ is only ‘a mere name, because there is no person as such that is found’. What can he possibly mean? One would have thought that Nagasena was a person, and he has just told Milinda his name; but immediately it turns out that the name is not the name of a person. So Nagasena isn’t a person after all, and this even though he has just told the king how he is known and how his fellow monks address him. What is going on here?

The king, who is evidently experienced in this kind of discussion (and also has considerable prior knowledge of Buddhism), doesn’t despair but sets out to get to the bottom of it. Realizing that Nagasena wasn’t just speaking of himself, but intended the point he was making (whatever it may have been) to apply equally to everyone, he starts drawing what he takes to be absurd consequences from the monk’s view. If it is true, then nobody ever does anything, right or wrong, nobody ever achieves anything, suffers anything. There is no such thing as a murder, for there is no person who dies. And then a little joke about Nagasena’s status: there was no one who taught him, and no one who ordained him. The tactic is common in debates of all kinds: here are a number of things which we all unhesitatingly take to be true; is Nagasena really saying that they are all false? Or is he going to tell us that his view, if properly understood, doesn’t have that consequence? Nagasena never takes that challenge up directly. By the end of the chapter he has given a hint, from which we can reconstruct what he might have said had he done so. But for the moment the king continues, falling into question-and-answer style reminiscent of many of Plato’s dialogues.

Milinda’s questioning in this passage is structured by the Buddhist doctrine of the ‘five aggregates’, according to which what we call a human being is a complex of five elements. Milinda calls them material form, feeling (by which they seem to have understood pleasure, pain, and indifference), perception, mental formations (i.e. our dispositions, our character), and consciousness. Exactly what these are we need not bother about, so long as we have some rough idea: the point is that the person is not to be identified with any of them.

That is probably what most of us would say, on a little reflection. Are we our feelings? No, we are what has the feelings, not the feelings themselves. Are we our perceptions? No, for the same reason. Are we our dispositions, our character? Well again, no – because dispositions, characters are tendencies to behave in certain ways; and we aren’t the tendencies but rather what has those tendencies. Likewise, we aren’t the consciousness; we are whatever it is that is conscious. The fifth item (the one that Milinda actually put first) might be more contentious, however. Mightn’t the material element, i.e. the body, be the thing that is conscious, has the dispositions, the perceptions, the feelings? When
asked, in effect, whether the body is Nagasena, why is Nagasena so quick to say that it isn’t?

When someone presents a point as if it were pretty obvious when it doesn’t seem obvious to you at all, it is good tactics to look for something unspoken lying behind it. Perhaps they are assuming that a self, a person, must be something rather pure and lofty – notice the studiously repulsive description of the body with which the king prefaces his question. Or that a self must be a permanent, unchanging thing, quite unlike a body, perhaps even capable of surviving death. Either of those assumptions might have come from earlier philosophical/religious conceptions – back to that in a moment. Or maybe from some such thought as this: matter doesn’t move itself (just leave a lump of it lying around and see how much it moves), whereas an

animal does – so there must be something non-material in it moving its matter. Or: even if matter does move it doesn’t make coherent, directed, intelligent movements – so a body needs something to direct it.

These thoughts were commonplace long before Questions of King Milinda was written. Remember the importance Socrates attaches to the well-being of his soul in Crito; or go on to read Plato’s Phaedo – the follow-up to Crito, about Socrates’ very last discussion and death. ‘Hold it a moment’, you will say, ‘that’s Greece, whereas this is India’. True, but very similar ideas are found (even earlier) in the Brahminical writings sacred to Hinduism. Admittedly, Buddhism quite consciously broke away from the Brahminical tradition. But the main points of contention were animal sacrifice and the caste system (which Buddhism abandoned along with all extreme forms of asceticism), so that a great deal of that tradition remained and formed the background to Buddhism as well. The idea of cyclical rebirth to further lives of suffering, and the hope of escape from the cycle into a state of liberation (the Buddhist nirvana and the Hindu moksha), are equally part of both.

Knowing these things may help us a little in understanding the prompt ‘No, sire’ with which Nagasena answers this sequence of questions. But it doesn’t help as much as we might wish, because it gives no hint as to why he should make the same response to the king’s last question, whether then Nagasena is something else, something different from the five ‘aggregates’. If anything, it might lead us to expect that he would say that Yes, it was something different, something that could leave the body and later inhabit another, that could be having certain feelings and perceptions now, and could have quite different ones in the future. But again he says ‘No sire’ – it is not something else. So the puzzle remains.

And Milinda’s next remark is puzzling too: he accuses the monk of having spoken a falsehood, for apparently ‘there is no Nagasena’. But Nagasena never said there was – quite the contrary, it was his

perplexing remark that there wasn’t a person ‘Nagasena’ which set the discussion going.

You do meet traffic jams like this sometimes, and it would be a poor guide who tried to cover it up. We need some creative reading at this stage. For instance: are we to think of the king as just getting confused, and losing track of what has been said? Or is it that he simply can’t believe that there is no such person, and therefore thought that Nagasena was bound to answer ‘Yes’ to at least one of his questions; since he answered ‘No’ to all of them, at least one answer must have been false, and that is the falsehood the king means when he says ‘You, revered sir, . . . have spoken a falsehood’? Of those two (perhaps you can think of another?) I prefer the second. It fits better with the feeling one gets from the chapter as a whole that the king is supposed to have a mistaken view of the nature of the self about which Nagasena puts him right.

He does so (after briefly teasing Milinda about his pampered lifestyle) by asking a parallel series of questions about the king’s chariot. This tradition makes constant use of similes, parallels, and analogies; listeners are brought to feel comfortable with something they find problematic by coming to see it as similar to, or of the same kind as, something else with which they are already familiar. Here the hope is that once the king has answered ‘No’ to all the questions about the chariot, he will see how Nagasena could return the same answer to all his questions about the person.

And he does come to see it, by the end of the chapter. But first let me mention something which no study of this text by itself could reveal, but which would surely have had an effect on anyone of Milinda’s obvious learning and intelligence. In using a chariot as a parallel to a person, Nagasena is doing something both strongly reminiscent of, and at the same time shockingly at odds with, a metaphor well-known within their common philosophical culture.

6. and 7. The image of the chariot. In a famous scene from the huge Indian
epic, the Mahabharata, the warrior Arjuna has Krishna as his charioteer –
and as his moral guide, not just his chauffeur! In the Greek example the
hero Hercules takes the reins, watched over by the goddess Athena.

Plato famously compared the self to a chariot. A good deal earlier, in the Indian tradition, the Katha Upanishad does the same (see Bibliography). Is it now Nagasena’s turn? Well, not exactly. It is as if the author were alluding to the tradition precisely to highlight his rejection of it. In Plato we read of a charioteer trying to control one obedient horse (reason) and one disobedient horse (the appetites); the Katha Upanishad compares the self to someone riding in a chariot, the intellect to the charioteer directing the senses, which are the horses. Nagasena doesn’t mention any horses. More importantly, he doesn’t mention a charioteer, let alone a rider distinct from the charioteer. That is the very picture he is reacting against. There is no permanent presence, the self, directing or overseeing. This author, in using the hallowed simile of the chariot but using it differently, is simultaneously putting his own view and signalling, to his cultural circle, just what he is rejecting.

So now the monk, following exactly the same pattern, questions the king: ‘Is the axle the chariot? – are the wheels the chariot? . . .’. Milinda repeatedly answers ‘No’. That isn’t surprising – but much as Nagasena’s answers to his questions were fairly unsurprising except for the last, so one of Milinda’s answers will raise nearly every reader’s eyebrows. This
time, however, it isn’t the last but the next to last. Nagasena asks whether then the chariot is ‘the pole, the axle, the wheels, . . . the reins and the goad all together’. Most of us would say ‘Yes; so long as we are not talking about these parts lying around in a heap but rather in the proper arrangement, that’s exactly what a chariot is.’ But Milinda just says ‘No, revered sir’.

We shall shortly find out what lies behind this rather odd response. For the moment let us just notice that the king, having answered ‘No’ to all the questions, has put himself in the same position as had Nagasena, who immediately throws Milinda’s own earlier words back at him: ‘Where then is the chariot you say you came in? You sire, have spoken a falsehood . . .’ – and gets a round of applause even from Milinda’s supporters. But the king is not for caving in. That

was no falsehood, he says, for ‘it is because of the pole, the axle . . . and the goad that “chariot” exists as a mere designation’. Just so, replies Nagasena, and ‘Nagasena’ exists as a mere designation too, because the five ‘aggregates’ are present. And he quotes the nun Vajira:

Just as when the parts are rightly set
The word ‘chariot’ is spoken,
So when there are the aggregates
It is the convention to say ‘a being’.

The king is impressed, and the chapter ends happily. But just what (you may well ask) have he and Nagasena agreed on? That ‘chariot’, ‘self’, ‘person’, ‘being’, and ‘Nagasena’ are conventional terms? But aren’t all words conventional – in England ‘cow’, in France ‘vache’, in Poland ‘krowa’, whatever local convention dictates? Surely they are telling us more than that?

Indeed they are. This is not about the conventionality of language; it is about wholes and their parts, and the point is that wholes are in a sense less real, less objective, and more a matter of convention, than are the parts that compose them. To begin with, the parts are independent in a way that the whole is not: the axle can exist without the chariot existing, but not the chariot without the axle. (As the German philosopher Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716) said much later, wholes have only a ‘borrowed’ reality – borrowed from the reality of their parts.) Furthermore, what counts as a whole is not given by nature, but depends to some extent on us and our purposes. If from a chariot we remove the pole and one of the wheels, the collection of parts that remains is not incomplete in itself, but only with regard to what we want chariots for.

But why does all this matter? Why did Nagasena provoke this conversation in the first place? Not just to pass the time, we may be

sure. The point is important to him because he holds that what we believe has an effect on our attitudes and through them on our behaviour. That, surely, is perfectly reasonable: those, for instance, who believe that the word ‘God’ stands for something real might be expected to feel and perhaps also behave differently from those who think it is just a socially constructed way of speaking. To use the jargon: our metaphysics (what we think reality is fundamentally like) can affect our ethics. Now on the Buddhist view the purpose of philosophy (indeed the purpose of Buddhism) is to alleviate suffering; there is no point in it if it doesn’t. And a major cause of suffering is overestimation of the importance of the self, its needs, and its goals: ‘clinging to self’, as Buddhists say. So any change of belief which downgrades the status of the self in our eyes is helpful. A Tibetan text says: ‘Believing the ego to be permanent and separate, one becomes attached to it; . . . this brings on defilements; the defilements breed bad karma; the bad karma breeds miseries . . .’. That is why it matters.

Can Nagasena be said to have proved his case in this chapter? Has he really shown that there is no abiding self, just an unstable composite which it is convenient to call a person? Surely not. Even if we accept everything which he and Milinda say about the chariot, it would still have to be argued that the chariot analogy is reliable when it comes to thinking about a person, yet on that point Nagasena says nothing at all. So like most analogies, this one is useful as an illustration or explanation of what the doctrine about the self means, but not as evidence that it is true. Nor do we learn why he gave the crucial answer (‘No, sire’) to the king’s final and crucial question, the one to which a supporter of the permanent self would have said Yes: ‘is Nagasena apart [distinct] from material form, feeling, perception, mental formations and consciousness?’

So our provisional verdict must be ‘unproven’. But we might ask ourselves whether this question (‘Has Nagasena proved his case?’) is the

right question to be asking. Perhaps it is, if we are trying to make up our minds about the nature of the self; but if we are trying to understand what is going on in the chapter we have been reading, perhaps not. Remember that this is a branch of the tradition that gave us the guru, the authoritative spiritual teacher. In Nagasena’s eyes the authority for what he was saying would ultimately be the word of the Buddha; his own business is to convey the right doctrine in lively and memorable terms. The demand for compelling logic is best reserved for a writer like Hume, to whom it is appropriate because he is genuinely trying to meet it.

Some readers may feel a nagging worry. Buddhists, just as much as Hindus, believe in rebirth – the present Dalai Lama is his predecessor, reborn. But if there is no self beyond the five ‘aggregates’, what is there to be reborn, what is it that migrates from one body to the next? How did they reconcile these two doctrines? All I can say here is that they were fully aware of the problem. It leads to a lot more Buddhist metaphysics, which our all too brief tour can’t even make a start on. But if you have in your hand the edition of Questions of King Milinda recommended in the Bibliography, turn to pp. 58–9 and read the section entitled ‘Transmigration and Rebirth’ – just to begin to get the flavour.

Chapter 5 Some themes

The three examples we have been looking at touch on a number of general themes, ideas whose significance goes well beyond that of any single text or for that matter any single school or period. Now I shall pick half a dozen of them out for special attention. To what extent a question can legitimately be considered in abstraction from the particular historical contexts in which it was raised and (perhaps) answered is itself a philosophical question, and no simple one; I shall say something about it in the closing section of the chapter.

Ethical consequentialism

Don’t be frightened by the heading. It is just the trade name of the doctrine that how good or bad something is has to be judged by looking at its consequences. In Crito, as we saw, Socrates was weighing the consequences of the actions open to him, the results for his friends, his children, himself. But there were also considerations about what had happened in the past, not what would result in the future: his past behaviour meant that he now had a duty to the State, which required him to accept its judgement and punishment. I suggested at the end of that chapter that if philosophers were going to solve our moral problems they were first going to have to convince us that moral matters are really less complicated than they appear to be. One such attempt is consequentialism: no moral reasons are

backward-looking; proper moral reasons all look to the consequences of our actions.

So the idea is that something is good if it has good consequences, bad if it has bad ones. But, you will immediately notice, that doesn’t tell us much; we still need to be told which consequences are good ones, which are bad ones. Just repeating the formula (saying: consequences are good when they themselves have good consequences) gets us no further. A consequentialist must be willing to recommend certain things, or states of affairs, as being good in themselves. In their case, goodness does not consist in having good consequences – they just are good. Other things are good only to the extent that they lead to them – the things that are good in themselves.

That means that consequentialism isn’t any single ethical doctrine, but a general type of doctrine which can take very different specific forms depending on what is held to be good in itself. If you think that the only thing good in itself is pleasure you will live very differently from someone who thinks that the only thing good in itself is knowledge. So even if we could all agree to be consequentialist in our ethical thinking, very little would have been settled.

You might now wonder why we should be so exclusive: why can’t lots of different things be good in themselves: pleasure, knowledge, beauty, love – just for starters? That sounds very reasonable. But if what we were hoping for was a moral theory that would make it fairly simple for us to decide what we ought to do, then it is a big step in the wrong direction. Once we agree to take more than one basic value into account we will inevitably find that our values sometimes come into conflict. I might quite often be in a position to promote one value (i.e. do things which have that sort of consequence) or another, but not both. Which should I choose? If Socrates had had to choose to between risking his friends’ lives and damaging his children’s education, which should he have chosen? How lucky for him that he didn’t! What an

advantage if we could settle on just one basic value, and measure everything else by the extent to which it leads to that one thing.

No surprise, then, that there have been ethical theories of just that kind. An early one, well worth reading about, is that of Epicurus (341–271 bc). For him and his followers, the one and only thing valuable in itself was pleasure. But don’t expect him to recommend orgies and banquets interspersed with periods of relaxation on the beach of your private island. Because what Epicurus meant by pleasure was not that at all: it was absence of pain, both physical and mental. This completely untroubled state, he thought, was as great a pleasure as any. What we immediately think of as pleasures are just different, not more pleasant. This point, and his advice on how to achieve and maintain the ideal state, he appears to have argued for with subtlety and wisdom. I say ‘appears’, because we have very little from his own hand; although he wrote prolifically, our knowledge of him mostly comes from later reports.

8. Marble head of Epicurus, in the British Museum.

A modern and more accessible theory of this type was propounded by John Stuart Mill (1806–73) in his famous essay Utilitarianism, where he cited Epicurus as one of his philosophical ancestors. Mill declared the one thing valuable in itself to be happiness – defining it as ‘pleasure and the absence of pain’ (though without holding, as Epicurus had, that the absence of all pain was itself the greatest pleasure). But there is a very significant difference between Mill and Epicurus. For whereas Epicurus seems to have been concerned to advise individuals how best to secure their own pleasure/tranquillity, Mill was a social reformer whose ethical principles aimed at the improvement of life (i.e. happiness) for everybody. (A similar division is found in the history of Buddhism: is the highest ideal the personal attainment of nirvana, or is it to bring all beings to nirvana, oneself included?) ‘Let everyone seek to be free from pain and anxiety’, says Epicureanism; though it may well add: ‘Helping those around you to do so will probably help you achieve it too – and if so, help them.’ For Mill, by contrast, the primary goal is, quite generally, happiness; so anyone else’s happiness is just as much your goal as is your own, and any person’s happiness is of equal value with anyone else’s.

Mill’s aspirations went beyond his own society – he even writes of improving the condition of the whole of mankind. This was Victorian Britain, and the British Empire pretty much at its zenith (Mill himself worked for the East India Company for over thirty years). But it would be unfair to think of him as an interfering moral imperialist. He didn’t want to tell anyone how to be happy; only that everyone should be provided with the material goods, the education and the political and social liberties to work out their own happiness in their own way. Many will find this universality of Mill’s basic ethical principle admirable. Some may also wonder whether it can be realistic to ask human beings to spread their moral concern so widely and so impartially. Are we capable of it? And what would life be like if we really tried? These questions, especially the second, have led some philosophers to

think that Mill’s doctrine conflicts with another value which nearly all of us regard as very important to us. We have already seen it at work in the Crito.

Integrity

One thing that weighed with Socrates, you remember, was the line he had taken at his trial. How could he now choose exile, having explicitly rejected that option when given the opportunity to propose an alternative to the death-sentence? ‘I cannot, now that this fate has befallen me, throw away my previous arguments.’ As a soldier, he told the court, he had faced death rather than do what was wrong; he will not now do what seems to him to be wrong just to prolong his life.

These thoughts capture a central aspect of the virtue of integrity. Integrity means wholeness, unity; the idea of integrity as a value is the idea of a life lived as a whole rather than as a series of disconnected episodes. So it includes steadfast adherence to principles, and to opinions unless new reasons or evidence appear. Relatedly (and equally applicable to Socrates’ case) it includes the value of consistent pursuit of those chosen projects which give purpose and meaning to one’s life. And it can also be taken to exclude self-deception and hypocrisy, states in which people are in one way or another at odds with themselves.

So how comfortably does the ideal of integrity fit with Mill’s utilitarianism? Not very comfortably at all, some think. For however sincere your commitment to some principle in the past, that fact by itself does not give you – if we take Mill’s position seriously and literally – any reason to follow it again now. If in the past your commitment to that principle has consistently led to good effects (measured in terms of happiness), then that fact gives you at least some reason to think that it will do so again – which is a reason to follow it now. But your commitment to it, however sincere, however much it has

become a part of your personality, is not. Critics of Utilitarianism question whether we can really live with that way of thinking. You might like to consider whether Utilitarians can defend themselves against that charge. If they can’t, things look bad not just for them but for most other types of consequentialist too. For in the last paragraph it wasn’t important to think of effects being assessed in terms of happiness; I might have written almost anything instead of ‘happiness’ without affecting the argument. So really this is an attack on consequentialism – of which utilitarianism is only one variety. Anyone who feels that the attack succeeds must accept that the consequences of an action are (at most) only one aspect of its value, and that deciding whether it was right or not may involve a subjective compromise between factors of completely different types.

Political authority – the contract theory

States make demands of their members which would be deeply objectionable if coming from a private person. Tax, for instance. Why is it permissible for the State to appropriate a certain proportion of my income when, if you were even to attempt it, you would be guilty of extortion or ‘demanding money with menaces’? Or is it just that the State gets away with it – by being easily the biggest menace around?

Now most political theorists hold that the State does have some legitimate authority, though there is less agreement about how much – in other words, about how far this authority can extend whilst remaining legitimate. Opinions range from totalitarian conceptions, which assign to the State power over all aspects of individuals’ lives, to minimalist conceptions, according to which it can do what is necessary to keep the peace and enforce any contracts its members may make with each other, and scarcely anything more. But except for the very few who jump off the bottom end of this scale (‘States have no legitimate

authority at all’), everyone faces the question how State authority over individuals arises.

An answer with a long history – we have already seen a version of it in Crito – is that it arises out of some kind of contract or agreement between individuals and the state of which they are citizens. It is a very natural answer. A person might agree to accept the authority of another (in a certain area of activity) because he saw substantial benefit (for himself) in doing so, and in return for that benefit. Most would accept that such an arrangement legitimates the other’s authority over him as far as their agreement reaches, provided that agreement was voluntary. Though natural, it is not the only answer worth considering. Another would be that the stronger has natural authority over the weaker, and this authority is legitimate so long as it is used for the weaker’s benefit. That might be a good way to think of parents’ authority over their infant children, for instance. But if we allow the weaker to be the judges of whether they are benefiting or not, then we are very close to saying that the power is legitimate only so long as they accept it. Whereupon we are back in the neighbourhood of a ‘tacit consent’ theory, like the one that the Laws and State of Athens appealed to against Socrates (p. 20 above). Unless we allow that superior force makes authority legitimate (‘might is right’), or that God has granted authority to certain persons or institutions (the ‘divine right of kings’), it isn’t easy to avoid the contract theory in some form or other.

There are several forms of it because of the wide variety of answers to the question ‘Who makes what contract with whom?’ Since we were speaking of every individual’s obligation to the State we might suppose that everyone must individually be a party to the contract (that would appear to be the drift of Socrates’ approach in Crito); but some theorists write as if it were enough that one’s ancestors, or the founders of one’s society, should have been party to it. And regardless of that question, is the contract made with the whole of society (so that you contract to go along with the decisions of the whole body, of which you are yourself a

member)? Or with some distinct sovereign person or persons to whom you then owe allegiance? You can see that the resulting difference in the constitution may be enormous: anywhere from social democracy to absolute monarchy.

And what is the contract? In what circumstances can the individual properly regard the contract as having lapsed? The famous contract theory of Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679), which we shall return to in Chapter 8, has it that the sole benefit that the contracting individual can rightfully demand is the preservation of their life: the sovereign puts up a stop to the murderous, thieving lawlessness of the pre-contractual situation, and organizes defence against attack from without. If that fails, all bets are off; otherwise, complete obedience.

Epicurus had something pertinent to say: ‘He who knew best how to meet the fear of external foes made into one family all the creatures he could.’ Even Hobbes granted families a certain natural exemption from the war of all against all. In troubled times families are the groups most likely to hold together, and are the best model for co-operation and allegiance. (Some readers may find that idea out of date – but perhaps that is so because, and in places where, times are easier.) In Plato’s prescription for an ideal state (The Republic) he in effect abolishes the family – no doubt he had seen much family-centred intrigue and corruption. A plurality of cohesive units within it must be dangerous to the power of the State and its capacity to preserve peace. If there is to be a family it is best that there should only be one – as Epicurus’ remark implies – and that the State (recall Crito 50eff.) be thought of as everyone’s parent.

Evidence and rationality

Rationality is what you’ve got if you have some capacity to reason: to work out, given certain truths, what else is likely to be true if they are; perhaps also (though you need rather more rationality for this) how

9. Beyond the family, anything goes. Hobbes’s state of nature?

likely. It is the quality of mind Hume was talking about when he said, in Of Miracles, that a wise man proportions his belief to the evidence. Forming the right beliefs, with the appropriate degree of confidence, isn’t the only manifestation of rationality however. A familiar situation is that in which you want to know whether a certain thing is true or not (‘Was it the butler who did it?’ ‘Have we any bread in the house?’), and here your rationality will show at least as much in what evidence you seek out, as in what you believe once you have got it. As well as powers of investigation, we also have a capacity for rational choice: given

certain desires, to choose a course of action likely to lead to their fulfilment. And our reason is sometimes, though controversially, assigned a further function: not just to tell us what we ought to do, given that we have certain goals, but in addition to tell us what goals we ought to have. There is an influential heavyweight on either side of this tricky question, with Kant affirming that reason does have such a power, Hume denying it. (To my mind Hume and his followers have slightly the better of it, though battle continues.) But here we stick with the issue of belief and evidence.

Why should we be interested in having evidence, or being able to offer reasons, for our beliefs? Because it makes it more likely that they will be true; and it makes us more confident that they are true. Both are important. We want our beliefs to be true, because we use them to direct our actions, and actions directed by true beliefs are on the whole far more successful. (Compare the actions, and the success rate, of two people both wanting a beer: one believes – falsely – that the beer is in the fridge, the other believes – truly – that it is still in the car.) And it helps if we hold our true beliefs confidently, because then we go ahead and act on them, rather than dithering about.

Those are practical considerations, influencing all of us all the time. There may also be theoretical ones, having to do with our philosophical self-image: we (some of us, at certain periods of history) may like to think of ourselves as essentially rational beings in whose lives reason plays an absolutely central role. For a long time philosophers took rationality to be the crucial feature distinguishing humans from other animals. (You can see Hume contesting this view in Of the Reason of Animals, the section immediately before Of Miracles.) The idea that reason is absolutely central to human life is a rather vague one, so it isn’t the sort of view one could ever prove, or definitively refute, and it would be a bad misjudgement to try. Nevertheless many things can be said that are relevant to it.

The first was well-known to the sceptics of ancient Greece. Suppose you hold some belief (call it B), and you ask yourself what reason you have to hold it. So then you think of some reason (call it R). This R cannot be something you have just dreamt up. You must have a reason to think that it is true, if it is to give you a reason for believing B. This further reason can’t be B itself, or R again (that would be to give a belief as a reason for itself, which seems like nothing more than reasserting the belief, and is often called ‘begging the question’), so it must be something else – whereupon the same argument repeats. This suggests that the idea that we have reasons for our beliefs is just a local appearance, which disappears as soon as we try to look at the wider picture: ‘reasons’ turn out to be relative to certain other beliefs for which we have no reasons. The search for a satisfactory response to this argument has structured a whole area of philosophical inquiry known as epistemology or the theory of knowledge.

Add that some of our most basic beliefs, beliefs without which we just couldn’t get on with our lives, are very hard to find any decent reason for. A much discussed example is our confidence that things will continue much as they have in the past: your next breath of air won’t suffocate you, the floor won’t collapse when you take your next step – and hundreds of other things of that kind. With what reason do we believe them? Don’t answer: that sort of belief has nearly always worked. True, but that is just another example of what has happened in the past, and what we wanted to know was why we expect the future to go the same way.

So if the idea was that human belief can be made through and through rationally transparent, or that human life could run on reason alone, then it faces formidable obstacles. But it remains the case that human powers of reasoning, acquiring beliefs by inferring them from previous beliefs, are more than just important to us. Without them there would be nothing recognizably human left except the shape of our bodies, and the average chimp would run rings round us, literally and figuratively.

The self

Chapter 4 introduced the Buddhist ‘no-self’ doctrine, according to which a person is not a simple, independently enduring thing but a composite, and an easily dissoluble composite at that, of the five ‘aggregates’, which are themselves complex things or states. But that is not the only tradition in which we find the view that a self is really a whole lot of separate things precariously holding together. It appears in the modern West as the so-called ‘Bundle theory of the mind’, and is almost invariably attributed to Hume. (In your guide’s personal opinion it is very doubtful whether Hume actually held it, but I’ll skirt round that controversy here.)

So suppose there is some simple, independently enduring thing – you – which just continues the same so long as you exist. Where is it? Look into your own mind and see if you can perceive it. What do you find? In the first place, you notice that you are experiencing a motley of perceptions: visual perceptions of the way your surroundings look, auditory perceptions of the way they sound, perhaps also a few smells, tactual sensations of pressure, roughness, warmth, and suchlike, from touching nearby objects. Then sensations of tension in certain muscles, awareness of bodily movements. All these are continually changing as your position changes and surrounding objects themselves change. You might also feel a slight ache in your foot, or in your forehead; and be aware of a train of thought, perhaps as images or a silent sequence of half-formed sentences. But there is no sign, in this shifting kaleidoscopic complex, of that object ‘the self’, just steadfastly persisting.

Why then suppose that there is such a thing? Well, someone will say, it’s clear that all these experiences, my experiences, somehow belong together; and there are other experiences, those that are not mine but yours, which also belong together but don’t belong with this lot. So there must be one thing, me, my self, which is having all my experiences

but isn’t having any of yours, and another thing, your self, doing the reverse.

Supporters of the bundle theory reply that nothing of the kind follows. What makes all my experiences hang together doesn’t have to be a relation they all stand in to something else; it might be some system of relationships that they all stand in to each other (but don’t stand in to any of yours). Think of a lot of shreds of paper which form one group by virtue of all being pinned to the same pincushion (the model of the central self) – and a collection of iron filings which form one bunch because they are all magnetized and therefore cling together (the model of the bundle). You will have noticed the affinity between these thoughts (adapted from Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature, book 1, part 4, section 6 (1738) ) and those of the Buddhist author from our Chapter 4. But there are also differences, one of the most significant being the status they give to the body. The Buddhist didn’t hesitate to include the body (‘material form’) as one of the five aggregates that compose the person, whereas the eighteenth-century version doesn’t even bother to exclude it, but just ignores it completely. Hume writes first ‘self’, then ‘self or person’, then ‘mind’, as if these were obviously the same, so that ‘What is the self (or person)?’ and ‘What is the mind?’ are for him just two ways of asking one question. Such was the change of climate brought about by centuries of religious thought deeply influenced by Plato and Neoplatonism, with their emphasis on the soul and the spiritual andtheir denigration of the bodily. There is also another, huge, difference. When presented with a philosophical doctrine it is always a good idea to ask what happens next – that is to say, what its proponents want to do with it. The Buddhists, we saw, had an ethical purpose in mind. The ‘no-self’ theory would help us to live better, keep clear of ‘defilements’, avoid suffering more successfully. Hume’s next move was utterly different, having 57 nothing at all to do with ethics but quite a lot to do with what we now call cognitive science. If we do not perceive the enduring self, why then do we believe that we are the same person from day to day? And he proposed a psychological theory to account for it. (It was by today’s standards a pretty naïve one, but that is only to be expected.) We are not so much comparing two individuals as two epochs. Nagasena’s was the age of survival, Hume’s the age of science. Where there is such a difference in the plot, no wonder if a similar thought turns up playing a very different role. Which leads straight into our next topic.

Philosophy and historical context

Could Plato and Hobbes, 2,000 years apart, with their different backgrounds and circumstances, really have been discussing the same thing? Could a philosopher nowadays be asking the same questions about the self as Hume did, let alone the early Buddhists? Doesn’t the idea that we can talk about philosophical themes without reference to whose and when make them sound like timeless objects that thinkers of any epoch can plug into? That view would be quite the opposite of popular nowadays. All thought, we repeatedly hear, is ‘situated’ – tied to the particular historical, social, and cultural circumstances in which thinkers find themselves.

I certainly don’t wish to recommend the belief that there are eternal questions just hanging around waiting to be asked. But the view that no question or answer has any existence beyond the specific circumstances of whoever poses it is possibly even worse, and certainly no better. Part of the attraction of such extremes is that they are very simple, somewhat in the pantomime style of ‘Oh yes it is – Oh no it isn’t’. As so often, the truth lies in between, and is much more complicated. One can approach this topic in many ways, but I’ll choose this way: is it legitimate to treat the thought of someone long since dead as a

contribution to a present debate, as if it were being put to us, here and now? I think it is, and that there are even reasons why we should. But it needs to be done with care and – most importantly – with an eye to what we may be missing.

There is nothing to stop us lifting a sentence from an old text and seeing what it can do for us now. If we want to lift the thought, not just the sentence, we may have to put some work into deciding what the sentence meant. If we aren’t prepared to do that we shouldn’t expect too much of it, and we certainly shouldn’t disparage its author if we don’t get too much from it. But given that precaution we will often find it relevant to our concerns, because much philosophy arises from facts about human beings and human life which are pretty stable – at any rate they haven’t changed much over the last 3,000 years.

Finding something relevant is one thing, finding it convincing is another. Suppose we dismiss Plato’s and Hobbes’s arguments as insufficient to establish the extent of the authority they ascribe to the state. There is something right about this: no doubt their arguments are insufficient. But if we then turn away, taking our business with them to be finished, we risk making a number of mistakes. One is that though we may have understood what they have written we have not understood them – their concerns about what political thought needed, the circumstances that gave rise to these concerns and so made their conclusions attractive to them. So we may be missing the humanity behind the text, and with it an important aspect of what philosophy is for. Furthermore, whenever there is any uncertainty about what they meant, understanding why they were saying it is often a valuable means of resolving the ambiguity. In showing no interest in their motivation we take a risk with our understanding of their words.

A second point is that our appreciation of a philosopher’s achievement

will be seriously blunted if we do not see the intellectual and emotional circumstances out of which their work grew. I proposed earlier that we think of philosophy as bewildered mankind’s attempt to think our way back straight. That is not a story that can be appreciated without some understanding of the circumstances in which thinkers have found themselves.

So ‘Is this right?’ is certainly not the only question we should be thinking about. Still, there is something wrong with refusing altogether to ask whether our philosopher was right, or whether their arguments are convincing, merely because they lived long ago. After all, Plato did not take himself to be writing just for his own time and place. On the contrary, he is constantly trying to direct our attention away from the transient and towards what he believes to be permanent, and it seems deeply condescending (or possibly self-protective?) to dismiss his further ambitions without making any honest attempt to assess them. ‘There, there, designed his own ideal state, has he? – what a clever little fellow.’

I hope that you are now beginning to notice something rather encouraging. The literature of philosophy may be intimidatingly vast, but the number of genuinely distinct philosophical themes is not. It is somewhat too large for the compass of this very short book, admittedly, but it is not enormous. We have already seen links across 2,000 years between Epicurus and Mill, Plato and Hobbes, Hume and the author of Milinda. The problem lies not in becoming familiar with the recurrent themes, but in being sensitive to the variations as different thinkers play them again in their own way for their own purposes. And what this means is that one’s understanding of philosophy is cumulative, and accumulates rather quickly. Which must be good news.

Chapter 6 Of ‘isms’

From football to gardening and back via cookery, mountaineering, and population genetics, every subject has its own terminology. Philosophy certainly does, most of it fortunately not nearly as frightening as it looks. In Chapter 4 we saw ‘metaphysics’, meaning the study of (or opinions about) what reality is like in its most general features. In Chapter 5 we encountered ‘consequentialism’, the blanket word for theories that see the value of anything in its consequences rather than in its own nature and its history; then ‘epistemology’, the branch of philosophy concerned with knowledge, belief, and closely related notions like reasons and justification. Now let’s look at some more words, all of them ending in ‘ism’. This isn’t a matter of swotting up vocabulary – rather of finding out more about philosophy as you learn more of the jargon.

Most philosophical ‘ism’ words are (like ‘consequentialism’) quite broad terms designating a certain general type of doctrine. Their breadth makes them very flexible, and ensures that they are in constant use, but it also brings dangers, principally that of taking them to say more than they really do. Never think that you have got a philosopher sorted out just because you can say what ‘ism’ he represents. The philosophy of George Berkeley (1685–1752) is a form of Idealism, and so is that of Hegel (1770–1831); but I have never heard it suggested that having read either would be any help in understanding the other – their thought is

miles apart. Karl Marx (1818–83), on the other hand, certainly wasn’t an Idealist (which is actually a term of abuse in the Marxist vocabulary), but he is in many respects extremely Hegelian, and that a student should get to know something of Hegel before reading Marx seems the most obvious advice imaginable.

With that warning uttered and illustrated, let us begin with dualism. It can be used of any view which recognizes (exactly) two contrasting forces or entities, so that a theology which posits two basic powers in conflict, one good and one evil, is said to be dualistic. But by far its most common meaning is a doctrine according to which reality consists of two very different kinds of thing or stuff, namely mind and matter; a human being consists of a bit of each. Perhaps the most famous exponent of dualism in this sense is the Frenchman René Descartes (some of whose work we shall be looking at in the next chapter). In fact, some enemies of dualism, and there are plenty of them nowadays, seem to want to blame it all on him. (That is historically dubious, to say the least – Descartes was merely trying to give cogent proof of a doctrine that is very much older.)

Dualism certainly has its problems, especially if it is to be combined with modern scientific theory. One tricky question is: what does the dualist’s mental stuff actually do? We naturally suppose that what we think, what we feel, what we are aware of, affects our behaviour. If I think that the train leaves in ten minutes, want to catch it, and see a signpost saying ‘Railway Station’, I will go in the direction I believe the signpost points. This means that my (physical) body goes somewhere it wouldn’t otherwise have gone. But doesn’t scientific theory suggest that all physical events have other physical events as their causes? In which case how can there be room for something else, of a non-physical kind, to cause my body to move? Dualists may just have to grit their teeth and say that science is plain wrong about that. For if they agree that science is right on that point, and if they agree (and it would be weird not to) that what we think, feel, etc. affects what we do, then the consequence

is that thinking, feeling, awareness, and so on must be physical processes. In which case the question comes round again: what does this non-physical stuff of theirs, this ‘mind’, actually do? But dualists can’t just say that science is wrong about all physical events having physical causes. That won’t convince anyone who wasn’t convinced to start with. They will need some reason for saying that there is something about us which cannot be physical. When we come to Descartes we’ll see something of what a dualist might have to offer on that score.

So, you may be thinking, if dualism is the view that there are two ultimate sorts of stuff, mind and matter, probably we also find a doctrine that says there is only matter, and another that holds that there is nothing but mind. And you’re quite right. The first is called materialism, the second idealism (not mentalism), and both have plenty of history.

The earliest materialism of which we have clear record is that of the Indian Loka¯yatas, often known as Ca¯rva¯kas after one of their most eminent thinkers (incidentally, pronounce ‘c’ in these Sanskrit words as ‘ch’). Remember them if you find yourself slipping into the common error of imagining that all Indian philosophy is mystical, religious, and ascetic. Only perception confers knowledge, and what you can’t perceive doesn’t exist, they reckoned. The eternal soul that, as the Brahmins suppose, passes on from life to life, is a fiction. You have one life and one only – try to enjoy it. The movement appears to have survived for over a thousand years; unfortunately, just about all we now know of it comes from reports written by its opponents.

In Greece Democritus – a fairly close contemporary of Socrates – propounded a theory which, until twentieth-century physics changed the picture, sounded very modern: the universe consists of myriads of very small material particles moving in a vacuum or void. These little things are called ‘atoms’ (from the Greek for uncuttable or indivisible);

they and the void they move through are literally everything there is. This rather good guess was taken over by Epicurus (we’ve seen him already) and his school, but the easiest place to read about it is in a famous work by Lucretius, a Roman admirer of Epicurus, called ‘Of the Nature of Things’ (or ‘Of the Nature of the Universe’ – depending on which translation you have got hold of).

You might expect materialism to be completely incompatible with any sort of religious belief – as the case of the Loka¯yatas appears to confirm. But watch out for surprises! The Epicureans believed in gods, but then held (as consistency demanded) that they had bodies made of a very refined type of matter. (They live somewhere a very long way from here in a state of divine bliss and untroubled happiness – paying not a wink of attention to human life. Opponents said this was just a way of being atheists without admitting it.)

The word ‘materialism’ as it occurs in everyday usage is rather different. A ‘material girl’ isn’t a girl who consists of matter only – though if philosophical materialists are right that is all she consists of, and so does the material world she lives in. But the everyday ‘materialism’ which some bemoan and others just enjoy isn’t wholly unrelated to the philosophers’ sort. Madonna’s material girl derives her pleasures mostly from material objects – their ownership and consumption – in preference to the pleasures of the mind. Everyday materialism is the attachment to what is – now in the philosophers’ sense – material, as opposed to what is spiritual or intellectual. The philosophy of Marx came to be called dialectical materialism, not so much because he held that there is literally nothing but matter as because he held that the most important underlying causes in human life are material: economic facts about the way in which a society produces its material goods. (What ‘dialectical’ meant we shall see in Chapter 7 when we encounter Hegel, below, p. 81 ff.)

Idealism is also a word with an everyday as well as a technical meaning.

At the technical end it is applied to views that deny the existence of matter and hold that everything there is is mental or spiritual, like that of the Irish bishop George Berkeley, whom we mentioned earlier. Someone who tells us that had better explain, in the next breath, what then are these things like chairs and mountains that we keep bumping into and falling off. When he heard it said that Berkeley could not be refuted, the celebrated man of letters Dr Johnson is reputed to have answered: ‘I refute him thus’, and kicked a stone. But refuting Berkeley isn’t that easy. (I use the word ‘refute’ to mean showing that something is wrong, not just saying that it is wrong – which of course is very easy indeed and can be done by anyone, especially someone like Dr Johnson, who was rarely short either of an opinion or of a memorable way of expressing it.)

Perhaps Berkeley can be refuted, but only if we can somehow overcome the following well-worn line of thought. What I am really aware of when I look at a table is not the table itself but how the table looks to me. ‘How it looks to me’ describes not the table, but my mind – it is the state of consciousness which the object, whatever it is, produces in me when I look at it. And this goes on being true however closely, or from however many angles, I look at the table; and it goes on being true if I touch the table – except that then the object (whatever it is) produces a different kind of state of consciousness in me, tactual sensations as opposed to visual. If I kick the table (or Dr Johnson’s stone) and it hurts, that is yet another state of my consciousness. Admittedly, these states of consciousness fit together very nicely; we quickly learn from a very few of them to predict quite accurately what the rest are going to be like – one glance, and we know pretty much what to expect. But the table itself, the physical table, isn’t so much an established fact as a hypothesis that explains all these states of perceptual consciousness. So it might be wrong – some other hypothesis might be the truth. Berkeley himself thought precisely that, though partly because he believed he had proved that the very idea of a non-mental existent was incoherent. (I’m not going

to trouble you with his supposed proof here.) Believing as he did in a benevolent and all-powerful god, he made His will the direct cause of our states of consciousness and declared matter redundant – as well as incoherent.

Hume – again – made a nice comment. Berkeley’s arguments, he said ‘admit of no answer and produce no conviction’. However impossible we may find it to believe Berkeley’s denial of matter, a convincing proof that he just couldn’t be right has been extremely elusive. I myself don’t believe that there is one – though neither, you won’t be surprised to hear, do I believe Berkeley. Some philosophical systems (like Hegel’s) qualify as idealism not because they deny the very existence of matter but because they regard it as subordinate to the mental or spiritual, which is what really determines the nature of reality and gives it purpose. This use of ‘idealism’ parallels the use of ‘materialism’ we noticed above, in its application to the philosophy of Karl Marx. But when we come to the everyday notion of idealism the parallel with ‘materialism’ fails. A materialist’s attention is fixed on material goods as opposed to mental, spiritual, or intellectual ones; whereas an idealist is not someone always focused on the latter rather than the former, but someone committed to ideals. And ideals are essentially things of the mind, because they are the thoughts of circumstances not in fact found in reality, but which we can strive to approach as nearly as the conditions of life permit. The mental nature of ideals makes the connection between the everyday usage of the word and the technical one.

Two more ‘isms’ of which one hears a lot, and which tend to occur together as a pair of supposed opposites, are ‘empiricism’ and ‘rationalism’. Whereas ‘dualism’, ‘materialism’, and ‘idealism’ belong to metaphysics (what sorts of thing are there?), this pair belongs squarely to epistemology (how do we know?).

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Categories: A Very Short Introduction, Philosophy - Edward Craig Tags: Edward Craig, Introduction, Oxford, Philosophy

Philosophy: A Very Short Introduction – Edward Craig (from p. 91)

March 4, 2011 dsiloha Leave a comment

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This kind of thought soon turned into a movement known as Social Darwinism. The name is inappropriate to the point of being slanderous.Darwin never drew such conclusions, nor would he have done, for nosuch thing follows. In his system the words ‘the fittest’ simply mean:those best fitted to survive (and reproduce) under the conditions thenobtaining. They have nothing to do with moral, or intellectual, oraesthetic superiority; and they mean nothing at all without the rider‘under the conditions then obtaining’. If those conditions change,yesterday’s ‘fittest’ may be tomorrow’s no-hopers. One of the many problems about making social application of natural selection like Spencer is that changes in human society can so easily produce changesin the conditions under which they themselves arose. Is the internalcombustion engine ‘fitter’ than the horse and cart? In a sense, yes, butonly so long as it doesn’t run the world out of oil.

That doesn’t mean that Darwin shouldn’t be allowed to changeanyone’s attitudes to anything – far from it. Here is an example. Theliterary critic and popularist Christian theologian C. S. Lewis once(though I’m sure not only once) found himself lamenting our sexualdrives. Given the opportunity, he wrote, most of us would eat toomuch, but not enormously too much; whereas if a young manindulged his sexual appetite every time he felt like it, and each act ledto a baby, he would in a very short time populate an entire village.Which shows, Lewis concluded, just how perverted our naturalsexuality has become.

But before you castigate yourself a sinner and start bewailing the lostinnocence of the human male, reflect on the lesson of Darwin: what wesee here is no perversion of nature; it is simply nature herself, who is notconcerned to construct the world in accordance with our moral code oranyone else’s. Few factors will, on average, have as big an effect on thenumbers of a man’s children as the strength and frequency of his sexualurges; so if this is itself something which many of his children inheritfrom him, it is clearly a characteristic which natural selection will select

and enhance. If most of today’s males possess it that is just what weshould expect, and certainly no call to start speaking of the Fall of Man,perversion, and moral deterioration. Or perhaps what some call originalsin is really the fact that what evolution has produced – and was boundto produce – is out of line with their own conception of an ideal humancharacter.

Incidentally: don’t worry about all those villages, each populated byseveral hundred half-brothers and sisters. They will only spring upwhere life provides our young Casanova with a veritable production-linesupply of females, willing, fertile, not already pregnant, and notassociated with any other males sufficiently aggressive to send himpacking. Nature can be relied upon to ensure that this does not happenvery often, to put it mildly. C. S. Lewis’s imagination was floating wellclear of the facts.

That example is specific and relatively trivial, but you can easily see howDarwinism could subvert an entire philosophy, such as one of those wehave just seen. For Descartes human reason was a faculty given to usand guaranteed by God, no less, and that was why he could rely on it totell us about the essential nature of mind and matter, and a good dealelse besides. What if instead he had thought of it as a naturalinstrument which had developed because, and to the extent that, it gaveits possessors a competitive advantage over those without it? Would hethen have supposed that what it appeared to tell us on such matterscould with complete confidence be taken to be the truth? If so, howwould he have justified it? It is one thing to think that God could not be adeceiver; but quite another to say that since the faculty of reason givesus such advantage in practical matters it cannot possibly lead ushopelessly astray when applied to a question like whether the mind is anindependent substance. Am I to believe that because reason is good athelping us survive it must also be good at metaphysics? Why on earthshould that be true? If Descartes had lived after Darwin (please forgivethe historical absurdity) the foundations of his philosophy would have

had to be very different, and if they were so different, could thesuperstructure have been the same?

Nietzsche: The Genealogy of Morals

‘A philosopher is a terrible explosive from which nothing is safe’ – that isthe only comment we have heard so far (p. 2) from the Germanphilosopher Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900). He had no intention ofoffering his readers a comfortable experience, and his contemporariesdefended themselves by just not reading him. But soon after his deaththe tide began to turn, and he became a major influence on twentiethcenturythought, especially on the European continent.

The Genealogy of Morals, first published in 1887, consists of a prefaceand three essays, all conveniently divided into numbered sections.Don’t skip the preface. And don’t miss the first sentence: ‘how muchwe know nowadays, but how little we know about ourselves’. A hugechange in European thought is under way. The tendency had long beento suppose that, however bewildering and opaque the rest of realitymay be to us, at least we could tell what was going on in our own minds;but in the nineteenth century that tendency is fast losing momentum.We have just seen a hint of it in Hegel’s understanding of history: theforces of Geist are at work in us, though we know nothing or little of it(p. 84 above). Less than a generation after Nietzsche came SigmundFreud (1856–1939), founder of psychoanalysis, with his doctrine of theunconscious mind in which the most important causes of our mentallives lie hidden from us. Acquiring self-knowledge is no longer a matterof a quick introspective glance. It calls for hard and painful work, andthere is no guarantee that you will like what you find.

Don’t miss §3 of the preface either. Do you hear something familiarabout it? It reminds me of Part 1 of Descartes’s Discourse on the Method:still a teenager, the future philosopher is struck by scepticism andmistrust towards the intellectual diet that his seniors are feeding him

Some more high spots(p. 76 above). For Descartes it had been the neo-Aristotelianism of theuniversities. For Nietzsche it was the moral values of nineteenth-centuryChristianity. Were they as self-evident as everyone around him seemedto think? Descartes wanted to inquire into the truth of these ‘truths’that he was being taught. Nietzsche reckoned it was time for somequestions about the value of these ‘values’. His method was to askabout their history, their pedigree, what he called their ‘genealogy’.Where had they come from, how had people come to hold them? Whyhad they come to hold them, or in other words: what were these valuesdoing for the people whose values they became?

A frequent reaction at this point is to say that the value of something,what it is worth, depends on what it is like now. How it came to be thatway is quite another matter. So Nietzsche is asking the wrong question.However well he answers it, it won’t tell us anything about the value ofour values. To think that it will is to commit (some more philosophers’jargon for your growing collection!) the ‘genealogical fallacy’.

But is that criticism altogether fair? I don’t think so. There are certainlycases in which our view of what something is worth is very much boundup with our beliefs about how it began, and if those beliefs change ourevaluation of the thing itself is threatened as well. Indeed we have justseen a very important example, one which was important for Nietzschetoo: the effect of Darwinism on our conception of ourselves. For somany of Darwin’s contemporaries the human race originated in adecision by God to create us in His own image. The idea that we had infact developed from inferior things like monkeys by a distinctly chancyprocess that might just as easily not have happened wasn’t just a newfact to take on board, like the existence of one more previouslyundiscovered planet; it was a slap in the face for human dignity andtheir conception of their own worth – which was why it was doggedlyresisted then and is resisted by some to this day. No doubt about it:under the right circumstances, genealogies can be just as explosive asNietzsche intended – so back to the question about moral values.

Many believed, and some still do, that moral values were of similarorigin: handed down to human beings direct from God. Nietzsche,who in spite of his clerical home background once described himselfas an atheist by instinct, had no interest whatever in that story; hesought the origin of human values in human needs and humanpsychology. (Human, all too Human is the pregnant title of one of hisearlier books.)

He wasn’t the first to do so, as becomes clear in preface §4. In fact,there was already a tradition of it, and Nietzsche took its central thesis,broadly stated, to be something along the following lines: whenhumans found certain types of behaviour (on the part of individuals)advantageous to them and the smooth running of their society, theycalled them ‘good’, and strongly encouraged them; where they foundthem disadvantageous, the reverse. That, simply, is how behaving forthe good of others rather than one’s own came to be regarded asgood – the others declared it to be good, because of the benefit theyreceived.

On the face of it that sounds quite plausible: a society reinforces what isbeneficial to it. But Nietzsche regarded it as sentimental, unhistoricalclaptrap. Drawing on his expert knowledge of ancient languages (hehad had, and then abandoned, a meteoric academic career) he told avery different tale. Far from its being those who received benefits fromthe behaviour of others who then called those others (and theirbehaviour) ‘good’, it was the upper classes, the aristocracy, the nobility,the rulers of ancient societies who first called themselves (and their wayof life) good and the ordinary people, the slaves, the subject population,bad. Early good/bad distinctions are perhaps better understood asdistinctions between ‘noble’ and base’, free and enslaved, leaders andled, the washed and the unwashed. They were the words in which thetop dogs celebrated themselves, their strength, and their own way oflife, and expressed the extent of the gap that they felt betweenthemselves and the weak, impoverished, servile masses.

Some more high spotsThat’s also pretty plausible – you can just imagine them thinking andtalking that way. (You can still hear it going on nowadays if you get intothe right company.) But it was the next step which, according toNietzsche, was the decisive one for the next 2,000 years and more ofEuropean morality: the worm turned, the masses revolted. He isn’ttalking about violent revolution, armed struggle, for which theunderclasses were generally too weak, both materially and spiritually,but about something much subtler and much more insidious. Theyrelieved their frustration and resentment in one of the very few waysthat were open to them, namely by developing their own system ofvalues in which everything about their oppressors was ‘bad’ and theythemselves, whose lives contrasted with theirs in so many ways,were ‘good’.

So this value-system was not God-given, and it was not the outcome ofsome intuitive perception of its truth, or intrinsic ‘rightness’. It was avengeful, retaliatory device, born of the weak’s resentment of thestrong. All that commitment to charity, compassion, and love wasactually fuelled by hate. This kind of thought is entirely typical ofNietzsche, who loved to stand popular conceptions on their head. Justwhen you thought your house was in good order, along comes aNietzschean ‘explosion’ and suddenly your roof has changed places withyour cellar. This is philosophy at its most challenging. Naturaliconoclasts will just love it, but anyone can admire the fireworks.

Just these facts (as he believed) about the origins of the morality of loveand compassion wouldn’t have made Nietzsche so profoundlymistrustful of it as he actually was. After all, in adopting and promotingit the masses were trying, in the only way open to them, to gain powerover the strong, and he has nothing against that – all life, in his view, is amanifestation of the will to power, and no tiny little human moralist hasany business pronouncing on life in general. What he most dislikesabout ‘herd morality’ is that it arose not through affirmation of theirown way of life (like the codes of the higher classes) but through the

14. What to blow up next? Gazing fiercely at the world over the amazing moustache, Nietzsche always looks as if he is about to light some fuse or other.

negation of someone else’s: they looked at the vigorous, free, proud,self-assured, self-assertive people who ruled them, resentfully declaredtheir qualities to be bad and hence the opposite qualities, such aspassivity, servitude, humility, unselfishness, to be good. Herd moralityis life-denying, in Nietzsche’s estimation.

Those who espoused this morality were now in a very strained position.As living beings they embodied the same instinctive will to power as didthe ruling class, but unlike them they had no natural outlet for it. Sowhen their instincts led them to seek a different kind of power bypronouncing their masters’ masterful instincts to be vices they were infact turning against their own instincts as well. So, to add to the fact

that they were needy and oppressed, these people were psychologicallysick, inwardly divided. And they felt pretty wretched.

But help – of a sort – is at hand, in the form of a figure known to everyculture and epoch and of intense interest to Nietzsche: the asceticpriest, committed to poverty, humility, and chastity, and in some casespractising quite extreme forms of self-torture. This figure, whorepresents at its most explicit the wish to be rid of the bodily conditionsof life and to escape into something otherworldly and ‘beyond’, denieslife more emphatically than anyone else. So, like the herd, he is sick, butmuch stronger than they are – a strength which manifests itself in hisability to adopt and sustain his way of life.

This strength gives him power, the power to lead and direct the flock ofweaker souls. It arises partly from their perception of his inwardstrength, partly from the air of mystery and esoteric knowledge withwhich the ascetic surrounds himself. But it also arises in part from thefact that he does them a service: he alleviates their suffering. Rememberthat they suffer because they have set themselves against their ownvital instincts; so he can hardly be expected to cure their suffering,because he too sets himself against his vital instincts, only more openly,with greater determination and singleness of purpose.

An important fact about human suffering is that people will put up witha great deal if only they understand the reason for it – even glory in it, ifthey find the reason good enough. Another is that those who aresuffering want to find someone to blame for it – that acts as a kind ofanaesthetic, blocking the pain out with an overlay of anger.

The priest instinctively knows this, and gives his flock both a reason fortheir suffering and an author of it. They are suffering to make their soulsfit for heaven, or for the victory of justice, or for the sake of truth, or sothat God’s kingdom should come on earth – all fine things to suffer for.Who is to blame for the suffering? Answer: they themselves. With this

stroke the seething resentment of the masses is directed away from therulers, its original objects, conflict with whom will most likely only leadthem into more suffering, perhaps partial annihilation. Redirected ontothemselves it may at least provide strength and motivation for a littleself-discipline and self-improvement – under priestly instruction. Andthey are ready to accept it, for as we saw they have already turnedagainst their own instincts and so in one sense against themselves. Theyknow what has to be rooted out: any hint in themselves of the attitudesand behaviour characteristic of the strong. They have been renderedharmless.

Such is Nietzsche’s analysis. Whatever else we may think of it, it iscertainly unflinching. These are no more than a few of the mainthoughts, crudely compressed. Nietzsche’s style, its musicality, itsenergy, its variety, its biting wit, is something one can only experiencefor oneself. And the text is full of delightful detail, like the account of thereal philosopher in §7 of the third essay. Or take the first essay, §§7–9.Do you find this anti-Semitic in tone? Then read it again, and you willsee that it is really aimed at anti-Semitism itself. What it says is that itwas only the moral history of the Jews which created the psychologicalclimate in which Christianity could arise – Nietzsche is firing an ironicsalvo at those Christian anti-Semites who grounded their anti-Semitismon the premiss that it was Jews who were responsible for the crucifixionof Christ. Once again he has turned a popular way of thinking upsidedown: Christians should revere Jews, because they have the Jews tothank for the success of Christianity. Delicious stuff!

Chapter 8 What’s in it for whom?

Thinking about philosophy is hard work – you may have noticed, thoughif you’ve got this far at least it hasn’t put you off. Writing the stuff iseven harder. (Take it from me.) So why have people done either? Well,for one or more of a whole catalogue of reasons. In the hope of learningto control nature, or of learning to control themselves, to get to heaven,to avoid going to hell; to enable us to bear life as it is, to make lifebearable by changing it; to shore up institutions political, moral, orintellectual, or to tear them down; to promote the writer’s interests, topromote other people’s interests (yes, that happens too), even topromote everybody’s interests; because they can’t stand certain otherphilosophers; because their job demands it. Perhaps just occasionallyout of pure curiosity. There is a widespread idea that philosophers areunworldly people, remote from reality. If that refers to their lifestyle, itmay frequently have been true, though not always. If it refers to theirwork, then (I am speaking now of philosophy that endures) it is usuallyfalse – at least in the sense that they are almost always addressing somereal concern and claiming to offer some real improvement.

Right back at the beginning (p. 1) I spoke of three big questions: whatshould I do? what is there? (i.e. what is reality like?) and how do weknow? It might sound as if any philosophy offering human beings somereal improvement must be concerned primarily with the first of those.But that wouldn’t be right. Beliefs about how things are can serve to

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give a meaning to life or bolster our feelings of self-worth, as forexample the belief that we are made in the image of God; they can givea rationale to (or serve as an excuse for) certain types of behaviour, likethe belief that humans have rational souls and animals don’t. Answersto the question ‘how do we know?’ can strengthen, or loosen, the holdthat various answers to the first two types of question have on us; andvery importantly, they can imply beliefs about who has knowledge, withobvious consequences for the prestige and power of members of thatgroup.

Most philosophy attempts, then, to do something for somebody. Tofinish, let’s look at some philosophy from this perspective. If it is toendure, a philosophy needs a constituency, a group of interestedparties. Its chances are best if the constituency is a large one. First, acouple of philosophies devoted to the individual. That’s a bigconstituency – we’re all individuals.

The individual

The philosophy of Epicurus (see Chapter 5) is addressed to theindividual; it offers a recipe, backed by argument, for living a happy life.Social and political arrangements are unjust if they interfere withindividuals’ attempts to apply the recipe; otherwise, his only politicalrecommendation is not to engage in politics. You can to some degreehelp others to live the right sort of life, but only those close to you(Epicureanism strongly advocates friendship); everyone must follow therecipe for themselves. For success depends not on material conditions,the sort of thing one person can arrange for another, but on yourattitude towards them. And that is precisely the point, since happiness comes of knowing that your state of mind is largely independent of whatever life may tip on you next.

It may then surprise you to hear that in Epicurus’ opinion the only goodis pleasure. Surely how much pleasure we can get depends heavily on

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15. Epicureanism in practice? Not according to Epicurus.

our material conditions of life? But there’s a second surprise: he thinksthat the highest possible pleasure is freedom from physical pain andmental anxiety. Simple, easily attainable pleasures are no less pleasantthan extravagant and exotic ones; and reliance on the latter inducesanxiety: the means to obtain them may be taken away from you. (Theidea that Epicureanism is a constant dinner party with musicians anddancing-girls is completely misleading – it must have come down to usfrom Epicurus’ opponents, who were numerous.)

A cause of much mental turmoil is superstitious fear. Banish it. Realizethat in their perfect bliss the gods have neither need nor wish tointerfere in human affairs. Learn enough about physics, astronomy, andmeteorology to feel confident that all phenomena have naturalexplanations – they are not portents, omens, or signs of divine wrath.

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And do not fear death, for death is simply non-existence, in which therecan be nothing to fear. That, on a thumbnail, is Epicurus’ advice to eachone of us. You could do a lot worse than follow it. Of course therewouldn’t be any politicians if we all did; but perhaps we could put upwith that.

Epicurus taught the individual to be inwardly armed against whatevermay befall. Over 2,000 years later John Stuart Mill wrote a stirringdefence of every individual’s right to shape their own life. In his famous essay On Liberty (1859) he argued for what has become known as theHarm Principle: ‘the only purpose for which power can be rightfullyexercised over any member of a civilized community . . . is to preventharm to others’. As democratic systems of government became betterentrenched in Europe and America they also became better understood,and Mill had spotted a latent danger: the tyranny of the majority overthe individual and over minority groups.

As befits the author of Utilitarianism (see Chapter 5) he makes noappeal to human rights, but rather to the damage done, the valuelost, if his principle is not observed. To be master of one’s own lifeis a good for human beings, a part of our happiness, so the individualloses even if what the law forbids them to do is something theywouldn’t have done anyway. But the whole society loses too. For thepeople whom the Harm Principle protects are an extremely valuableresource, precisely because they have unconventional opinions andunusual lifestyles. If their opinions are in fact true the value to thecommunity is obvious. If they are false it is less obvious but equallyreal: if truth is wholly unopposed it becomes a dead formula on thetongue – opposition ensures that it remains live in the mind. As forunconventional lifestyles, they provide living experimental data fromwhich everyone can learn. Constraining the individual damageseverybody.

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The State

Earlier (Chapter 2, and again briefly in Chapter 5, p. 50ff.) we looked atthe so-called contract theory of political obligation. We saw it in actionin Plato’s Crito, and noticed that it can in principle take many forms,arising from the variety of possible answers to the question: whocontracts with whom to do what on what conditions?

Of all contract theories that of Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679) is perhapsthe most famous – and if so then because of his marvellouslyunflattering description of the ‘state of nature’, life before any socialarrangements had been made, in which nobody can own anything,cultivate anything, or do anything constructive at all without continualfear of being attacked and robbed, with a fair chance of being murderedthrown in. As long as this ‘war . . . of every man against every man’ lasts,life is ‘solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short’. So how to improvematters? Form an association; agree to accept the authority of a‘sovereign’ (person or body) with full powers to do anything they deemneedful to protect each of you from the others and from any external threat. This sovereign body can do no injustice, since as their accepted representative everything it does is done with the presumed consent ofall who are party to the contract that set it up. Only if the sovereigndirectly threatens their lives may the citizens resist – for it was toprotect their lives that they entered into the contract in the first place.The ‘Laws and Constitution of Athens’, you recall (Crito 50e–51c, p. 19above), wouldn’t allow Socrates even that much, but gave little reasonto support such extreme claims.

Mightn’t Hobbes’s citizens reply that it wasn’t just to protect their livesthat they entered into the contract? It was to enjoy various liberties, allof which were lacking in the state of nature. That would suggest thatthe citizens’ right of resistance kicks in rather earlier than the point atwhich their very lives are threatened. (Besides, having handed over allthe power, how are they to protect their lives?) Like Plato, Hobbes seems

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to have gone further than his arguments warrant. But really that isn’tsurprising. Plato’s youth coincided with Athens’ disastrous war againstSparta. Hobbes was born as the Spanish Armada approached, towardsthe end of a century torn by religious conflict that cost millions of lives,and his maturity witnessed England’s descent into civil war. No wonderthat both men believed that the prime need of political life wasgovernment strong enough to maintain peace and order, the valueswithout which no others could even begin. Their way of supporting theindividual was to hand over total sovereignty to the state. No surprisethat some have thought that they went too far. John Locke (1632–1704),writing less than fifty years after Hobbes but in somewhat lessthreatening political circumstances, waxed ironical:

As if when men quitting the state of nature entered into society, theyagreed that all of them but one, should be under the restraint of laws,but that he should still retain all the liberty of the state of nature,increased by power, and made licentious by impunity. This is to think thatmen are so foolish, that they take care to avoid what mischiefs may bedone them by pole-cats, or foxes, but are content, nay think it safety, tobe devoured by lions.

The priesthood

Priests are not generally persons of either wealth or military strength.So whatever gives them security, and not just security but often veryconsiderable power within their society or religious group, must besomething else. It arises from what their people think about them, whatthey take them to be able to do for them, the value that they put uponthem. In other words, it arises from philosophy. The less tangible andimmediate the benefits and the dangers, the more powerful theapparatus needed to maintain belief in them and faith in those whoconfer (or avert) them.

This isn’t a matter of intentional deception – though it would be absurd

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16. Dwarfing everything, Hobbes’s Leviathan rises out of the billowing hills of the English countryside. Can this really be safety? No wonder Locke was worried.

to suggest that no such thing ever occurs. It isn’t even a question ofwhether what the priestly class would have the laity believe aboutthem is true or false. The point is that it should be believed:otherwise, no priests. So plenty of writing exists which promotestheir status.

Illustrations exist everywhere, so since we haven’t set foot outsideWestern Europe for the last few chapters let’s return to India and look atthe opening chapter of one of the major Upanishads. By the time TheQuestions of King Milinda was written, the Br ¸hada¯ranyaka Upanishad (BU,see Bibliography) may well have been as old as Chaucer’s CanterburyTales today. It belongs to the world of the Hindu Vedas, a world of ritual,sacrifices, and chants that are highly beneficial, though only if correctlyperformed. To ensure correct performance, you need an expert learnedin Vedic matters; for a major ritual you even need a super-expert whomakes sure that the other experts are performing correctly. Suchexpertise needs to be accorded due respect, and no doubt a due fee.(‘I wish I had wealth so I could perform rites’ is said to be everyone’sdesire (1. 4. 17) ). This expertise – and the perks attaching to it – is the(hereditary) privilege of a particular social class or caste, the Brahmins.No mere social convention, this caste system, as 1. 4. 11 tells us –apparently it arises out of the way the gods themselves were created.Read 1. 4. 11 very carefully: notice how it ascribes a certain superiority tothe Ks¸atriya, the ruling aristocratic warrior class, whilst maintaining acertain priority for the Brahmins. Their power is ‘the womb’ of thepower of the rulers – that from which it issues. So it’s a bad idea for awarrior to injure a priest, for he harms the source of his own power.This is philosophy and theology, but clearly it is good practical politicsas well.

A reader new to this tradition of thought will find much that is strikinglyalien. There is the doctrine of the correspondences between the parts ofthe sacrificial horse (this was the most prestigious of the Vedicsacrifices) and parts or aspects of the world: the year, the sky, the earth.

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17. The Raja consults his priests.

There is the faith in etymology, as when a longer word is shown to bemade up – approximately – of two shorter words, and this fact is takenas indicating the genesis or inner nature of whatever it is that the longerword describes. The knowledge of this strange lore, the text repeatedlyinsists, is highly advantageous: ‘A man who knows this will stand firmwherever he may go’; and ‘Whoever knows this, . . . death is unable toseize him . . . and he becomes one of these deities’. So we should valuethis knowledge, and therefore we should value the people who guardit – the priests.

It isn’t necessarily what the priest can do for you – it may be what he cando to you. Don’t go messing about with a Brahmin’s wife. As BU 6. 4. 12makes abundantly clear, he will know just the ritual for getting back atyou. And ‘A man cursed by a Brahmin having this knowledge is sure todepart from this world bereft of his virility and stripped of his goodworks . . . . Never try to flirt with the wife of a learned Brahmin who knows this, lest one make an enemy of a man with this knowledge.’ Youhave been warned.

Of course it isn’t just priests who need to be needed. It’s also doctorsand dustbin men and game show presenters and advertisingconsultants. And – I almost forgot – philosophy professors. They allexist because of people’s beliefs and values, hopes and fears.

The working classes

The industrialization of Western Europe brought wealth to a few and themost deplorable conditions of life to many. The many quickly found achampion in Karl Marx (1818–83), whose work, it is no exaggeration tosay, changed the political face of all those parts of the globe wherethere was such a thing as politics at all. Only in the last decade has itsinfluence begun to wane. It may have been a victim of its own success –after all, there is no test of a theory like actually trying it out. (That’s theprinciple which underlies the enormous power of the experimental

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method in the sciences.) And no political theory ever gets a proper trialunless a lot of people are already convinced of it.

Here we have an opportunity to spot some of those connections whichare to be found all over the history of philosophy. Marx was no discipleof Hegel – in some respects he was violently opposed to him. Butnobody of that time was untouched by Hegelianism. Like Hegel, Marxheld that history exhibits a necessary progression; unlike Hegel, he heldthe driving force to be economic: the material conditions of life. LikeHegel, he held that progress was essentially the resolution of conflict;but the conflict was between the economic interests of differentsections of society – hence the famous ‘class struggle’ of the Marxists.And he held a version of the doctrine we saw to be so important toHegel: the value of being in touch with your ‘Other’, something that‘has something of yourself in it’, as we often say.

Marx made full use of this idea in his analysis of the contemporaryeconomic system, characterized by the conflict of interest between theworking classes and the capitalists, the owners of the ‘means ofproduction’ (i.e. the factories). His sympathies lay firmly with thecurrent underdogs, the workers. The crucial thing was that they,needing to make a living and having nothing else to sell, were sellingtheir labour – working in return for a wage. Not much of a wage,because those buying their labour had no interest in paying them anymore than was necessary to keep them working. This ensured for themand their families a life of acute and degrading poverty.

But another, more spiritual, feature of the situation was pressing heavilyon them too – the fact that the work they were doing was not reallytheir work: ‘the work is external to the worker, it is not a part of hisnature . . . not the satisfaction of a need, merely a means to satisfyingother needs. . . . in work he does not belong to himself but to someoneelse’. The unsatisfied need is the need to express oneself in what onedoes.

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Diagnosis is one thing, a cure is another. It turns out to be just aspossible to experience alienation when the work one is doing is notone’s own but the State’s as when it is not one’s own but thecompany’s. That much identification with the interests of thecommunity, when the community is a large and complex one, is noteasily achieved or maintained. And even if it were, that would just helpto make work endurable. If what you do is stand by a conveyor belttightening the lids on jars of marmalade it may make things lessintolerable to be doing it for Mother Russia than for the GlobalMarmalade Corporation. But that does nothing whatever to make itsomething positive, an expression of your personality or skills or ameans to the development of your potential. Nowadays we speak of ‘jobsatisfaction’. Not all of us get it – the problem hasn’t gone away.

Women

We have been bounding from topic to topic, person to person, acrossthe globe and three millennia like a package tour gone mad. Butnobody has been introduced to philosophy until they have seen, in atleast one case, a little more deeply into some one philosopher’s mind.We have had a glimpse of two famous works by John Stuart Mill,Utilitarianism and On Liberty. The first told us that the Good washappiness, the second that happiness requires individual freedom. Hisalmost equally famous essay The Subjection of Women (1869) tells usthat that means everyone, not just adult males.

The practical politician in Mill takes aim at a quite specific and (in theoryat least) easily remedied abuse: ‘the legal subordination of one sex tothe other is wrong in itself, and now one of the chief hindrances tohuman improvement; . . . it ought to be replaced by a principle ofperfect equality’. Present family law, he argued, amounted to theenslavement of wives. He meant the word quite literally, as his accountof the legal position in Chapter 2 shows. What he wants changed,however, is the entire package of practices and opinions which deny

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What’s in it for whom?women equal educational opportunities and then equal access, onmerit, to all occupations and positions of influence.

Any major philosophy needs potential beneficiaries, even in cases wherethe benefit may be imaginary. In seeking to improve the lot of womenMill has plenty of beneficiaries to appeal to. But he believes that theconstituency for his views is 100 per cent of mankind, not just 50. Hewrites about the injustice to women and the damage done to their livesby existing conditions, but he writes almost as much about the loss toeverybody. The suppression of women’s talents is ‘a tyranny to themand a detriment to society’. History tells us a good deal about whatwomen can do, because women have done it. It tells us nothing aboutwhat they can’t do, and it never will until they are routinely given the opportunity. (As I write, 130-something years later, a young woman is inthe lead in the closing stages of a single-handed round-the-world sailingrace, an event that must make demands on mental and physical staminabeyond anything I can imagine.)

Mill also believes that men are damaged as individuals, often in ways theyare not likely to notice (which is itself part of the damage). For it is notgood for anyone to be brought up to believe themselves superior toothers, especially when it happens, as it frequently does, to be otherswhose faculties are in fact superior to theirs. On the other hand, harshthough it may sound, living one’s life around a close relationship withsomeone of inferior ‘ability and cultivation’ is detrimental to the superiorparty. Yet many men find themselves in just this situation, married towomen whose limitations are no less real just because they are anenforced artificial product of a thoroughly pernicious system. Those menmay think they are winning, but the truth is that everyone’s a loser.

Thank goodness things have improved since 1869. A bit. In some partsof the world. For the time being.

Given our topic it would be strange to draw attention only to something

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written by a man. But there is an obvious, indeed almost obligatory,place to turn. Simone de Beauvoir’s massive The Second Sex (1949) hasbeen the inspiration of so much feminist writing ever since. Were Iallowed a brief return to life in about 200 years’ time I would not besurprised to find it rated one of the most influential books of thetwentieth century.

Like Mill, Beauvoir is concerned with the liberty of women; unlike Mill,she is not particularly concerned with the connection between libertyand happiness. She denies that there are any interesting generalstatements about what women are like, for what they are like is aresponse to their circumstances, some of which are social and thereforehighly variable. (Mill appeared to think that there might be some suchgeneralizations, but denied that any were known.) Besides, Beauvoirstands in the existentialist tradition and holds that how we react to ourcircumstances is a free decision for each of us – to pretend that we arewholly determined by our circumstances is inauthenticity, abdication of responsibility.

I have space enough only to touch one of the themes of this long andconstantly lively book. In Chapter 7 I spoke of the enormous influence ofHegel, and mentioned his doctrine of self-knowledge: it arises whenone meets aspects of oneself in something else, or one’s ‘Other’. Seizingon the psychological truth in this, whilst completely ignoring Hegel’sgrand metaphysics, Beauvoir develops her most characteristic doctrine:woman is man’s Other, and the self-understanding of both depends on it.

When the Other is itself a subject, a person, the situation becomes morecomplicated and potentially very damaging. I’m watching you watchingme watching you . . . How A sees B affects B, so it alters what A finds inB. And this (recall the doctrine about self-knowledge) alters A’sperception of A, which then affects A, both of which affect how Asees B . . . Just once get something badly wrong, as when man enslavedwoman, thinking that that was good for him, and woman accepted

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What’s in it for whom?enslavement, thinking that was the only choice for her, and all relationsbetween the sexes are going to get entangled in a net of error andartificiality. Now ‘whatever he does . . . he feels tricked and she feelswronged’. The reciprocity of the relationship means that neither partyalone can put it right: Beauvoir appeals simultaneously to men torecognize the independence and equality of women, and to women tobecome just that, by realizing that it is indeed the truth aboutthemselves.

So on the very last page comes a sentence which, whilst completelycharacteristic of Beauvoir, could almost have been written by Mill:‘when we abolish the slavery of half of humanity, together with thewhole system of hypocrisy that it implies, then the “division” ofhumanity will reveal its genuine significance and the human couple willfind its true form’. He, coming from the empiricist and utilitarianismtradition, and she, against the totally different background of Hegel plusexistentialism, end up remarkably close together. It almost makes youthink they might be right . . .

Animals

Anyone promoting the interests of animals – non-human animals –faces an initial problem: animals can’t read. So the writer will have toconvince an audience distinct from the group he seeks to benefit, whichcalls for one or both of two strategies: either appeal to their betternature, or argue that they will benefit too. We saw the second of thoseat work in attempts to engage the support of the laity for thepriesthood; Mill and Beauvoir used both in trying to rally men to thecause of women’s emancipation.

The situation is even less promising when most of those to whom youare appealing benefit, or think they benefit, from the very practices youare trying to have abolished. Lots of people like to eat meat, lots ofpeople believe that humans benefit enormously from medical research

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conducted by means of experiments on animals. Feminist writers hadsomething of the same problem when they tried to win men over totheir views, but at least they had a direct constituency in women;‘animalists’ have no direct constituency at all.

Buddhism, without going to extremes, is naturally protective towardsanimals. I say ‘naturally’, because Buddhism retains the Hindu beliefthat souls return again and again to life, and that what is in oneincarnation a human may in another be an animal. The Buddha oncelived as a hare. Christianity had no such metaphysics, nor the attachedscruples – ask an Indian cow whether metaphysics matters! Adam wascreated Lord over the animals, and they were created for the use ofmankind. We have rational souls, but they don’t, which leaves themoutside the moral sphere. (St Thomas Aquinas (1225–74) said so, amongothers.) That one ran and ran. Hume took a pop at it (see p. 26 above),but still it went on running.

As the founder of the utilitarianism that Mill espoused and developed,Jeremy Bentham (1748–1832) took pain and pleasure to be the morallydecisive categories, and famously declared of animals: ‘The question isnot, Can they reason? nor, Can they talk? but, Can they suffer?’ (Theycan, of course, so they enter into the utilitarian equation and we havemoral responsibilities towards them.) But that was an incidentalpassage from a book devoted to human welfare. It was only veryrecently that we began to get whole books explicitly about the moralityof our treatment of animals (see Bibliography), a fact which mayreflect the tricky tactical situation which their authors have to address.

Their doctrines have made enormous progress over the last twenty orthirty years – the tactical problem wasn’t insoluble. They were able toappeal to the sentimentality of those who like to ascribe humancharacteristics to animals. They were able to appeal to the much harderfacts of modern biology, which show, far more convincingly than Humecould have done, that our relationship to animals is a lot closer than

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Aquinas ever imagined. They appealed powerfully to people’sconsciences, asking Bentham’s question whether the suffering ofanimals could be justified by resulting good for humans, and if so, thenwhen? For you might feel a difference between the death ofexperimental mice in return for a substantial advance in the treatmentof cancer, and the death of dogs and bears in a bear-pit for the sake of afew minutes of sport.

Some aspects of animal welfare tie in with another pressing concern –the whole business of damage to, and care for, the natural environment.One such aspect, vegetarianism, is sometimes treated in that way.Using vegetable materials to feed cattle, and then eating the meat, issaid to be a very inefficient way of using the Earth’s resources,compared with eating the vegetables straight off and cutting out thecow in between. So vegetarianism is presented as being, long-term, ineveryone’s self-interest. Good move – the more people are listening,the more point in talking.

Professional philosophers

You will have noticed, perhaps with some surprise, that I have saidnothing about philosophy as it is being written now. That some of it is ofvalue, and will last, I have little doubt, and even less doubt that whatlasts will be a tiny fraction of what is now being published. I could guessat one or two titles, but a guess is exactly what it would be; so I havepreferred to stick to work which we already know to have survived asubstantial test of time. Part of the reason why it has survived the test isthat it was written out of a real feeling that its message was needed forthe benefit of humanity, and we can recognize the passion in it as wellas the intelligence.

There is no reason why today’s philosophical writing shouldn’t be likethis, and some of it is. But one should be aware that most of it is writtenby professionals, people whose livelihood and career prospects require

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18. A professional philosopher – be just a little wary of this man.

them to write and publish on philosophy. Nothing follows from that –after all, Kant and Hegel were professional philosophers too. And itcertainly doesn’t follow that their interest in philosophy isn’t genuine. Butit does mean that amongst the various reasons for them to be interested,some are what I might call artificial. Back in Chapter 1 I spoke ofphilosophers as entering debate to change the course of civilization,not to solve little puzzles. But in today’s world of professionalizedphilosophy the most brilliant solution of a puzzle can get its author avery long way indeed; the temptations and pressures are there to writeon puzzles, for other professional philosophers, and let civilizationtake its own course.

That is not – please! – to be read as a blanket condemnation ofeverything now emerging from university philosophy departments. It ismeant as advice to someone making their first approach to philosophywith the help of this Very Short Introduction. If you are leafing throughthe latest philosophy book from some academic press, or a recent issue

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of a top professional journal, and find yourself unable to see what is goingon or what claim it could possibly have on your attention, don’t transferyour reaction to the whole of philosophy en bloc. It may be that you arelooking at a detail from some much larger picture that you don’t yet havethe experience to recognize. Or the worst may be true, and you really arereading the philosopher’s equivalent of a chess problem, somethinghighly ingenious but with no wider significance. Whilst developing yourown powers of discrimination, stick to the good old classics.

For no such doubts need arise about any of the philosophers I have triedto introduce you to. We know that they were writing from the heart aswell as from the head. Alongside their enormous merits they may havetheir faults, to be sure: unsuspected ignorance, prejudice, overconfidence,obscurity – just to get the list started. But as I hope to haveindicated, philosophy is as wide as life, and in its huge literature areexemplified most intellectual vices as well as most intellectual virtues.Wishing it were otherwise would be close to wishing that human beingsdidn’t have minds.

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Bibliography

Where to go next?

My time is up. But I promised to leave you with the names and addresses, so to speak, of some guides with whom you can begin to gofurther and deeper. It is worth noticing that some very prominentphilosophers have devoted time and care to writing introductions. Thisis no matter of churning out a standard textbook: every route intophilosophy is to some extent personal.

Introductions

T. Nagel, What Does it All Mean? (New York and Oxford: OxfordUniversity Press, 1987)

In this very short book Tom Nagel, eschewing all mention of history andaiming straight for the problems, gives the reader a taste of ninedifferent areas: knowledge, other people’s minds, the mind–bodyrelation, language and meaning, freedom of the will, right and wrong,justice, death, and the meaning of life. Just right for your first piece ofreading – see what grabs you.

S. W. Blackburn, Think (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999)

The perfect thing to move on to after Nagel. Takes on several of thesame themes as Nagel’s book, plus God and Reasoning, now at greaterlength and depth; frequent quotation of historical sources, so beginning

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to communicate a sense of the (Western) philosophical tradition. Veryentertainingly written.

B. Russell, The Problems of Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press,1912)

A classic introductory book, still going after nearly ninety years. Don’tmiss the last chapter – Russell’s claims for the value of philosophy –even though some of it may nowadays seem just a little grandiose andoptimistic.

Histories of philosophy

B. Russell, History of Western Philosophy (London: George Allen & Unwin,1946)

A remarkable book synthesizing a mountain of material in a mostengaging way. Enjoy it, but don’t be surprised if you later hear theopinion that Russell’s account of some particular thinker is limited, ormisses the main point, or is distorted by his intense dislike ofChristianity.

F. Copleston, A History of Philosophy (8 vols. London: Burns & Oates,1946–66)

Nothing like so much fun as Russell, but comprehensive and reliableand suitable for serious study. With a different publisher (SearchPress), Copleston later added a volume on French philosophyfrom the Revolution onwards, and another on philosophy inRussia.

S. Radhakrishnan, Indian Philosophy (2 vols. Delhi: Oxford UniversityPress, 1996; 1st publ. 1929)

Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, President of India 1962–7, earlier heldprofessorships in Calcutta and Oxford. The Indian philosophicalPhilosophy

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tradition is deep and sophisticated; the Western reader will oftencome across familiar thoughts and arguments, fascinatinglytransformed by the unfamiliar background. Don’t panic if you seea few words of Sanskrit.

Reference works

There are now several good one-volume works of this kind: The Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy, by Simon Blackburn; The Oxford Companion to Philosophy, ed. Ted Honderich; The Cambridge Dictionary of Philosophy,ed. Robert Audi (first two Oxford University Press, the last CambridgeUniversity Press).

The best multi–volume work in English is (though I say it myself – tounderstand why I say that, take a close look at the photo on p. 117) TheRoutledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Not, in most cases, for theindividual pocket! This is one to read in a big public library or auniversity library, or via some such institution which subscribes to theinternet version.

Works referred to in the text

Chapter 2

Plato, Crito. Handy and accessible is The Last Days of Socrates (PenguinBooks) which contains The Apology, Crito, and Phaedo in a translationby Hugh Tredennick. My only complaint is that the Stephanusnumbering is indicated at the top of the page, instead of being givenfully in the margin. Should you feel yourself getting keen on Plato agood buy is Plato: Complete Works, ed. J. Cooper and D. S. Hutchinson(Hackett Publishing Co.).

Chapter 3

David Hume, Of Miracles, section X of An Enquiry Concerning HumanUnderstanding. Many editions. Try that by L. A. Selby-Bigge (OxfordBibliography

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University Press), which includes Hume’s Enquiry Concerning thePrinciples of Morals. Other writings on religion by Hume, also easilyavailable, are his Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion and The NaturalHistory of Religion.

Chapter 4

Anon., The Questions of King Milinda is available in an inexpensiveabridged version edited by N. K. G. Mendis (Kandy, Sri Lanka: BuddhistPublication Society, 1993).Plato, Phaedrus 246a ff. and 253d ff. Plato compares the soul to a chariot.Anon., Katha Upanishad, 3. 3–7, 9: the soul is compared to a chariot inthe early Indian tradition. An easily available edition of the mainUpanishads is in the Oxford University Press World Classics series in atranslation by Patrick Olivelle.

Chapter 5

Epicurus: The early historian of philosophy Diogenes Laertius wrote awork called Lives of the Eminent Philosophers, published in the LoebClassical Library by Harvard University Press (2 vols.) The last sectionof vol. 2 is devoted entirely to Epicurus, and reproduces some of hiswritings. (Apart from these only a few fragments have come down tous.)John Stuart Mill, Utilitarianism. This short work, and Mill’s On Liberty (seebelow under Ch. 8) can both be found in a volume in the Everyman’sLibrary series published in London by J. M. Dent & Sons and in NewYork by E. P. Dutton & Co.Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan. One good option is the edition by RichardTuck published by Cambridge University Press. The famous chapterabout the state of nature is part 1, chapter 13.Plato, Republic 453–66. Plato’s abolition of the family – or should onerather say his introduction of a new, non-biological concept of thefamily? – and his reasons for it.Philosophy

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Chapter 6

Lucretius, Of the Nature of Things, translated by R. E. Latham,introduction by John Godwin, Penguin Books. Lucretius, a Roman ofthe first century bc, put the doctrines of Epicurus into Latin verse withthe clear intention of converting his compatriots if he could. Godwin’sintroduction begins: ‘This book should carry a warning to the reader:it is intended to change your life’. The original title is De Rerum Natura.Berkeley, Three Dialogues between Hylas and Philonous. Numerouseditions: a good bet is Roger Woolhouse’s edition, published byPenguin Books, which also contains Berkeley’s Principles of HumanKnowledge.Kant, Critique of Pure Reason. Still the best translation is that by NormanKemp Smith, published by Macmillan. But beginners beware: this isvery hard reading.Sanchez, Quod Nihil Scitur. This is highly specialized stuff, but since Imentioned it in the text I give the details here: edited and translatedby Elaine Limbrick and Douglas Thomson, published by CambridgeUniversity Press.Descartes, Meditations. Many editions available. But just in case you findyourself getting interested in Descartes try (in its paperback version)The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, translated by J. Cottingham,R. Stoothoff, and D. Murdoch, published by Cambridge UniversityPress (2 vols.) The Meditations are in ii. 3–62.Sextus Empiricus, Outlines of Pyrrhonism. Again, this is specializedmaterial. But it would be a pity never to have read at least the firsttwelve sections of book 1, as far as the point where Sextus explainswhat the Sceptical philosophy is for. R. G. Bury’s translation ispublished in the Loeb Classical Library by Harvard UniversityPress.

Chapter 7

Descartes, Discourse on the Method. Numerous editions: see therecommendation for Descartes’s Meditations just above. The Discourseon the Method is in i. 111–51. Parts of Descartes’ Treatise on Man,Bibliography

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from which the illustration on p. 80 of this book was taken, are onpp. 99–108Hegel, Introduction to the Philosophy of History. An excellent translation isthat by H. B. Nisbet and published by Cambridge University Pressunder the title Hegel, Lectures on the Philosophy of World History:Introduction. Pp. 25–151 give you all you need.Charles Darwin, The Origin of Species. To be recommended is the editionby J. W. Burrow published by Penguin Books. If you haven’t time forthe whole of it, at least read chapters 1–4 and 14 (the closing chapter).Nietzsche, The Genealogy of Morals. Translating Nietzsche’s resonant andinventive German is a tricky business; that may be why so manyEnglish translations are presently available. The two I can recommendare those by W. Kaufmann and R. J. Hollingdale, published by VintageBooks, and by Douglas Smith, published by Oxford University Press intheir World Classics series. (But if you can comfortably read Nietzschein German don’t even think about reading him in any otherlanguage.) The central passage about the activities of the ‘asceticpriest’ is 3. 10–22 – but don’t limit yourself to that.

Chapter 8

John Stuart Mill, On Liberty. This and Mill’s essay Utilitarianism (seeabove under Chapter 5) are in a volume in the Everyman’s Libraryseries published in London by J. M. Dent & Sons and in New York byE. P. Dutton & Co.John Stuart Mill, The Subjection of Women. Available in a volume calledJohn Stuart Mill: Three Essays, introduction by Richard Wollheim,published by Oxford University Press; or by itself in a very inexpensiveversion from Dover Publications.Anon., Br ¸hada¯ranyaka Upanishad. As with the Katha Upanishad (seeabove), an accessible edition is Patrick Olivelle’s translation of themain Upanishads in the Oxford University Press World Classics series.Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex. The translation by H. M. Parshley isone of the most handsome volumes in the Everyman’s Library series,published by David Campbell Publishers Ltd.Philosophy

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Karl Marx, Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts. This is where thequotation in the text comes from. Someone having their first go atMarx should look to some anthology of his writings, perhaps TheMarx–Engels Reader, ed. R. Tucker, published by Norton and Co. Butbeware: Marx, especially early Marx, often isn’t easy to read – aconsequence of habits of thought and style he got from Hegel.Peter Singer, Animal Liberation, is a notable example of a book devotedto the morality of human relationships with animals, published byNew York Review Books in 1975. Tom Regan’s The Case for AnimalRights (University of California Press, 1983) is another.Bibliography

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Index

absolutism 52

aesthetic relativism 72

afterlife 21

agnosticism 2

agreement breaking 18, 19, 20

analytic philosophy 81

animals 26, 38, 54, 114–16

anthropomorphism 115

anti-Semitism 99

Aquinas, St Thomas 115

Aristophanes 13

Aristotelianism 70, 71, 76

Aristotle 5

Arjuna 40

artificial selection 88

ascetic priests 98–9

astronomy 74–5, 102

ataraxia (peace of mind) 71–2

Athena, goddess 40

atomism 63–4

Beauvoir, Simone de 113–14

beer 54

beliefs 53–5, 94

religious 26–34, 64, 87

scepticism 70

Bentham, Jeremy 115, 116

Berkeley, George

idealism 61, 65–6

opinions 10

Bible 75

body, status of 57

Boethius 6

Brahmins 107

Buddhism 4, 11, 35–45

animals 115

body, status of 57

five aggregates of 37, 38, 42, 43, 44, 56, 57

nirvana 38, 48

self 35–45

bundle theory of the mind 56, 57

capitalists 110

Cartesian, see Descartes, Rene

caste system 38

Catholicism 27

chariot analogy 39–42, 43

choice 53–4

Christianity 27, 94, 98–9, 115

citizens 50–2, 104

civic duty 18, 20, 45

class struggle 110

cognitive science 58

Cogito ergo sum (Descartes) 78

commonsense 70

compassion 96

Confucius 11

consciousness 37, 43, 65, 83–5

consequentialism 45–8, 49–50, 61

contract theory 50–2, 104–5

Copernicus 74, 75

corporate philosophy 8

cosmology 14, 74–5

Crito dialogue (Plato) 12, 14–21, 38, 45, 46, 51, 74, 104

cyclical rebirth 38, 44, 63, 115

Darwin, Charles 87–93

Darwinism 94

death 102–3

democracy 103

Democritus 63–4

Descartes, Rene 5, 92–3, 93–4

Discourse on the Method 76–80

dualism 62, 78

scepticism 70–1, 76

dialectic 85–6

dialectical materialism 64, 86

dispositions 37

dualism 62, 66

Descartes 78

scientific theory and 62–3

education 48, 76, 112

ego 43

empiricism 66–70

Epicureanism 4, 47–8, 64

atomism 64

individual and 101–3

social contract 52

epistemology 55, 61, 66–70

Estienne, Henri 15

ethical consequentialism 45–8

ethical questions 12, 14

existentialism 81, 113

experiences 56–7

experimental animals 116

eyewitness accounts 30–1

falsehoods 28, 39, 41–2

families 52, 111

Fates 84

feelings 37, 43

feminism 5, 113–14, 115

five aggregates of Buddhist

doctrine 37, 38, 42, 43, 44, 56, 57

Forms (Plato) 69

Freud, Sigmund 93

friendship 15–18, 20, 101

Galileo 74, 79

‘gastronomic’ relativism 72, 73

Geist (Spirit) 83–5

Genealogy of Morals (Nietzsche) 93–9

God 26, 28, 43, 78–9, 83–4, 92

good/goodness consequentialism 45–9

happiness 49, 103, 111

Nietzsche 95

relative 72

Greek philosophy 11–23, 55, 63–4, 71–2

happiness 50

ataraxia 71–2

Epicureanism 101

Mill 49, 103, 111

Harm Principle 103

hate 96

Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 61–2, 66, 89

Marx and 110

Philosophy of History 81–6

reason 69–70

self-knowledge 82–3, 113

Hercules 40

‘herd morality,’ 96–7

Hinduism 4, 38, 115

history 83–5

History of England (Hume) 24

Hobbes, Thomas 5, 106

contract theory 52, 104–5

human beings 24, 26

human suffering 98

Hume, David 115, 116

on Berkeley’s arguments 66

bundle theory of the mind 56

miracles 24–34

rationality 53, 54

self 57, 58

Idea Hegel 82–5

reason and 69–70

idealism 61, 63, 64–6

Indian philosophy 4, 11, 63, 64, 67–8, 107

individual, the Epicureanism and 101–3

Hegel on 86

relativism and 73

industrialization 109

integrity 49–50

job satisfaction 111

Johnson, Dr 65

justice 12

Kant, Immanuel 5

morality 18, 23

power of reason 54

reason and perception 69

karma 43

Katha Upanishad 41

Kierkegaard, Soren 81

knowledge, see epistemology Krishna 40

laws of nature 28, 30, 32–3

Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm 42

Lewis, C. S. 91, 92

Locke, John 105

Loka￣yatas 63, 64, 67–8

love 14, 96

Lucretius 64

Mahabharata 40

majority opinion 15, 17

Marx, Karl 5, 62, 64, 66, 86, 109

material goods 48

materialism 63–4, 66, 67

memory 31–2

mental formations 37, 43

metaphysics 43, 61, 66

dualism 62–3, 66

idealism 63, 64–6

materialism 63–4, 66, 67

meteorology 102

Mill, John Stuart 48, 103, 111–12, 115

miracles 27–34

moksha 38

Moore, G. E. 81

moral relativism 72

morality

Kant 18, 23

Nietzsche 94–7

religion and 21

Nagasena (Buddhist monk)35–45

natural sciences 8–9

natural selection 87–92

Nature 28, 30, 32–3, 82–3, 91, 105

Newton, Isaac 79

Nietzsche, Friedrich 2, 93–9

nirvana 38, 48

no-self doctrine, see five

aggregates of Buddhist

doctrine

obligations 21, 23

opinions 10, 15, 17

Origin of Species, The (Darwin)87–93

original sin 92

Other, the (Beauvoir) 113

pain 115

absence of 47–8

parental authority 51

perception 37, 43, 56, 63, 67–8

philosophy definition of 5–6

historical context of 58–60

history of 110

professionalized 116–19

terminology 61

physics 79, 102

physiology 79, 80

pigeons, and artificial selection 88, 89

Plato 60, 105

chariot analogy 41

Crito dialogue 12, 14–21, 38, 45, 46, 51, 74, 104

emphasis on the soul 57

on the family 52

Forms 69, 82

pleasure 46, 47, 101–2, 115

political authority 50–2

power Harm Principle 103

of priests within their community 105

will to 96–7

priesthood 98–9, 105–9

Providence 83

psychoanalysis 93

pyrrhonism 71–2

Quintessence 75

rationalism 66–70

rationality 52–5

reality 69–70, 81–3

Reason 83

Cunning of 84

Descartes 92–3

goals and 54

Hume 26

Ideas and 69–70

reincarnation 38, 44, 115

relativism 72–3

religion

belief 26–34, 64, 87, 94

morality and 21

Republic (Plato) 11, 52

reputations 15, 16, 17, 20

retaliation 18, 19

revelations 28

ruling class 95, 97, 99, 107

Russell, Bertrand 81

salvation 4, 38

Sanchez, Francisco 70

scepticism 2, 3, 55, 70–1

Descartes 70–1, 76, 79

Nietzsche 93–4

scientific knowledge 32–4, 62–3, 102

Scientific Revolution 75

self 37–45, 56–8

self-knowledge 82–3, 93, 113

Sextus Empiricus 71

sexual drive 91

‘situated’ thought 58

social contracts 50–2

Social Darwinism 91

social reform 48

social value systems 95–7

Socrates 45, 46, 104

Crito dialogue 12, 14–21, 51

historical and literary

character 12

integrity of 49

soul 38

trial of 14

Sophist, The (Plato) 12

soul 57, 63, 69

sovereignty 104–5

specialization 9

Spencer, Herbert 89, 91

State, the 104–5

contract theory and 50–2

Stephanus numbering 15

Stoics 71

suffering

alleviation of 43

animal 115–16

human 98

suicide 16

supernatural 7

superstitious fear 102

survival of the fittest 89, 91

taxation 50

testimonial evidence 28–9

totalitarianism 50

transmigration of souls 115

tropes 71

undergraduate courses 9

university philosophy

departments 9, 118

Upanishads 11, 107

utilitarianism 48–50, 103, 115

value-systems 95–7

Vedas 11, 107, 109

vegetarianism 116

virtue 12

wholes 42

will to power concept

96–7

wisdom 15

Wittgenstein, Ludwig 81

women 111–14

Woolston, Thomas 27

working class 109–11

Zen Buddhism 3

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Categories: Philosophy - Edward Craig Tags: Edward Craig, Introduction, Oxford, Philosophy

Philosophy: A Very Short Introduction – Edward Craig (from p 67)

March 4, 2011 dsiloha Leave a comment

Page 1, 2, 3, 4

10. Every subject talks its own talk.

In a rough and ready way we all make a distinction between perceivingand thinking. It is one thing to see the objects on your table, notice thatone is a pen and one a computer; it is another thing to think aboutthem, wonder if they still work, or what to do if they don’t. And we areused to the idea that astronomers spend long hours looking at the sky,whereas mathematicians just seem to sit there working things out,feeling no need to look at anything at all except what they themselveshave written down. So here, on the face of it, are two quite differentways of acquiring knowledge. Some philosophers have favoured one ofthem at the expense of the other: ‘empiricism’ is a very general word fordoctrines that favour perceiving over thinking, ‘rationalism’ fordoctrines that favour thinking over perceiving.

There may have been philosophers who held that only what could beperceived could be known, so allowing no cognitive powers at all tothought, inference and reason. Something of much that kind is reportedof the Loka¯yatas, whom we met above in connection with materialism.10. Every subject talks its own talk.

According to some reports of their thinking they went even further,saying that only what can be perceived exists. If so (but remember thatall the reports we have were written by their opponents!), they surelyoverreached themselves. Nobody who thinks that knowledge is only ofwhat you have perceived can claim to know that nothing imperceptibleexists, since that isn’t something you could possibly perceive. (It wouldmake as much sense as claiming to be able to hear that nothinginaudible exists.)

An empiricist who holds that only perception yields knowledge neednot be saying that the process of perception itself involves nothought whatever, so that we can have as it were pure perceptionuntainted by any thinking. Even to look at my table and see thatthere is a pen on it requires more of me than just passivelyregistering the light patterns that enter my eyes. I need to know alittle about pens, at the very least about what they look like, andthen bring this knowledge to bear, otherwise I shall no more see apen than does the camera with which we photograph the pen.Perception is interpretative, whereas cameras merely record patternsof light. So a less crude empiricism will allow that classification,thought, inference, and reason all have their legitimate role. But itwill take its stand on the point that they cannot generate a singleitem of knowledge on their own. It may be true that there is nothought-free perception; but it is also true that there is noperception-free knowledge. All claims to knowledge answer, in theend, to perception; it may be possible for them to go beyondperception, but they must start from it.

The empiricist can offer a powerful argument for this view; any wouldberationalist must have an answer ready. In perception we are insome kind of contact with objects around us; they have an effect onour senses. But if we try to think in complete independence ofperception, where is the link between us and the objects we are tryingto think about? For if there is no such link, then there is the world, and

here are we thinking away to ourselves. That sounds like a recipe forpure fantasy, perhaps interspersed with the very occasional lucky guess. Let us take a quick look at how three philosophers of strongly rationalist tendencies, Plato, Kant, and Hegel, responded to this challenge.

What reason can tell us, according to Plato, is not directly about theworld of the senses at all, but about eternal, transcendent entitiescalled Ideas or Forms: the Good, the Just, the Equal, the Beautiful.Things we perceive with the senses are good, equal, and so on just inso far as they ‘participate’ in these Forms or approximate to thestandards set by them. But how does Reason get its knowledge of theForms? Plato (as you will know by now if you took my advice to readhis Phaedo as a follow-up to Crito) made use of a belief far fromunknown to ancient Greek thought. The soul has existed before itentered its present body. In that existence it encountered – Plato hintsobscurely at something analogous to perception – the Forms, and inrational thought it is now brought to remember what it then learntof them.

Kant, who was happy to concede far more to empiricism than Plato orHegel, met the challenge in a novel and radical way. Reason cannot tellus anything about things imperceptible – it can only tell us what, ingeneral terms, our experience is bound to be like. And it can do this only because our experience is shaped by our own minds. Reason, operating onits own, is really only telling us how our minds work – which is why itcan do what it does without needing to draw on our perceptions of therest of the world.

Hegel’s response is not unlike Plato’s, in that he begins with a system ofthoughts or universals which he collectively calls ‘The Idea’. This is thedriving force which structures the whole of reality, which includes ourminds and the categories in which we think, as well as the rest of realitywhich is what we are thinking about. That is why we can expect our

reason, even when used on its own independently of perception, to bein tune with the world. The reasoning subject and its object share astructure, that of the Idea.

These three examples show us that the opposition between empiricismand rationalism is not a minor skirmish. Those who begin by takingopposite sides at this point can end up worlds apart, metaphysicallyspeaking. But I do not mean to suggest that only rationalism facesdifficulties and empiricism is problem-free. Not so, as we shall soonfind out.

Another much-used ‘ism’ is scepticism. One can be sceptical, of course,about specific things like the probity of the Olympic Committee, theexistence of UFOs, or the value of a low-fat diet, but when ‘scepticism’occurs in philosophical texts it usually refers to something much moregeneral: the rejection of a wide range of claims to knowledge, or doubtsabout a large class of beliefs. It isn’t just their number, of course. Anyscepticism worthy of a place in the history books must be aimed atbeliefs that are actually held, and are held to be important – no medalsare awarded for shelling the desert.

This means that there can be plenty of thought which was sceptical inits own time, but now reads differently. A good example would be QuodNihil Scitur (‘That Nothing is Known’), by the Portuguese philosopher/medic Francisco Sanchez (1551–1623). A more sceptical-sounding title itwould be hard to find, but what follows seems to us not so muchscepticism as a vigorous attack on Aristotelianism, then prevalent butnow long since discredited. When sceptics succeed they cease to looklike sceptics; they look like critics who were right.

Other forms of scepticism have a longer shelf-life. These are the oneswhose targets are perennial human beliefs, or everyday beliefs, or whatis often called common sense. The most famous example of moderntimes occurs at the beginning of Descartes’s Meditations, where we are

threatened with the possibility that the senses cannot be relied upon totell us anything whatever about the world, not even that there is one.But Descartes is on the programme for the next chapter, so let us herelook back instead to the school of Pyrrho (roughly: 365–275 bc), sourceof the most developed sceptical philosophy we know. It can all be foundin a single book, Outlines of Pyrrhonism by Sextus Empiricus. Sextus, inhis prime around ad 200, here reports in loving detail the aims,arguments, and conclusions of the system. Happy the movement thatfinds a chronicler like him.

The early pyrrhonists had worked hard. They had catalogued ten‘tropes’, or ways of arguing for their sceptical conclusion that we haveno sufficient grounds for any conviction as to what things are reallylike, as opposed to how they appear to us. Faced with a ‘dogmatist’ –one of the politer names they called people like Aristotelians and Stoicswho claimed to know such things – their favourite strategy was to findsome animal to which things would appear differently, or other humanbeings to whom they appeared differently, or circumstances underwhich they would appear differently to the claimants themselves, andthen to argue that there was no way of resolving the disagreementwithout arbitrarily favouring one viewpoint over the rest. In onepassage Sextus argues that there is no reason to privilege the waysomething seems to a dogmatist over the way it seems to a dog.Readers will occasionally catch him arguing from premisses which asceptic might be expected to find untrustworthy. Perhaps he, and thepyrrhonists, were not always speaking to eternity, but to theircontemporaries – and felt that what they accepted could legitimatelybe used against them.

Nowadays one often hears it asked what the point of a comprehensivescepticism could be – asked rhetorically, with the implication that itcan have no point whatever. But the pyrrhonists certainly thoughtthat their scepticism had a point: the achievement of tranquillity ofmind, untroubledness, ataraxia. They knew a thing or two about

peace of mind. If you want to insist on the truth of your point ofview, remember that there is a cost: life is going to be a perpetualintellectual brawl. And if the brawl stays intellectual, you’ll havebeen lucky; especially in religion and politics, these things havebeen known to end in bombs and burnings. I think they knewsomething else as well: moving from how things immediately appearto our senses to what they are really like is a much slower, morehazardous and laborious enterprise than many of their contemporariesrealized.

The pyrrhonists’ favourite sceptical manoeuvre was to remind us thathow a thing appears does not just depend on the thing: it depends onthe condition of the person to whom it appears, and the mediumthrough which it appears. Which ushers in our final ‘ism’: relativism.Relativism is not a specific doctrine, but a type of doctrine – I mightadd, a type much in vogue with intellectuals at the moment. Thegeneral idea is easy to grasp. A moral relativist will hold that there is nosuch thing as good (pure and simple), rather there is good-in-thissociety,good-in-that-society. An aesthetic relativist rejects the idea thatan object might simply be beautiful; we always have to ask ‘Beautiful forwhom, in whose eyes?’ A ‘gastronomic relativist’ won’t be interested inthe question whether pineapple tastes nice – it has to be ‘tastes nice towhom, when, and in combination with what?’ A literary relativistdoesn’t believe that texts have meanings – except at best in the sensethat they have a variety of meanings for a variety of readers, andprobably even for one reader at different times. A relativist aboutrationality will say that what is rational is relative to cultures, with theconsequence (for instance) that it is illegitimate to apply ‘western’scientific standards to traditional African beliefs about witchcraft andpronounce them irrational.

That bunch of examples illustrates a number of points about relativism.One is that the initial plausibility of different cases of relativism varieswidely. Many people will find aesthetic relativism easily acceptable, and

some will think that what I have called ‘gastronomic relativism’ isobviously true. That rationality is culture-relative is a much more difficultdoctrine, as is relativism about moral values. These doctrines do not say,remember, that different beliefs are accounted rational in differentsocieties, and different moral values avowed, for this nobody doubts.They say that what these really are can differ from society to society, andthat is about as far from obvious as you can get. So if you hear someonegoing on about relativism without saying relativism about what, give abadly concealed yawn.

The examples illustrate another important point. It isn’t just what theparticular relativism is about, it is also what it relativizes to: theindividual, a society, a culture (there are plenty of multiculturalsocieties), a historical epoch, or what. Those forms of relativism, like the‘gastronomic’, which can plausibly focus on the individual, have a bigadvantage: unlike societies, cultures, and epochs, it is clear where anindividual begins and ends. If Europeans shouldn’t bring their scientificstandards to bear on African beliefs in witchcraft, may they properlybring them to bear on European beliefs in witchcraft? Or only oncontemporary European beliefs in witchcraft? Imagine yourself livingintermingled with a people who, routinely and without moral qualms,abandon unwanted babies and leave them to die. (Such societies haveexisted.) Could you just say ‘Oh, fine. That’s what they think, that’s theirmoral culture, ours is different’, as if it were like ‘They speak French andwe speak English’? Bitter experience suggests that many people areunlikely to find it that easy.

I would be a bad guide if I left you with the impression that a shortparagraph can dispose of moral and intellectual relativism, just likethat. Be aware, though, that in several areas relativism is in for a roughride. The ride is rough theoretically, because of the difficulty of statingclearly just what relativism does and doesn’t say; and it is roughpractically, because of the difficulty of standing by it when the crunchcomes.

Chapter 7 Some more high spots

A personal selection

In Chapters 2, 3, and 4 we looked closely at three pieces of philosophicalwriting. In this chapter I briefly introduce a few more of my favourites.The selection is personal – another author would very likely have madequite different choices. And it can only be a few. But be assured thatthere are plenty more, indeed that however much you read, there willstill be plenty more.

Descartes: Discourse on the Method

In Chapter 2 I remarked that, whereas the ethical discussion presentedin Plato’s Crito could almost have taken place yesterday, Plato’scosmology takes us back to a completely different world. True – but weneedn’t go back that far; four centuries will be enough. In 1600 it was,admittedly, over fifty years since Copernicus had offered hisreplacement for the old Ptolemaic astronomy, moving the sun to thecentre of the solar system and letting the Earth, now just one of anumber of similar planets, circle round it. But few believed him. Galileo(1564–1642) had not yet begun publicly to champion his cause, andwhen he did so by no means everybody believed him.

It was not just that the Earth was displaced from its proud position inthe centre. In fact it wasn’t really that at all, since according to what wewould now call the physics of the day the centre was not a very

desirable place to be: it was where the basest matter tended tocongregate, the cosmic rubbish tip one might almost say. Other factorswere far more important. Passages in the Bible appear to maintain thatthe Earth is stationary; here was an individual prepared to reject or atleast reinterpret those passages on the basis of his own reasoningwithout reference or deference to proper authority. Besides, theclaims made by Copernicus, let alone Galileo, were in conflict with the(neo-Aristotelian) physics and cosmology that held sway in theuniversities.

For an Aristotelian, the baser kinds of matter are earth and water. Unlikethe other two kinds, air and fire, they naturally strive towards the centreof the universe. So a spherical mass of earth and water has formedthere, and this is the Earth. (However often you hear it said, it just isn’ttrue that the medievals believed that the Earth was flat!) But the Moon,the Sun, the planets and stars don’t consist of this sort of matter at all,not even air and fire. They are made of the Quintessence – the fifthelement – incorruptible and unchanging, and all they do is go round incircles, eternally, in godlike serenity. Now the new astronomy wants toblow this distinction away: however things may look and feel fromwhere we are standing, the Earth is itself in the heavens; and theheavenly bodies are not utterly set apart, but are as much properobjects of scientific investigation as the Earth itself. On top of which thenew scientists want to replace explanations couched in terms of naturesand goals with talk of the particles of which things are composed, andof mechanical causation governed by mathematical laws.

All this represented catastrophic intellectual change on several levels atonce. It is often called The Scientific Revolution, a name which capturesits magnitude, but wrongly suggests that it happened quickly. Nowonder that it was accompanied by a rise of scepticism. For if the best ofreceived wisdom, with 2,000 years of triumphant history, was nowseen to be failing, a natural reaction was to despair of humanknowledge altogether and call off the hunt.

René Descartes (1596–1650) viewed Aristotelianism as a time-hallowedsystem of errors. So did the sceptics, but unlike them he also took it tobe an obstacle – an obstacle to human knowledge of nature, likescepticism itself. So he conceived an ambitious plan. (Had he known justhow ambitious he might have stopped in his tracks there and then – sowe should be grateful that he didn’t.) By going back to a point at whichno doubt was even possible and then rebuilding human knowledge byunmistakable steps he would fight his way clear of scepticism, andpresumably of Aristotelianism as well, since he had no expectation thathis reconstruction would lead back in that old, worn, faltering direction.Then he would illustrate the value of this heroic Great Escape of thehuman intellect by demonstrable progress in the sciences: optics,physics, physiology, and meteorology were all topics that he wroteabout.

The Discourse on the Method of rightly using one’s Reason (1637) is not Descartes’s most famous work – that title surely goes to his Meditations(1641). But it has the advantage of giving the reader, in very briefcompass, a taste of most of Descartes’s thought, including veryimportantly an autobiographical account of the circumstances andmotivation from which his whole project arose.

So set aside a couple of hours – easily enough – and begin bysympathizing with Descartes’s frustration when formal education lefthim feeling that ‘I had gained nothing . . . but increasing recognition ofmy ignorance’ and that there was ‘no such knowledge in the world as Ihad previously been led to hope for’. Admittedly, there is value in someof what he has been taught, and he gives a sentence each to theadvantages of languages, history, mathematics, oratory, and poetry –though the latter two are ‘more gifts of the mind than fruits of study’.As for philosophy, its chief ‘advantage’ is that it enables us to ‘speakplausibly about any subject and win the admiration of the lesslearned’ – so much for scholastic Aristotelianism. So the minute he isold enough he chucks it all in and goes travelling, joining in the wars

which were boiling away in Europe at this time. Perhaps men of actionwill have more truth to offer than the scholars; after all, theirmisjudgements really do rebound on them, whereas those of thescholars have no practical consequences and can be false with impunity.

One thing he learns on his travels is how much customs differ fromplace to place, people to people – as he pointedly says, there is as muchvariety as in the opinions of the philosophers – so he had better not relyon anything he has learnt only through ‘custom and example’. At thisstage many people (and nowadays even more than then) might slip intoa forlorn scepticism or a lazy relativism. But not this one. Descartes’sreaction is that if he is to avoid living under the misguidance of falseopinions then once in his life he should dismantle his entire beliefsystemand construct it anew. Which he intends to try – and on his ownwhat’s more.

One has to be amazed at the audacity of this unflinchingly positiveresponse to the crisis that Descartes, doubtless along with many lessarticulate or less self-confident contemporaries, was experiencing. If,that is, we believe that he really meant it – but I know no good reason tothink that he didn’t. In Part 2 of the Discourse we see him striving toreassure any readers who may take him for a social, political, ortheological reformer: ‘No threat to any public institution, it’s only myown beliefs that I’m going to overhaul.’ (Prudent, and a nice try, but notaltogether convincing, is it? As if he weren’t going to recommend hisrenovated belief-system to anyone else!) Then in Part 3 he takes steps toensure that his life can keep ticking over while his beliefs are suspended,for ‘before starting to rebuild your house you must provide yourselfwith somewhere to live while building is in progress’. So he will simplygo along, non-committally, with the most sensible and moderate viewsand behaviour he finds around him. It is a modified version of what hewould have found in Sextus Empiricus’ report of the recommendationsof the ancient sceptics – who faced the same problem permanently,since they had no intention of rebuilding.

Some more high spotsHow is demolition to proceed, and where will Descartes find hisfoundations? At the start of Part 4 he suddenly feigns to go all shy:perhaps he should bypass this bit, as being ‘too metaphysical anduncommon for everyone’s taste’. But then he tells us anyway. What weget in Part 4 is a high-speed résumé of his best-known work, the Meditations on First Philosophy.

First, suspend any belief about which you can think of the slightestgrounds for doubt. (Don’t bother about whether these grounds actuallydo make you feel doubtful – mostly they won’t, but that could just be afact about you.) Since your senses have sometimes deceived you,consider the possibility that they might deceive you at any time, indeedthat they might deceive you all the time – that they have no more statusthan a dream or an hallucination. But what about your belief that youare now thinking? Here doubt really does run dry, because doubtingwhether you are thinking is another case of thinking – the doubt defeatsitself. And if I am thinking, Descartes reflects, then I must exist – wehave reached the notorious Cogito ergo sum.

You may well wonder how Descartes is to rebuild anything on the basisof what little has survived so fierce a test. But he isn’t cowed by the task.He has found that his grasp of his own existence is absolutely secure.But he can raise doubts about everything else, even his own body. So he(his mind, soul, self) must be something else, distinct from his body,and capable of existing without it. The body is one thing, the mindanother – this is the famous (or infamous) Cartesian dualism that wesaw in Chapter 6 (p. 62).

In the next step Descartes observes that he has the idea of a perfectbeing, God, so the question arises: how did he get the ability to thinksuch a thought? As he points out elsewhere, if you had in mind the planof an extremely intricate machine we would think that either you were asuperb engineer yourself or had got the plan from someone who was.And since Descartes knows that he is far from perfect himself he

reckons his idea of a perfect being can’t come from him, but only from abeing that is actually perfect. That idea in his mind is the signature leftby his creator.

Many readers will feel that Descartes’s idea of a perfect being is far toohazy, imprecise, and in a word imperfect to need anything more thanDescartes for its cause. But he held the existence of God to be proved,and took a further step: what he believes when he has achieved theutmost clarity of which he is capable must be true. For otherwise hisGod-given faculties would be misleading in principle, which would makeGod a deceiver, and hence imperfect. So if scepticism says that even ourvery best efforts might lead us to falsehood, just dismiss it.

In Part 5 we are back with autobiography. Descartes turns to hisscientific work, things which he had earlier ‘endeavoured to explain ina treatise which certain considerations prevent me from publishing’.These ‘considerations’ were in fact the condemnation of Galileo’swritings by the Church, as Descartes makes clearer (though withoutmentioning names) in Part 6. There he offers reasons for his decision,and for his further decision to present some of his results in theDiscourse after all. The reasons are fairly convoluted, and don’twholly dispel the suspicion that the case of Galileo had justfrightened him off.

At this stage one of those unfortunate little things happens. Descarteswas a notable mathematician, and no mean performer in physics. True,the work of Isaac Newton (1642–1727) wiped his physics off the maptowards the end of the century, though not before Newton himself hadaccepted it and attempted to work within it until his late thirties. Butthe main example he selects for Part 5 is his theory about how thehuman heart works, and this nowadays sounds just plain quaint andfanciful – he believes it to be much hotter than any other part of thebody, and makes it sound like a distillery in action. (All it distils is blood,some readers may be disappointed to learn.)

11. Descartes as physiologist – a naked Cartesian understandably feeling a bit chilly.

In spite (or partly because) of this glitch the Discourse is a rich andmemorable work. An eminent founder of modern thought grappleswith himself, Aristotelianism, scepticism, academic reaction, public andecclesiastical opinion, physics, cosmology, and physiology, all in aboutfifty pages. Now that I call a real feast.

Hegel: Introduction to the Philosophy of History

We encountered Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831) in Chapter6, though only briefly. His influence has been massive; we shall see twoexamples of it in the next and final chapter, but important as they arethey can give only the barest inkling of the extent of the Hegelphenomenon.And the opposition to him started two very significantmovements: existentialism, through the Danish thinker SørenKierkegaard, and in Britain the analytic school through Moore, BertrandRussell, and the young Ludwig Wittgenstein. It took heavyweights withan alternative on offer to take people’s minds off Hegel, and then theeffect was only partial, local, and temporary.

But there is another reason for introducing a work by Hegel at thispoint. Nearly all the philosophy we have looked at so far begins fromwhat are relatively ordinary, everyday considerations. (Socrates: whatwill happen to my children if I do what my friends are suggesting?Hume: you can’t always believe what other people tell you. Descartes:when there’s so much disagreement between the authorities, what canwe do but go back to basics and start again?) Hegel’s thought in thePhilosophy of History, in contrast, arises out of a grand vision of realityand the forces that move it – this is heavy-duty metaphysics.

Hegel is often said to be a very difficult philosopher. I won’t deny it – ifyou select a page at random and read it from top to bottom you willprobably feel that you might just as well have read it from bottom totop. But one of the most valuable experiences for someone coming newto his philosophy is that of finding how much easier things are if youapproach the text with the grand metaphysical vision already in mind.The big picture is the key, so we begin by trying to get some grasp of it.Remember that I warned you back in Chapter 1 to expect to find somephilosophy weird. You will find Hegel’s less weird, even if you still don’tbelieve a word of it, after you have read the Introduction to thePhilosophy of History. Here goes.

We start with something called ‘The Idea’. Think of it as being ratherlike the Ideas of Plato – a system of abstract universals from whichthings and events in the world take their shapes and natures. But itdiffers from Plato in two important ways. First, it is a highly structuredsystem, and its structure is in a certain sense developmental. I say ‘in acertain sense’ because the Idea doesn’t happen in time, one bit afteranother; Hegel’s doctrine is rather that it embodies a natural order ofthought, so that the thought of one element inexorably leads the mindto another, and the thought of those two to a third, and so on until thewhole system is revealed.

The second big difference is that whereas Plato speaks as if his Ideasexist independently of anything else, Hegel’s Idea can exist only ifsomething embodies it. So there has to be ‘Nature’ – the familiarcollection of concrete objects that surround us. And Nature, since itexists in order to embody the Idea, reflects all the Idea’s properties. The‘development’, which in the Idea was metaphorical, makes a literalappearance in the changing patterns of Nature.

So the Idea and Nature are very closely related: each is a form of theother. But at the same time they are so different that you might wellthink of them as opposites. The Idea is abstract, and neither temporalnor spatial, whereas Nature is spatio-temporal and concrete. The Idea iscomposed of universals, general concepts, whereas Nature comprisesmyriads of particular things. And it is material, which the Idea iscertainly not. Hegel now uses this situation – the existence of oppositeswhich are nevertheless in a sense the same thing – as the starting-pointfor a deeply characteristic move.

Suppose that you want to know something about yourself, say, whatyou really think about some question or other. Should you sit downmeditatively and try to introspect your own thoughts? No – you will justthink you see whatever you wanted to see. You should do something,make something, write something, in general produce something that

expresses you, your own work – and look at it. That is what will tell youabout yourself.

Good advice, and nothing especially new. (‘By our works shall we knowourselves.’) But Hegel now makes a very surprising (and rather obscure)use of it. He holds, remember, that Nature is the concrete expression ofthe Idea. So the Idea is confronted by its own work, and the situation isripe for it to start to understand itself. Thus is born what Hegel callsGeist, usually translated ‘spirit’ – consciousness, awareness. Humanminds are its vehicle, but what is really happening in them is that theIdea is gradually moving towards full self-understanding. (OK, I told youthat this was my example of high-altitude metaphysics!) There’s moreto come: Hegel believes that the whole purpose of reality is preciselythis, that the Idea should come to full knowledge of its own nature. Andthis is to happen in us, in the minds of the human race. No philosopherhas ever cast us in a more prestigious role. Indeed, could there be one?This is the high-water mark of human self-assessment.

So what of history? History begins only when there are conscious beingsand something one might call a culture, that is to say when we havereached Hegel’s Stage 3 – Spirit or Geist. History is driven by Reason, theIdea: Hegel makes no bones of announcing this as established fact,something which philosophy (his own philosophy) has shown. Inhistory, the Idea is working out its rational purposes.

If you find this thought rather alien, remember that to most of Hegel’saudience it would have sounded quite familiar; it is a close relative ofsomething they had been brought up to accept. Providence is at work.Behind all the mundane detail of life, God is realizing his aims. In spite ofeverything, Good is gradually defeating Evil. All is for the best. Thatthought is familiar to all of us, including those of us who snort at it.What makes Hegel’s version of it feel unfamiliar is, first, his conceptionof ‘the best’ – the Idea, the force that drives it all, comes to fullknowledge of its own nature – and second, his highly intellectualized

account of what is doing the driving – not a personal God or deifiedSuperman, but the Idea, something like a system of Platonic forms. Atheology student in his youth, Hegel knows perfectly well how topresent this as a version of the orthodox Christian story (in fact hethinks he is improving on it); and he can preach with the best of them,as you’ll quickly discover as you read.

But history, surely, is driven by the actions of human beings? And theyhave their own human schemes, interests, and motives – one thing theyaren’t trying to do is ensure that the Idea comes to perfect selfknowledge.(How could they be? Most of them have never even heard ofit.) Now we meet a famous doctrine: the Cunning of Reason. Withouttheir knowledge, the Idea (or Reason) really is at work, influencing anddirecting them towards its own ends.

So is there an external force, like the ancient Fates, looking down on usand manipulating our lives? No, Hegel’s view is subtler and lesssuperstitious than that. Remember that our minds, in Hegel’s grandplan, do embody the Idea, but not yet with any clear consciousnessof it. (Think of the way a gene – Hegel much approved of organicmetaphors – ‘contains’ the adult organism, but will only show itgradually in the process of growth and development.) Because there isthis something within us, active though obscure, we can consciouslypursue our own limited and individual ends and purposes whilst reallyserving the turn of Reason.

The Idea, now as Spirit or Geist, directs the course of history through thewill of ‘world-historical individuals’ (the famous people you read aboutin history books). Their feeling for the requirements of Spirit is a littlemore advanced than that of their contemporaries, their dissatisfactionwith the present state of things slightly sharper and better focused.Hegel describes them (never let anyone tell you he couldn’t write!):‘They do not find their aims and vocation in the calm and regular systemof the present . . . they draw their inspiration from another source, that

hidden spirit whose hour is near but which still lies beneath the surfaceand seeks to break out’. These are the leaders who change the world,unite nations, create empires, found political institutions. And once thenew state of things exists, the society or nation comes face to face withsomething it has itself produced – the situation that advances selfunderstanding,remember – and finds out a little more about its ownreal aspirations.

It also finds out more about the problems they bring with them. For astart, these transitions from one state to another rarely happensmoothly, without conflict and struggle. What Hegel calls ‘the calm andregular system of the present’ always has its appeal, especially for thosein whom the subliminal awareness of Spirit’s next move is undeveloped.These become the reactionaries who resist the world-historicalindividual’s striving for change; they are opposed by those of a slightlymore advanced state of consciousness, who gather behind the leader,sensing that the new direction is the right one.

Only right for now, however. Remember that the strange thing fromwhich we began, the Idea, involves development, in a figurative sense. Everything that exists or happens reflects the Idea, and that of courseincludes history, which exhibits the Idea’s ‘development’, but now in aliteral sense. The Idea, as you will find if you ever read Hegel’s Logic (butbe warned, it is desperately hard work), always develops through theconflict of opposed concepts followed by their resolution, which itselfturns out to harbour another opposition, upon which a furtherresolution follows, and so on until the entire system is complete. So it is,therefore, in the political sphere. Conflict issues in a new order, butbefore too long the new order itself is showing strains; the seeds of thenext conflict were already present in it, and once they mature it is sweptaway in its turn. You may find the metaphysics with which Hegelunderpins all this extravagant, wild, and woolly, but when he applies itto human history the result certainly isn’t stupid. It is this idea ofprogress arising out of conflict which is known as ‘dialectic’. It pervades

12. Progress through conflict: the storming of the Bastille. Hegel was 19 when the French Revolution occurred – it made an impression.

the thought of Hegel, but equally that of Marx, which is why Marx’sphilosophy is often called ‘dialectical materialism’ (see above p. 64,and below p. 110).

Notice that there is very little comfort here for the individual. The Ideais to come to self-knowledge, and this it must do in human minds,which are the only vehicle around, but no particular human mind is ofany concern to it whatever. History throws individuals away once theyhave served their turn. That is even, or especially, true of worldhistoricalindividuals: ‘their end attained they fall aside like emptyhusks’. Julius Caesar did his bit – and was assassinated. Napoleondid his – then was defeated, captured, and sent to rot on Elba. Anindividual is no more than a dispensable instrument. God, supposedly,loves each one of us, but the Idea couldn’t care less, so long as thereare some of us, and they are doing its business. So it is hard to seeHegelianism becoming a popular mass philosophy, for all its hugeinfluence.

Charles Darwin: The Origin of Species

The first thing we can learn from this fascinating book is not to bothertoo much about drawing a neat sharp line between philosophy andscience. The point is not that the line isn’t sharp, although I believe thatto be true. The point is that the line (if it exists) is not of muchimportance for philosophy. On any reasonable way of drawing itDarwin’s Origin is science, more specifically biology. But because of itssubject-matter, and the claims it makes, very few books have hadgreater philosophical impact. For it implies a startling thesis about usand how we have come to be as we are. It may not startle us today, butit startled most of his contemporaries to the point of shock; and thereare still a number of people trying to perform the difficult balancing actof rejecting it without appearing merely ignorant and prejudiced.

In one sense The Origin of Species does much more than ‘imply’ thestartling thesis: it builds a very carefully constructed case for it, backedby a wealth of thoughtfully assessed evidence. Darwin was not the firstperson to propose the theory of natural selection (he tells you a little ofthe history of the idea in his own introduction to the book), but he wasthe first to assemble so much evidence for it and so honestly to confrontthe difficulties it faces. If prior to 1859 you wanted to reject the viewthat species were mutable, and developed out of other species, and thatour own species was no exception, it was easy: just say ‘No’. It conflictedwith your other (deeply held) beliefs, many experts opposed it, andthere existed no serious and plausible statement of the case for it. After1859 it wasn’t easy at all – though of course there were plenty of peoplewho didn’t notice.

In another sense, however, ‘imply’ is exactly the right word: Darwingave no prominence (in this book) to his opinion that just as much asany other species humanity falls under the general theory. Readers whoreach the last chapter – or jump to it – will there find, discreetly placedand well apart, two or three unmistakable sentences. Otherwise,

Some more high spotssilence. A common mistake is to call the book Origin of the Species,presumably supposing that we are the species in question. Absolutelynot: There is almost nothing about us.

Plenty about pigeons, in fact half of chapter 1. They lend themselvesperfectly to Darwin’s strategy: start from a case in which it is totallyuncontroversial that a breed can be altered by selection – the breeder’sselection of which birds to allow to mate with which. (Unsurprisingly,there’s also a lot about cattle and sheep and racehorses; prize dahliasget a mention too.) But that doesn’t take Darwin quite as far as hewants to go, because it is perfectly possible to reply that humanbreeders can only make quite slight changes, so that all the strikinglydifferent breeds of pigeon, though modified by human practice, must inthe first place have come each from birds of its own particular species –they are just too different to have descended all of them from one typeof bird. Surely?

Now Darwin’s judgement is at its best. He doesn’t try to prove hispoint, but just shows that anyone opposing it will have a lot moretalking to do. If there was an original fantail pigeon, where is it nowfound in the wild? Well, perhaps it has become extinct, or livessomewhere frightfully remote. And how about the other distinctivebreeds that pigeon-fanciers are interested in – where are their wildrelatives? And what of the fact that within these breeds oneoccasionally finds individuals that closely match the complex colouringof a type of pigeon that does exist in the wild nowadays? So is it thatall today’s distinctive breeds had ancestors of the same colouring(although they were distinct species), and are now all either extinct inthe wild or at least have never been observed? Well, well, how verysurprising . . .

So if it is probable that artificial selection can produce such effects in arelatively short time, is there any natural principle of selection thatmight produce effects of similar magnitude, and perhaps of far greater

magnitude, given an enormously longer time to work in? Yes, becausethe ‘struggle for existence’ (about which Darwin writes a veryinteresting chapter) eliminates many individuals before they are able toreproduce. A fantail pigeon will probably mate only if it catches the eyeof the breeder; a wild pigeon will not mate unless it withstands thestruggle for existence long enough to reach maturity. What is beingselected for is in the two cases utterly different. In the second case it isthe capacity to withstand the local environmental/ecologicalconditions, and if these should become harsh the selection process willbe brutally efficient.

Once thoughts like these have brought us to see that very substantialchange is possible, indeed positively likely, and when we recall (whatwas only just becoming clear to geologists when Darwin was a youngman) that these processes may have been going on for an almostunthinkable length of time, certain observations strike one differently,like those Darwin offers in one of the very few sentences in whichhuman beings figure: ‘The framework of bones being the same in thehand of a man, wing of a bat, fin of the porpoise, and leg of the horse –the same number of vertebrae forming the neck of the giraffe and ofthe elephant . . . at once explain themselves on the theory of descentwith slow and slight successive modifications.’

The nineteenth-century enthusiasm for progress, to which thephilosophy of Hegel gave such momentum, predisposed many tounderstand Darwin as part of the same progressivist movement. Hisyounger contemporary Herbert Spencer (1820–1903), a man of a muchmore metaphysical, even somewhat Hegelian turn of mind, really waspart of it. He was the inventor of the overworked phrase ‘the survival ofthe fittest’, which can easily be understood as implying that those whosurvive in the struggle for existence are superior to those who do not.He himself seems to have taken it like that, for in the name of progresshe opposed anything that would lessen the intensity of the struggle,like social welfare arrangements.

13. Another variation on a theme much favoured by Victorian cartoonists. Darwin’s message wasn’t to be digested quickly.

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Categories: A Very Short Introduction, Philosophy - Edward Craig Tags: Edward Craig, Introduction, Oxford, Philosophy

Philosophy: A Very Short Introduction – Edward Craig

March 2, 2011 dsiloha Leave a comment

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Philosophy: A Very Short Introduction
“This is a lively and interesting introduction to philosophy. Despite its
brevity Philosophy: A Very Short Introduction addresses many of the
central philosophical questions in an engaging and thought-provoking
style. At the same time it gives readers a flavour of some of the greatest
works of philosophy and provides expert guidance for those who want
to read the original works themselves. Edward Craig is already famous
as the editor of the best long work on philosophy (the Routledge
Encyclopedia); now he deserves to become even better known
as the author of one of the best short ones.”
Nigel Warburton, The Open University

Very Short Introductions are for anyone wanting a stimulating
and accessible way in to a new subject. They are written by experts, and have
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The series began in 1995, and now represents a wide variety of topics
in history, philosophy, religion, science, and the humanities. Over the next
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conceptual art and cosmology.

Edward Craig

Philosophy

A Very Short Introduction

Oxford – University Press

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Contents

List of illustrations ix

1 Philosophy : A very short introduction 1

2 What should I do? Plato’s Crito 11

3 How do we know? Hume’s Of Miracles 24

4 What am I? An unknown Buddhist on the self: King Milinda’s chariot 35

5 Some themes 45

6 Of ’eisms’ 61

7 Some more high spots: A personal selection 74

8 What’s in it for whom? 100

Bibliography 119

Where to go next

Index 127

List of illustrations

1. Boethius listens to the words of the Lady Philosophy6©Wallace Collection/Bridgeman Art Library2. Socrates was depicted by Aristophanes as an eccentric in a basket 13 © AKG London

3. Socrates takes the hemlock from the gaoler 22

4. Hume was smarter than he looked 25

5. The Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes 31

6. The image of the chariot: Arjuna and Krishna 40

7. The image of the chariot: Hercules and Athena 40

8. Marble head of Epicurus 47

9. Beyond the family, anything goes 53

©Punch

12. Progre ss through conflict 86

13. Darwin’s message wasn’t to be digested quickly 90

14. What to blow up next? 97

©AKG London

15. Epicureanism in practice? 102

16. Hobbes’s Leviathan rises out of the English countryside 106

17. The Raja consults his priests 108

18. The author and his wares 117

Photograph: Simon Blackburn

19. Philosophy class 118

Chapter 1 Philosophy

A very short introduction

Anyone reading this book is to some extent a philosopher already. Nearly all of us are, because we have some kind of values by which we live our lives (or like to think we do, or feel uncomfortable when we don’t). And most of us favour some very general picture of what the world is like. Perhaps we think there’s a god who made it all, including us; or, on the contrary, we think it’s all a matter of chance and natural selection. Perhaps we believe that people have immortal, non-material parts called souls or spirits; or, quite the opposite, that we are just complicated arrangements of matter that gradually fall to bits after we die. So most of us, even those who don’t think about it at all, have something like answers to the two basic philosophical questions, namely: what should we do? and, what is there? And there’s a third basic question, to which again most of us have some kind of an answer, which kicks in the moment we get self-conscious about either of the first two questions, namely: how do we know, or if we don’t know how should we set about finding out – use our eyes, think, consult an oracle, ask a scientist? Philosophy, thought of as a subject that you can study, be ignorant of, get better at, even be an expert on, simply means being rather more reflective about some of these questions and their interrelations, learning what has already been said about them and why.

In fact philosophy is extremely hard to avoid, even with a conscious effort. Consider someone who rejects it, telling us that ‘Philosophy is

useless’. For a start, they are evidently measuring it against some system of values. Secondly, the moment they are prepared to say, however briefly and dogmatically, why it is useless, they will be talking about the ineffectuality of certain types of thought, or of human beings’ incapacity to deal with certain types of question. And then instead of
rejecting philosophy they will have become another voice within it – a sceptical voice, admittedly, but then philosophy has never been short of sceptical voices, from the earliest times to the present day. We shall meet some of them in Chapter 6.

If they take the second of those lines, they may also be implying that making the discovery that human beings just can’t cope with certain kinds of question, and making that discovery for yourself – and actually making it, rather than just lazily assuming that you know it already – isn’t a valuable experience, or is an experience without effects. Surely that cannot be true? Imagine how different the world would have been if we were all convinced that human beings just aren’t up to answering any questions about the nature or even existence of a god, in other words, if all human beings were religious agnostics. Imagine how different it would have been if we were all convinced that there was no answer to the question of what legitimates the political authority that states habitually exercise over their members, in other words, if none of us believed that there was any good answer to the anarchist. It may well be controversial whether the differences would have been for the good, or for the bad, or whether in fact they wouldn’t have mattered as much as you might at first think; but that there would have been differences, and very big ones, is surely beyond question. That how people think alters things, and that how lots of people think alters things for nearly everyone, is undeniable. A more sensible objection to philosophy than that it is ineffectual is pretty much the opposite: that it is too dangerous. (Nietzsche, see pp. 93–99, called a philosopher ‘a terrible explosive from which nothing is safe’ – though he didn’t mean that as an objection.) But what this usually means is that any philosophy is dangerous except the speaker’s

own, and what it amounts to is fear of what might happen if things change.

It might occur to you that perhaps there are people who don’t even think it worthwhile to enter into this discussion at all, however briefly, not even to support the sceptical stance that I have just mentioned. And you would be right, but that doesn’t mean to say that they don’t have a philosophy. Far from it. It may mean that they are not prepared to ‘philosophize’ – to state their views and argue for them or discourse upon them. But it doesn’t mean that they have no abiding values, nothing which they systematically regard as worthwhile. They might think, for instance, that real expertise at doing something is more desirable than any amount of theoretical knowledge. Their ideal would not so much be insight into the nature of reality as the capacity to become one with it in the execution of some particular activity, to have trained oneself to do something without conscious effort as if by a perfectly honed natural instinct. I am not just making these people up: a lot of Zen Buddhist thought, or perhaps I should say Zen Buddhist practice, leans strongly in this direction. And this ideal, of aiming at a certain kind of thoughtlessness, was the outcome of a great deal of previous thinking.

If philosophy is so close to us, why do so many people think that it is something very abstruse and rather weird? It isn’t that they are simply wrong: some philosophy is abstruse and weird, and a lot of the best philosophy is likely to seem abstruse or weird at first. That’s because the best philosophy doesn’t just come up with a few new facts that we can simply add to our stock of information, or a few new maxims to extend our list of dos and don’ts, but embodies a picture of the world and/or a set of values; and unless these happen to be yours already (remember that in a vague and unreflective way we all have them) it is bound to seem very peculiar – if it doesn’t seem peculiar you haven’t understood it. Good philosophy expands your imagination. Some philosophy is close to us, whoever we are. Then of course some is further away, and

some is further still, and some is very alien indeed. It would be disappointing if that were not so, because it would imply that human beings are intellectually rather monotonous. But there’s no need to start at the deep end; we start at the shallow end, where (as I’ve said) we are all standing in the water already. Do remember, however (here the analogy with the swimming-pool leaves me in the lurch, the way analogies often do), that this doesn’t necessarily mean that we are all standing in the same place: what is shallow and familiar, and what is deep and weird, may depend on where you got in, and when.

We may be standing in the water, but why try to swim? In other words, what is philosophy for? There is far too much philosophy, composed under far too wide a range of conditions, for there to be a general answer to that question. But it can certainly be said that a great deal of philosophy has been intended as (understanding the words very broadly) a means to salvation, though what we are to understand by salvation, and salvation from what, has varied as widely as the philosophies themselves. A Buddhist will tell you that the purpose of philosophy is the relief of human suffering and the attainment of ‘enlightenment’; a Hindu will say something similar, if in slightly different terminology; both will speak of escape from a supposed cycle of death and rebirth in which one’s moral deserts determine one’s future forms. An Epicurean (if you can find one nowadays) will poohpooh all the stuff about rebirth, but offer you a recipe for maximizing pleasure and minimizing suffering in this your one and only life.

Not all philosophy has sprung out of a need for a comprehensive way of living and dying. But most of the philosophy that has lasted has arisen from some pressing motivation or deeply felt belief – seeking truth and wisdom purely for their own sakes may be a nice idea, but history suggests that a nice idea is pretty much all it is. Thus classical Indian philosophy represents the internal struggle between the schools of Hinduism, and between them all and the Buddhists, for intellectual supremacy; the battle for the preferred balance between human reason

and scriptural revelation has been fought in many cultures, and in some is still going on; Thomas Hobbes’s famous political theory (we shall be seeing more of it later) tries to teach us the lessons he felt had to be learnt in the aftermath of the English Civil War; Descartes and many of his contemporaries wanted medieval views, rooted nearly two thousand years back in the work of Aristotle, to move aside and make room for a modern conception of science; Kant sought to advance the autonomy of the individual in the face of illiberal and autocratic regimes, Marx to liberate the working classes from poverty and drudgery, feminists of all epochs to improve the status of women. None of these people were just solving little puzzles (though they did sometimes have to solve little puzzles on the way); they entered into debate in order to change the course of civilization.

The reader will notice that I haven’t made any attempt to define philosophy, but have just implied that it is an extremely broad term covering a very wide range of intellectual activities. Some think that nothing is to be gained from trying to define it. I can sympathize with that thought, since most attempts strike me as much too restrictive, and therefore harmful rather than helpful in so far as they have any effect at all. But I will at least have a shot at saying what philosophy is; whether what I have to offer counts as a definition or not is something about which we needn’t, indeed positively shouldn’t, bother too much.

Once, a very long time ago, our ancestors were animals, and simply did whatever came naturally without noticing that that was what they were doing, or indeed without noticing that they were doing anything at all. Then, somehow, they acquired the capacities to ask why things happen (as opposed to just registering that they do), and to look at themselves and their actions. That is not as big a jump as may at first sight appear. Starting to ask why things happen is in the first place only a matter of becoming a little more conscious of aspects of one’s own behaviour. A hunting animal that follows a scent is acting as if aware that the scent is

1. In this Renaissance painting Boethius (c.ad 480–525) listens to the
words of the Lady Philosophy. The Consolation of Philosophy is his most
famous book, and consolation was what he needed as he awaited
execution. But philosophy has had many purposes besides this one.

there because its prey has recently passed that way – and it is because that really is why the scent is there that it often succeeds in its hunt. Knowledge of this sort of connection can be very useful: it tells us what to expect. Furthermore, to know that A happens because B happened may improve your control over things: in some cases B will be something that you can bring about, or prevent – which will be very useful if A is something you want, or want to avoid. Many of these connections animals, humans included, follow naturally and unconsciously. And the practice, once one is aware of it, can valuably be extended by consciously raising such questions in cases where we do not have conveniently built-in answers.

There could be no guarantee, however, that this generally valuable tendency would always pay off, let alone always pay off quickly. Asking why fruit falls off a branch pretty soon leads one to shake the tree. Asking why it rains, or why it doesn’t rain, takes us into a different league, especially when the real motive underlying the question is whether we can influence whether it rains or not. Often we can influence events, and it may well pay to develop the habit of asking, when things (a hunting expedition, for example) have gone wrong, whether that was because we failed in our part of the performance, as opposed to being defeated by matters beyond our control. That same useful habit might have generated the thought that a drought is to some extent due to a failure of ours – and now what failure, what have we done wrong? And then an idea might crop up which served us well in our infancy: there are parents, who do things for us that we can’t do ourselves, but only if we’ve been good and they aren’t cross with us. Might there be beings that decide whether the rain falls, and shouldn’t we be trying to get on the right side of them?

That is all it would take for human beings to be launched into the investigation of nature and belief in the supernatural. So as their mental capacities developed our ancestors found their power increasing; but they also found themselves confronted by options and mysteries – life

raised a host of questions, where previously it had simply been lived, unquestioningly. It is just as well that all this happened gradually, but even so it was the biggest shock the species has ever encountered. Some people, thinking more in intellectual than biological terms, might like to say that it was what made us human at all.

Think of philosophy as the sound of humanity trying to recover from this crisis. Thinking of it like that will protect you from certain common misapprehensions. One is that philosophy is a rather narrow operation that only occurs in universities, or (less absurdly) only in particular epochs or particular cultures; another, related to the first, is that it is something of an intellectual game, answering to no very deep need. On the positive side, it may lead you to expect that the history of philosophy is likely to contain some fascinating episodes, as indeed it does, and it certainly adds to the excitement if we bear in mind that view of what is really going on. Can reeling homo sapiens think his way back to the vertical? We have no good reason to answer that question either way, Yes or No. Are we even sure that we know where the vertical is? That’s the kind of open-ended adventure we are stuck with, like it or not.

But isn’t that just too broad? Surely philosophy doesn’t include everything that that account of it implies? Well, in the first place, it will do us less harm to err on the broad side than the narrow. And in the second place, the scope of the word ‘philosophy’ has itself varied considerably through history, not to mention the fact that there has probably never been a time at which it meant the same thing to everyone. Recently something rather strange has happened to it. On the one hand it has become so broad as to be close to meaningless, as when almost every commercial organization speaks of itself as having a philosophy – usually meaning a policy. On the other hand it has become very narrow. A major factor here has been the development of the natural sciences. It has often been remarked that when an area of inquiry begins to find its feet as a discipline, with clearly agreed

methods and a clearly agreed body of knowledge, fairly soon it separates off from what has up to then been known as philosophy and goes its own way, as for instance physics, chemistry, astronomy, psychology. So the range of questions considered by people who think of themselves as philosophers shrinks; and furthermore, philosophy tends to be left in charge of those questions which we are not sure how best to formulate, those inquiries we are not sure how best to set about.

This multiplication of thriving disciplines inevitably brings another factor into play, namely specialization within universities, and creates the opportunity to think of philosophy yet more narrowly. University philosophy departments are mostly quite small. In consequence, so is the range of their expertise, which tends to cluster around current (sometimes also local) academic fashion – it must do, since it is normally they who make it. Besides, undergraduate courses are, for obvious reasons, quite short, and therefore have to be selective on pain of gross superficiality. So the natural assumption that philosophy is what university philosophy departments teach, though I certainly wouldn’t call it false, is restrictive and misleading, and ought to be avoided.

This book is called a very short introduction to philosophy. But, as I hope is now becoming clear, I can’t exactly introduce you to philosophy, because you are already there. Nor can I exactly introduce you to philosophy, because there is far too much of it. No more could I ‘show you London’. I could show you a few bits of it, perhaps mention a handful of other main attractions, and leave you on your own with a street map and some information about other guided tours. That’s pretty much what I propose to do for philosophy.

At the beginning of this chapter I spoke of three philosophical questions, though they might better have been called three types or classes of question. Chapters 2–4 introduce, from a classic text, an example of each type. By progressing from very familiar ways of

thinking in the first to something most readers will find altogether stranger in the third, they also illustrate (though not by any means in its full extent) another theme of this introduction: the range of novelty to be encountered in philosophy. I have also harped on somewhat about the difficulty of avoiding being philosophical. If that is so, we should expect to find some kind of philosophy more or less wherever we look. As if to confirm that, our first example comes from Greece and the fourth century bc, our second from eighteenth-century Scotland, and our third from India, written by an unknown Buddhist at an unknown date probably between 100 bc and ad 100.

All three of these texts should be fairly easy to obtain, especially the first two (see Bibliography). This book can perfectly well be read without them, but there are good reasons to read them yourself alongside it if that is possible. One is to be able to enjoy the writing. Much philosophy is well-written, and it is strongly recommended to enjoy the writing as well as the views and the arguments. But the main reason is that it will enable you to join in if you want to. Remember that this is not a completely foreign country: you are to some extent already a philosopher, and your ordinary native intelligence has a work permit here – you don’t need to go through any esoteric training to get a licence to think. So don’t be afraid, as you read, to start asking questions and forming provisional conclusions. But notice, provisional. Whatever you do, don’t get hooked up on that laziest, most complacent of sayings, that ‘everyone has a right to their own opinion’. Acquiring rights isn’t that simple. Rather, keep in mind the wry comment of George Berkeley (1685–1753): ‘Few men think, yet all will have opinions.’ If true, that’s a pity; for one thing, the thinking is part of the fun.

Finally, please read slowly. This is a very short book about a very long subject. I have tried to pack a lot in.

Chapter 2 What should I do?

Plato’s Crito

Plato, who was born in or around 427 bc and died in 347, was not the first important philosopher of ancient Greek civilization, but he is the first from whom a substantial body of complete works has come down to us. In the Indian tradition the Vedas, and many of the Upanishads are earlier; but of their authors, and how they were composed, we know next to nothing. The Buddha pre-dated Plato, though by just how much is a matter of scholarly disagreement; but the earliest surviving accounts of his life and thought were written down some hundreds of years after his death. In China, Confucius also pre-dated Plato (he was born in the middle of the previous century); again, we have nothing known to have been written by him – the famous Analects are a later compilation.

Plato’s works all take the form of dialogues. Mostly they are quick-fire dialogues, conversational in style, though sometimes the protagonists are allowed to make extended speeches. There are two dozen or so of these known to be by Plato, and a handful more that may be. Of the certainly authentic group two are much longer than the others, and better thought of as books consisting of sequences of dialogues. (They are Republic and Laws, both devoted to the search for the ideal political constitution.) So there is plenty of Plato to read, and most of it is fairly easy to obtain, in translation in relatively inexpensive editions. As regards degree of difficulty, the range is wide. At one end we have a

number of dialogues comparable to the one we shall shortly be taking a close look at. At the other are works like The Sophist, capable at times of making the most experienced readers scratch their heads and look blank.

A near constant feature of Plato’s dialogues is the presence of Socrates, usually though not always as the leader of the discussion. Since the dialogue called Crito is not only conducted by Socrates but also concerns what he, personally, should do in a certain predicament in which he finds himself, we need to know a little about him and how he got into the situation he is in when the dialogue opens – namely in prison in Athens awaiting imminent execution.

Socrates lived from 469 to 399 bc. He was clearly a charismatic figure, with a somewhat eccentric lifestyle. Accepting the poverty it entailed, he appears to have spent all his time in unpaid discussion with whomever would join with him, which included many of the better-off, hence more leisured, young men of Athens. These included Plato, whose admiration for Socrates motivated the career and writings which immortalized both of them.

Not all our evidence about Socrates’ thought comes to us through Plato, but by far the greater part of it does, so it is no easy matter to distinguish clearly between their views. Little doubt that Plato was sometimes trying to portray the historical Socrates; little doubt that he was sometimes using the figure of Socrates as a literary device to convey his own philosophy. Where to draw the line isn’t always obvious, but scholars seem now broadly agreed that the real Socrates concentrated on ethical questions about justice and virtue (‘How should I live?’ is sometimes called ‘the Socratic question’); and that he constantly probed whether his fellow Athenians really understood what was involved in these matters anything like as well as they claimed to. Nor was he always sure that he understood it himself – but then he didn’t claim to.

2. Not everyone was as impressed by Socrates as Plato was. In The Clouds,
by his contemporary Aristophanes, he appears as a self-important eccentric
who spends his time dangling in a basket (so as to be in a better position
for studying celestial phenomena).

That sounds like a pretty reliable way of making enemies, so this account of Socrates’ activities fits in well enough with the next episode: three citizens, surely acting as the public tip of a hostile iceberg, brought a prosecution against him on a charge of corrupting the youth of Athens. By a small majority he was found guilty, and condemned to death. In The Apology of Socrates you can read Plato’s version of the (totally unapologetic) speeches he made at his trial, one in his own defence, one after the verdict, one after the sentence.

Socrates was not executed straight away. At the time of his trial a ceremonial period was beginning, which would end only when an official ship returned to Athens from the island of Delos. This had religious significance, and no executions could take place while the ship was away. So Socrates had to spend this time in prison – long enough for his friends to set up a routine of visiting him, get to know the guards, and form a plan of action. With time running out, it falls to Crito to put this plan to Socrates: they propose to bribe the guards, Socrates can escape from Athens and go somewhere else, maybe to Thessaly, where Crito has friends who will offer hospitality and protection.

The dialogue Crito is Plato’s account of their discussion and Socrates’ response. Considering that this text is 2,400 years old, one of the most surprising things about it is that it is not more surprising. You may not agree with everything Socrates says – for instance, many readers will feel that his view of the claims that the state can properly make on the individual are exaggerated – but virtually all the points made will be perfectly familiar to anyone who has ever had to think about a difficult decision. When Plato writes about love we are aware that his perspective differs from ours; when we read him on cosmology we are back in a completely different age; but this discussion of a specific ethical question, ‘What should I do in this case?’, could almost have occurred yesterday. I said in Chapter 1 that we were all to some extent philosophers, and that therefore some philosophy would feel very near home. Here is an example – from ancient Greece.

Just one word before we start. There is a standard method for referring to passages in Plato’s texts, one that works whichever edition and translation you are using. It actually goes back to the pagination of a Renaissance edition published in 1578, and is known as Stephanus numbering (from the Latin name of the editor, Henri Estienne). Any modern edition of Plato will show it, either in the margin, or at the top of the page. I shall be using it throughout this chapter.

The first page or so (43a–44b) sets the scene. Crito mentions that he is well in with the warder. Socrates says that at his age you shouldn’t complain too much about having to die. But then Crito opens his campaign of persuasion. He starts – as one well might – by telling Socrates how much his friends value him, and then implies that Socrates might care to return the compliment: his friends’ reputation is at stake – if he stays in prison and dies people will think that they weren’t prepared to go to the expense of buying his escape.

Now a lot of very different points are raised very quickly (and left half dealt with – Crito is not written like a well-constructed lecture, but much more like a real conversation). Socrates responds by saying that one shouldn’t bother about what ‘people’ think; the opinion that should matter to us is that of reasonable people with a clear view of the facts. ‘We can’t afford to take that line,’ says Crito, ‘majority opinion is too powerful.’ ‘On the contrary,’ Socrates replies, ‘as regards what really matters the majority don’t have much power at all.’ And what really matters, apparently, is whether one is wise or foolish (44d).

I suspect that this idea will strike many readers as a rather strange one. What does Socrates mean by wisdom, that it should be the only thing that really matters? We should keep that question in mind, and keep an eye open for anything later in the dialogue that might shed light on it. Crito just lets it go, and goes back to the earlier issue of the consequences for Socrates’ friends. Is Socrates thinking that his friends will be in danger of reprisals if he escapes? Yes, it seems that he is (and

he returns to emphasize the risk to them at 53a/b). This of course quite neutralizes Crito’s argument: no point in appealing to the bad effects on your friends if you don’t do something, when the effects on them if you do are likely to be at least as bad.

Crito, understandably quite wound up, now makes a longer speech (45a–46a) in which he fires off all his remaining ammunition in an emotional and haphazard sort of way. Socrates shouldn’t think of the risk to his friends, or the expense – anyway, the expense won’t be all that great. Nor should he bother about the fact that escape into exile would mean going back on things he said at his trial. (We shall soon see, at 46b–46d and 52c, that this cuts no ice whatever with Socrates, for whom being consistent, true to himself and his reasons for acting, is a very important value.)

Next, Crito goes on, Socrates is acting wrongly in giving up his life when he could save it, and so falling in with his enemies’ wishes. Crito doesn’t tell us whether he thinks that for Socrates to give up his life when he could save it would be wrong just because it means success for his enemies, or whether it is an intrinsically wrong thing to do – as some have thought suicide intrinsically wrong – or for some other reason again. Which of these he has in mind actually makes quite a difference to what he is saying, but he is in no state for precise thinking. Now seriously overheating, he first accuses Socrates of showing no concern for his children, then of showing a lack of courage (45d). (Considering the courage required for what Socrates actually does intend to do, the latter charge seems particularly absurd – the one about his children Socrates will deal with later.) Running out of steam, Crito now returns to his complaint about the damage to Socrates’ friends’ reputations, begs Socrates to agree with him, and comes to a stop.

In his distress and anxiety Crito has become pretty offensive in his last couple of paragraphs. But this Socrates overlooks, with a kind remark about Crito’s warm feelings, and takes control of the dialogue. The

thinking immediately becomes slower and calmer, and better organized. He returns to the first point Crito made – the one about reputation – and asks whose opinion we should respect, those of the wise or the foolish, those of the many or those of the expert? Crito trots along giving the obvious answers, the way his discussion-partners usually do when Socrates gets into gear. So in this case we shouldn’t be listening to the majority, but to someone who understands what it is to be just, to act rightly, to live well or as one should. Otherwise we shall damage our souls, as we would have damaged our bodies by listening to the majority rather than the doctor in a matter of physical health. The crucial question is whether it is right for Socrates to try to escape – all this stuff about money, reputations, and bringing up children is of no real consequence (48c).

Let’s just pause for a moment. One thing we should not do is read philosophy uncritically. Isn’t there a whiff of moral fanaticism about what Socrates is now saying? What damage to his soul exactly? And why should it be so frightful? And if his friends’ reputations and his children’s upbringing are on the line, mightn’t he be prepared to risk a little damage to his soul? After all, he wouldn’t think much of anyone who wasn’t prepared to risk physical injury for the sake of friends and family. Admittedly, we have been told (back at 47e–48a) that the soul, or more accurately ‘that part of us, whatever it is, which is concerned with justice and injustice’, is much more valuable than the body. But we haven’t been told why or how; and there has been no explanation of why it should be so valuable that the prospect of damage to it instantly overrides any little matters like friends’ reputations or the well-being of one’s children. And besides, if children are not well cared for, might that not damage ‘that part of them, whatever it is, which is concerned with justice and injustice’? It looks as if Socrates needed a different discussion-partner, someone who might have started calling for
answers to a few of these questions.

But let us hear Socrates out, and get a view of the full picture, as he

argues that it would be wrong for him to escape into exile. First he asks Crito to agree that doing someone a wrong is always wrong, even when done in response to a wrong done to you (49a–49e). Revenge may be sweet but it is not permissible. The strategic importance of this is easy to see: if it is accepted, then whether anyone has wronged Socrates – the State, the jurors, his accusers – becomes irrelevant; the only question is whether he himself would be doing a wrong in following Crito’s plan. Clearly Socrates does not expect there to be widespread agreement on this point. He knows only too well that there are many who hold that retaliation is permissible, even that it is positively right. But it is Crito he is trying to convince, and the two of them have evidently been here in discussion before – ‘our former opinion’ he calls it. And Crito agrees: ‘I stand by it.’

Socrates now puts forward two much less controversial premisses: doing harm to people is wrong (49c), and breaking a fair agreement is wrong (49e). He is now about to argue that if he tries to escape he will be doing both. The injured parties would be the State of Athens and its laws; he imagines them coming forward, personified, to put their case.

In the first place, he would be doing them harm (50a–50b), indeed he would be ‘intending their destruction’. That sounds odd – surely the only thing Socrates would be intending is to escape execution? But the next sentence tells us what is meant: if what he proposes to do were taken as an example, the result would be the collapse of the law and hence also of the State, neither of which can survive if private individuals ignore the decisions of the courts. What we have here is an appeal to a very familiar moral argument: ‘What would happen if everybody behaved like that?’ When I do something, it is as if I were giving everyone else my permission to do the same, and I have to consider the consequences of that, not just of my individual action. The German Immanuel Kant (1724–1804), some would say the most influential philosopher of modern times, made this the basic principle of morality (though he found a rather more complicated way of stating it).

We have all heard of it, we have all had it thrown at us, and here it is popping up in 400 bc.

In the second place, they suggest (50c), Socrates would be breaking an agreement. But from here to 51d what the Laws and the State have to say does not seem to be about an agreement at all, in any normal sense – no voluntary consent to anything on the part of Socrates is in question. It might be better described as being about obligations of gratitude, or about the deference owed by a creature to its creator, or both. The burden of this paragraph is that the Athenian State, which is compared to a parent, made Socrates what he is; and he is not dissatisfied with how it did it. So he is bound by its wishes, and it is ridiculous to suppose that he might have a right of retaliation against it.

The last point really ought to be unnecessary, since Socrates has already said that retaliation is wrong anyway. But he can be seen as covering himself twice: even if retaliation were sometimes right, as many think it is, it would still not be right in this case, where the parent-like State is the other party. As to his being bound by the State’s wishes, this totalitarian conception of the State’s powers and the corresponding view of parental authority is more stipulated than justified in this passage. That isn’t surprising, because it wouldn’t be at all easy to justify the doctrine that the State, by virtue of its role in the lives of human individuals, thereby acquires the right to dispose of them much as if they were inanimate artefacts made for its own purposes. A State may do a lot for its citizens, but can it conceivably do so much that they can lay claim to no purposes of their own beyond those it allows them? And once we grant that Socrates might be allowed some purposes of his own independent of the will of Athens, then might not staying alive (if that is what he wants) be one of them? Crito, were he not the perfect Yes-man, could have had rather more to say at this stage.

However, at 51d Socrates’ imaginary antagonists introduce a point which, if correct, makes a very big difference: Socrates has of his own

free will entered into an agreement with them to respect and obey the laws. Not that he ever signed a document or made an official statement; but his behaviour was a sufficient indication of his agreement. For the law allowed him, once an adult, to take his possessions and leave Athens without any material penalty. He stayed. Nor has he ever in his seventy years been away even temporarily, except on military service. At his trial he made it clear that he had no interest in exile as a possible alternative sentence. Taken together, this is clear voluntary consent to the institutions of Athens. Does he now (contrary to what he avowed at 49e) intend to break his agreement?

Much of Socrates’ argument has been conducted at a high level of principle, sometimes dizzily high – as when he said that compared with the importance of doing what is right, matters of reputation (his friends’ as well as his own) and the upbringing of children were of no account. But here in the closing pages of Crito, between 52c and the end, there are signs of him covering his back. Whether he wants to be sure of convincing those not convinced of his lofty principles, or whether he isn’t himself altogether happy to let the entire issue rest on them, the fact is that reputations, the risks to his friends, his prospects in exile, and the education of his children now make a reappearance.

Not many pages back Socrates was telling Crito not to bother about the opinion of the crowd. But ‘the Laws and the State’ think it is at least worth mentioning that he is in danger of making himself a laughing stock (53a), and of hearing many deprecatory things about himself (53e), and of giving the jurors reason to think that they made the right decision (53b/c). (More important to one holding Socrates’ principles is that he himself would be ashamed if he were to go back on what he so proudly said at his trial (52c) – his own integrity ought to mean more to him than that.) He should think of the practical consequences: if he escapes his friends will be in danger (53b), his life in exile will be unrewarding and demeaning (53b–53e). And finally (54a), what will it benefit his children? Is he to bring them up in Thessaly (Thessaly of all

places!), exiles themselves? And if they are to grow up in Athens, what difference to them whether he is dead or merely absent? His friends will see to their education in either case. The Laws have one last card to play, well known and much used by moralists from earliest times right down to our own: the old fire-andbrimstone manoeuvre. Should Socrates offend against them, they say, he can expect an uncomfortable reception in the afterlife. The laws of the underworld are their brothers, and will avenge them. Finally, Socrates speaks again in his own person (54d). His closing words broach another perennial topic: the relationship between morals and religion. Some have held (and many have disagreed with them) that morality is impossible without belief in a god. There is no reason to attribute that view to Socrates. But he does appear to be doing
something just as time-honoured as the fire-and-brimstone trick, and a good deal more comforting: claiming divine moral inspiration. ‘These things I seem to hear, Crito … and these words re-echo within me, so that I can hear no others. … Let us then act in this way, since this is the way the god is leading.’ The dialogue is over; I hope you have enjoyed reading it. Moral problems are notoriously hard to settle, not just when several people are trying to reach agreement, but even when they are trying to make up their own minds as individuals. We have seen a little of why this should be: so many factors, of so many different types, are involved. Should you do A or not? Well, what will the consequences be if you do? There may be consequences for your friends, your family, and others, as well as those for you yourself. And what if you don’t? How do the consequences compare? Alternatively, never mind the consequences for a moment, just ask whether you can do A consistently with your own view of yourself – would it involve betraying ideals that till then you had valued and tried to live up to? How will you feel about having done it? Or again, however pleasant the consequences may be, would it run

3. Still debating with his friends, Socrates takes the hemlock from the gaoler. Jacques Louis David’s
well-known painting The Death of Socrates (1787).

contrary to some duty, or some obligations you have incurred? Obligations to whom? – and might you not be in breach of other obligations if you don’t do it? Do obligations to friends and family take precedence over duties towards the State, or vice versa? And if you have a religion what does it say about the choice? All this complexity is only latent in Crito, because Socrates manages to make all the relevant factors come out either neutral (it won’t make much difference to his children either way, nor to his friends) or all pointing in the same direction. But it doesn’t take much imagination to see the potential for agonizing moral dilemmas. Some people expect philosophy to tell us the answers to moral problems. But unless it can somehow impose simplicity on the complexities we have been looking at, the prospects for that don’t look good. For it would have to show us, convincingly, that there was just one right way to balance out all the various considerations. Socrates was going for simplification when (starting at 48c) he tried to make the whole thing turn on just one issue. Kant, whom I mentioned earlier (p. 18) went for simplification in basing morality on a single principle closely related to the familiar ‘what would happen if everyone did that?’ Some try to simplify in another way, advising us not to think in terms of duties and obligations but only of the consequences of our own proposed actions for everyone whom they will affect. We shall see more of this kind of view in Chapter 5. 23

Chapter 3 How do we know?

Hume’s Of Miracles

Many – including your present guide – regard the Scotsman David Hume (1711–76) as the greatest of all philosophers who have written in English. He was of wide-ranging intellect: his multi-volume History of England had the effect that in his lifetime he was equally well known as a historian, and he also wrote essays on political (mainly constitutional) questions and on economics. All of this he saw as contributing to a single broad project, the study of human nature. His youthful masterpiece, published in 1739/40, is called A Treatise of Human Nature; in three books it deals with human beliefs, emotions, and moral judgements. What are they, and what produces them? Hume’s writings on these questions are shaped by a deeply held conviction about what human beings are. Equally important to him was a conviction about what we aren’t, a particular delusion which had to be overcome before anything more positive would have a chance of taking hold of our minds. Remember that most great philosophy doesn’t just add/subtract one or two facts to/from our previous beliefs; it removes a whole way of thinking and replaces it with another. There may be a lot of minute detail within it, but just stand back a bit and you will see that it is large-scale stuff. The conception that Hume wanted to root out had its basis in religious belief. Taking very seriously the saying that God created us in his own 24

4. Hume was smarter than he looked: ‘His face is by no means an index of
the ingenuity of his mind, especially of his delicacy and vivacity’ wrote one visitor.

image, it saw us as hybrid beings, in this world but not entirely of it. Part of us, our bodies, are natural objects, subject to natural laws and processes; but we also have immortal souls, endowed with reason and an understanding of morality – this is what makes us images of God. Animals are quite different. They have no souls, but are just very subtle and complex machines, nothing more. The really significant line comes between us and them, not between us and God. Hume wanted to move it: we are not inferior little gods but somewhat superior middle-sized animals.

God	⇒	God (?)
Humans	⇒	———
———	⇒	Humans
Animals	⇒	Animals

Don’t miss the added ‘?’, top-right. The left-hand column invites us to overestimate human reason. Once we get it in proper perspective we shall see both that we have drawn the line in the wrong place, and that our attempts even to think about what might be above the line are doomed to failure: we just aren’t up to it. Hume therefore has a great deal to say about the role of reason in our lives; he argues that it isn’t nearly as big, or of the same kind, as his opponents thought. It then follows that much of what they took human reason to do must in fact be done by something else: the mechanics of human nature, about which he developed an extensive theory, a piece of early cognitive science as we would call it nowadays. But when Hume writes directly about religious belief (as he does quite a lot, see Bibliography) he leaves the grand theory on the shelf and applies 26 common sense and everyday human observation. So in his essay Of Miracles we have another classic piece of philosophical writing that starts on your doorstep, if not actually in your living-room. However, we mustn’t assume that everything here is completely familiar. Hume is going to argue that if we believe that a miracle has occurred, when our evidence consists in other people’s reports (as it virtually always does), then we hold this belief contrary to reason, since our reasons for believing that the alleged miracle did not occur must be at least as strong as our reasons for supposing that it did; in fact, he thinks, they are always stronger. This was a topic that he needed to approach carefully, for two reasons. Not twenty years before he published Of Miracles one Thomas Woolston had spent the last few years of his life in prison for saying that the biblical reports of Christ’s resurrection were not adequate evidence for belief in so unlikely an event; what Hume was now about to say was by no means unrelated. Second, Hume really wanted to change the way his contemporaries, especially his compatriots, thought about religion. He couldn’t do that if they didn’t read him, so he had to lead them in gently.

Hence the ‘Tillotson connection’ that Hume parades in the opening paragraph. What could be better than to be able to say that your views are just a development of an argument recently proposed by an archbishop? Except perhaps, to be able to add that the archbishop’s argument was a decisive refutation of a specifically Roman Catholic doctrine? Hume’s public, most of them in varying degrees hostile to Catholicism, would feel a comfortable warm glow . . . and read on.

Before we look at the argument itself, one more question: why does Hume find it important to write about the evidence for miracles? It is part of his plan for a systematic treatment of the grounds of religious belief, and it was customary to think of these as being of two kinds. On the one hand there were those which human beings, going on their own
experience and using their own reason, could work out for themselves.

On the other, there were those that came from revelation, that is to say from a sacred text or some other authority. But these present a further problem, because you could have fraudulent texts and bogus authorities; so how to tell the genuine ones? The answer was that genuine revelations are connected with the occurrence of miracles: hence their importance, as certificates of religious authority. (Ultimately, they are issued by the highest possible authority; the widely accepted view, which Hume here takes over, had it that miracles were violations of laws of nature, and therefore could only be performed by God or those God had entrusted with divine powers.) That we can never have good reason to believe in a miracle was therefore a pretty subversive claim; it amounted to saying that human reason cannot tell the bona-fide revelation from the bogus. So now to Hume’s argument. It starts at a point we all know well, because we all frequently rely on things that other people have told us. Mostly there has been no problem, but occasionally what we were told turned out to be false. Occasionally we have heard contradictory things from two people, so we knew that at least one of them was wrong even if we never found out which. And we also know a little about what leads to false reports: self-interest, protection of others, defence of a cause dear to one’s heart, the wish to have a good story to tell, simple sincere mistake, uncritical belief of earlier reports, mischief, and so on. Most of us have sometime in our lives gone wrong in most of these ways ourselves, so that it isn’t just from observation of others (as some of Hume’s words might be taken to suggest) that we acquire this knowledge. We all know that human testimony is sometimes to be treated with caution, and under certain circumstances with a great deal of caution. Suppose I were to tell you that last week I drove, on a normal weekday morning just before midday, right across London from north to south, and didn’t see a single person or vehicle on the way – not a car, not a bicycle, not a pedestrian; everyone just happened to be somewhere else

as I was passing. You might wonder whether it was an absurdly exaggerated way of saying that the roads were unusually quiet, or whether I was testing your gullibility, or recounting a dream, or maybe going mad, but one option you would not seriously entertain is that what I had said was true. Almost anything, you would tell yourself, however unlikely, is more likely than that. That would be very reasonable of you. Even if what I said was in fact true (which is just about conceivable, since nobody was under any compulsion to be on my route at that time, so they might all have decided to be somewhere else) it still wouldn’t be at all reasonable of you to believe it, if your only reason for believing it was that I had said so. Had you been with me and seen the empty streets yourself things might be different; but we are talking about the case in which you are reliant on my testimony. Perhaps you can see the shape of Hume’s argument beginning to appear. Given what its role is to be in underpinning religious belief, a miraculous event must surely be one which our experience tells us is highly improbable. For if it were the sort of thing that can quite easily happen, then any old charlatan with a bit of luck or good timing could seize the opportunity to qualify as having divine authority. But if it is highly improbable, only the most reliable testimony will be strong enough to establish it. Forced to choose between two improbabilities the wise, who as Hume tells us proportion belief to evidence, will opt for the alternative they find less improbable. So this will have to be the testimony of such witnesses, that its falsehood would be more improbable than the occurrence of the events it relates. And that is a tall order, since, as we have seen, the events must be very improbable indeed. Now this leaves it perfectly possible that we might, in theory, have testimonial evidence that was strong enough. But it is enough to create serious doubt whether we do, in fact, have adequate evidence for any

miracle. We know that eyewitnesses can be mistaken, or intentionally deceived. Many of us have had the experience of finding ourselves in disagreement with someone else who was also an eyewitness to the events reported, often within a day or two of the events themselves. Many reports of the miraculous come to us from people who were not eyewitnesses, and were writing or speaking years after the events in question. Most such reports come from adherents of the religion which these alleged miracles are used to support. A court of law would take the possibility that witnesses of this kind were unreliable very seriously indeed – in some cases so seriously that it wouldn’t even be prepared to hear them testify. Are there any reports of miracles which escape such doubts? It sounds as if we might have to trawl through the whole of recorded history to answer that question. But that, Hume thinks, won’t be necessary. For it isn’t just that a miracle has to be extremely improbable. It has to be in a sense impossible – contrary to a law of nature (‘instead of being only marvellous, . . . really miraculous’). That was Hume’s definition, and the one he expected his audience to accept. And this enables us to state the argument again in a slightly different, and more decisive, form – the form Hume preferred. We receive a report of something – for convenience call it The Event – supposed to be miraculous. So we are asked to believe that The Event occurred, and that this was contrary to a law of nature. For us to have good reason to believe that an event of that kind would have been contrary to a law of nature, it must be contrary to all our experience, and to our best theories of how nature works. But if that is so then we must have very strong reason to believe that The Event did not occur – in fact the strongest reason we ever do have for believing anything of that sort. So what reason do we have on the other side – to believe that it did occur? Answer: the report – in other words the fact that it is said to have

5. The Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes, in a sixth-century representation.
Food for 5,000? Or just food for thought?

occurred. Could that possibly be so strong as to overpower the contrary reasons and win the day for The Event? No, says Hume, it could (in theory) be of equal strength, but never of greater. There might be such a thing as testimony, given by sufficiently well-placed witnesses, of the right sort of character, under the right sort of circumstances, that as a matter of natural (psychological) law it was bound to be true. But that would only mean that we had our strongest kind of evidence both for The Event and against it, and the rational response would be not belief but bewilderment and indecision. Note the bracketed words ‘in theory’. Hume doesn’t think that we ever find this situation in practice, and gives a number of reasons why not. Had he lived in our time he might have added that psychological research has uncovered a number of surprising facts about the unreliability of human memory and testimony, but shows no sign of homing in on any set of conditions under which their reliability is 5. The Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes, in a sixth-century representation. Food for 5,000? Or just food for thought?

completely assured. Nor should we expect it to, given the range of disruptive factors which Hume lists. This, in essence, was Hume’s argument. Unsurprisingly, it has provoked much discussion, and still does. Here are a couple of points, to give the flavour. They also nicely illustrate two features frequent in philosophical discussion and indeed in debate generally, so well worth being on the look out for: there is the criticism which, whilst perfectly true in itself, misses the point; and there is the objection that an argument ‘proves too much’. Hume, it may be said, based his argument on the thought that a miracle must be (at least) extremely improbable. But won’t his opponents just deny that? They, after all, are believers. So whereas they might regard a report that – to take Hume’s own example – Queen Elizabeth I rose from the dead as far beneath serious consideration, just as Hume himself would, they may regard the alleged miracle of Christ’s resurrection as not very improbable at all, given who they take Christ to have been. Hasn’t Hume just begged the question against them – not so much proved that they are wrong as simply assumed it? But we should reply on his behalf that this mistakes what Hume was doing. He was asking what reasons there may be for forming religious beliefs in the first place. That the world may look very different, and different arguments appear reasonable, when one has already formed them, he would not for one moment dispute. Nor need he dispute it: it has no bearing on the central issue, which is whether a miracle can be proved, ‘so as to be the foundation of a system of religion’. So that objection is simply off target. The second is not, and gives Hume more trouble. Doesn’t his argument show that it could never be reasonable for us to revise our views about the laws of nature? But that is the main way in which science makes progress; so if that is irrational, then any charge that belief in miracles is irrational begins to look rather

less serious. ‘If I’m no worse than Newton and Einstein and company’, the believer will say, ‘I’m not too bothered.’ Why might it be thought that Hume’s argument has gone over the top in this way? Well, suppose we have very good reason to think that something is a law of nature: all our experience to date fits in with it, and our best current scientific theory supports it. Now suppose that some scientists report an experimental result which conflicts with it. Doesn’t Hume’s argument tell us that we ought just to dismiss their report on the spot? Our evidence that what they report to have happened cannot happen is as good as any evidence we ever have; on the other side of the question we have just – their testimony. Isn’t that exactly the situation he was talking about in regard to reports of miracles? Hume appears to be trying to pre-empt some such criticism when he writes: ‘For I own that otherwise [i.e. when it is not a question of being the foundation of a system of religion] there may possibly be miracles, or violations of the usual course of nature, of such a kind as to admit of proof from human testimony . . .’. And he goes on to describe an imaginary case (philosophers often use imaginary cases to test the force of an argument) in which there are found in all human societies reports of an eight-day darkness, which agree with each other exactly as to when the darkness began and when it lifted. Then, he says, it is clear that we ought to accept the report, and start considering what the cause of this extraordinary event might have been. But he does not tell us precisely what it is about this example that makes the difference. And that was what we needed to know. I think Hume could have made a better, and certainly a clearer, response to the threat. He might have said that in circumstances such as I have just outlined (last paragraph but one) the scientific community probably would not believe the report, and that they would be perfectly rational not to, until several of them had repeated the experiment and got

exactly the same result. Belief in it would then no longer be a matter of testimony alone, but also of widespread observation. We can, and do, demand that scientific results be replicable; we can’t demand a rerun of a miracle. Where for any reason no rerun is possible those making the improbable assertion have it too easy, and we ought to be as cautious in science as we should be in matters religious. It may be, though we cannot be certain, that this is what Hume was trying to say. In the imaginary situation he describes, the report of the eight-day darkness is found in all cultures. At a time when communication was slow and cumbersome, and likely to be partial and inaccurate, perhaps he took his story to be one in which it was beyond doubt that all these different peoples had independently made precisely the same observations, so that the situation was the equivalent of running an experiment several times with exactly the same result. As I say, we cannot be certain – not even Hume, one of the best philosophical writers in this respect, is clear all the time. But we can be fairly certain that that was not all he was trying to say. For at the end of the paragraph from which the quotation above is taken, we find this: ‘The decay, corruption, and dissolution of nature, is an event rendered probable by so many analogies, that any phenomenon, which seems to have a tendency towards that catastrophe, comes within the reach of human testimony, if that testimony be very extensive and uniform.’ Or in other words, the alleged eight-day darkness would indeed be very unusual, but there is nothing especially unusual about nature behaving out of the normal pattern from time to time. So we have no reason to regard such a thing as impossible, and therefore there is no real comparison with the case of a miracle at all. We could spend a long time amongst the details of Hume’s essay Of Miracles. Many have. But our tour must move on.

Page 1, 2, 3, 4

Categories: Philosophy - Edward Craig Tags: Edward Craig, Introduction, Oxford, Philosophy

Socrates

March 1, 2011 dsiloha Leave a comment

Socrates
469-399 B.C.

Socrates is a famous philosopher from the ancient Greece. Having served with some distinction as a soldier at Delium and Amphipolis during the Peloponnesian War, Socrates dabbled in the political turmoil that consumed Athens after the War, then retired from active life to work as a stonemason and to raise his children with his wife, Xanthippe. After inheriting a big fortune from his father, the sculptor Sophroniscus, Socrates used his marginal financial independence as an opportunity to give full-time attention to inventing the practice of philosophical dialogue.

Socrates then began to study and work with students in Athens. He would often question them on popular opinions of that time. He would never charge his students for the time he spent working with them. As time went on, parents of these students became sceptical of Socrates and were unsure if they wanted their children to work with him because his ideas were so radical. After several years of parents feeling this way, they brought him to court. He was found guilty of corrupting the youth and interfering with the religion of the city and was ordered to die. Socrates took this punishment with grace and drank hemlock, a poison, as he was with his friends and loved ones.

Socrates work is best known by the information given by Plato, Socrates most successful student.

Categories: Ancient Philosophy Tags: Socrates

Socrates, Xenophon, and Plato

March 1, 2011 dsiloha Leave a comment

Socrates, Xenophon, and Plato

Empedocles
Socrates
Xenophon’s Socrates

Defense of Socrates
Memoirs of Socrates
Symposium
Oikonomikos

Xenophon

Cyropaedia
Hiero
Ways and Means

Plato’s Socrates

Alcibiades
Charmides
Protagoras
Laches
Lysis
Menexenus
Hippias
Euthydemus
Meno
Gorgias
Phaedrus
Symposium
Euthyphro
Defense of Socrates
Crito
Phaedo

Plato’s Republic
Plato’s Later Work

Seventh Letter
Timaeus
Critias
Theaetetus
Sophist
Politician
Philebus
Laws

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Empedocles

In the fifth century BC the Pythagorean school continued, and Parmenides in Elea contributed tometaphysics. Zeno also of Elea let his mind trap himself into thinking one could never getsomewhere, because by going half-way there each time one would get closer but never arrive. Ofcourse if one continually goes halfway, one will never get there; to get there one must go all the
way. However, Antisthenes credited Zeno with courageously challenging a tyrant by informingon the tyrant’s friends. When interrogated by the tyrant, the only one he would implicate was thecursed tyrant himself. Zeno accused the bystanders of cowardice for not enduring what he was suffering. Finally he bit off his tongue and spit it at the tyrant before he was beaten to death in amortar. This affected the citizens so strongly that they later stoned the tyrant to death. Melissus of Samos as a general defeated Athenians led by Pericles in a naval battle in 441 BC; but his transcendental logic brilliantly pointed out that the infinite must be one, because if it were two,the two would limit each other and not be infinite.
Empedocles of Acragas wrote two poems, On Nature and Purifications, about the middle of the fifth century BC. He saw the universe as shifting between Love and Strife and composed of the elements of fire, air, water, and earth. With Love comes concord and joy; Aristotle interpreted Love as the cause of good and Strife as the cause of bad. Aristotle also said that he had been a champion of freedom and was averse to all rules. Others said that Empedocles declined the kingship offered to him, because he preferred to live frugally. When a tyrant insisted that all the guests drink wine or have it poured over their heads, Empedocles the next day accused the host and master of revels which led to their condemnation and execution. This began his political career, and it was argued that he must have been both wealthy and democratic, because he broke
up the assembly of a thousand three years after it was set up. Late in his life the descendants of his enemies opposed his return to Agrigentum; so he went to the Peloponnesus, where he died.
As Pindar, in one of his many poems praising athletes, his second Olympian ode, saw a return to a heavenly kingdom so too did Empedocles describe the soul that realizes its divinity. Empedocles gained renown for reviving a woman who had been unconscious for thirty days. Empedocles asked humanity, “Won’t you stop ill-sounding bloodshed? Don’t you see that you are
destroying each other in careless folly?”^[1] He saw foolish fathers sacrificing their sons and children their parents. He wished he had died before he began eating flesh. Poetically he described how by an oracle of Necessity, anciently decreed by the eternal gods, a demi-god with long life, who has defiled his hands with bloodshed and strife or a false oath, must wander for thousands of seasons far from the blessed, being born through time in many mortal forms in one deadly life after another, pushed on by all the elements. Such a fugitive from the gods who had trusted strife did Empedocles claim himself to be. After many different lives such souls eventually come to earth as prophets, poets, healers, and princes to share with other immortals.
Empedocles wrote that after much wandering he now went among the people as an immortal god honored and revered for his wisdom and healing powers. Leucippus founded the atom theory of natural philosophy refined by Democritus, who also taught that the cheerful person eager for justice and right actions is strong and free of care, while those who do not care about justice and right find everything joyless and in memory are afraid

p. 4
and reproach themselves. Happiness, said Democritus, is not found in gold or cattle but in the soul. For Democritus the goal of action is tranquillity, which is not the same as pleasure but a state of well-being in which the soul is calm, strong and undisturbed by fear, superstition, and other feelings.
Protagoras, the greatest of the sophists, studied with Democritus and lived 481-411 BC. He is famous for the statement, “The person is the measure of all things.”^[2] He was the first to charge a fee for his lessons and the first to define the tenses and moods of verbs. He instituted debates and taught the art of arguing, including verbal quibbling. In one of his books he stated that he did not know whether the gods existed or not; for this he was expelled from Athens, and his books were burned in the marketplace.

Socrates

Socrates was born 469 BC in Athens and was the son of a stone-mason and a midwife. It was said that he did stone-work on the draped figures of the Graces on the Acropolis that was commissioned by Pericles. One account says that Crito took him out of a workshop to educate him because of the beauty of his soul. Socrates admired the theory of Anaxagoras that the mind is infinite, self-ruled, and unmixed with anything but itself, controlling and causing all things.
However, when he studied with Anaxagoras, he found that he introduced many physical causes into his explanations of nature. Such ideas challenged prevailing religious beliefs in Athens, and Anaxagoras was condemned to death; but his friend Pericles got him out of prison. Socrates then became a student of Archelaus, who was said to have begun the speculation on ethical questions of law, justice, and goodness; Socrates improved on this so much that he was considered by Greeks the inventor of ethics. Some said that Socrates helped Euripides write his plays.
Socrates fought as a hoplite at Potidaea in 432 BC and handed over his prize for valor to Alcibiades. He later served again at Amphipolis and at Delium. He invested his money and lived very simply, though he had three children, having taken a second wife to help Athens increase its population. He never asked a fee from anyone, and when observing the products in the marketplace he would observe that he had no need for so many things. He said that most people live to eat but that he ate to live. Charmides offered to give him some slaves for income, but he declined the offer. He refused to accept gifts from tyrants in Macedon, Cranon, and Larissa, and did not visit their courts. He had a supernatural sign which would warn him what not to do. His questioning often perturbed people so much that they would attack him with their fists; but he would refuse to fight or bring legal charges, saying it takes two to make a quarrel or that he would not sue a donkey for kicking him either. His wife Xanthippe was known for being a shrew; but he argued that just as by mastering spirited horses a trainer could handle others easily, so he could learn how to adapt to anyone.
Socrates was satirized by Aristophanes in the comedy The Clouds in 423 BC; but he did not object, because if his faults were shown it would do him good, and if not it would not affect him.
However, two dozen years later at his trial he was still being accused of making the worse argument appear better and investigating things under the earth, partly because of that play. When eight Athenian generals were illegally tried by the assembly for not picking up the lost sailors at Arginusae, Socrates refused to preside over the illegality. When the vicious oligarchy

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of Thirty ordered him to arrest the wealthy Leon of Salamis, Socrates did not obey even though he might have died for it. This oppressive government also forbade teaching the art of words because of him.
Finally in 399 BC the resentful Anytus, Lycon, and Meletus charged Socrates with corrupting the youth and with refusing to recognize the gods of the state while introducing new divinities.
Lysias wrote a speech of defense for him, but Socrates rejected it as unsuited to him, just as fine clothes would be. The vote to condemn him was 281-220. Then as a penalty he offered to pay a small fine, though he believed that the state should provide free meals for him. This alienated even more jurors, and he was condemned to death by a majority of eighty more votes. Believing in the laws of the state, he refused to escape from prison. After his execution by hemlock poison, it was said that Athens felt such regret that they put Meletus to death and banished the other two accusers. Socrates was said to be the first philosopher (in Greece) to discourse on the conduct of life and was the first to be executed.

Xenophon’s Socrates

Although Socrates himself left behind no writings for us, his disciples Aeschines, Antisthenes, Aristippus, Cebes, Crito, Euclides, Phaedo, Simmias, Xenophon, and Plato wrote Socratic dialogues portraying his teaching in literary form. Of these only the extensive works of Xenophon and Plato remain intact. The relationship between these writings and the real Socrates is controversial; but in this work that examines the ethics implied in literature as well as history and biography, we can simply look at how Socrates is portrayed in these various dialogs, and then readers can draw their own conclusions. Both Xenophon and Plato were born in Athens about 428 BC and thus had the opportunity to observe Socrates in his later years. It seems to me that they each brought out different aspects of a very complex man.
When Socrates was tried and executed, Xenophon was on the Persian military expedition made famous in his Anabasis. When he did write about his teacher a few years later, his main motive appears to have been to defend Socrates from the charges that led to his execution. His short work called the Defense of Socrates gives Socrates’ view of his trial as reported by Hermogenes.
Socrates believed that his whole life had been a preparation for his defense, because he had consistently done no wrong, and his “little divinity” (daimonion) warned him twice not to consider preparing it. Socrates also felt that dying then would prevent him from suffering the decline of old age. In answering the charge of introducing new deities, he said his daimonion was like the divine signs other prophets and priestesses experience. This spirit also helped him to advise friends and was never found wrong. This statement caused an uproar at the trial, as many did not believe him, while others resented the implication that he was closer to the gods.
Socrates told how Chaerephon asked the Delphic oracle about him, and Apollo declared that he was the most free, upright, and prudent of all. Socrates then asked the jury if they knew anyone who was less a slave of his desires or more free, since he did not accept payment from anyone.
Socrates asked if any youth had developed bad habits because of him, and Meletus charged that he had persuaded the young to listen to him instead of their parents, which Socrates admitted in regard to questions of education that he had studied. Socrates was not upset by the result of the trial and compared himself to Palamedes, who had been unjustly accused by Odysseus. When
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Apollodorus found it difficult to bear seeing Socrates being put to death so unjustly, Socrates asked if he would prefer to see him executed justly.
Xenophon continued to defend Socrates in the first part of his Memoirs of Socrates. Apparently Polycrates had published a pamphlet condemning Socrates, and Xenophon wanted to answer these accusations too. Xenophon’s Socrates said that the gods gave us intelligence to use when we could, but that what was concealed from humans could be discovered from the gods by divination. Xenophon found Socrates doing the opposite of corrupting youth by his example and his teaching, inspiring them to desire goodness. He disapproved of over-eating but approved of doing enough exercise to work off the food the mind accepts with pleasure. He did not seek money-lovers but charged no fee, and he rid his listeners of all desires except to be in his company.
Xenophon answered the charge that Critias and Alcibiades, who had been in the circle of Socrates, did great harm to Athens by saying that they were the most ambitious of men and were determined to have as much control over the state as they could; but while they were with Socrates, they were self-disciplined. Critias had been banished to Thessaly, where he practiced law-breaking, and Alcibiades was courted by powerful women and men because of his good looks and prestige. Socrates should not be blamed for their actions any more than a father should for what his son does. Socrates had criticized Critias for seducing Euthydemus, which caused Critias to hate him and with Charicles later to outlaw teaching the art of debate. Socrates also
criticized the Thirty for making the people worse the way a herder did by reducing his herd.
Xenophon wrote they stopped associating with Socrates because he annoyed them by exposing their mistakes. Socrates believed that it was an error to imprison the ignorant when they could be taught, though the insane may need to be confined. Then Xenophon proceeded to show how Socrates by practical example and by his conversations benefited his associates. Socrates only prayed for what is good, assuming that the gods knew that better than he. He thought praying for gold or power or anything else specific was like throwing dice or a battle, because they are unpredictable. He believed his small offerings to the gods
would be as well received, for surely the gods would not prefer the large offerings of the wicked.
Socrates did not eat or drink beyond satisfaction and advised others to avoid anything thatimpelled them to eat or drink when they were not hungry or thirsty.
Socrates explained to little Aristodemus how well the universe was designed by God and encouraged him to recognize that just as his mind controls his body according to its will, so too does the intelligence in the universe operate. The omniscience of God is infinitely beyond the limited sensory powers and mental faculties of humans. Thus he made his associates refrain from wrong actions, not only in public but also when they were alone, because they would all be known to the gods. Socrates encouraged self-discipline as making one more trustworthy than the moral weakling, for the slave of appetites cannot escape degradation of both body and mind.
Socrates refuted the luxury and extravagance of the sophist Antiphon by arguing that those who need as little as possible are closer to the divine and thus what is best. To the criticism that Socrates’ advice must have no value because he charged nothing for it, Socrates answered that as selling the favors of love for money is prostitution, so those who sell their wisdom are called

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sophists. When asked by Antiphon why he did not participate in politics, Socrates asked if he
could not be more effective by making as many people as possible more capable in politics.
Socrates pointed out that having a reputation for something without having the actual ability can
turn out to be disastrous, and thus he discouraged his associates from having pretensions.
Socrates practiced and taught self-control of one’s appetites and argued to the pleasure-loving
Aristippus that the prudent are more fit to govern. Those who devote themselves to managing
their estates efficiently, benefiting their friends, and serving their country will surely find more
happiness than in momentary pleasures. Socrates recounts Prodicus’ parable of Heracles and the
two women who came to him as Vice and Virtue. Vice offers easy pleasures, but Virtue explains
that worshipping the gods brings their grace, being kind to friends brings their love, helping the
state brings its honors, benefiting Greece brings its recognition, working the land brings
abundant crops, and training one’s body makes it physically efficient.
When his son Lamprocles got angry because of his mother’s temper, Socrates taught him to be
grateful for all the gifts a mother has given to her child. Also by being good to his neighbors and
fellow travelers, they will be good to him. He encouraged Chaerecrates to take the lead in
resolving his quarrels with his older brother Chaerephon; for if he has a noble and generous
nature, he will respond. Socrates has observed that low types are usually won over by a gift, but
the best way to influence good people is by courtesy. If his brother does not respond,
Chaerecrates has shown that he is a good and affectionate brother.
To Critobulus Socrates praised friendship, and he felt that a friend was more valuable than any
other possession; yet friends are often neglected compared to one’s material possessions. Those
who cannot control their desires are not usually reliable friends, and those who spend all their
time making money have no time for friendship. Trouble-makers should also be avoided. Also
one who accepts kindness but never thinks of repaying it does not make a good friend either.
Those who have treated their friends well in the past are likely to do so in the future. Then
Socrates showed that if we want to have a good friend, the best thing to do is to be a good friend
in words and action. Even states that value honorable dealing are often hostile to other states.
Socrates noted that tendencies toward friendship must compete with hostile tendencies toward
fighting, rivalry, ambition, and envy. Friendship can unite the fine and good though by
moderating possessions, ambitions, and desires in sharing and by controlling passions. Having
good friends can be beneficial in public life. The best way to be thought good at anything is to
become good at it.
After the Peloponnesian War when Athenians were suffering poverty and a civil war, the
aristocratic family of Aristarchus was starving in Piraeus until Socrates advised him to invest in
wool and get the women and men of his house working, which would make them friendlier and
pleased with themselves. Another older man named Eutherus, who lost his property in the war
and was working as a manual laborer, he advised to go into managing property as more suitable
to his age and experience. Crito, who was continually settling out of court to prevent lawsuits, he
advised to get a friend to defend his cases by prosecuting these exploiters. They found that
cultivating the friendship of honest people by returning kindness, which made bad people their
enemies worked better than making good people enemies by wronging them in collaboration
with bad people.

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Xenophon gives several conversations in which Socrates gave military advice. Since Xenophon
was a general and Socrates was not, it is likely these reflect more the ideas of Xenophon than of
Socrates. Xenophon points out the similarities of estate management and business administration
to military administration as well as many of the complexities of command. Socrates asked the
ambitious Glaucon how he was going to benefit their country, but his questions revealed that the
young man did not know about their country’s revenues nor its expenditures nor its armed forces
nor how much grain it needed. If he can’t even persuade his uncle how to manage his household,
how would he ever convince the whole city of Athens? However, Socrates encouraged
Charmides to go into public affairs, because he thought he was too modest.
Socrates avoided the verbal traps of Aristippus by saying what things were good for specifically;
then he generalized that everything is good for the purpose for which it is well adapted. Socrates
believed that courage varied considerably but that everyone could develop their fortitude by
instruction and application. Those who put into practice what is fine and good and guard against
what is shameful are wise. The opposite of wisdom is madness, which results from thinking one
understands when one is ignorant. By explaining the methods she used and how he could make
her better, Socrates got the courtesan Theodote eager to visit him. Socrates also recommended
physical training to Epigenes for the health of the body.
To young Euthydemus Socrates showed the value of self-knowledge and the misfortunes of selfdeception.
Those who know themselves know what they can do and are successful while they
refrain from doing what they don’t understand and so avoid mistakes. They also know how to
assess others and can benefit from them, while those who don’t know themselves don’t know
what they want from others. Those who know themselves and are successful are sought out by
others, but those who fail through lack of knowledge suffer losses and damage their reputations.
States that go to war against stronger states through not knowing their own abilities either lose
territory or become enslaved. Finally Euthydemus realizes that he is ignorant and had better keep
quiet. Many people in this plight left Socrates in dejection and did not come back, but
Euthydemus decided that by associating with Socrates he could improve himself.
Socrates began by teaching his associates responsibility, because to develop their abilities
without that would make them more capable of doing wrong. To Hippias Socrates argued that
doing what is lawful is right and that there are unwritten laws of the gods such as honoring
parents and repaying benefits. In valuing freedom he taught that those who are governed by the
body’s pleasures cannot act best or be free. Self-indulgence prevents people doing what is best
and wise. By giving in to every immediate pleasure one does not even experience the maximum
pleasure that comes from holding out until one is hungry, thirsty, or tired and ready for sleep.
Only the self-disciplined can make the wisest choices and be most happy.
Socrates also made his associates better through philosophical discussions that helped them to
understand things better, while those who do not understand make mistakes. The courageous, for
example, understand perils and dangers and yet are brave. Socrates contrasted the sovereign
authority that acted with the consent of the people from the despotism that acted without their
consent. A good diplomat makes friends instead of enemies, and success in politics stops civil
strife and creates a spirit of unity. Socrates concluded that the best life comes from taking the
best care to make oneself as good as possible, and the happiest people are those who are most

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conscious they are getting better. Socrates believed that his associates loved him, because they
believed that by associating with him they would improve themselves and that he offered them
the greatest help in cultivating virtue.
In Xenophon’s Symposium the wealthy Callias invites Socrates and his friends to a dinner party
celebrating young Autolycus’ victory in the Pancration. When Callias offers the guests perfumes,
Socrates suggests that it’s better if they smell of goodness. When asked where they could find
that perfume, Socrates quotes the poet Theognis that good company is edifying but bad company
the opposite. After a display of dancing, Socrates says he prefers this form of exercise because it
can develop the arms as well as the legs. Socrates also urges the host to be sparing with the wine
so that their mood will remain more playful and gentle instead of being forced into intoxication.
Socrates then suggests they spend their time improving and amusing themselves by saying what
each thinks is his most valuable area of expertise. Like the sophists Callias claims that he makes
people better, but instead of by taking their money, by giving them money. Niceratus thinks his
knowledge of Homer is helpful. The ascetic Antisthenes, who has no money, says that it is his
wealth, because the thrifty are more moral than the extravagant and because he has much free
time to spend with Socrates; while Charmides, who was wealthy before the war made his assets
unavailable, is proud of his poverty, because now no one bothers him and the state supports him.
Socrates claims his skill as a pimp, and the jokester Philippus his humor. Lycon is most proud of
his son Autolycus, and Autolycus in turn honors his father. Hermogenes delights in the goodness
of his friends. Critobulus is proud of his good looks; although Socrates argues that his bulging
eyes and snub nose are better for seeing and smelling and his thick lips better for kissing,
Critobulus wins the beauty contest between them. The Syracusan is proud of his boy; but he is
afraid other men will want to sleep with him although he sleeps with him every night. Socrates
then uses a series of questions to show that his pimping makes his protégés as pleasing as
possible to his clients.
Having seen The Clouds, the Syracusan asks Socrates if he is called the “thinker.” Socrates
replies that it is better than being called thoughtless. He then asks Socrates if he knows about
celestial things, and Socrates interprets this as knowing about the gods. The Syracusan wants to
put on an erotic display, but Socrates takes up the subject of erotic love and shows that the
celestial side of Aphrodite is better than the common. Its pleasure is greater because the mind is
better than the body; mental affection lasts longer than physical and is less bound by satiety.
Being loved for one’s character is never negative, but shameless physical intercourse has led to
many atrocious crimes. The favorite who relies on physical beauty is not likely to improve other
qualities, but the one who knows that one must be truly good to retain friendship will care more
for virtue not only in the beloved but in oneself as well. At the end of this discussion as Lycon is
leaving with his son, he calls Socrates a truly good man; after the erotic display all the guests
immediately go home to their wives or lovers.
Xenophon’s Oikonomikos is on estate management. Socrates tells Critobulus how people are
slaves when they allow such harsh masters to control them as gluttony, sex, drink, and costly
ambitions. Socrates believes that his assets are better than those of Critobulus, although his own
property would sell for five minae and Critobulus’ for more than a hundred times that, because
Socrates is able to live within his income, but Critobulus is not. Critobulus asks for Socrates’

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advice in estate management. Socrates points out that everything needs to be arranged in its
proper place, not at random. One’s wife can be a good partner in the house, because although
income usually results from the husband’s activities, most of the expenditures come from the
wife’s housekeeping; so both need to be done well. Socrates praises agriculture and indicates
how much everyone depends on it, not just to live but to live pleasantly.
Socrates then tells Critobulus about a long conversation he had with Ischomachus, who was
known for being fine and good by everyone. First Ischomachus tells Socrates how he trained his
wife, who came to him at age fifteen, by first praying to the gods for what is best and then
training her. The traditional relationship of the woman handling things inside the house while the
man did the outdoor work is discussed. Ischomachus expresses the hope that his wife will turn
out better than himself and make him her servant because she is so valuable and efficient.
Xenophon then compares estate management to military administration. Greek dependence on
slave labor is assumed and in no way challenged. The female servants are to be locked away
from the male servants so that their procreation can be regulated by the master, and it is also
implied that the wife must compete with these women who are also used as concubines by her
husband.
In addition to the wife being taught how to use rewards and punishments to train the workers, a
housekeeper is instilled with justice so that she also can reward right and not wrong.
Ischomachus encouraged his wife to exercise in her work to benefit her health and beauty, but he
discouraged her from using artificial cosmetics such as lead powder, although it was not known
to be poisonous then. Ischomachus also taught his foreman responsibility so that he could
supervise everything as well as the master. Rewards include verbal praise, and it is noted that
human beings can be made to obey by proving to them by argument that it is in their interest. In
the last part of the dialog Ischomachus shows Socrates how much he really already knows about
the details of plowing, sowing, planting, and harvesting by artful Socratic questioning, indicating
that this theory and method of educating is probably more Socratic than Platonic in origin.

Xenophon

Diogenes Laertius relates the story that Socrates cornered Xenophon in a narrow street and asked
him where food was sold. Then he asked him where people become fine and good. When
Xenophon could not answer this, Socrates told him to follow him and learn. Xenophon was the
first to take notes of Socrates and write about the conversations. A friend named Proxenus, who
was a student of Gorgias, wrote Xenophon a letter from Sardis about Cyrus, the prince of Persia.
Xenophon showed the letter to Socrates and asked his advice. Socrates suggested that he consult
the oracle at Delphi, but he later criticized Xenophon for asking in what way he should serve
Cyrus instead of whether he should go to Asia. After Cyrus was killed in the revolt against the
great king, which was followed by the murder of the Greek mercenary generals, Xenophon was
one of the new generals elected by the soldiers. His account of how they led these 10,000 men
back to Greece in the Anabasis influenced Greek pride and eventually resulted in Alexander’s
conquests in Asia.
Xenophon then served the Spartan king and general Agesilaus and even fought against Athenians
in 394 BC. This brought about his banishment from Athens, and Xenophon bought an estate at

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Scillus near Elis. There he managed slaves and wrote books. According to tradition he made
Thucydides famous by publishing his history and then continued it from 411 to 362 BC in his
Hellenica, the best historical source for the period, though it lacks the brilliance of Thucydides.
He pioneered the genre of biography with the encomium Agesilaus.
Xenophon’s long work on Cyrus II (r. 559-529 BC) of Persia is so romanticized that it is
probably more historical novel than biography. Cyropaedia means the education of Cyrus; but
only the first book of eight is on his education, and that is primarily hunting as a preparation for
war-fighting. Xenophon presents Cyrus as an outstanding military leader and ruler. Xenophon’s
account is also greatly influenced by his admiration for Spartan ways, and the Persian history is
mixed with Greek customs. The stages of a man’s life follow the Spartan system with its
emphasis on military service. Also influenced by Socrates’ philosophy, Xenophon declared that
the main subject the boys learn in school is justice. Boys are punished for not returning favors,
and self-control is also strongly instilled. Young Cyrus visits his grandfather who is king of the
Medes, and he gradually matures from a charming but impetuous boy to a discerning and
generous young man. Cyrus loves to hunt and distribute the meat to his friends. While hunting
near the border, he suggests a military raid against the encroaching Assyrians which is
successful. Xenophon’s utilitarian philosophy is summarized in a speech by the young Cyrus to
his chosen Persian troops.

I think that no virtue is practiced by people except with the aim that
the good, by being such, may have something more than the bad;
and I believe that those who abstain from present pleasures do this
not that they may never enjoy themselves,
but by this self-restraint they prepare themselves
to have many times greater enjoyment in time to come.
And those who are eager to become able speakers study oratory,
not that they may never cease from speaking eloquently,
but in the hope that by their eloquence
they may persuade people and accomplish great good.
And those also who practice military science undergo this work,
not that they may never cease from fighting,
but because they think that by gaining proficiency in the arts of war
they will secure great wealth and happiness and honor
both for themselves and for their country.^[3]

Cyrus also has a religious attitude of friendship toward the gods, although he knows that one
must learn and work at something in order to be able to pray for successful results. He believes
that those who pray for what is not right would fail with the gods just as those who violate
human laws are disappointed by people. He feels it his task to govern people so that they might
have all the necessities of life in abundance and all become what they should be. Xenophon’s
Cyrus does not believe in Oriental self-indulgence but in Greek self-discipline as an example to
all. Xenophon then has Cyrus learn from his teachers that the military art involves much more
than mere tactics, but administration, physical training and health concerns, and motivational
psychology. One must not merely seem wise but actually be wise in order to lead well. To win
affection he must be a benefactor by being able to do good, sympathize with ills, help in distress,
and prevent setbacks. However, all the virtues can be reversed in working against the enemy.

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His father Cambyses gives Cyrus many lessons, concluding that he should learn from history that
many states have been persuaded to take up arms and attack others but have been destroyed;
many have made others great and then suffered wrongs from them; many who could have treated
others as friends and given and received favors have instead treated them like slaves and
received their just return; many not satisfied to enjoy their proper share have lost what they had
trying to gain more; and many who have gained coveted wealth have been ruined by it.
In organizing his army Cyrus rewards merit and balances training with entertaining the men. In
asking for aid from India against the Assyrians, he is willing to allow them to arbitrate the
difference, showing he did not believe he was in the wrong. When the Armenians refused to pay
their tribute or send troops, Cyrus was able to capture their king and then generously allowed
him to contribute to their war effort instead of punishing him. Then with the Armenians on his
side he attempts to make peace between them and the Chaldeans and by taking a hill fortress is
able to enforce a peace between them.
Most of the Cyropaedia is about this war against those Xenophon calls the Assyrians, although
their empire had been taken over by the Babylonians a half century before. Cyrus demonstrates
his military skills and generosity in forgiving captured enemies and turning them into allies.
However, any of these who try to flee from his camp are killed. Cyrus gains the help of the
alienated Gobryas and the castrated Gadatas, who now hate the Assyrian king. Cyrus marches his
forces to Babylon but then passes by it to take other forts in the area. Cyrus and his uncle, the
Mede king Cyaxares, meet with their allies and decide on war. Cyrus sends various spies,
including envoys from India who learn that Croesus has been chosen field marshal of the enemy
alliance.
In the great battle Cyrus outmaneuvers Croesus and wins over the Egyptians to his alliance to
capture Sardis and Croesus, but the city is spared the usual pillaging. Cyrus then directs the siege
of Babylon, and by diverting the river his troops are able to enter the city. Cyrus moves into the
palace and selects his bodyguards. Later he establishes his court in Persia, encouraging
attendance there with his personal rewards. He invests in physicians, surgeons, and medical
supplies. To answer the criticism of Croesus that he is not collecting enough wealth for himself
he sends around a request for funds, which shows that he has many times more available to him
than Croesus expected. Cyaxares gives Cyrus his daughter in marriage with all of Media as a
dowry. Xenophon gave Cyrus credit for adding Egypt to the Persian empire, but it was his son
who accomplished that after his death. Xenophon skipped quickly from the setting up of the
satraps to describe a peaceful death for Cyrus many years later when in fact he was killed in a
war. Someone, afraid that the book was too laudatory of Persia, added a postscript to show how
Persian culture had deteriorated morally after the life of Cyrus.
In Hiero, a dialog between Hiero, who ruled Syracuse as a despot from 478 to 467 BC, and the
poet Simonides, Xenophon showed the negative aspects of tyranny for the tyrant. Since Hiero
was not born a king but became one, Simonides asks him to compare private life with that of a
despot. Hiero says that he has found fewer pleasures and more pain as a despot and explains that
he cannot travel safely to see sights and hears only flattery; knowing his subjects have evil
thoughts, they dare not speak. Furthermore the despot is spoiled with every pleasure and material
luxury but has little to strive for.

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Despots do not experience the great blessing of peace but have the largest share of wars, and
even his own citizens are his enemies. In spite of the despot’s great wealth, his needs are so great
that he rarely has enough to meet all his expenses for guards and an army. He feels cut off from
friends and is surrounded by slaves. It is noted that slaves often kill their masters. Hiero
complains that he cannot even get rid of his despotism. When Simonides points out that he can
lavish gifts on people and be loved by the citizens, Hiero replies that he finds himself far more
hated than loved as a result of his transactions. However, in the conclusion Simonides argues that
he should do everything to make his state good in competition with other states. If he improves
his state, he will be acclaimed as a hero and be loved by all.
In The Constitution of the Lacedaemonians Xenophon praised the laws of Lycurgus and the
disciplined life of Sparta. Xenophon also wrote On the Cavalry Commander, On the Art of
Horsemanship, and On Hunting. Late in his life, probably in 355 BC, Xenophon wrote Ways and
Means as a proposal to improve the economy of Athens. Xenophon began with his concern that
leading Athenian politicians believe that owing to the poverty of the masses they are compelled
to treat other cities unjustly. Xenophon believed that Athens was capable of producing enough
revenue in a fair way by treating the resident aliens better, maintaining peace, increasing harbor
and market taxes, and by the state purchasing more slaves to work the silver mines. He did not
seem to be concerned about the injustice of slavery itself, although he thought they would serve
in the infantry better if they were treated with consideration. To maintain peace Xenophon
suggested a board of peace guardians, who would increase the popularity of the city and attract
more visitors.
Xenophon believed the happiest states have the longest period of unbroken peace and that
Athens was well suited to peace. Of those who thought war could benefit Athens, he asked
whether they had been successful leaders of the league funds by coercing the Greeks or by
rendering services. He pointed out that Athens was stripped of her empire, because they had been
too harsh in their authority; but then when they refrained from unjust actions, the islanders once
again gave her presidency of the fleet. Generosity and not coercion was what gained them
alliances with Thebes and the Lacedaemonians. In Athenian history much money came into the
treasury during peace, and then all of it was spent in war. After the war was over, revenues were
able to rise again. Athens can also deal with their enemies much better if they don’t provoke
them by wronging them. Xenophon concluded his essay by suggesting that his proposal be
presented to the gods at the Delphic oracle so that it could be carried out with their help.

Plato’s Socrates

The most detailed and brilliant portraits of Socrates are by Plato; though it is difficult to deduce
how much Plato has added to the original person, the influence of these writings has been
immense regardless. Plato presented a young Socrates in his late dialog Parmenides; however,
this discussion is not about ethics at all but metaphysics.
One of the earliest dialogs that I believe is often neglected is the first Alcibiades. This is a
marvelous introduction to Socratic method and ideas on the theme of self-knowledge and is set
in 432 BC when Socrates was about 38 and Alcibiades 18. That was the year Socrates saved
Alcibiades’ life at Potidaea, although that is not mentioned in this work. Alcibiades was known

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for being extraordinarily handsome, and Socrates has been waiting until his older lovers have
tired of the youthful prize so that he can talk to him about more serious things. The other
prominent characteristic of Alcibiades was his tremendous ambition, which concerns Socrates
here. Since he knows that his young friend wants to rule not only Athens but the world if he can,
Socrates wants to prepare him as best he can for an inevitable political career which Alcibiades is
already contemplating. Socrates hopes that with his divine guidance Alcibiades may be able to
accomplish his goals in a much better way.
Socrates begins by asking Alcibiades what advice he intends to offer the Athenians that he
knows better than they, which turns out to be issues of war and peace and other state affairs.
Socrates asks if he intends the Athenians to make war on those acting unjustly or those acting
justly. Alcibiades acknowledges that the latter is rarely admitted, because it is not just nor
honorable. Socrates helps Alcibiades to understand that such issues are often controversial with
little agreement on what is best. By his artful questioning Socrates shows Alcibiades that he does
not know what is just and unjust, but thinks that he does because he intends to advise the
Athenians. Alcibiades comes to realize that he is confused about the difference between what is
just and what is expedient. This confusion of thinking one knows something when one does not
tends to lead to the worst mistakes, because one acts thinking one knows but errs because of the
ignorance. Such is the dangerous plight of Alcibiades.
After a discourse about the ideal education of Persian princes, Socrates returns to questioning his
young friend, who answers that in a good state there will be friendship, which in turn results
from justice. Reminding Alcibiades of his ignorance in this, Socrates attempts to guide him into
taking care of himself. To do this one must first fulfill the motto of the Delphic oracle to know
oneself. By his questioning method Socrates shows Alcibiades that things and even one’s own
body are not the self that rules the human being, but the soul is the user of the body and things.
Socrates claims he is the one who love Alcibiades’ soul, and he will not leave him as long as he
is working to improve himself. For Socrates is afraid that Alcibiades will be seduced by the
people and warns him that he must study before he goes into politics, or he will be harmed. Thus
he must learn to take care of his soul.
How then does the soul know itself? Using the analogy of an eye seeing itself reflected in the
pupil of another’s eye, Socrates analogizes that the soul must look at itself and especially its own
virtue to find the divine part of itself, which will then bring the best knowledge of oneself. But
those who do not know themselves cannot know their own affairs, let alone others’, and will
make mistakes in private and public and so be wretched. Thus it is not wealth and the power of
warships and arsenals one needs in order to be happy but prudence and virtue so that one will
know how to impart virtue to the citizens. Since one cannot impart what one does not have, first
one must be virtuous oneself. By acting justly and prudently one will please God by focusing
one’s attention on the divine. In this way one can know oneself and what is good and thus be
happy. Similarly a state lacking virtue will be overtaken by failure. Alcibiades thus should not
strive for despotic power but for virtue, which frees one while shunning the slavishness of vice.
This can be done, not by the will of Socrates, but by the will of God. Alcibiades promises to care
for justice; Socrates hopes that he will but closes the dialog apprehensive that the state will
overcome them both.

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Scholars believe that the Alcibiades II, which is attributed to Plato, was probably written a
century or two later. This work makes the point that one may inadvertently pray for evil if one
does not know what is truly best. Many people want things; but when they get them regret it,
such as those who are elected generals. Thus Socrates recommends the prayer for what is good,
that asks God to avert what is grievous even if one is praying for it. To really benefit the
community one must not only know or think one knows but also know how to make it beneficial.
This wisdom is valued by the gods and humans, and the gods don’t seem to be won over by
bribes. So Socrates prays that the mist wrapped around the soul of Alcibiades will be removed so
that he will discern good and evil.
In the Charmides Plato described a discussion about moderation (sophrosune). Socrates talks
with Charmides and his cousin Critias, who became the worst leader of the oligarchy of Thirty.
Charmides was also involved in that government and died in 403 BC along with Critias when it
fell; but his favorable treatment here is probably because he was Plato’s uncle. This dialog is set
just after the battle of Potidaea in 432 BC. The young Charmides is introduced as a handsome
young man who exemplifies the virtue of moderation. Before seeing his body though, Socrates
wants to know his soul. Critias suggests to his cousin that Socrates has a cure for his headaches;
but Socrates explains that it must be used with a charm because it is better to treat the body in
relation to its wholeness and the soul. Socrates believes that it is a common mistake to treat the
body as separate from the soul, because in his view all good and evil originates in the soul. The
charms, which are fair words, are used to implant moderation in the soul.
Socrates asks Charmides if he has this moderation; but the young man is too modest to admit it
and does not want to deny it either. So Socrates decides to inquire about it, and Charmides says
that moderation is doing everything orderly and quietly. However, Socrates by questioning
shows that quickness of mind is good and thus moderate. Next Charmides says that it is modesty
that makes one ashamed, but a quote from Homer indicates that this quality is not good for a
needy man. Then Charmides says moderation is doing one’s own business, but Socrates points
out that most craftsmen are doing business for others.
Since this definition came from Critias, he enters the discussion and then says that moderation is
doing what is good. Yet to do good requires wisdom, and so this definition leads to the Delphic
mottoes, “Know yourself” and “Nothing in excess.” Critias claims that self-knowledge is the
science of sciences in knowing what one knows. However, Socrates shows that it is not any of
the sciences such as medicine for health, architecture for building, and so on. Socrates is not able
to see what good this science of sciences does, since it does not know the other sciences. Finally
they come around to the science of discerning good and evil, but this science of advantage is not
moderation if it is the science of sciences. So Socrates must admit defeat and confess that he
does not know what moderation is either. However, he encourages Charmides to be as wise and
moderate as he can, because they are what lead to happiness.
Plato’s Protagoras is also set when Alcibiades has barely begun to grow a beard. Socrates is
wakened before dawn by young Hippocrates, who wants to go see the famous sophist Protagoras
during his visit to Athens. Socrates warns Hippocrates of the dangers of learning from sophists,
for knowledge, unlike material products, goes straight into his soul. At the home of the wealthy
Callias are the sophists Hippias and Prodicus as well as Protagoras and many of his followers.

p. 16
Protagoras offers to teach the youth and promises that he will get better every day in his personal
affairs and in public business. Socrates, noting that special qualifications are not needed to speak
about politics, wonders whether this art can be taught. Also he has found that great men like
Pericles have often failed to pass on their virtue through education. Socrates hopes Protagoras
will show that virtue can be taught.
Protagoras uses the myth of Epimetheus and Prometheus to indicate that only humans were given
the arts that can be taught with the use of fire and other tools. Zeus sent Hermes to instill respect
for others and justice. Protagoras notes the belief that everyone has a share in virtue and thus is
entitled to speak. Punishment is used as a deterrent with the idea that people will learn not to do
wrong. At school masters emphasize good behavior as well as letters and music; poetry is studied
for its moral lessons, and music develops self-control. The laws of the state are intended to teach
by punishing those who infringe them as a correction. Everyone can talk with their neighbors
about justice and virtue and so teach each other. Protagoras, famous as the first professional
teacher of adults to charge money, allows his students to pay his fee or take an oath and pay what
they believe it is worth.
Socrates is pleased with the presentation; but he has one question about the relation of justice,
moderation, wisdom, courage, and holiness to virtue. Protagoras explains they are parts of the
whole like the parts of a face. Justice and holiness are found to be similar, and folly is the
opposite of both wisdom and moderation. Becoming uncomfortable, Protagoras makes a long
speech, and since he won’t give short answers Socrates is about to leave; but the others persuade
him to stay and ask Protagoras to be more brief. Next Protagoras chooses to ask Socrates
questions about a poem by Simonides which seems to have a contradiction about whether
goodness is hard or not. In a long literary critique Socrates shows how the poet is saying that
although it is difficult to become good, being good is easier, as Hesiod made clear, and he
defends the poet’s criticism of Pittacus’ statement that goodness is hard because this implies it is
bad.
Socrates expresses his belief that the wise do not believe anyone does wrong willingly but only
unwillingly out of ignorance. This point is made in a discussion after Protagoras contends that
courage is different from the other virtues. Using the example of pleasure and pain, Socrates
demonstrates how people believe pleasure is good and pain bad; they only get eventual pain after
immediate pleasure or fail to endure a little pain for a greater pleasure because they don’t have
the skill in measuring the two. Similarly only the wise can be truly courageous in knowing when
it is best to risk danger; cowards are so only out of ignorance of what is good. Protagoras resists
these points but eventually must capitulate; Socrates points out this is ironic because showing
that virtue is knowledge indicates it can probably be taught, which is the point Protagoras was
trying to make.
Plato’s Laches is about courage. Two old men, who are the sons of a Thucydides (not the
historian) and Aristeides the Just, want to get their sons educated so that they can win renown
like their fathers, and they have asked the generals Nicias and Laches for advice in regard to
learning fighting in armor. Socrates is also consulted and is asked to decide when the two
generals disagree. Socrates suggests that they find someone who knows or has learned from the
best teacher. Nicias knows that Socrates tends to take the discussion into self-examination, and

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though Laches does not like discussions of virtue when the speaker is not virtuous he has seen
the courage of Socrates and is therefore eager to hear his views.
Socrates begins by asking how virtue will improve the sons, and in particular the virtue of
courage is most related to this art of fighting in armor. Laches says that courage is not running
away from fighting the enemy, but Socrates notes that the Scythians can fight on the run. So
Laches suggests that courage might be an endurance, but Socrates asks about foolish endurance.
So courage must be a wise endurance, but in actual cases Laches believes that those facing the
same danger with less knowledge are showing greater courage. Nicias then brings up a definition
he heard from Socrates that the brave are wise, and he suggests the definition that courage is
knowledge of fears and confidence in war and other things. However, Socrates finds this too
limiting as only having to do with the future. Yet if courage is the knowledge of good and evil in
all things, the definition is too broad as taking in all of virtue including moderation, justice, and
holiness. Finally Laches suggests that the old men consult with Socrates in regard to the
education of their sons, while Socrates recommends they all get themselves better educated.
According to Diogenes Laertius it was said that when Socrates heard Plato reading the Lysis, he
exclaimed, “By Heracles, so many lies the young man is telling about me!”^[4] Plato’s Socrates
discusses friendship with Lysis and his friend Menexenus at the request of Hippothales, who is in
love with Lysis. Socrates makes it clear that Lysis is not free at all in all the areas where others
have more knowledge than he even when they are slaves, and for this reason he is still much
under the control of his parents. At first it seems that the good will be friends with the good; but
if the good are self-sufficient they have no need of friends. To this I would say that the good
would be friends not out of need but because friendship is good. They find that friendship is not
always between those who are alike nor is it always between opposites. That which is neither
good nor evil may be friendly with the good. Things may be loved not for what they are but for
the good they can do for someone who is loved. Desire is also a cause of friendship. Yet in
conclusion no definition they can find is universally satisfying.
Menexenus by Plato has Socrates repeat a patriotic funeral speech composed by Aspasia, whom
he also credits with writing the funeral oration of Pericles. Before reciting the speech Socrates
notes how these patriotic orations praising the state tend to make one feel superior to others, but
the effect wears off after a few days. He sees no challenge in winning applause when praising
Athenians in Athens, but to praise Peloponnesians there or Athenians among the Peloponnesians
would require good rhetoric. The glorified version of Athenian history goes several years beyond
the death of Socrates; so it is more likely that these ideas are more Plato’s than Socrates’. The
speech calls Athenian government a democratic aristocracy of rule by the best with popular
consent and elected kings and officials. Much is made of equality of birth and how none of the
citizens were enslaved, as though slavery did not exist there; but it did. The abuses of Athenian
imperialism are not mentioned, and the eventual defeat in the Peloponnesian War is described as
Athens having defeated herself. The civil war to remove the oligarchy of Thirty is described as a
“mild disorder.” Finally in following the axiom of “nothing in excess” the citizens are urged not
to rejoice nor grieve too much nor lament nor fear too much.
The Lesser Hippias was attributed to Plato by the time of Aristotle. As a sophist Hippias claims
he is wise and after his lecture on Homer, Socrates asks him whether Achilles is better than

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Odysseus; Hippias does prefer the brave Achilles to the wily Odysseus. Socrates takes wily to
mean false; but he points out how Achilles was also false when he told Agamemnon he was
going to sail away. Hippias defends Achilles’ false statement as unintentional, while Odysseus
voluntarily lies. When asked which is better, Hippias believes that an unintentional error is not as
bad as doing evil or lying voluntarily. However, by a series of questions Socrates points out that it
takes more wisdom and ability to err voluntarily than unintentionally as in athletics, music, and
the arts and sciences. Although by the logic of the argument they must conclude that the wiser
and abler do wrong by their own will and the worse person involuntarily, Hippias cannot agree
with this nor can Socrates either. Socrates then doubts whether people should go to those who
claim they are wise but are so confused about this.
In the Greater Hippias, which scholars doubt is by Plato, the sophist Hippias brags about how
often he acts as an ambassador for Elis and about how much money he makes teaching in the
cities of Greece, except for Sparta where their laws forbid foreign education. Because he claims
to make beautiful compositions, Socrates asks him what beauty is. Hippias first answers a
beautiful maiden; but when Socrates asks in comparison to the gods, Hippias must admit a
beautiful maiden is ugly. Then he says gold, but Socrates shows that a fig-wood ladle can be
more appropriate for a pot of soup. Hippias says that it is most beautiful to be rich, healthy,
honored, to reach old age, and after burying one’s parents nobly to be buried by one’s children;
but Achilles was buried before his parents.
In defining the appropriate as beautiful, Socrates asks if the appropriate makes things appear
beautiful or be beautiful. Since some things can appear beautiful without being so, it may be the
latter, though it may do both. Yet if the appropriate causes things to appear beautiful without
being so, it cannot be the beautiful. Socrates suggests that the useful may be beautiful, and to this
is added what has the power to make something beautiful. Since power and use for evil cannot be
beautiful, they qualify that the power and usefulness must be for good purposes or in a word,
beneficial. However, then Socrates uses the difference between the cause and the effect to negate
this definition. After more of this logic-chopping they must admit they cannot define beauty.
Hippias goes back to his feeling that composing a good speech is beautiful and criticizes such
arguing. Socrates argues that he cannot know such a speech is beautiful if he doesn’t know what
beauty is and concludes with the proverb that all that is beautiful is difficult.
The most absurd demonstration of sophistry occurs in Plato’s Euthydemus. The dialog has the
frame of Socrates recounting the story to his friend Crito. Euthydemus and his brother
Dionysodorus claim that they can impart virtue, and Socrates wants young Cleinias and
Ctesippus to learn this. He asks the new sophists to convince them that virtue can be learned and
that they should pursue wisdom and practice virtue. However, using verbal tricks, such as
equivocation between two meanings of the same word, they proceed to refute whichever position
Cleinias takes on several propositions. Taking this display as a kind of initiatory game leading to
sophistry, Socrates offers to demonstrate how to encourage the youth to practice wisdom and
virtue. Socrates begins by showing Cleinias that to do well he needs good things such as wealth,
health, power, honor, and virtues like moderation, courage, justice, and wisdom. Then they
consider good fortune, but Socrates argues that wisdom is what brings about good fortune in

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various cases. Thus one must not only have good things but know how to use them well, which
comes from wisdom. Thus we ought to seek wisdom most of all.
Then Socrates asks the brothers to give a similar demonstration or show which knowledge they
should seek; but once again they play verbal tricks, one of which implies the doing away of
Cleinias and gets Ctesippus angry. Socrates calms him down by pointing out that they want to do
away with the ignorant and bad Cleinias in order to make him good and wise. They need to find
the art which enables them to use things wisely. Even generals merely hunt people and then turn
them over to the politicians, an insight Crito and Socrates think must have come from some
higher power. In the ensuing discussion Euthydemus and Dionysodorus try to prove many
absurdities such as that they know and can do everything ever since birth. Finally Socrates
suggests that they not exhibit their skills in public but in private. Crito mentions how he talked to
a man who thought this was all nonsense and worthless. Socrates notes that in between the
politicians and philosophers there is another group like this man who think that they are superior
to both, though Socrates places these rhetoricians in third place. Socrates asks Crito not to be
discouraged from studying philosophy by its worthless practitioners.
Plato’s Ion is about a reciter and expert on Homer. Socrates explains to him that he must be
inspired by Homer and his poetry the way metal rings cling to a magnet, because Ion is not even
interested in other poetry.
Plato’s Cratylus is a detailed study of words and an often fanciful explanation of their origins.
The Heraclitean philosophy of Cratylus seems to be influencing the inspiration of Socrates, who
often finds the R sound indicating being with the flow in positive words and blocking the flow in
negative ones. Socrates also points out that Hades prefers souls liberated from their bodies
because the desire for virtue is stronger when one is not flustered and maddened by the body.
Meno asks Socrates whether virtue can be taught in Plato’s Meno. Socrates admits that he not
only does not know whether it can be taught, he does not know what virtue is. Since Meno has
studied with Gorgias, he asks Meno, who says that manly virtue is managing the state’s affairs,
helping friends and injuring foes while not harming oneself, and a woman’s virtue is taking care
of the household and obeying her husband. Socrates is looking for the quality that makes
everyone virtuous; in thinking it is governing justly, the various virtues begin to appear, causing
Socrates to quip that they have turned a singular into a plural like when a plate is broken. So
Meno suggests it is the desire and ability to acquire good things, but Socrates shows the desire is
superfluous to the definition because everyone desires good things. Those who desire evil things
only do so because they believe they are good through ignorance; no one wants what they know
is evil. Once again they find the acquiring of good things must be combined with the virtues of
justice, prudence, holiness, and so on. Meno is now perplexed and says Socrates has numbed him
like a stingray, but Socrates admits he is just as numbed himself.
Socrates asks why one would inquire into what one knows or how one could inquire into what
one does not know; he suggests that it could be by divine inspiration in the soul, which is
believed to be immortal and akin to all nature and thus already has learned everything. The
ethical implication is that one ought to live as best one can, and the educational insight is that
learning could come from recognition by the soul. To demonstrate this, Socrates questions a

p. 20
slave boy about how to double the area of a square. At first the boy thinks he knows and says
what to do; but when he finds out he is wrong, he is perplexed. Then Socrates helps him to see
that the diagonal is the side of the double-square. Thus Socrates strongly believes that we will be
better and braver if we look for what we don’t know. Since what is learned is knowledge, if
virtue is knowledge, it can be taught. Then by questioning Meno he shows that each of the
virtues is good because they use knowledge and wisdom. Since this wisdom does not come by
nature, it must be learned.
However, Socrates is not able to find any good teachers of virtue nor can Anytus, who later
prosecuted Socrates; he is offended by the notion that the sophists could teach virtue. When
Socrates shows that better politicians than Anytus have not been able to teach wisdom, Anytus
gets angry. Finally Socrates points out to Meno that having a true opinion can be as beneficial as
wisdom. This can only be understood as divine guidance and explains why they cannot teach it.
Gorgias of Leontini, who had studied with Empedocles, was the most prominent rhetorician of
the 5th century BC. In Plato’s Gorgias set in 405 BC he is about eighty years old and plays a
small role. A master of style often imitated, in his lost work he philosophized that nothing exists;
but if something exists, it couldn’t be known; and even if it could be known, it couldn’t be
communicated. In Plato’s dialog Chaerephon takes Socrates to hear Gorgias after he has given a
demonstration of his rhetorical skill. Socrates asks him what the art of rhetoric is, and he replies
words, particularly the ability to persuade judges, senators, and people in the assembly and other
gatherings. Socrates points out that teaching also persuades; but since rhetoric aims at belief
instead of knowledge, it does not necessarily teach as well as it convinces. The subject of
rhetoric is right and wrong, but it can be misused and persuade people to what is wrong; one
does not have to know the truth but may merely appear to the ignorant as knowing more. These
contradict the notion that the rhetorician knows what is right.
So Polus takes over and asks Socrates what he thinks rhetoric is. Socrates calls it a routine which
gratifies and produces pleasure, a kind of flattery or pandering which he compares to cooking,
beautification (cosmetics and fashion), and sophistry. The arts of the body’s health are
gymnastics or exercise and medicine (including nutrition), and the arts of souls’ health are
legislation and justice. Cooking is the flattery corresponding to medicine, and beautification is
the flattery analogous to gymnastics. Likewise sophistry is to legislation what beautification is to
gymnastics, and rhetoric is to justice what cooking is to medicine. The body would choose the
pleasure of tasty cooking, while the wiser soul chooses good nutrition.
Socrates gets Polus to admit that doing what seems good without knowing is evil; when orators
get people to do what seems good but is not, they produce no benefit. After a series of questions
they are led to the conclusion that if one’s conduct proves harmful, one is not really doing what
one wants, since no one wants evil. Socrates shows Polus, who admires powerful tyrants, that to
put someone to death unjustly is miserable. Socrates declares that he wishes neither; but if he had
to choose, he would prefer to suffer wrong than commit wrong. Socrates would not want to be a
tyrant, because he believes the good are happy and the evil wretched.
Next Socrates shows Polus that the wrong-doer who gets away with it is more unhappy than the
one who is punished, because justice corrects and rids one of evils. Thus injustice, imprudence,

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and other vices of the soul are the worst evils. Just as the body may be corrected by medicine,
which is not perceived as pleasant, the soul may be corrected by discipline and learn to be more
just. To be doing wrong and not be corrected for it is the worst situation, and so tyrants with
money and supporters and powerful rhetoric, who can avoid being punished for their crimes, are
the most wretched. Thus the best use of rhetoric would be to persuade oneself of one’s own
crimes so that one could correct oneself and be rid of evils.
Callicles intervenes believing that this would turn life upside down, and so Socrates invites him
to refute his arguments. Callicles believes that the stronger have the right to rule and have more
than others, which he calls natural justice. Socrates asks if the many are not more powerful than
the one and therefore frame laws to restrain the one. Callicles argues that just as one ought to
govern oneself, the stronger have a right to govern the weaker and enjoy luxury and license.
Callicles also believes that pleasure and the good are the same, but that knowledge and courage
are different from each other and the good. Yet the evils of thirst and hunger occur
simultaneously with the pleasures of drinking and eating. Socrates holds that pleasure and good
are not the same, or else the evil person becomes as good as the good person. So Callicles
changes his position by saying that some pleasures are better than others. Socrates gets him to
agree that the pleasant is done for the sake of the good and not the reverse. To choose the better
pleasures one needs wisdom. To be concerned only about pleasure and not the good is to engage
in one of the flatteries. Thus orators aim only to please their listeners and their personal interests,
not to make them better or seek the common good.
Socrates asks Callicles which politicians have improved the people, and he cites Themistocles,
Cimon, Miltiades, and Pericles; but instead of making the people more orderly, each of these
men ended up being charged with crimes by the people. Socrates says they paid no attention to
discipline and justice but promoted harbors and walls and revenues. The good politician should
treat the people as a doctor would, not serve their pleasures. With these views Callicles wonders
how Socrates can avoid being brought into court himself, and Socrates expects that an evil
person might prosecute him some day in a trial that would resemble a doctor being prosecuted by
a cook before a jury of children. He would be helped though by not having done wrong in his life
and therefore would not fear death, since he fears only doing wrong.
If death is a separation of the soul from the body, the condition of the soul should be one’s
primary concern. In the next world the tyrants are often depicted as suffering the greatest evils
because of the license they had to commit such great crimes on earth. Socrates can cite only
Aristeides as one who practiced justice in politics. Thus Socrates aims to be as good as he can
and exhorts others to do the same, guarding against doing wrong while studying not just to seem
good but to be good, seeking correction when wrong, and avoiding every form of flattery but
using rhetoric to attain justice.
In Plato’s Phaedrus Socrates gets his friend Phaedrus to read him a speech by Lysias on why the
beloved should give in to the non-lover rather than the lover, since the lover is going to be selfish
and vain. When Socrates claims he could make a better speech, Phaedrus insists on hearing it;
but Socrates in embarrassment covers his head and afterward is prevented by his divine sign
from leaving before correcting such a shameful speech. Socrates believes they have blasphemed
Eros, the god of love, and so he gives another speech showing that the madness inspired by Eros

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can be a blessing just as can madness inspired by Apollo’s prophecy, the mystic Dionysus, and
the arts of the Muses. Socrates uses symbols to explain how the gods affect the soul before it is
born into a body. As a self-moving principle, the soul can have no beginning and is immortal.
Only souls that have seen the truth enter into human form. Those souls who live well and justly
get better incarnations than those who are unjust. Lovers are inspired from having experienced
divine beauty. Control of the lower drives is described by the figure of a charioteer, who must
get a dark horse of desires to cooperate with a bright and prudent horse. When the higher aspects
are victorious, one lives philosophically with self-mastery and inner peace.
In discussing rhetoric Socrates asks if a good discourse requires knowledge of the truth, and at
first it does not seem necessary because they must only deal with what is plausible for
persuasion; but then they realize that even that plausibility cannot be attained without knowledge
of the subject. So knowing the truth, accurate definition of terms, analyzing the material into its
components, and designing the speech for the specific characteristics of the listeners are all
helpful to the skillful speaker. Socrates questions the value of writing, because it can weaken
memory skill and cannot answer questions as a living speaker can. Finally Socrates offers up a
prayer to become fair within, to have such outward things as will not conflict with his inner
spirit, that he may value the wise as rich, and have as much gold as a moderate person can bear.
Love is also the topic of Plato’s Symposium in which Apollodorus in about 400 BC narrates the
story of a banquet he learned of from Aristodemus that took place the day after Agathon won the
prize for tragedy in 416 BC. Having drunk much the night before the guests decide to drink only
moderately, dismiss the flute-girls, and take turns praising Eros, the god of love, the physician
Eryximachus having warned that excessive drinking is detrimental. Phaedrus presides over the
discussion and says that Love is great because his birth according to Hesiod showed he was the
first of all the gods. Love is the best guide to a good life; the best blessing one can have is a
lover, and the best for the lover to have is a young beloved. Phaedrus cites the case of Achilles
and Patroclus to point out that the gods most admire the beloved who devotes oneself to the
lover.
Next Pausanias distinguishes the heavenly Aphrodite from the earthly one; the higher love is for
the soul more than the body and is the intellectual love between men. He notes that lovers though
often forswear their promises, and yet even the gods forgive this. Pausanias commends pleasing
a virtuous lover, but believes it is base to gratify a bad lover. Thus the Athenian custom is not to
yield too soon to a lover and not for financial or political considerations, which are considered
immoral. Yet devoting oneself to serving another in order to increase one’s wisdom or virtue is
considered blameless.
The comedian Aristophanes has the hiccups, and so Eryximachus tells him how to cure them by
holding his breath or sneezing while he claims that medical practice can replace harmful desires
with beneficial ones. Thus this art as well as gymnastics, agriculture, and music are under the
direction of the god of love, which produces harmony and concord. Then Aristophanes tells a
bizarre story explaining how homosexual and heterosexual love resulted from creatures who
were either all male, all female, or hermaphroditic before they were split in half to seek their lost
halves.

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Agathon praises Love as the youngest and loveliest of the gods who uses no violence at all but
lives in peace and concord. Love is tender and supple, dwelling in the softest place in people’s
hearts and more in those whose hearts are soft. Agathon says that Love controls lusts and
pleasures and is moderation itself; also it is as powerful as courage and an inspiration for poetry.
All things come from the creative power of love, and he concludes by praising Love for
cultivating courtesy and kindness while weeding out brutality; it is affable and gracious, a
wonder to the wise and admired by the gods, producing delicacy, daintiness, grace, and elegance,
in desire caring for the good in every situation.
Socrates marvels at the eulogies of Love but wonders whether they are true. Instead of flattering
love he prefers to say what love actually is. Questions of Agathon make clear that Love is the
love of something and therefore lacks what it desires; so as it loves what is beautiful and
goodness, it lacks beauty itself and also goodness. Then Socrates relates a conversation he had
about this with Diotima, who showed him that Love is not bad and ugly either but something in
between knowledge and ignorance, a spirit that links the gods and the humans. Love goes up to
heaven in prayers and descends as answers and guidance. Diotima says that Need and Resource
are the parents of Love; thus Love is always needing but is resourceful. The lover seeks to make
the good his own which results in happiness.
Diotima explains to Socrates that Love brings forth the beautiful in body and soul. Its wisdom is
concerned with ordering society by justice and moderation, and it motivates one to undertake the
education of one’s favorite in living virtuously. Initiates in love must learn to move from the love
of one person’s beauty to love the beauty in every body and then move from the beauty of the
body to that of the soul, the spiritual loveliness that never fades. Climbing this heavenly ladder
will eventually lead to beautiful institutions to learning and finally to beauty itself. Discerning
beauty itself will awaken true virtue and make one a friend of God and immortal. Thus
convinced, Socrates tries to bring others to this understanding, and he worships the god of love
and cultivates the qualities of Love himself.
The last part of the Symposium describes how the drunken Alcibiades comes in and, after he and
Socrates express their mutual jealousy over Agathon, gets them drinking as he praises Socrates.
Plato’s portrayal of Socrates’ trial and imprisonment is masterful. In the Euthyphro Socrates on
his way to the courtroom encounters a man who is prosecuting his father for murder, because a
slave he caught for murder died in chains while he was sending to an oracle for advice.
Euthyphro is surprised to see Socrates and asks him why he is there. Socrates explains that he is
being prosecuted for corrupting the young and for making new gods and not believing in the old
ones. Euthyphro claims that he is an expert on piety and that he is not being unholy in
prosecuting his father. Socrates asks Euthyphro’s advice so that he can better face the charges of
Meletus.
Euthyphro says that what he is doing is holy, but Socrates wants to know his definition of
holiness. So Euthyphro says that what is pleasing to the gods is holy. Socrates points out that
even the gods may disagree on questions of right and wrong, and so Euthyphro’s prosecution of
his father may be pleasing to some gods but not to others; he asks what proof Euthyphro has that
all the gods agree with him. This is difficult; so Socrates asks if the holy is holy because the gods

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approve it, or do they approve something because it is holy. By analogy he shows that things are
loved because someone loves them not the reverse; but Euthyphro is arguing that things are
loved by the gods because they are holy. These are contradictory, and even this is just an
attribute of holiness.
Socrates asks him if all that is holy is just, and Euthyphro agrees; but as reverence is only a part
of fear, so holiness is only a part of justice. Euthyphro says it is the part concerned with serving
the gods, but Socrates asks how the gods benefit from this service, which Euthyphro realizes is
absurd. Euthyphro then says that holiness is the science of sacrifice and prayer which gives to the
gods in exchange for benefits; but Socrates’ questions reduce this also to the absurdity of
commerce with the gods, and once again the gods do not really benefit. When Euthyphro falls
back on his original definition, they realize they have come full circle without understanding
what holiness really is.
In the Defense of Socrates Plato records his version of Socrates’ trial in 399 BC. Socrates begins
by saying that his accusers have not told the truth and though he is not a good speaker, he will
tell the truth. Before discussing the formal charges Socrates believes he must answer the
complaints that have been made against him for years that he has theories about the heavens, has
investigated below the earth, and can make the weaker argument defeat the stronger. These were
made 24 years before in The Clouds by Aristophanes and were commonly ascribed to sophists
and philosophers of this time. To explain how he became so unpopular Socrates tells how
Chaerephon asked the Delphic oracle if anyone was wiser than Socrates and received a negative
answer. Socrates decided to find someone wiser; but each time he found that the claims of
wisdom could not be verified, and he concluded that he was better off realizing that he was not
wise. Socrates questioned politicians, poets, and artisans in this way and thus made many
enemies. This search for wisdom and his efforts to help others become better people became the
mission of Socrates that occupied most of his time.
The first formal charge of corrupting the youth thus seemed especially ironic to Socrates. He
asks Meletus who helps the youth, and he replies all the other citizens of Athens. Yet Socrates
shows how horses are benefited by the few trained to do so, not the many. He asks why anyone
would want to harm others, since this would result in one’s own harm too; yet Meletus contends
that Socrates did this intentionally. If he did it unintentionally, he could be easily corrected by
communication rather than by prosecution. In the second charge although Meletus accused him
of inventing new gods, he now contends that Socrates does not believe in gods at all. Socrates is
more concerned about doing what is right than he is about dying, which may be good or bad.
Socrates believes he must obey God by practicing philosophy and exhorting people to a virtuous
life. He must examine people to see if they are making progress toward goodness, and he
believes no one serves the city better than he. He urges them to care more about their souls than
their bodies. Thus he believes he is pleading more for their benefit than his own, because God
has sent him like a fly to pester them into a better life.
Socrates notes that his guiding spirit, which Meletus ridiculed in the indictment, has warned him
often in the past of what not to do, but it has not appeared to indicate he is doing anything wrong
now. Socrates explains how it kept him out of politics as too dangerous for an honest person, and
he mentions his refusal to try the naval commanders illegally when he was elected to the council

p. 25
and also how he disobeyed the order of the oligarchy of Thirty to arrest the innocent Leon of
Salamis even though it might have cost him his life. Socrates points out several men in the
courtroom whose sons spent time with him, and none of them complained he had corrupted their
sons. Socrates refuses to make the usual emotional plea by his family for his life, because it is
irrelevant to the justice of the case and should be ignored by the jurors who swear to be just.
Socrates was condemned by a vote of 280-221. The prosecutors asked for the death penalty, but
in suggesting an alternative Socrates at first asks to receive meals at public expense for his
services, which as a reward more than a punishment clearly alienates more jurors. Finally he
offers to pay a small fine, which is increased to thirty minas by the support of Plato, Crito,
Critobulus, and Apollodorus. A larger majority voted for the death penalty. Socrates
philosophizes that it is more important to escape doing wrong than death, and he warns those
who condemned him wrongly, predicting that his followers will be even more critical than he
was. Socrates reflects that death is either like a dreamless sleep or a journey to the next world,
neither of which is to be feared. In conclusion he asks the Athenians to encourage his children to
seek goodness and to reprimand them if they think they are worth more than they are.
Plato’s Crito takes place two days before the execution of Socrates. His friend and neighbor Crito
visits Socrates in prison early in the morning. At the age of seventy Socrates does not resent
having to die. Crito urges Socrates to escape and offers to make all the arrangements for him,
assuring him that he is willing to contribute the money and run the risks of punishment. Crito
also has found several friends who are willing to help Socrates run away. However, Socrates
believes that he must first determine whether it would be right for him to get away without an
official release. Certainly one should never willingly do wrong, and they agree that even after
being wronged or injured it is still not right to do wrong or injure in return. Socrates asks if
escaping will injure the laws of the state. The state has provided much for him, and he believes
he should never do violence to his country. He could have chosen banishment as a legal
punishment at his trial; so why should he change his mind now against the sanction of the state?
Socrates would also be endangering his friends, who would be breaking the law in helping him
to escape, and he questions the quality of life he would have as a fugitive. Finally Socrates
decides to reject returning wrong for wrong and the breaking of agreements and covenants, and
he refuses to injure his country and his friends.
Plato’s Phaedo describes the last day of Socrates’ life. Several of his friends gather and are
admitted into the prison in the morning as the guard is taking the chains off Socrates’ legs.
Noting the odd sensation of pleasure after the pain, Socrates comments that pleasure and pain
often follow after each other. Having had many dreams urging him to cultivate the arts, Socrates
has recently been putting some of Aesop’s Fables into verse. Socrates believes that philosophers
welcome death and even seek to purify the soul from the body. However, suicide is not
considered proper, because it is as though they have been given a duty by the gods and must not
leave their post until they are released by some other agency. Since God is their keeper, it is good
to stay alive; but Cebes asks if the sensible person grieves leaving such a master, fools then
might rejoice. Socrates answers that the good go to even better divine masters after death. Crito
interrupts to convey the concern of the guard that if Socrates talks too much he may have to
administer extra doses of the poison; but Socrates tells him to be prepared to do that if necessary.

p. 26
Socrates wants to explain that it is natural for those who have devoted their lives to philosophy to
be cheerful in facing death in expectation of the greatest blessing in the next world. True
philosophers are preparing themselves for dying and death. Socrates asks if death is not the
separation of the body from the soul. The true philosopher directs more attention to the soul than
to the body and is freer of physical pleasures in searching for reality. Socrates explains that the
body and its desires block the pursuit of philosophy and can lead to wars.

For the body constantly keeps us busy by the need for food;
and if diseases fall upon it, they hinder our search of reality.
And it fills us with many of the passions and desires
and fears and fantasies of all kinds and nonsense
so that it is said in truthful reality
because of it being inborn in us one can never think at all.
For wars and factions and battles are caused
by nothing other than the body and its desires.
For all wars occur because of the gaining of money,
and we need to gain money because of the body,
slaving in its service; and out of this
we bring no leisure to philosophy because of all these things.^[5]

To know anything clearly one must be released from the body and observe the actualities with
the soul by itself. So the greatest knowledge is more likely after death, and those who live
clearest of the body and its follies are more likely to perceive the truth. Thus would it not be
ridiculous for one who has trained oneself to be in a state most like death to be distressed when
death approaches? Thus true philosophers make dying their profession and find it less alarming
than others. To be distressed by death is proof that one does not love wisdom but the body and its
wealth and reputation. Thus philosophers have greater self-control and courage than others who
practice courage out of fear of something worse. Others practice moderation so that they can
indulge in pleasures with less pain. Only truth cleanses moderation, courage, justice, and
wisdom.
Socrates refers to the legend that souls do exist in another world after leaving here and return
again to this world, being born again from the dead just as the waking come from the sleeping. If
the living did not come from the dead, eventually everyone would die. Socrates also uses the
learning theory of recognition to show that souls must have known things before they were in
human form. Comparing the soul to the body, Socrates says the soul is more like the invisible,
divine, immortal, intelligible, uniform, indissoluble, constant in itself, invariable, and governing
while the body is more visible, human, mortal, unintelligible, multiform, dissoluble, not constant
in itself, variable, and servile. Philosophy endeavors to free the soul from the body by gentle
persuasion.
Simmias and Cebes still have doubts about the immortality of the soul. Simmias asks about the
Pythagorean theory that the soul is a harmony, and Cebes wonders whether the soul may not
eventually die after having inhabited many bodies in succession the way a man wears out many
coats but dies in the end. The harmony theory is easily refuted, because it lacks many of the
obvious characteristics of the soul such as intelligence, governing, and it is clearly just the effect
of the musical instrument not its life essence. To answer Cebes Socrates tells how he got the idea
from Anaxagoras that the mind is the cause of all things, but in exploring the ideas of

p. 27
Anaxagoras further he was disappointed that he brought in other physical causes instead. If mind
is the cause, then everything should be designed for a purpose, as things are arranged for what is
best. Socrates notes the absurdity of thinking that he is sitting there because of his muscles and
bones and other physical causes instead of because of the spiritual causes that the Athenians
decided he should be imprisoned and die and because Socrates believes it is best for him to
remain there and submit to their penalty. If his body were deciding what is best, his legs would
have taken him to Megara.
Socrates then explains the doctrine of ideas – that there are such realities as absolute beauty,
goodness, magnitude and so on. The soul is defined as that which brings life to the body. As the
principle of life the soul cannot admit its opposite any more than beauty could be ugly, snow not
be cold, or fire not be hot. Thus the soul must be immortal. Like God as the essence of reality it
must be everlasting and imperishable. Thus when death comes to the body, the soul as the
immortal part retires and escapes unharmed and indestructible. Then Socrates draws the ethical
implications of this theory.

If the soul is immortal,
then it is necessary to take care of her
not only for this time which we call life, but for all time,
and the danger now also seems to be terrible
if one does not take care of her.
For if death were a release from everything,
it would be a god-send for the evil
who in dying would be released from the body
and at the same time from their evils with the soul;
but now since it appears to be immortal,
no one can escape from evils nor be saved in any other way
except by becoming as good and wise as possible.
For the soul goes into Hades having nothing else
except her education and nurture,
which it is said greatly helps or harms the dead
in the very beginning of the journey there.^[6]

Socrates describes how souls go to their proper level guided by angels until it is time for them to
return to earth again. Those more attached to the body are dragged there by force and in pain.
Those having done unjust murders are shunned by others and wander in confusion, while those
who lived moderately and purely are guided to marvelous places. Socrates describes the next
world not in exact terms but by analogies. Souls undergo purifications for their sins and are
rewarded for their good deeds. Unjust murderers are hurled into Tartarus from which they cannot
escape. Those who repent eventually are thrown back out. Those who have lived holy lives dwell
in pure and beautiful regions that are indescribable. Those who have been most serious about
learning prudence, justice, courage, freedom, and truth are best fitted for the journey in the next
world. Thus Socrates encourages his companions to take good care of themselves.
When Crito asks how Socrates wants to be buried, Socrates laughs and says he’ll have to catch
him first. Then he explains to him it is only his body that they will bury. Finally Socrates drinks
the cup of hemlock. When Apollodorus and the others break down crying, he reprimands them
for the disturbance, saying it is best to make one’s end in a peaceful consciousness. He asks them

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to calm down and be brave. Socrates dies, and Phaedo concludes the dialog calling him the best,
most prudent, and most just.

Plato’s Republic

The first book of Plato’s Republic is Socratic like the earlier dialogs, but the rest of the Republic
seems to be more the ideas of Plato than of Socrates. Socrates narrates the long work which
begins with a discussion of old age in which they note Sophocles’ comment how he felt he had
escaped from a raging beast when asked about his service of Aphrodite. When the passions and
desires relax, Cephalus believes we are freed of many mad masters. The happiness of old age
depends primarily on prudence and cheerfulness. Cephalus also finds that he thinks more about
the tales of the afterlife and how wrong-doers may pay the penalty there so that he examines his
life more. By living justice in piety he has hope that this is in reality the greatest wealth.
In considering whether justice is paying back what is due Socrates thinks that it would not be
good to give weapons back to someone when he is not in his right mind even if they were his.
Then Cephalus suggests the idea of Simonides that justice is giving each his due, which means
doing good to friends and evil to enemies. This is modified by questioning to benefiting the just
and harming the unjust. However, if one has friends who are unjust or enemies who are just, one
may end up harming the just and helping the unjust. The good person will not harm anyone at all.
Those who are harmed become more unjust, and the just would never make anyone unjust. Only
the unjust make people more unjust.
This conclusion bothers Thrasymachus, who demands Socrates give him a definition of justice
without saying it is beneficial, profitable, or advantageous. This is impossible, but Thrasymachus
defines justice as the advantage of the stronger, as each form of government enacts laws to its
own advantage whether it is democratic or tyrannical. Socrates asks whether sometimes they err
and make laws that are not to their advantage which would result in bad for themselves. Socrates
asks if each art does not serve its clients rather than the practitioner, who is usually compensated
by pay. Thrasymachus uses the example of the shepherd who fattens the flock for his own use,
and he points out that the unjust person always gains the advantage over the just. He believes
people are not afraid of doing injustice but only of suffering it; if injustice is done on a large
enough scale, it can be masterful and advantageous.
Socrates disagrees that injustice is more profitable than justice. As each art is for the advantage
of the clients, so government is also for the advantage of the governed, which is why governors
are paid in money, honor, or should have a penalty for refusing to govern. The latter is the
greatest inducement for the good person, as the penalty is to be governed by someone less
capable. Although Thrasymachus claims that injustice is a virtue, Socrates is able to argue that
the just person is wise and good, while the unjust is bad and ignorant. Those who are unjust will
wrong each other and be incapable of cooperation so long as they are unjust, as injustice brings
conflicts and hatred. Thus the unjust are enemies to each other as well as to the just and
ultimately even to the gods. The unjust cannot accomplish anything except insofar as they act
with some justice and cooperation.

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Although Thrasymachus gives in to Socrates’ arguments based on justice as a virtue, in the
second book of the Republic Glaucon and his brother Adeimantus are not satisfied that it was
adequately proven even though they do not agree with Thrasymachus but with Socrates, who
believes that justice is good not only for its results but for its own sake. They argue that justice
was invented because people fear being wronged more than they gain by wronging; thus people
make a compact and laws for everyone. Glaucon tells the story of Gyges, who found a ring that
could make him invisible and used it to seduce the queen, kill the king, and take over the
kingdom of Lydia. Since people believe there is profit in injustice, Glaucon wants to separate
complete injustice from the purely just. Since it is unjust for one to have the reputation for justice
along with the power and advantages of injustice, this must be compared to a just person who is
treated as the worst criminal. This contrast could not but have reminded Plato’s readers of their
miserable politicians and how the most just Socrates was executed. Socrates proposes to answer
this dilemma by looking at the larger picture of the state to see if they can find out what justice
is.
They begin by speculating about the origin of a city with the division of labor necessary for their
basic needs. They start with a farmer, builder, weaver, and shoemaker and soon expand it to
carpenters, smiths, craftsmen, herders for draft animals, then to merchants, traders, shipbuilders,
shopkeepers, and wage-earners. Socrates describes a simple life with a mostly vegetarian diet
with some cheese, wine, and moderate relishes. However, Glaucon asks if this is not a life for
pigs. He wants couches, tables, and meat. Socrates replies that then he does not want to create a
just city but a luxurious one. Socrates suspects that this will lead to the origin of justice and
injustice. The healthy state has already been described, but now they are going to create a
feverish state. Now a much greater multitude of workers are needed, including many more
doctors because of a less healthy diet of meat.
This greater population will require more territory, which must be taken from their neighbors. If
they do not limit their desires but abandon themselves to the unlimited acquisition of wealth,
then they must go to war. Thus a large army will be needed to march out and fight in defense of
all the wealth and luxuries. To have a successful military they must be professional and well
trained. These guardians must be able to distinguish their friends from their foes and thus need a
good education. This takes the discussion straight into what is the proper education. For me, this
section is the turning point from the quest for true justice that Socrates followed to the
justification of an unhealthy state that Plato now wants to explore after the Spartan model.
Suddenly Socrates is no longer questioning the most basic assumptions but blithely going along
even though it is clear that this is not the best state at all. Having just proven that it is not just to
harm anyone, now they have accepted an unnecessary army to harm enemies for the sake of
luxurious and unneeded wealth.
Next they make various pronouncements about education involving censorship and the
perpetration of falsehoods without really questioning whether those policies are good except
from one limited point of view. They start the discussion of education with the traditional
gymnastics and music, which includes all the cultural arts. Imperiously they are to decide which
stories are to be rejected and proceed to recommend censoring the poets and playwrights for
portraying the gods as imperfect in virtue. How do they expect to do away with these famous
writings? Why don’t they teach people to think and question them instead of trying to cover them

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up and hide them? If the gods are good and truthful, can they not teach that rationally and show
the limitations of the poems and stories? Tragically Plato seems to have fallen into an
authoritarian approach to justifying the materialistic imperialism of western civilization, which
the world has been suffering from that day to this.
The rulers will lie, but it is considered a sin for others to do so. The multitude is expected to obey
their rulers just as they practice self-control over their appetites. Music is to be limited to martial
tunes that encourage bravery and gentle harmonies that are peaceful. Not only the poets but all
the artisans must be carefully controlled. Everyone must do their own work, and the sick should
not be coddled by doctors that merely prolong their illnesses. The guardians are to be trained to
be good judges by discerning injustice in others but not experiencing it themselves. They are to
be gentle, orderly, prudent, and brave. Those who are cowardly and rude and fail to pass the tests
of toils and pains are to be rejected. A false myth is to be told of the guardians that they were
molded within the earth to rule with golden qualities, while their helpers, the military, are to be
considered silver, and the artisans and workers brass and iron. Individuals found to have the
wrong qualities should be transferred to another class. They should say an oracle predicted that
the state would be overthrown when a man of iron or brass becomes its guardian. The army
should make sure that the workers do not become the masters.
The guardians are to live an austere life without any private property, sharing things in common
and not using luxuries like gold and silver. While the guardians rule and the army defends the
city, all the productive work is to be done by the artisans and workers. This system is supposed
in this discussion to be for the greatest happiness of the whole city, but the analogy with an
individual unfortunately treats the individuals in this city as parts not wholes themselves in their
quest to achieve unity in the state. Even wives and children are to be held in common. The
guardians are to be wise, the military brave, and everyone moderate and just. Although selfcontrol
can bring an individual freedom, when one class controls another, the result is more like
slavery. The guardians are to judge all lawsuits, which are expected to be few because there is no
private property; but unfortunately that is no guarantee of equal sharing without disagreements.
Socrates describes the three parts of the psyche that relate to the three classes as the part that
learns, what feels anger and emotions, and the appetites of the body. The emotion of anger can
support the reason in its struggle with lower desires just as the two highest classes must control
the larger third class of workers. They conclude that this city exemplifies justice, though I
seriously doubt it. The opposite state of injustice they believe is when these three principles
interfere with each other and revolt.
Adeimantus questions the policy of having the women and children in common, since it is such a
radical idea. Socrates argues quite rationally that except for the fact that women are weaker and
men stronger, there are no differences that should prevent women from getting the same
education and performing the same functions as the men. A woman is just as likely to have the
mind of a physician as a man, and they have the same capacity for administration. Thus women
ought to be guardians and cohabit with those men. Socrates prophetically notes that it is the
current practices of sexual discrimination that are actually more unnatural than his utopian
scheme. Women can also be soldiers although they should be assigned lighter duties.

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However, the plan to have the women and children in common is clearly more problematic,
especially when eugenics controlled by the guardians is introduced. To enable the best specimens
to have more children the rulers are to deceive them by awarding prizes that seem random but
are not. Those considered inferior are to have less chance to procreate. Although by grouping the
children by age, the parents can know which group contains their children, brothers and sisters of
different ages will surely be unknown. Thus they ask for a dispensation from the Delphic oracle
regarding brothers and sisters cohabiting. Socrates argues that they will be more likely to respect
their elders not knowing which are their parents, but it could also be argued that the respect in
practice would be far less.
By getting rid of the concepts of “mine” and “not mine” they hope to have more unity, but
without close family feelings there could be even more chaos and alienation. In most Greek cities
of this time the workers would be considered slaves. The hope that there will be no quarrels over
property since it is all held in common is naive. Socrates does argue that they ought to treat other
Greek cities better than has been the practice in their time by not burning their houses or
enslaving their peoples in wars; such treatment is to be reserved for the barbarians who speak
other languages. With the exception of equal treatment for the women this does not seem like a
just nor a wise society.
Socrates suggests that there will be no cessation of such troubles until philosophers become the
rulers or the rulers pursue philosophy seriously. The guardians must be the wisest. Ironically they
cite truthfulness as a most essential quality for the rulers after recommending the guardians tell
various lies. They must also be prudent, brave, liberal, just, and intelligent with a good memory.
To describe the current situation Socrates uses the metaphor of a ship in which the skilled pilot is
ignored by the sailors as impractical, because they are able to get the shipmaster to do what they
want. Thus the one with the finest spirit and the greatest knowledge of navigation is thought a
useless stargazer.
Philosophers are also ignored, because many who call themselves such constantly quarrel and
pretend to knowledge they don’t have. Socrates criticizes the professional sophists who teach for
pay but inculcate the beliefs of the multitudes and confuse the good with what pleases. These
people can not distinguish beauty itself from the many beautiful things. Thus youths of great
ability are led astray and filled with ambitious hopes without doing the hard studying necessary,
and so such prospects are discouraged from taking up true philosophy. In the current political
climate a true philosopher would be destroyed like a man among wild beasts without
accomplishing any benefit. The true philosopher is focused on the eternal ideas and does not
have the time to engage in the petty strife of envy and hate.
Socrates argues that pleasure cannot be the good, because some pleasures are bad. He tries to
describe the offspring of the good as like the light that helps us see. He delineates four ways of
perceiving things. Perceiving objects in the visible world gives belief, while their likenesses
involve conjecture; in the intelligible world the ideas are known, while the hypotheses about
them involved understanding. Socrates uses the allegory of a cave in which people are chained so
that they can only see the shadows on the wall made from the fire behind them. If someone were
to get free of the chains and turn his head to see those using objects to make the shadows and the
light of the fire itself, the others would not likely believe him. Eventually the liberated person

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goes outside the cave and adjusts his eyes to the sunlight. He pities the prisoners; but when he
goes back into the cave, his eyes are full of darkness, and he cannot compete well in perceiving
the shadows. Socrates asks if one tries to free them from their chains and lead them to the light
whether they would not be likely to put him to death. Thus is described the ascent of the soul
beyond the physical world with the sun representing the good.
Socrates notes that contention for office and power causes strife and results in destruction. Next
they discuss the education of the guardians, recommending mathematics, geometry, astronomy,
and finally the dialectic of discussing ideas. Socrates explains the relationships between the four
levels of consciousness, saying that intellection deals with essence and opinion with generation.
As intellection is to opinion, so science is to belief, and understanding is to image making. In
contrast to the authoritarian methods already implied, Socrates suggests that the education of the
guardians should not be by constraint, because learning by compulsion is ineffective. He
recommends that children learn by playing so that their natural capacities can be discerned. The
comprehensive and practical education of the guardians is not complete until they reach the age
of fifty.
The 8th book of the Republic is a brilliant discussion of the four kinds of government that are
inferior to aristocracy in which the best rule by virtue. The first of these is like the constitution of
Crete and Sparta and is called timocracy. This tends to degenerate into plutocratic oligarchy, then
democracy, and finally tyranny. The forms of government reflect the psychology and values of
the citizens. The aristocracy deteriorates into timocracy when honor replaces virtue, as the
youths become less cultured and educated. They begin to strive for position which causes
conflicts and wars. The ambitious and aggressive in attempting to gain more power and wealth
tend to enslave the population around and do not care as much about the good of their subjects.
Wanting wealth but not being allowed to possess it openly they become stingy but prodigal with
the wealth of others in order to enjoy pleasures unobtrusively. No longer educated to be virtuous
they become contentious and covetous of honors in war and government. While young they love
athletics, hunting, and war preparations, but as they get older they long for more wealth. The
timocratic person develops because his mother and others, dissatisfied with the scant rewards of
his father’s virtue, encourage the son to be more ambitious.
In the oligarchy called plutocracy wealth becomes dominant, and citizenship depends on holding
property; the rich hold office, while the poor are excluded. They find ways to pervert the laws to
increase their wealth. The values of virtue, honor, and victory succumb to wealth. This state
becomes divided in two between the rich and the poor. Wars are not as successful, because they
fear arming the people and are reluctant to spend money. Many of the poor must either beg or
become thieves. The son of the timocratic man sees his father’s possessions declining in his
pursuit of honors and war. So he turns to earning money by hard work and thrift, and he admires
the rich and the attainment of wealth. He seeks to satisfy his own desires but is careful not to
spend money on attaining honors or helping others. Property becomes greatly esteemed. They
encourage prodigals to spend their money by loaning to them so that they can take over their
property and become even richer. In this way many who were noble become reduced to poverty.
These discontented and impoverished nobles become leaders of revolution, as the rich become
idle and soft. Factions arise, and the parties bring in allies from other states until a war results.

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When the poor attain victory, they institute a democracy and grant equal citizenship and
eliminate property qualifications for offices, many of which are assigned by lot. Freedom
becomes the greatest value, and everyone can say what they like and do what they please.
Diversity increases; varieties of entertainment abound; and just about everything is tolerated
even crime. Those who say they love the people are elected. Everyone is treated as equal whether
they are equal or not. Liberty and license lead to self-indulgence and the pursuit of pleasures.
The desires have overcome the discipline used for money-making. The children of the wealthy
indulge themselves, and the poor long for liberty. Such prodigality and the shameless quest for
freedom at any cost bring about the democratic revolution.
All values and pleasures are considered equal, as people indulge themselves in whatever suits
their fancy – some drinking, others dieting or exercising, sometimes idle and neglectful, other
times diligently occupied with philosophy or any other pursuit; they rush from one thing to
another. Those who do not govern liberally are accused of being oligarchs, while those who obey
are called slaves. In this anarchic mood the rulers resemble the subjects, as the subjects become
the rulers. Parents try to be like their children, and the children have no respect for their parents.
Even the animals are allowed liberty. Teachers fawn on their students, and students think they
need no teachers. The young compete with their elders, and the older people imitate the young.
Sex roles become confused, and people chafe at any kind of servitude.
Eventually the people find a leader who promises them everything as their champion and
protector. In gaining control of the people he may shed some blood while hinting at abolishing
debts and land reform. Such a powerful figure may be slain by his enemies or become the leader
of the faction fighting the property owners. In danger of being assassinated, he requests a
bodyguard to make the state safe for this “friend of democracy.” This protector then gradually
becomes a tyrant. His leadership is strengthened by stirring up wars he must lead. This gives him
an excuse to destroy his enemies and thwart his rivals. Those who criticize him must be silenced,
resulting in a negative purge in which the best instead of the worst elements are eliminated. This
tyranny is then the most unjust and worst form of government.
The tyrant is like the person who has been enslaved by one desire; everything is spent for that
one addiction. Then the tyrant must take from others by deceit or violence. If one has the power,
the tyrant refrains from no atrocity in this lawless quest, robbing even one’s parents or the
fatherland. They associate with flatterers and have no real friends, everyone being either a master
or a slave. Thus the tyrannical person is enslaved in suffering the disease of unfulfilled desire,
full of alarms and terror, always in anguish and insecure, envious, faithless, unjust, friendless,
impious, and a vessel of every vice. Thus they conclude that the unjust are the most unhappy,
while the just are happy.
Socrates explains that the faculty of reason is best able to judge the pleasures, and so the lover of
wisdom will do better than the lover of gain. Many confuse pleasure with the cessation of bodily
needs and pains, as gray seems whiter than black even though it is not white. The purest and
most lasting pleasures relate to the truth and immortal qualities. The philosophers seek the purest
pleasures, while the tyrants and those most enslaved desire the grossest. Socrates likens the
reason to a person, the emotional part to a lion, and the appetites to a many-headed monster. The
rational human part is most divine and should rule for the best results. To accept gold unjustly,

p. 34
for example, ignores the reason and enslaves one to the worst part. The lion should be controlled
by the reason, as also should the effeminate part that might engender cowardice and luxury. If
the beast desiring wealth with unbridled lust rules, one becomes more like an ape.
So it is best for the intelligence to rule the individual and for the wisest to rule in the state.
Escaping the penalty for wrongdoing is likely to make one worse, while those who are chastened
become more moderate and just with wisdom, because the soul is far more precious than the
body. Thus the body must be fine tuned by the soul. The wise will work to better themselves and
will not allow their reason to be overthrown even though the ideal state may only exist as a
model in heaven.
Once again Socrates criticizes poetry and fine art for being imitations of things which imitate the
true realities. He complains that tragedies and comedies stir up the passions and emotions, and he
finds no value in this vicarious experience, although he does leave the argument open for a
rebuttal to show that they can benefit people in an orderly society. He then argues for the
immortality of the soul based on the idea that its disease, vice, does not kill the soul the way
diseases of other things kill or destroy them. Neither does any other evil kill the soul; therefore it
must be immortal. The soul in its love of wisdom is most akin to the divine. Now Socrates asks
to reinstate the rewards of justice that were taken away in order to prove that justice was good for
its own sake even without its rewards. He says that the gods love and help the just, but dislike the
unjust. If good things do not come to one just, it is because of sins in a previous life. He notes
how the just by the end of a competition will win the prize. Yet the rewards on earth are very
limited compared to those that come after death.
Socrates recounts the tale of Er who revived on a pile of corpses after he was thought dead for
several days. This near-death experience describes in elaborate detail what happens to souls after
leaving the body and when preparing to come into other ones. Souls who have died go into upper
and lower worlds, and souls come from both these regions to be born again. Often those coming
from above do not make wise choices, while those having suffered below choose more carefully,
so that good and evil often alternate. According to Er, the penalties of wrongdoing are
experienced tenfold in the next world, and the worst tyrants may have to suffer even more than a
thousand years for their crimes. Thus Socrates points out the importance of studying to learn how
to make wise choices regarding good and evil in choosing what to experience in life. Before
being born again the souls had to drink from the River of Forgetfulness, but Er was prevented
from drinking and so brought back the memory of the other world.
Finally Socrates exhorts his listeners to keep their souls unspotted and follow the upward way in
pursuing justice with wisdom always so that they will be dear to the gods in this life and the next.
Plato’s Later Work
Plato was born in a noble Athenian family about 428 BC. His mother Perictione was the sister of
Charmides and the niece of Critias, leaders of the vicious oligarchy of Thirty, which ruled
Athens briefly after the empire was destroyed by the Peloponnesian War in 404 BC. These two
men associated with Socrates for many years, and so Plato probably knew the philosopher well
as a youth. In the Seventh Letter Plato wrote how he wanted to go into politics, and he was

p. 35
invited to join the oligarchy; but he believed they made the previous government look like a
golden age. He was particularly ashamed at their ordering Socrates to arrest a man for execution,
which he refused to do. Observing their oppressive government in action, Plato withdrew in
disgust, and the oligarchy was soon overthrown. After Socrates was executed in 399 BC Plato
went with other disciples of Socrates to visit Euclides in Megara. Plato studied with the
Heraclitean Cratylus and was said to have visited the mathematician Theodorus at Cyrene, the
Pythagoreans Philolaus and Eurytus in Italy, and priests in Egypt.
When he was about 40 Plato visited Dionysius I in Sicily, but he was disgusted by self-indulgent
Syracusan life. He became friends with Dion, brother-in-law of Dionysius I, and he found that
Dion took to his instruction more than anyone. Plato criticized the tyrant, which may have
caused his being sold into slavery briefly before he was bought and freed at Aegina for 20 or 30
minae by Anniceris. When Plato’s friends paid the money back to Anniceris, he refused to keep it
but bought the garden near Athens called the Academy, where Plato founded his school in 387
BC. There Plato taught philosophy, mathematics, jurisprudence, and promoted scientific
research. According to one report, Plato was invited to legislate for Megalopolis when it was
founded by the Arcadians and Thebans, but Plato declined when they would not accept his idea
of sharing possessions equally.
When Dionysius I died in 367 BC, Plato’s friends Dion and Archytus of Tarentum urged him to
tutor the successor Dionysius II, who promised him lands and settlers for the realization of his
republic. Not wanting to be merely a man of words, Plato guided by reason and justice went to
Sicily again. In the Seventh Letter Plato explained how he gave advice to those who consulted
him and whose lives were well regulated but not to those who did not ask advice. Similarly he
suggested criticizing the state if it will not be useless or lead to death, though he did not believe
in violent revolution. If one cannot reform the state without killing, it is better to refrain from
action and pray for the best. He pointed out how Dionysius I brought together all Sicily, but in
trusting no one he eventually met with disaster. Plato and Dion suggested that Dionysius II first
educate himself and second win friends through moral harmony. Once his character was
established, he could recolonize the deserted cities and unite the people under just laws.
However, Dionysius II suspected Plato of plotting to take over Sicily with Dion, whom he exiled.
Though the tyrant gave him gifts, Plato could not agree with the expulsion of Dion.
In the Seventh Letter Plato argued that subjection to laws is better than subjection to human
masters. Self-control ought to be exercised in drawing up laws so that they do not favor them
over the defeated party; then everyone can have equal rights. Dionysius II let Plato go; but a few
years later after a peace was made, Dionysius asked him to return, though he put off ending
Dion’s exile. Plato refused; but after several requests and promises, Plato reluctantly went back
in the hope of teachingDionysius II philosophy. Plato explained how many steps and hard work
can eventually lead to a sudden illumination in the soul that can then be self-sustaining.
However, Dionysius II went back on his promises regarding the property of Dion, and Plato
wanted to leave but could not do so. The philosopher decided to test Dionysius’ latest promises
for another year. After a disturbance over the pay of the mercenaries, Dionysius went back on an
agreement Plato had personally witnessed. In danger and a prisoner, Plato was rescued by an
embassy from Archytus, who in a letter reminded the tyrant that he had promised the philosopher
safety.

p. 36
Plato met Dion at the Olympic games of 360 BC. Dion asked Plato and his friends to support his
revolution; Plato refused to make war but offered to mediate as a common friend to accomplish
some good. If Dion was bent on evil, he must invite others. Helped by some of Plato’s students,
Dion captured Syracuse in 357 BC, but he was murdered four years later. In the Eighth Letter
Plato once again argued for rule by law rather than by the arbitrary power of men, and for Sicily
he suggested a kingship of three men responsible to the laws. Plato must have had slaves,
because he refused to punish them when he was angry, apparently not wanting his emotion to
affect his judgment.
Plato’s Timaeus is set the day after the discussion recorded in the Republic. In hearing about the
ideal republic Critias was reminded of the tale passed on to him by his grandfather from Solon,
who heard from Egyptian priests that Atlantis existed nine thousands years before. Critias is
going to tell how the Athenians won a war against the lost continent of Atlantis, but this is put
off so that Timaeus can first explain the origin of the universe and all life. Timaeus expresses the
Platonic view that the creator is good and that everything is designed for the best. The
intelligence of the whole was put into the invisible soul, and the soul into the body. Everything is
created by the providence of God. When the soul is implanted in the body, it is given the
faculties of sensation and love in which pleasure and pain are mingled with various feelings.
Those governing their feelings live justly, those overcome by them unjustly. Timaeus calls the
ability to inquire into the nature of the universe the source of philosophy and the greatest good
given to humans by the gods.
Plato’s Critias describes the large island of Atlantis that existed in the great ocean outside the
Pillars of Heracles (western gate of the Mediterranean Sea) nine thousand years before when
there were many more trees, which kept the rain from running off the barren land. The culture on
Atlantis was very advanced, and laws did not allow them to carry arms against each other. If
anyone tried to overthrow the government, they all helped put down the revolt. They followed
their laws and loved the divine, to which they believed they were akin. However, eventually
coveting and pride for power caused a deterioration, and Zeus is about to lay a judgment upon
them and speak when the dialog is abruptly cut off unfinished.
In Plato’s Theaetetus Socrates acting as an intellectual midwife tries to discover what knowledge
is by questioning the young Theaetetus and the geometrician Theodorus. The idea that
knowledge is perception leads to the famous statement of the sophist Protagoras that “the person
is the measure of all things,” but it becomes clear that one person can be wiser than another and
that knowledge resides in the reflection on impression not in the mere impressions themselves.
Next Theaetetus suggests that knowledge could be true judgment, but they discover that
knowledge cannot be belief even if the belief is true nor can it be a belief accompanied by an
explanation since some knowledge requires no explanation and the explanation may be
erroneous.
In a digression Socrates compares the petty legal minds of rhetoricians to the deep and seemingly
impractical concerns of the philosophers, who attempt to find justice and ways of good
government that can lead to happiness instead of misery. Theodorus comments that if Socrates
could persuade everyone, there would be more peace and fewer evils in the world. Socrates notes
that there will always be evils in this world, and therefore one should seek to become just with

p. 37
the help of wisdom so that one can fly to a better world after death, for in the divine there is no
injustice at all. The unjust suffer the penalty of their crimes in this world.
In the Sophist and the Politician Plato has an Eleatic Stranger lead the discussions attempting to
define the sophist, politician, and the philosopher, though Socrates is still present. They divide
things into various categories and define the sophist as one who hunts rich young men, trades in
learning, is skilled in arguing, and who claims to instruct people in virtue. Efforts to define them
as pretending to wisdom they do not have had often been refuted with sophistical arguments that
falseness does not really exist. Discussion shows what is not true can be understood as different
from being true without being dismissed as not existing at all. The philosopher distinguishes
differences by division and focuses on the divine nature of reality, which is difficult to see for the
vulgar. The discussion does not allow the sophist to hide by denying that falsity exists, but they
hunt him down and call the sophistic art an insincere mimicry and contradiction-making using
the shadow play of words.
In the Politician they define seven forms of government. The ideal state, which is more for gods
than mortals, has no laws, because the rulers govern with wisdom for the benefit of all and can
thus handle every situation according to its individual needs. Laws are made for average subjects
as general guidelines, and they can never be as flexible as direct treatment by a virtuous expert.
Usually government is by one ruler, a few, or many, and each of these can be law-abiding or not.
The best of these is constitutional monarchy in which the laws are good and well administered,
and the aristocracy ruled well by a few comes next. Democracy is in the middle in that it is the
worst of the well governed states but the least bad of the badly governed ones, followed by
oligarchy, and tyranny as the worst. The Eleatic stranger subordinates the arts of administering
justice, oratory, and generalship to the art of governing. Students are to be educated to be brave,
moderate, and just, and those who are not are to be severely punished; those who cannot rise
above ignorance are to serve the community as slaves. Noting that the brave may be too
aggressive and the prudent too weak, he recommends weaving their assertive and gentle qualities
together in the government and in the population by marrying the opposite types to each other.
In the Philebus Plato has Socrates lead the discussion to determine whether pleasure or
knowledge is the good. Philebus has claimed that pleasure is the good everyone ought to seek,
but Socrates suggests the good is different than the pleasant and is found better through
intelligence. In separating the two from each other Socrates and Protarchus find neither
satisfactory. In composing a mixture pleasure accepts all forms of knowledge, but intelligence
agrees only to consort with the pleasures that are healthy and moderate, rejecting those that are
foolish and bad. They find measure and proportion essential to making a good mix and then
value beauty and truth next, followed by the sciences and arts, and finally the pure pleasures that
are accompanied by less pain than the grosser ones. This Socrates proclaims philosophically
even though all the animals in the world may disagree.
Laws is probably the last work of Plato before he died about 347 BC at the age of eighty. An
Athenian expresses his ideas of laws for a new state to a Cretan and a Spartan as they walk from
Knossos to the cave of Zeus on the summer solstice. Cleinias, the Cretan, notes the internal
warfare and the importance of winning a victory over self and the ruinous discredit of losing
such a contest. The Athenian suggests it is better to reconcile people and let the good rule while

p. 38
bringing the worse into voluntary submission than to exterminate the bad. Thus peace and good
will are better than conflict and faction. Legislation for war as a means to peace is better than the
reverse which is the mistake of Lacedaemonian institutions. The Athenian’s views are not
challenged and rarely questioned in this long dialog. The Athenian values the virtues of wisdom,
moderation, justice, and valor first, then the health and beauty of the body, and third wealth and
property. The spiritual goods are to be the basis for the laws to attain the latter human goods.
Play is again suggested as a good way for children to learn self-control and gain knowledge.
Once again Plato is very careful about what music and poetry are to be learned, and judges are
set up to decide. The unjust life is more dishonorable and unpleasant than a just one. The
Athenian reviews Persian history to show the failure of Cyrus and Darius to educate their sons,
resulting in an autocratic government with little freedom for the people, but the extremes of
democratic freedom have also been failures. Thus they recommend a blend of autocracy and
liberty. God, not a human, is more truly the measure of all things. The virtuous, who are more
like God, ought to rule. After God one ought to honor one’s own soul. To honor anything like the
beauty of the body or wealth above the soul is a mistake. People need to respect not only friends
but aliens as well, because they have a greater need for divine and human pity. Truth and justice
should be the highest values, and violent attachment to self is a constant problem. One who
wishes to be great must not care for oneself and one’s own belongings more than for justice.
Moderation, wisdom, courage, and health are to be valued over folly, cowardice, profligacy, and
disease.
The Athenian holds that the best state is that in which all possessions, women, and children are
shared in common, and the private life of the individual does not exist; but whether this is even
possible is questionable. So the Athenian proceeds to describe the laws for the second best state
by distributing property and houses equally. The state is to issue its own currency in place of
gold and silver, and dowries and loaning of money at interest are to be forbidden. The assembly
is open to all, but the top two propertied classes are to be fined if they do not attend. No one is
allowed to be poorer than a certain amount, nor is anyone allowed to have more than four times
that. Expenditures on weddings and funerals are limited. The ruling guardians once again are to
be fifty years old and no more than seventy. The highest officer is the minister of education. The
Athenian refers to the evils of slavery in the recent uprisings in Messenia, but the two remedies
he suggests are to make sure that they do not all speak the same language or to treat them better
without using violence. Plato thought it wrong to take advantage of a superior position, but
apparently he was not bothered by the inequality and lack of freedom.
The Athenian notes the two extremes of human sacrifice and the Orphic insistence on
vegetarianism. The Athenian then goes into how the three appetites for food, drink, and sex need
to be controlled by fear, law, and reason. The Athenian warns against the two extremes of
spoiling children which makes them fretful, peevish, and easily upset by trifles, or severe tyranny
that makes them spiritless, servile, sullen, and unfit for domestic and civil life. There is a middle
way between the pursuit of pleasure and the unqualified avoidance of pain which is gentle and
good. Education is to be compulsory for all with the girls getting the same training as the boys.
Leery about allowing all the poetry, the Athenian suggests his work be read, and only those plays
agreeing with these ideas are to be performed. Yet men and women are to be trained in the
various arts of warfare. The Athenian fears any kind of innovation as threatening to lead to

p.39
revolution, and he admires the conformity of Egyptian musical training. Those hunting for fish
are not allowed to put poison in the waters. Anyone polluting the waters is to be fined and must
clean them up.
Cleinias regrets that the life-long quest for money usually does not allow time to practice the arts
of war, and the Athenian agrees that most states are dominated by parties and do not have willing
subjects; he too would increase military education. He also criticizes homosexuality in which one
man plays the role of the female. The Athenian wishes to teach people to conquer their lusts, and
he promises that those who do will attain bliss. No man is allowed to touch any woman except
his wife, and homosexuality is prohibited. The Athenian seems to believe that no one does wrong
intentionally, and the purpose of the many fines and penalties are to correct and cure. Thus
intention is very important in judging acts. However, under the justification that the disease is
often past cure, the death penalty is often invoked in these laws. There follows detailed
discussion of numerous laws, beginning with homicide.
Before making religious laws they ask the Athenian to prove to the people that the gods exist and
care about humans. The order in the universe is the first argument. The Athenian also argues that
the soul is more primal than the body, and so intelligence, wisdom, art, and law precede all
physical things. The soul as the only source of its own movement must be the first-born of all
things, and it is the supremely good soul that conceived the universe and guides its path. These
good souls are the gods who direct the universe whether they inhabit bodies or not, thus
demonstrating that all things are full of gods. The gods perceive and can know all things, are
immortal, good, and therefore would not neglect human concerns. Those who make themselves
better make their way to the better souls through a series of lives, as like attracts like. With this
preamble they decide that even minor impiety deserves five years imprisonment and a second
offense death, while major impiety is punished by execution, and the body is cast out without
burial. I find it ironic and sad that Plato could recommend such laws a half century after having
witnessed his teacher Socrates being condemned on such a charge. People are not even allowed
to worship at private shrines in their own homes, so oppressive is the state religion to be.
Likewise everyone in this city must have the same friends and enemies as the state. The death
penalty is given to any person or group making peace independently as well as for making war
independently of the state. Travel is restricted to specific purposes. The supreme curators of the
state, who are the ten oldest guardians of the law, meet before dawn, and perfect virtue is ever to
be the goal of all their endeavors. Like in the Republic Plato has designed another militaristic
state with a virtuous objective; although his primary method of attaining this is through universal
compulsory education, his plan is also quite legalistic and autocratic with more emphasis on the
good of the state than of the individuals. Plato was about 80 when he died in 347 BC.
Notes
1. Fr. 136, Sextus adv. math. ix, 129.
2. Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, tr. R. D. Hicks, 9:51.
3. Xenophon, Cyropaedia, tr. Walter Miller, 1:5:9.
4. Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, tr. R. D. Hicks, 3:35.
5. Plato, Phaedo tr. Sanderson Beck, 11.
6. Ibid., 107.

Categories: Ancient Philosophy Tags: Plato, Socrates

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