Plato, Phaedo (ΦΑΙΔΩΝ)

translated by John Bauschatz, 2020,
from the Greek of the 1995 Oxford Classical Text edition of E.A. Duke, et al.

free to use and distribute for non-commercial purposes with acknowledgment of the translator

**NOTE: This is a draft document! Watch out for errorz.**

[57a]

Echekrates: Phaedo, were you yourself with Socrates on that day when he drank the drug in the prison, or did you hear about it from someone else?

Phaedo: I was there, Echekrates.

E: What were the things that he said before his death? And how did he die? I would very much like to hear. For none of the Phliasian citizens goes to Athens at all these days, nor has any foreigner come from there in a [57b] long time who was able to tell us anything clear about these matters, save that he died after drinking the drug. He was not able to explain anything else.

[58a]

P: Didn’t you find out about the trial, how it went?

E: Yes. Someone told us these things, and we were amazed that it happened a while ago, but he seems to have died much later. Why was this, Phaedo?

P: A certain chance occurrence came to pass for him, Echekrates. For it happened that on the day before the trial the stern of the ship which the Athenians send to Delos was crowned.

E: What ship is this?

P: The one in which the Athenians claim Theseus once went to Crete, bringing those [58b] fourteen, and he saved them, and himself was saved. So they vowed to Apollo then, as is said, that if they should be saved, they would send an embassy to Delos every year—and from that time up til now, they still annually send this embassy for the god. After they begin the embassy, it is customary for them to purify the city, and to not execute anyone publicly, until the ship arrives at Delos and comes back again. This sometimes takes a long time, whenever the winds happen to be against [58c] them. The beginning of the embassy is when the priest of Apollo crowns the stern of the ship—and this occurred, as I say, on the day before the trial took place. For these reasons there was a great deal of time in the prison for Socrates between the trial and his death.

E: What about the circumstances of his death, Phaedo? What was said and done? And which of his friends were present? Or did the archons not allow them to be present, so that he died bereft of his friends?

[58d]

P: In no way, but some were present. Many, in fact.

E: Please tell us about all of these things as clearly as possible, unless you happen to be busy with something.

P: I am at leisure and will attempt to explain it to you: for remembering Socrates, speaking of him or hearing another speak of him, is always the most pleasant of all things for me.

E: Phaedo, you have others who will listen who are also of such a kind. Try to explain everything as precisely as you are able.

[58e]

P: I, at least, experienced amazing things while present. I did not feel pity, as though present for the death of a friend, for the man seemed to me to be happy, Echekrates, both in his manner and his words. He was dying so fearlessly and nobly as for me to think that he, in going to Hades, was not going without divine providence, and that, arriving there, he would [59a] fare well, if ever anyone else had. And for these reasons, I was experiencing no pity at all, as might seem likely for one being present at grief. Nor, in turn, was I feeling pleasure because we were philosophizing, as we had been accustomed—for our words were something of that sort—but I simply had a certain strange experience, and a certain unusual blending of pleasure and pain commingled at the same time, as I considered that he was going to die soon. And all of us who were present were, for the most part, so disposed: sometimes laughing, at other times weeping, and one of us especially, Apollodoros—[59b] for I think you know the man and how he is.

E: Of course.

P: He, in fact, was completely disposed in that way, and the others and I were also upset.

E: Who happened to be present, Phaedo?

P: Of the native Athenians, this Apollodoros was present, and Kritoboulos, and his father, and also Hermogenes and Epigenes and Aeschines and Antisthenes; and also Ktesippos the Paianean was present, and Menexenos, and some other natives. But I think Plato was sick.

E: Were any foreigners present?

[59c]

P: Yes: Simmias from Thebes, and Kebes, and Phaidonides, and from Megara Eukleides and Terpsion.

E: What? Were Aristippos and Kleombrotos there?

P: No. It was said that they were in Aigina.

E: Was anyone else there?

P: I think that this was pretty much everyone.

E: Well, then, what did you talk about?

P: I will try to tell you everything from the beginning. [59d] We had always been accustomed in previous days to come to Socrates, both I and the others, gathered together at dawn at the court in which the trial took place; for it was near the prison. And so, every time, we waited until the prison was opened, chatting with each other, for it was not opened early. And after it was opened, we went in to Socrates and passed most of the day with him. But on that day in particular we were gathered together earlier; for on the previous day, [59e] after we left the prison in the evening, we heard that the ship from Delos had arrived. So we told each other to arrive as early as possible at the accustomed place. And we came; and coming out, the jailer who was accustomed to answer told us to wait and not go in until he told us to: “For the Eleven are releasing Socrates, and they are giving orders about how he is to die today.” Not waiting for a long time, he went and bade us to come in; and entering, [60a] we found Socrates having recently bathed, and Xanthippe—for you know her—holding his child and sitting next to him. As soon as Xanthippe saw us, she shouted out and said the kinds of things women are accustomed to: “Socrates, now for the last time will your friends speak to you, and you to them!” And Socrates, looking at Crito, said, “Crito, let someone take her home.”

And some of Crito’s people led her off, wailing [60b] and beating herself. But Socrates, sitting up on his couch, bent his leg and rubbed it with his hand, and while rubbing it, said, “How strange a thing it seems to be, men, that which men call pleasurable. How amazingly it is related to the thing seeming to be its opposite, the painful: the two of them do not want to be present for a man at the same time, but if someone pursues the one and gets it, it is likely that he is compelled to also always take hold of the other, as though they had been fastened from one head, [60c] though being two. And it seems to me,” he said, “if Aesop had thought about them, he would have made a story about how the god wanted to reconcile them, since they were at war; and when he was unable, he joined their heads together at the same point, and because of this, to whomever one comes, the other comes afterwards. It seems to be a similar situation for me: after there was pain on my leg because of the bond, it seems that pleasure has come following.”

Kebes, then, interrupting, said, “By Zeus, Socrates, you did well to remind me. For you know, concerning the [60d] poems you have composed, versifying the fables of Aesop and the hymn to Apollo, some others asked me already, and Euenos asked me early in the morning what in the world you were thinking to compose them after you came here, having previously never written anything. If, therefore, you care about me being able to reply to Euenos when he asks me again—for I know that he will ask me—tell me what I should say."

"Tell him, then, Kebes," he said, "the truth: that I did not compose them seeking to be an artistic rival [60e] to him or his poems—for I knew that that would not be easy—but testing out some dreams, what they meant, and determining for certain whether they were enjoining me repeatedly to practice this Muse. They were of the following sort: the same dream, coming to me often in my previous life, sometimes having one appearance, other times another, saying the same things: 'Socrates,' it said, 'practice the Muse and work at it.' And I, in the past, at least, was assuming that it was exhorting and encouraging me to do [61a] what I was doing, just like people who encourage runners, and so I assumed that the dream was encouraging me to do what I was doing, to practice the Muse, since philosophy is the greatest Muse, and I was practicing it. But now, after the trial took place and while the festival of the god was preventing me from dying, it seemed to me to be necessary—if, in fact, the dream should be commanding me many times to practice the popular Muse—to not disobey it, but to practice this. For it seemed to be safer to not go away before determining for certain [61b], after composing poems and obeying the dream. So first I composed a poem for the god whose festival was at hand; and after the god, thinking that it was necessary for a poet, if he should really intend to be a poet, to write stories and not speeches—and I was not a fiction writer—for these reasons, the stories which I had available, and which I knew, namely those of Aesop, I versified out of these the first I came upon. Therefore, explain this to Euenos, Kebes, and tell him farewell, and if he is of sound mind, tell him to pursue me as quickly as possible. [61c] But I shall depart today, as it seems; for the Athenians command it."

And Simmias said, "What a thing this is that you command, Socrates, for Simmias! For I have encountered the man many times already, and from what I have perceived, he will probably not willingly obey you in any way whatsoever."

"But why?" said Socrates. "Is Euenos not a philosopher?"

"He seems to me to be one," said Simmias.

"Then both Euenos and every man to whom there is a worthy share of this matter will want to. However, perhaps he will not do harm to himself: for they say that it is not permitted." And at the same time as he was saying these things, he let [61d] his legs down upon the ground. Sitting in this way he spoke what remained.

Then Kebes asked him, "How do you say this, Socrates, that it is not permitted to do harm to oneself, but that a philosopher would want to follow a dying man?"

"What's this, Kebes? Have you and Simmias not heard about things of such a sort, having conversed with Philolaos?"

"Nothing clear, at least, Socrates."

"But even I can speak about them from report, and the things which I happen to have heard, no one begrudges that I speak about them. For perhaps [61e] it is especially fitting for someone about to go off to that place to investigate and tell tales about that departure, of what sort we think it is. For what other thing might someone do in the time before the setting of the sun?"

"So for what reason do they say that it is not permitted to kill oneself, Socrates? For already I heard from Philolaos, when he was living among us, and from certain others, that one must not do this, which is what you just now asked about. But I have heard nothing at all clear about these matters from anyone."

[62a]

"You must take courage," he said, "for you might hear something swiftly. However, perhaps it appears amazing to you if this alone of all other things is of one kind, and it never happens for man, just as it does with regard to other things, that there is a time when, and there are people for whom, it is better to die than to live; and perhaps it appears amazing to you if, for these men, for whom it is better to die, it is not holy for them to do good for themselves, but it is necessary for them to await another benefactor."

And Kebes, laughing gently at this, said "May Zeus be bein' my witness!", speaking in his own dialect.

[62b]

"For it would seem" said Socrates, "that this is senseless; however, perhaps it possesses a certain logic. For the tale told in secret about these matters, that we men are in a kind of prison, and it is not allowed for someone to release himself from it or run away, seems to me to be something great and not easy to comprehend. However, this, Kebes, does seem to me to be said well, that the gods are the ones who have charge of us, and that we men are but one of the possessions of the gods. Or does this not seem right to you?"

"It seems right to me," said Kebes.

[62c]

"Therefore," he said,"as for you, if some one of your possessions should kill himself, and you did not give the indication that you wanted him to die, would you get angry at him, and, if you should have some punishment available, would you exact vengeance?"

"By all means," he said.

"Perhaps, then, in this way it is not unreasonable that it is necessary for a man to not kill himself before a god sends a kind of compulsion like the present compulsion upon us."

"This seems likely," said Kebes. "However, what you were just saying, that philosophers should easily wish [62d] to die, this seemed, Socrates, out of place, if really what we were saying just now is sensible, that god is in charge of us, and that we are his possessions. For that the most sensible people would not become upset about going away from this attendance, in which the best overseers in existence, namely the gods, oversee them—this does not make sense. For doubtless he himself does not think that he will take better care of himself once he is free. A senseless man might quickly suppose these things, that he must flee [62e] from his master, and he would not consider that he must not flee from the good master, but remain with him as much as possible. Thus he would flee in an illogical manner. But the sensible man would desire, I think, to always remain at the side of the one better than himself. Therefore, Socrates, it is likely that the opposite is the case, rather than what was just now being said: it is fitting that the sensible be aggrieved at dying, but that the senseless rejoice."

Hearing this, Socrates seemed to me to be pleased by [63a] the diligence of Kebes, and looking at us, he said, "Kebes always investigates certain arguments, and is not at all willing to be directly persuaded by what someone says."

And Simmias said, "But Socrates, now, at least, Kebes really seems to me to be saying something: for, desiring what would truly wise men flee from masters better than themselves, and easily depart from them? Kebes seems to me to be extending his argument to you, because so easily do you endure leaving us behind, as well as the gods, who are good masters, as you yourself agree.

[63b]

"You are speaking justly," he said. "I think that you are saying that it is necessary for me to defend myself against these things, just as if I were in court."

"Yes, indeed," said Kebes.

"Come, then," he said, "let me attempt to defend myself more persuasively to you than to the judges. For I," he said, "Simmias and Kebes, if I were thinking that I would come first to other gods, wise and good, and then to dead men, men better than those here, I would be doing wrong in not getting upset at death; but, in reality, know well that I hope [63c] that I will reach good men—though I would not assert this with full reassurance. However, that I will reach gods who are entirely good masters, know well that if I should affirm confidently any other thing than things such as these, I would also affirm this. Thus on account of these matters I am not similarly aggrieved, but I am of good hope that there is something for those who have died, and, just as has been said long ago, something much better for the good than for the bad."

"Socrates, what's this?" said Simmias. "Having this thought in your mind, do you intend to go away, or might you give us a share of it? [63d] For indeed, this seems to me to be a common good also for us; and, at the same time, it will serve as your defense, if you persuade us by what you are saying."

"I will try," he said. "But first, let's ask Crito here what it is he seems to me to have wanted to say for a long time."

"No other thing, Socrates," said Crito, "than that the man who will give you the drug told me a while ago that it is necessary to explain to you that you should converse as little as possible. For he says that those who converse get heated up, and that it is necessary to add no such thing [63e] to the drug. If not, he says that sometimes those who do such a thing are compelled to drink two or even three times."

And Socrates said, "Forget about him; but just let his drug be readied so that he can give it twice, and if it is necessary, even three times."

"I knew that, for the most part," said Crito, "but he has been bothering me for a while now."

"Let him go," he said. "But for you, my judges, I want to now provide my reasoning, how it seems reasonable to me that a man who has truly spent his life in philosophy should take courage when about [64a] to die, and should be of good hope that he will obtain the greatest good things there, after he dies. So: how this might be, Simmias and Kebes, I will attempt to explain.

"Other people most likely do not realize that those who happen to be correctly engaged in philosophy are busied about no other thing than dying and being dead. If this is true it would be out of place, I think, for them to desire throughout all of their lives nothing other than this; but then, with it having come, for them to be upset about the thing which for a long time they were desiring and pursuing."

And Simmias, laughing, said, "By Zeus, Socrates, [64b] you made me laugh, though I am not at all in a laughing mood now. For I think that the many, hearing this very thing about philosophers, would say that it seems entirely correct—and I think that our kin would agree entirely—that philosophers truly desire to die, and that they know that philosophers deserve to suffer this."

"And they would speak the truth, Simmias, save for the part about knowing about philosophers. For they do not know in what way true philosophers desire to die, and in what way they are deserving of death, and of what kind of death. [64c] But let us talk to each other," he said, "bidding them farewell. Do we think that there is such a thing as death?"

"By all means," said Simmias, taking up the conversation.

"Do we believe that it is any other thing than the departure of the soul from the body? And do we believe that this is what being dead is: on the one hand the body, having gone away from the soul, having come into being separately by itself, and on the other hand the soul, having gone away from the body, being separately by itself? Death isn't anything other than this, is it?"

"It is not anything else. It is this," he said.

"Examine, my good man, whether to you, too, seem right the things which seem right to me. [64d] For I think that we will learn from these things more about the matters we are investigating. Does it appear to you to be characteristic of the philosophical man to care much about the so-called pleasures, such as food and drink?"

"Not in the least, Socrates," said Simmias.

"And what about the pleasures of sex?"

"In no way."

"And what about the other concerns of the body? Does such a man seem to you to consider them worthy of honor? I mean the possession of fine clothing, shoes and the other ornaments of the body. Does he seem to you to honor them, or to esteem them lightly, [64e] except in so far as there is great necessity to have a share of them?"

"It seems to me, at least, that the man who is a true philosopher thinks little of them," he said.

"Accordingly, then," he said, "does the business of such a man, in its entirety, seem to you to be not concerned with the body, but, in so far as is possible, his business seems to be to stand apart from it, and to be turned towards the soul?"

"This seems right to me."

"So, first of all, in such matters it is clear that the [65a] philosopher sets his soul free from its association with the body as much as possible, differently from other men?"

"It is clear."

"And doubtless it seems, Simmias, to many people that that man does not deserve to live, the man to whom there is no enjoyment of such things, and to whom there is no share of them; but the man who cares nothing for the pleasures concerned with the body seems pretty much to reach out for death."

"By all means do you speak the truth."

"But what about the possession of pure wisdom? Is the body an impediment to this, or not, if someone takes it along in common [65b] in the search? I mean something like this: do sight and hearing possess some truth for men, or is it as the poets are always babbling to us about such things, that we neither hear nor see anything precise? And yet, if these senses of the body are neither precise nor clear, then the others are much less so: for all of them are, in fact, worse than these. Or do they not seem so to you?"

"Indeed, they do," he said.

"When, then," he said, "does the soul grasp truth? For whenever, along with the body, it attempts to perceive something, it is clear that then it is deceived by it."

[65c]

"You speak the truth."

"Then in reasoning, if anywhere else, something of those things which are real becomes clear to it?"

"Yes."

"But, I think, then does it reason the best, whenever none of these things annoys it—neither hearing, nor sight, nor suffering, nor some pleasure; but most of all whenever it becomes alone, saying goodbye to the body, and, in so far as it is able, neither having anything to do with it nor touching it, it stretches out for reality."

"These things are so."

"Therefore, also here the soul of the philosopher disregards [65d] the body most of all, and flees from it, and seeks to be by itself?"

"Evidently."

"And what about the following things, Simmias: do we say that absolute justice is something, or not?"

"By Zeus, we say that it is."

"And, in turn, do we say that it is beautiful and good?"

"How not?"

"Did you ever before see any such thing with your eyes?"

"In no way," he said.

"But did you lay hold of them with any other perception of the body? I am speaking about all of them, such as size, health, strength and, in a word, the true nature of all the others, what [65e] each one happens to be. Is the truest aspect of them perceived through the body, or is it like this: whoever of us most of all and most precisely prepares himself to think about whatever he is investigating, this man might come nearest to knowing each of them?"

"By all means, yes."

"Then would that man do this most purely, whoever most of all approaches each of them with thought itself, neither employing some sight in his thinking nor dragging in [66a] any other perception at all with his reasoning, but whoever, making use of pure thought itself, by itself, attempts to seek out each of the things that exist, pure and by itself, removed as much as possible from his eyes and his ears and his entire body, in a word, since it agitates and does not allow his soul to possess truth and wisdom whenever it has a share? Is this not the man, Simmias, if really there is some such person who can grasp reality?"

"You speak the truth marvelously, Socrates," said Simmias.

[66b]

"Therefore," he said, "it is necessary that, from all of these things, some such expectation occur for those who are legitimately philosophers, so as for them to say things like this to each other: 'You know, there is a risk that some shortcut, as it were, is leading us to a conclusion along with our argument in our investigation, that, as long as we have the body, and as long as our soul is intertwined with such an evil, we will never sufficiently possess that which we desire: and by that, we mean the truth. For the body provides us with countless troubles because of its necessary [66c] nourishment; and moreover, if certain illnesses fall upon it, they hinder our pursuit of the truth. And it fills us up with passions and desires and fears and images of all kinds, and a lot of nonsense, with the result that that which is said is truly spoken, that in reality, because of it, no thinking is ever able to happen for us. For wars and insurrections and battles are provided by nothing other than the body and its desires. For on account of the desire for money all wars come into being, and we are compelled to possess [66d] money on account of the body, slaves to its service; and from this we have no leisure concerning philosophy, on account of all of these things. And the worst of all is that, if there happens to be some time free from it for us, and we are turned towards examining something, getting in the way in these pursuits, in turn, in every place, it causes a din and disorder and knocks us silly, so as for us to not be able to perceive the truth because of it. But in reality, it has been demonstrated to us that, if we intend to ever learn anything purely, [66e] one must be released from it, and one must perceive things themselves with the soul itself. Only then, as it seems, there will be for us that thing which we desire, and of which we claim to be lovers, namely wisdom—after we die, as the argument demonstrates, but not while we live. For if it is not possible to know anything purely with the body, one of two things is true: either it is impossible to possess knowledge, or it is possible for us after we die; for [67a] then the soul itself will be apart from the body, by itself, but not before then. And in the time in which we live, we will be closest to knowledge, as it seems, in this way: if, as much as possible, we have no involvement with the body, and have no share in it, except for complete necessity, and if we are not filled up with its nature, but we purify ourselves from it, until god himself releases us. And being released in this way, pure, from the folly of the body, thus it is likely that we will be with such things and we will learn through ourselves [67b] that which is entirely pure; and this is, I think, the truth. For it is not permitted that an impure man grasp the pure.' Such things, I think, Simmias, it is necessary that they say to each other and believe, all who are truly fond of learning. Or does it not seem so to you?"

"More than anything, Socrates, it does."

"Therefore," said Socrates, "if these things are true, my friend, there is much hope for me, arriving to where I am journeying, of possessing there sufficiently, if perhaps anywhere, this thing, for the sake of which we have been busied in the life that has gone by, with the result that [67c] the departure which has now been enjoined upon me is coming into being with good hope, and also for anyone else who believes that his mind has been purified, as it were."

"By all means," said Simmias.

"And does purification not happen to be this, that thing which was said long ago in our discussion, namely separating the soul as much as possible from the body, and accustoming it to be gathered and collected in every way apart from the body by itself, and to live, in so far as is possible, both in the present and in the [67d] future by itself, alone, released from the body as though from bonds?"

"Yes, indeed," he said.

"Therefore, this is what is called death, the release and separation of the soul from the body?"

"Altogether so," he said.

"And they are always most eager to release it, as we say, those who practice philosophy correctly, and this thing itself is the practice of philosophers, the release and the separation of the soul from the body? Or is this not so?"

"It is clearly so."

"Therefore, what I was saying at the beginning, would it be laughable that a man, [67e] preparing himself in life to live in such a way as to be as close as possible to death, should then get angry at it when it has come to him?"

"Laughable, indeed. How would it not be?"

"In reality, then," he said, "Simmias, those who practice philosophy correctly practice dying, and dying is fearful to them least of all of men. Consider it in the following way. If they have been set at variance in every way with the body, and if they desire to have the soul itself by itself, but, with this occurring, if they should be afraid and get angry, would this not be complete absurdity, if they [68a] should not go there gladly, where there is hope for those who have arrived of that thing which they were desiring to find throughout their lives—and they were desiring wisdom—and hope of departing from the companionship of this thing, with which they had been set at variance? Or when boy lovers have died, or women and sons, did many willingly desire to go to Hades, led by this hope, that they would see there those whom they desired, and that they would be with them? And, in fact, someone truly desiring wisdom, and vehemently possessing this same hope, that he will meet with it nowhere else [68b] worth mentioning than in Hades, will he get angry when he dies, and will he not go to that very place gladly? It is necessary to suppose so, if in reality he is, my friend, a philosopher; for very much will these things seem right to him, that nowhere else will he purely encounter wisdom than there. But if this is correct—what I was saying just now—would it not be completely illogical if such a man should fear death?"

"By Zeus, completely illogical," he said.

"Therefore, is this a sufficient proof to you," he said, "of a man, whomever you see getting angry when he is about to die, that he was in fact [68c] not a philosopher, but a lover of the body? And, I think, this same man happens to be a lover of money and a lover of honor, either one of these or both of them."

"Indeed," he said. "It is exactly as you say."

"Therefore," he said, "Simmias, is not so-called 'manliness' most fitting for those so disposed?"

"I surely think so," he said.

"Therefore, also temperance, that which the many call temperance—namely to not have been passionately excited concerning one's desires, but to consider them cheap and to manage them in an orderly way—does this not befit these men alone, those who most of all despise the body and live in philosophy?"

[68d]

"Necessarily," he said.

"For if you want," he said, "to consider the manliness of others and their temperance, they will seem to you to be bad."

"How is this, Socrates?"

"You know," he said, "that all other people consider death among the great evils?"

"And indeed they do," he said.

"Therefore, do the brave among these face death because of the fear of greater evils, whenever they face it?"

"This is so."

"Therefore all people save philosophers are brave because of fearing and fear. And yet it is illogical for someone to be brave because of fear and cowardice."

[68e]

"Indeed."

"And what about the decently behaved among these? Have they not experienced this same thing? Are they temperate because of intemperance? And yet we say that it is impossible, but all the same an experience similar to this happens for them concerning this simple-minded temperance: for, fearing being deprived of other pleasures, and desiring them, they abstain from some while being ruled by others. And yet, they call intemperance [69a] being ruled by pleasures, but nevertheless, it turns out for them that, in being ruled by pleasures, they rule over other pleasures. And this is similar to the thing that was being said just now, that they have learned self-control, in some way, through intemperance."

"It seems so."

"My good Simmias, let this not be the correct exchange for virtue, for pleasures to be exchanged for pleasures, and pains for pains, and fear for fear, and a greater for a lesser, as though coins; but this alone might be the correct coin, for which all of these things must be exchanged: wisdom; [69b] and all things are possibly to be bought and purchased for and with this, in truth: courage and prudence and justice and, in short, true virtue—with wisdom, that is, with pleasures and fears and all other things of such a kind being added and taken away. But things separated from wisdom and being exchanged for each other, such a type of virtue might be a sort of painting with shadows. In reality, it is likely slavish, and it possesses nothing healthy or true; but, in fact, the truth is likely to be [69c] a kind of purification from all such things; and prudence and justice and bravery, and wisdom itself, are probably kinds of cleansing. And they run the risk, those men who established the mysteries for us, of not being merely simple individuals, but, in reality, of intimating long ago that whoever arrives in Hades uninitiated and profane will lie in filth, but that the purified and initiated man will dwell with the gods after arriving there. For there are, as those concerned with the mysteries say, 'Fennel-bearers [69d] many, but bacchants few.' And these men are, in my view, none other than those who have practiced philosophy correctly. Of which matters I, in so far as was possible, left nothing behind during my life, but in every manner I was eager to become one. But if I strove correctly, and if we accomplished anything, arriving there we will know clearly, if god is willing—a little later on, as it seems to me. These things, then," he said, "Simmias and Kebes, I present in my defense, that, naturally, leaving behind you and the masters here, [69e] I should not bear it ill, nor should I get angry, believing that I will meet up with good masters and comrades there, no less than here. To the many this is hard to believe. If, then, I am in some way more persuasive to you in my defense than I was to the Athenian jurors, it would be well."

After Socrates said these things, Kebes, taking up the conversation, said, "Socrates, the other things seem to me to be spoken well, [70a] but the matters about the soul are hard for people to believe, as they fear lest, after it departs from the body, it no longer exists anywhere, but that on that day it is destroyed and dies, on whatever day the man dies, being delivered from the body; and departing, being scattered like a breath or smoke, it departs in flight and is no longer anywhere. If really the soul itself should be gathered together by itself and delivered from these evils which you went through just now, there would be much wonderful hope, [70b] Socrates, that the things which you say are true. But this, perhaps, requires a not insubstantial amount of exhortation and trust, that the soul exists when the man has died, and possesses some power, and can think."

"You are speaking the truth, Kebes," said Socrates. "But what are we to do? Or do you want us to converse concerning these very things, whether it is likely that they are true, or not?"

"I, at least," said Kebes, "would gladly hear whatever opinion you have about them."

"I think, then," said Socrates, "that no one would say [70c], after listening now—not even if he were a comic poet—that I am speaking idly and not fashioning arguments concerning what is fitting. So if it is necessary, it should be examined well.

"So let us examine it in this way: whether, in fact, there are in Hades the souls of men who have died, or not. There is a certain old tale which we have heard, that they are from here, having arrived there, and they come back here and come into being from the dead; and if this is so, that the living come into being again from those who have died, what else would be true than [70d] that our souls would be there? For they would not be coming back into existence again if they did not exist, I think, and this is a sufficient proof that these things exist, if, in reality, it should become clear that from no other place the living come into being than the dead? But if this is not so, there would be need of some other argument."

"By all means," said Kebes.

"Therefore, do not," he said, "consider this in the case of men alone, if you want to understand more easily, but also in the case of all animals and plants, and, in brief, as regards all things that have a creation. Concerning all such things [70e], let us examine whether in this way they all come into being, in no other way than as opposites from opposites, for as many as there happens to be some such thing, such as the beautiful being opposite to the disgraceful, I think, and the just to the unjust. And for countless others it is similar. So let us examine this, whether it is necessary that, for however many things as have some opposite, from no other place they come into being than from their opposites. For example, whenever something becomes greater, is it necessary that it becomes greater from being lesser before?"

"Yes."

"And so, if it becomes lesser, from being greater before [71a], it will become lesser later on?"

"This is so," he said.

"And, in fact, from the stronger the weaker thing comes, and from the slower the faster?"

"Of course."

"Well, then: if something becomes worse, is it not from the better, and if something becomes more just, is it not from something less just?"

"How would it not?"

"Sufficiently, then," he said, "we understand this: that everything comes into being in this fashion, opposite from opposite?"

"Yes, indeed."

"What next? Is there something of a certain kind in them, like two creations between all of the opposites, both groups (as they are two groups), [71b] creations from the one to the other, and from the other back to the one? Is there between a bigger thing and a lesser thing a growing and a diminishing, and do we thus call the one increasing, and the other diminishing?"

"Yes," he said.

"Therefore, it is also so with regard to analysis and aggregation, and becoming cold and becoming warm, and all things, even if we do not use names in some cases, but in practice it is necessary that it is so everywhere, that they come into being from each other, and that there is a creation of each one into the other?"

"Yes, indeed," he said.

[71c]

"Well, then," he said, "is there something opposite to living, as sleeping is the opposite to having awoken?"

"Absolutely," he said.

"What?"

"Death," he said.

"Therefore, these things come into being from each other, if really they are opposites, and there are two creations between the two of them, as they are two groups?"

"How coiuld this not be so?"

"I will tell you about one pair of the two I was just speaking about to you," said Socrates, "both it and its creations, and you will tell me about the other. I say that the one is sleeping, and the other having awakened, and that having awakened comes into being from sleeping, and [71d] sleeping from having awakened; and as for the creations of the two of them, that the one is falling asleep, and the other being awakened. Is that sufficient for you," he said, "or not?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Then you tell me," he said, "in the same way about life and death. Do you not say that being dead is the opposite of being alive?"

"I do."

"And that they come into being from each other?"

"Yes."

"So what is the thing coming into being from the living?"

"The dead," he said.

"And what from the dead?" he said.

"One must agree," he said, "that it is the living."

"Therefore, Kebes, living things and the living come into being from the dead?"

[71e]

"Clearly," he said.

"Therefore," he said, "our souls are in Hades."

"It seems so."

"So: of the two creations concerned with these things, the one happens to be apparent. For dying is clear, I think. Or not?"

"By all means, it is," he said.

"How, then," he said, "will we proceed? Will we not assign as a balance the opposite process, and in this way will nature be lopsided? Or is it necessary to give back to death some opposite creation?"

"I certainly think so," he said.

"What is this?"

"Coming back to life."

"Therefore," he said, "if coming back to life exists, would this creation [72a] into the living—coming back to life—come from the dead?"

"Definitely."

"Therefore it is agreed by us that in this way the living have come into being from the dead no less than the dead from the living, and with this being so, I think, it was appearing that there was sufficient proof for it to be necessary that the souls of the dead exist someplace whence they come back."

"It seems to me, Socrates," he said, "from what we have agreed that this is necessarily so."

"Consider, then, in this way, Kebes," said Socrates, "that we agreed not unjustly, as it seems to me. For if some things should not always correspond with [72b] other things when coming into being, as though going around in a circle, but generation should be something straight, only from the one into the opposite, and should not bend back again to the one, nor should make a turn for itself, do you know that all things would have the same form when they reached their end, and would have the same experience, and would cease coming into being?"

"What are you saying?" he said.

"It is not hard," he said, "to understand what I am saying. For example, if falling asleep should exist, but being woken up should not provide a balance, coming into being from the sleeper, you know that all things, in the end, [72c] would reveal Endymion to be silly, and he would appear nowhere, on account of all other things having experienced the same thing as him, sleeping. And if all things should be brought together, but not separated, swiftly would the saying of Anaxagoras be the case, 'everything contains everything.' Similarly, my dear Kebes, if all things should die, as many as have a share of living, and after they die, the dead things should remain in this form, and should not come back to life again, would it not very much be necessary that, in the end, all things [72d] were dead and nothing was alive? For if living things should come into being from other things, and living things should die, what device is there to prevent that all things be used up in death?"

"It does not seem to me that there is one, Socrates," said Kebes, "but you seem to me to speak the truth in every way."

"It is," he said, "Kebes, as it seems to me, more than anything so, and we agree about these things themselves without being fooled. But, in reality, coming back to life exists, and the living coming into being from the dead, and the souls of the dead [72e] existing, and it is better for the good souls, and worse for the bad ones."

"And indeed," said Kebes, taking up the conversation, "also according to that argument, Socrates, which you have been accustomed to make wondrously, if it is true that, for us, learning happens to be nothing other than recollection, also according to this it is necessary, I think, that we, at some previous time, have learned the things which we are now remembering. But this [73a] is impossible, unless there were, I think, belonging to us a soul before coming into being in this human form. The result is that also in this way the soul seems to be something immortal."

"But Kebes," said Socrates, cutting in, "of what kind are the indications of these things? Remind me: for at present I do not remember very well."

"In a word," said Kebes, "a very beautiful one, that people, being asked, if someone asks well, they themselves say everything correctly—and yet, if there were not knowledge in them, and correct reason, they would not be able to do this; then [73b], if someone leads them to diagrams, or some other things of such a kind, there it is proven most clearly that this is so."

"And if you are not convinced in this way, Simmias," said Socrates, "consider whether in the following way, somehow, it seems right to you, as you examine it. For do you doubt how what is called learning is recollection?"

"I, at least," Simmias said, "am not in doubt; but I need to experience the thing itself," he said, "which we are talking about, recollection. From the things which Kebes attempted to speak about just now I have almost remembered, and am persuaded; however, no less would I listen if you should attempt to speak now in some way."

[73c]

"I would speak like this," he said. "For we agree, I think, that if someone will recollect something, it is necessary that he knew it earlier at some point."

"By all means," he said.

"Then do we also agree about this, that whenever knowledge comes into being in such a manner, it is recollection? In what manner am I speaking? In this manner: If someone, seeing or hearing or having some other perception of some thing, not only knows it, but also forms a notion of some other thing, of which the knowledge is not the same, but different, do we not justly say that this was recollected, this thing of which he took [73d] a notion?"

"How do you mean?"

"Something like the following: I think that knowledge of a man is different from knowledge of a lyre."

"How would it not be?"

"Then you know that lovers, whenever they see a lyre or a cloak or some other thing which their beloveds are accustomed to use, they experience this: they see the lyre and in their mind they take the image of the boy to whom the lyre belongs. This is recollection: just as someone seeing Simmias often recollects Kebes, and there are countless other examples of such a kind, I think."

"Countless, by Zeus," said Simmias.

[73e]

"Then," he said, "is such a thing a kind of recollection? And most of all, moreover, whenever someone experiences this concerning those things which he had already forgotten because of time and not looking upon them?"

"Yes, indeed," he said.

"Well, then," he said. "Is it possible for a man, seeing a drawing of a horse or a lyre, to be reminded of a man, and seeing a drawing of Simmias to be reminded of Kebes?"

"Certainly."

"And, therefore, seeing a drawing of Simmias, to be reminded of Simmias himself?"

"Yes, indeed," he said.

"Therefore, does it not result, with regard to all of these things, that recollection occurs from similar things, and also from dissimilar things?"

"It does."

"But whenever someone recollects something from similar things, is it not necessary that he also experiences this, that he considers whether this thing lacks something in its similarity to the thing which was recollected, or whether it does not?"

"It is necessary," he said.

"Consider, then," he said, "whether this is so. We say that there is something called equality, I think. I do not mean wood to wood, or stone to stone, or any other such thing; but in addition to all of these things, something else: absolute equality. Are we to say that this is so, or not?"

[74b]

"Let us say that that there is, by Zeus," said Simmias, "most definitely."

"OK. And we know what it is?"

"Yes, indeed," he said.

"The knowledge of it, then: from where do we get it? Or do we not have it from the things which we were talking about just now? Looking at wood, or stones, or some other equal things—from these did we not recognize it, namely as being different from these? Or does it not seem to you to be different? Consider it in this way: Do stones and wood that are not equal, while remaining the same, sometimes seem to be equal in one way, and not equal in another?"

"Indeed they do."

[74c]

"Well, then. Is it possible that at some time the same equal things appeared to you to be unequal, or equality to be inequality?"

"Never, Socrates."

"Therefore, they are not the same thing," he said, "these equal things and equality itself."

"In no way do they seem to me to be, Socrates."

"But all the same, from these equal things," he said, "though they are different from that equality, nevertheless, you have conceived and received knowledge of it?"

"You speak most truthfully," he said.

"So it is either similar or dissimilar to them?"

"Indeed."

"But it makes no difference," he said. "Seeing one thing, from [74d] its perception until you perceive another thing, whether similar or dissimilar, it is necessary," he said, "that this be recollection."

"Yes, indeed."

"Well," he said, "do we experience something similar concerning the things in the wood and in the equal things we were just speaking about? Do they seem to us to be equal in the same way as equality itself is, or do they lack some element of that thing, by which they could be similar to equality, or do they lack nothing?"

"They are lacking very much," he said.

"Therefore do we agree that, whenever someone, seeing something, thinks, 'This thing which I now see wants to be like some other thing that exists, [74e] but it is lacking and is not able to be of such a sort as that thing, equal, but it is worse,' it is necessary that the man thinking this, I suppose, happens to have previous knowledge of that thing, to which he says that it is similar, but which he says is lacking?"

"Necessarily."

"Well, then; have we experienced such a thing, or not, concerning equal things and equality itself?"

"Yes, in all respects."

"It is necessary, then, that we knew equality before that [75a] time, when, first seeing equal things, we had thought that all of these things are stretching out to be like equality, but they fall short."

"This is so."

"Yet truly, we also agree about this, that we have not understood it from some other place, and that it is not possible to understand it save from seeing or grasping or some other sense. And I am saying that all of these are the same."

"For they are the same, Socrates—at least as concerns what the argument intends to show."

"But from the senses it is necessary to understand that [75b] all the things in the senses stretch out for that thing, the thing which is equal, but are inadequate in grasping it. Or how do we mean?"

"That is so."

"And, in fact, before we began to see and to hear and to perceive other things, it was necessary for us, I think, to have happened to receive knowledge of equality itself, what it is, if we were intending to compare the equal things perceived by the senses with it—knowledge that all such things desire to be like it, but they are worse than it."

"Necessarily from what was said before, Socrates."

"Therefore, having come into being, we saw and we heard and we had the other senses?"

"Absolutely."

[75c]

"And it was necessary, we say, that we received knowledge of equality before we had senses?"

"Yes."

"Then, as it seems, it is necessary that we received it before being born."

"It seems."

"If, therefore, receiving it before being born, and having it, we were born, we knew it before being born, and immediately after being born, we knew not only equality and the greater and the less, but also all such things? For our argument now is not concerning equality any more than it is concerning absolute beauty and good [75d], and justice and holiness, and, precisely, all things on which we stamp an 'absolute,' both in asking in interrogations and responding in answers. The result is that it is necessary for us to have received knowledge of all of these things before being born."

"This is true."

"And if, having received it, we have not forgotten it on each occasion, it is necessary that we are always born knowing it, and that we always know it throughout our life. For knowledge is this: someone having received knowledge of something, possessing it and not losing it. Or do we not say that this is forgetting, Simmias, the loss of knowledge?"

[75e]

"Absolutely, it is, Socrates," he said.

"And if, I think, receiving it before being born, and then, being born, we lost it, but later, using our senses, we took up again that knowledge concerning those matters, the knowledge which we possessed at some point in the past, would not what we call learning be taking up again innate knowledge? Would we not speak correctly in calling this recollection?"

"Yes, indeed."

[76a]

"For this appeared possible, for someone perceiving something—either by looking or hearing or employing some other sense—to think of some other thing, different from this, which had been forgotten, to which this thing was close, and to which it was dissimilar or similar. The result being, as I said, one of two things: either we have all been born knowing them, and we know them throughout our life; or, later, those whom we say learn are doing nothing other than remembering, and the learning would be recollection."

"This is very much true, Socrates."

"So which do you pick, Simmias? That we are born knowing, [76b] or that later we remember the things of which we had received knowledge before?"

"I am not able to choose at the present time, Socrates."

"Well, are you able to decide about the following, in what way it seems to you? A man, being knowledgeable about the things about which he is knowledgeable, would he be able to give an account of them, or not?"

"Absolutely, Socrates," he said.

"And do all people seem to you to be able to give an account of the things about which we were speaking just now?"

"I would wish it," said Simmias, "but much more do I fear that tomorrow at this time, no man will be able any longer to do this worthily."

[76c]

"Then all people do not seem to you to know these things, Simmias, do they?" he said.

"Not at all."

"Then they recollect the things which they learned at some time?"

"Necessarily."

"When did our souls receive knowledge of these things? For it was definitely not after we became men."

"Indeed not."

"Earlier, then."

"Yes."

"There were, then, Simmias, souls beforehand, before they were in the form of men, apart from bodies, and they had cognition."

"Unless, Socrates, we receive this knowledge at the same time as we are born; for this period of time is still left."

[76d]

"Well, my friend—but at what other time do we lose it? For we are not born possessing it, as we agreed just now. Or do we lose it at the same time as we receive it? Or do you have some other time to suggest?"

"Not at all, Socrates. I did not realize I was talking nonsense."

"So is it like this for us, Simmias?" he said. "If the things we always chatter about exist—beauty and goodness and each such entity—and if we compare all the things from the senses to such an entity, [76e] finding that they belonged to us previously, and we compare these with that, it is necessary that, just as these things exist, so, too, our souls existed before we were born? But if these things do not exist, would this argument have been articulated differently? Is this how it is, and is it equally necessary that these things exist, and that our souls existed before we were born, and if these things do not exist, that the souls did not, as well?"

"Socrates," said Simmias, "it seems to me that the same necessity exists, extraordinarily so; and that our argument finds a good result, that [77a] our soul existed before we were born, and similarly that the nature which you were just talking about exists, too. For to me, at least, there is nothing as clear as this, that all things very much exist, such as beauty and nobility and all the other things about which you were just now speaking. And it seems to me, at least, that it has been sufficiently demonstrated."

"And what about Kebes?" said Socrates. "For it is also necessary to persuade Kebes."

"He has been sufficiently persuaded," said Simmias, "as it seems to me. And he is the most steadfast of men when it comes to not believing in arguments. But I think that he has been persuaded not insufficiently of this, that before we were born [77b] our soul existed. However, whether after we die it will still exist does not seem to me, Socrates," he said, "to have been demonstrated. Rather, what Kebes was saying just now still stands in the way: the fear of the many, that at the same time as when a man dies his soul is scattered, and that this is the end of existence for it. For what prevents it from coming into being and being put together from some other place and existing before coming into a human body, but from dying and being destroyed after it arrives and goes away from the body?"

[77c]

"You speak well, Simmias," said Kebes. "For it seems as though half of what is necessary has been demonstrated, that our souls existed before we were born, but it is necessary to prove in addition that after we die, the soul will exist no less than before we were born, if the proof intends to have a conclusion."

"It has been demonstrated even now, Simmias and Kebes," said Socrates, "if you wish to combine this argument with the same one we agreed upon before this one, that every living thing comes into being from a dead thing. For if the soul [77d] exists beforehand—and it is necessary that, as it goes into a living thing and comes into being, it come into being from nowhere else but death and being dead—how is it not necessary that the soul exist after death, since it is necessary that it come into being again? Therefore, what you are saying even now has been demonstrated. However, it seems to me that you and Simmias would enjoy thoroughly examining this argument even more, and that you have a childish fear, that a wind really could disperse the soul as it steps out of the body [77e] and scatter it, and especially whenever someone happens to die not in a calm, but in a great gust."

And Kebes, laughing, said, "As though we are afraid, Socrates, attempt to persuade us. Or, rather, as though we are not afraid, but perhaps there is some child in us who fears these kinds of things. So attempt to persuade him to not fear death as though it is some boogeyman."

"But it is necessary," said Socrates, "to sing to him each day until you charm the fear away."

[78a]

"But from where, then," he said, "Socrates, will we find a good enchanter of such things, since you are leaving us behind?"

"Greece is big, Kebes," he said, "and in it there are, I think, good men, and the races of barbarians are many, as well, all of whom it is necessary for you to search, seeking such an enchanter, sparing neither money nor toils, as there is nothing for which you might spend money more opportunely. And it is necessary that you seek among each other: for perhaps you might not easily discover people more capable of doing this than you."

"These things will happen," said Kebes. "But from where [78b] we left off, let us return, if it pleases you."

"But truly, it pleases me. For how would it not?"

"You speak well," he said.

"So: it is necessary for us to ask ourselves," said Socrates, "something like this: For what sort of thing is it fitting to experience this, being scattered; and on behalf of what sort of thing is it fitting to fear that it might experience this; and for what sort of thing is it not fitting to fear this? And after this, is it necessary to again examine whether the soul exists, and from these things to either take courage or fear for our souls?"

"You speak the truth," he said.

[78c]

"Therefore, for the thing that has been put together and the thing that is composite by nature, it is fitting to experience this, to be taken apart in the way in which it was put together; but if something happens to be uncompounded, is it fitting for this thing alone to not experience this, if it really is fitting for any other thing?"

"It seems to me that this is correct," said Kebes.

"Therefore, things which are always the same and remain so, it is most fitting that these things are uncompounded, but other things that are sometimes one way and at other times another, and never the same, it is most fitting that these are compounded?"

"It seems so to me."

"Let us go, then," he said, "to the same examples on which we focused in the previous [78d] argument. The essence itself, to which we give the name existence in asking and responding, is it always the same, or is is one way one time, and another another time? Absolute equality, absolute beauty, each absolute that exists, whatever it is—it does not ever receive any change at all, does it? Or, always, does each one of them that exists, being of single form by itself, stay the same and never receive any alteration in any way at all?"

"Necessarily," said Kebes, "it stays the same, Socrates."

"But what about the many beautiful things, such as men or horses or [78e] cloaks or any other such things, the ones having the same names as those ones, either the equal or the beautiful or all the others? Are they the same, or, entirely the opposite of those, are they never at all the same, so to speak, neither they with themselves nor with others?"

"The latter is the case," said Kebes. "They are never the same."

[79a]

"Therefore, you might both touch and see and perceive these with the other senses, but as for those things that remain the same, there exists nothing by means of which you might ever lay hold of them, save for the reasoning power of thought; and such things are hidden and not seen?"

"You speak the truth in every respect," he said.

"Do you want us, then," he said, "to define two forms of things that exist, the seen and the unseen?"

"Let us define them," he said.

"And the unseen is always the same, and the seen is never the same?"

"Let us also define this," he said.

[79b]

"Well, then," he said, "Of us, is the body one part, and the soul the other?"

"Nothing else," he said.

"To which form, then, do we say that the body would be more similar and akin?"

"This, at least, is clear to everyone," he said, "that it is more similar and akin to the seen."

"And what about the soul? Seen or unseen?"

"Not seen by men, at least, Socrates," he said.

"But we were speaking of things seen and unseen in the way of men. Or are you thinking in some other way?"

"In the way of men."

"What do we say about the soul, then? That it is seen or not seen?"

"Not seen."

"Unseen, then?"

"Yes."

"Therefore the soul is more similar to the unseen than the body, and the body is more similar to the seen."

[79c]

"Absolutely necessarily, Socrates."

"We were also saying this long ago: that the soul, whenever it makes use of the body to examine something, either through seeing or hearing or some other sense—for this is the use of the body, examining something through a sense—then the soul is dragged by the body towards things that never stay the same, and it wanders and is stirred up and is dizzy, as though drunk, because it is in contact with such things?"

"Absolutely."

[79d]

"But, whenever it investigates by itself, it goes to that place, a place that is pure and always existing and immortal and stays the same, and as it is a comrade of this place, it is always with it, whenever it is by itself and it is possible for it, and it has ceased from its wandering and it behaves in a similar manner to those things which are always the same, since it is in contact with such things. And this experience has been called wisdom?"

"In all respects," he said, "you speak well and truthfully, Socrates."

"Therefore, again, to which form does it seem to you, both from the previous and from [79e] the present discussion, that the soul is more similar and akin?"

"It seems to me that every man," he said, "would agree, Socrates, from this investigation, and even the most thick-headed man, that in every respect the soul is more similar to the thing that always remains the same than to the thing which does not."

"And what about the body?"

"It is more similar to the other one."

"Consider, then, also in this way, that whenever the soul and the body are in the same [80a] thing, nature enjoins upon the one to be a slave and be ruled, and to the other to rule and be master. And with regard to these things, in turn, which seems to you to be similar to the divine, and which to the mortal? Or does it not seem to you that the divine is the sort of thing that by nature rules and leads, and that the mortal is ruled and acts as a slave?"

"It does seem this way to me."

"To which, then, is the soul similar?"

"It is clear, Socrates, that the soul is similar to the divine, and the body is similar to the mortal."

"Consider, Kebes," he said, "whether from all the things having been said [80b] that the following results for us, that the soul is most similar to the divine and the immortal and the intellectual and the single-formed and the indissoluble and the thing always remaining the same, and that the body is most similar to the human and the mortal and the many-formed and the unintellectual and the dissoluble and the thing that never stays the same. Are we able to say anything else contrary to these things, dear Kebes? Does this not hold up in any way?"

"We are unable to say anything."

"Well, then; since these things are so, is it not fitting for the body to swiftly be dissolved, but for the soul, in turn, to be entirely indissoluble, or something near this?"

[80c]

"How would it not be?"

"You know, then," he said, "that whenever a man dies, the seen part of him, the body, and the part lying in the visible world, which we call the corpse, for which it is fitting to be dissolved and crumble and be dispersed, does not experience any of these things straightaway, but it remains for a reasonably long time; and if someone dies having their body in good condition, and in a favorable season, it remains for a very long time. For the body, having shrunken and been embalmed, just as those embalmed in Egypt, it remains almost whole for an extraordinary time, [80d] and some parts of the body, even if they rot—the bones and the sinews and all such things—all the same, they are indestructible, so to speak. Or is this not true?"

"It is."

"But, in fact, the soul, the unseen thing, the thing going away into a different place of a similar sort, a noble and pure and unseen place—going to Hades, in fact, to the good and thoughtful god, to where, if god wills, my soul will soon go—this soul, being of such a kind for us and of such a sort by nature, and being delivered from the body, is it scattered straightaway and destroyed, as the many say? [80e] Far from it, dear Kebes and Simmias; it is much more like this: if it is set free pure, dragging with it no part of the body, because it was willing to be in common with it not at all in life, but fled from it and was itself gathered together in itself, because it was always attending to this—namely nothing other than philosophizing correctly and, in reality, [81a] being busied with dying easily. Or would this not be the practice of death?"

"It would, in all respects."

"Therefore, being disposed in this way, it goes away to the thing similar to itself, the unseen, the divine and the immortal and the thoughtful, to where, after arriving, it obtains happiness, having been released from wandering and folly and fears and wild passions and the other evils of men, and just as is said by those who have been initiated into the mysteries, it truly spends time with the gods for the remainder of time. Are we to speak thus, Kebes, or differently?"

"Thus, by Zeus," said Kebes.

[81b]

"But if, I think, it goes away from the body polluted and impure, because it was always with the body and was taking care of it and loving it and being beguiled by it and by its desires and pleasures, so as for no other thing to seem to be true than the corporeal, that which someone might touch and see and drink and eat and employ for sexual purposes, but also as for the soul, having been accustomed to hate and to fear and to flee the thing that is dark to the eyes and unseen, but is thinkable and graspable by philosophy, do you [81c] think that, being in such a state, the soul itself will go away by itself pure?"

"Not in any way," he said.

"But, I think, it will go away having been grasped by the corporeal, which the company and intercourse of the body made congenital in it on account of always being together and the great deal of attention?"

"Absolutely."

"It is necessary, my friend, to suppose that this is heavy and weighty and earthy and visible; and possessing this, such a soul is weighted down and is dragged back towards the visible place by fear of the unseen and Hades, just as is said, wallowing [81d] around the memorials and the tombs, around which, in fact, are seen some shadowy apparitions of souls, the kinds of phantoms that such souls provide, souls not released in a pure way, but possessing a share of the visible, wherefore they are also seen."

"It is probable, Socrates."

"It is probable, Kebes. And it is likely that not at all are they the souls of the good, but those of the bad, which are compelled to wander around such places paying the penalty for their previous livelihood, as it was bad. And they wander up this point, until they [81e] are again bound into a body by desire for the thing that accompanies them, the corporeal; and they are bound, as is probable, into such natures of the kind which they happen to have practiced in their life."

"What are these that you mention, Socrates?"

"That it is likely that those who have practiced gluttony and violence and love of drink, and have not guarded against them, enter into [82a] the races of donkeys and such beasts. Or do you not think so?"

"You are saying something entirely likely."

"And that it is likely that those who have esteemed injustice and tyranny and robbery enter into the races of wolves and hawks and kites. Or to where else do we say that such souls would go?"

"Doubtless," said Kebes,"into such animals."

"So," he said, "it is clear to where other things should go, because of the similaritieis of their habits?"

"It is clear," he said. "How could it not be?"

"Therefore," he said, "the most fortunate of these, and those going to the best place, are those who have made the virtue [82b] of the people and the state their business—which, in fact, they call prudence and justice—a virtue that has come into being from their nature and pursuit, without philosophy and reason?"

"In what way are these the most fortunate?"

"Because it is likely that these come back again into such a civic and civilized race—either, I think, of bees or wasps or ants, and again, into the same human race, and that moderate men come from them."

"It is likely."

"But into the race of the gods it is not permitted for anyone not having been a philosopher [82c] and departing absolutely pure to come, save for the lover of knowledge. Because of these things, friends Simmias and Kebes, those who practice philosophy correctly hold themselves away from all of the desires of the body and endure and do not betray themselves to them, not at all fearing squandering their substance or poverty, like the many, who love money; nor, in turn, fearing dishonor and the ill repute of wickedness, like those who love rule and honor, after they hold themselves away from them."

"For that would not be fitting, Socrates," said Kebes.

[82d]

"Indeed no, by Zeus," he said. "For that very reason, Kebes, those men, for whom there is a concern for their own souls, and who do not live joined to their bodies, bidding all of these men farewell, they do not go to the same places as them, because they think those men do not know where they are going, but they themselves, believing that it is necessary to not act oppositely to philosophy and its release and purification, following it, they turn themselves, to wherever it leads."

"How, Socrates?"

"I will tell you," he said. "For they know," he said, "those who love knowledge, [82e] that philosophy, taking hold of their souls, unskillfully bound in their bodies and glued on; and being compelled as though through a prison to inspect reality, but not by itself through itself; and being spun about in complete ignorance, and perceiving the horribleness of the prison, that it is caused by desire, as if the prisoner himself should most of all be an accomplice [83a] of his bondage—what I am saying, then, is that the lovers of knowledge know that philosophy, taking hold of their souls in this condition, gently encourages them and attempts to release them, pointing out that perception through the eyes is full of deception, and also that through the ears and the other senses; and persuading them to withdraw from these things, however much it is possible to not use them, and encouraging the soul to gather and collect itself into itself, and to trust nothing other than [83b] itself, whatever it thinks itself, by itself, with regard to anything that exists in the abstract; but whatever it perceives through other things, in other things, since it is other, it encourages the soul to believe it is true in no wise. Such a thing is perceivable and visible, but that which the soul itself sees is knowable and invisible. So, thinking that it is necessary to not oppose this release, the soul of the true philosopher thus goes away from pleasures and desires and pains and fears, in so far as it is able to, reckoning that whenever someone has a great deal of pleasure or fear or pain or desire, he suffers no ill so great from [83c] them of the kind which one might suppose—such as either being sick or spending something up on account of his desires—but the thing which is the greatest of all evils and the most extreme, this he suffers and does not consider it."

"What is this, Socrates?" said Kebes.

"That the soul of every man is compelled, at the same time, to take pleasure or to be grieved very much at something, and to think, concerning this thing about which he suffers to much, that this thing is most visible and most true, with it not being so. And these things are, mostly, things which are seen. Or is this not the case?"

"By all means, it is."

[83d]

"And so, in this experience, is the soul quite bound by the body?"

"How so?"

"In that each pleasure and pain, as though having a nail, fixes it to the body, and fastens it, and makes it corporeal, it thinking that these things are true, whatever things the body says. For from agreeing with the body and enjoying the same things, it is forced, I think, to become possessed of the same habits and the same nourishment, and, being of such a sort, it is compelled to never go in a pure way to Hades, but to always depart full of the body, so as to swiftly fall again into [83e] another body, and as though sown, to be implanted in it, and from these things it is compelled to be without a share of connection to the divine and the pure and the absolute."

"You are saying things that are very much true, Socrates," said Kebes.

"Therefore, because of these things, Kebes, those who justly love learning are moderate and brave, and not because of the things which the many say. Or do you not think so?"

[84a]

"Certainly not, for my part."

"Indeed, no. But the soul of the philosopher would reason in this way, and would not think that it was right for philosophy to release it, but, with philosophy releasing it, that it was right for it to give itself over to binding itself in pleasures and pains again, to perform an endless toil of Penelope, working on her web in the opposite direction; but, obtaining calmness from these things, following logic and always remaining focused on it, perceiving that which is true and divine and [84b] certain, and being nourished by this, it supposes that it is necessary for itself to live in this way while it lives, and after it dies, reaching something akin and of a similar sort, it supposes that it is necessary for itself to be released from human ills. From such a kind of nourishment there is no reason for it to fear, if it pursues these things, Simmias and Kebes, that, being torn asunder in the departure of the body and being dispersed by the winds and vanishing, it will go away and no longer exist anywhere."

[84c]

There was silence for a long time when Socrates said this, and Socrates himself was engaged in what had been said, as was clear to see, and most of us were, as well. Kebes and Simmias spoke with each other for a little while. And Socrates, seeing the two of them, asked, "What is it? Surely the things spoken do not seem to you to have been said deficiently? For indeed they still have many questionable aspects and points of attack, if, in fact, someone intends to go through them sufficiently. If, therefore, the two of you are considering something else, I will say nothing; but if you are at a loss about these matters in some respect, do not shrink back from speaking and [84d] going through them yourselves, if in some way it seems to you that something better might be said, and in turn do not hesitate to take me along, if you think you will fare somewhat better with me."

And Simmias said, "Indeed, Socrates, I will tell you the truth. For for a long time now, each of us, being at a loss, has been propelling and urging the other to ask a question, on account of desiring to hear, but shrinking from causing trouble, lest it be unpleasant for you on account of your present misfortune."

And he, hearing this, laughed softly and said, "Goodness, Simmias! Indeed, I would, I think, persuade other men with difficulty [84e] that I do not consider the present situation a misfortune, seeing that I am not able to persuade you two, but you fear that I am now somewhat more discontentedly disposed than I was in my previous life. And, as it seems, I appear to you to be inferior in oracular ability to swans, who, whenever they perceive that it is necessary for them to die, though singing also at [85a] previous times, then, indeed, they sing most beautifully, rejoicing that they are about to go off to the god of whom they are attendants. But men, because of their own fear of death, speak falsely of swans, and say that they sing their last song from grief, bewailing their death, and they do not consider that no bird sings whenever it is hungry or cold or experiences any other pain, neither the nightingale herself nor the swallow nor the hoopoe, birds which they say sing to bewail their pain. But neither do these birds seem to me [85b] to sing out of grief, nor the swans, but since, I think, they belong to Apollo, they are prophetic and they sing because they are foreseeing good things in Hades, and they take pleasure on that day differently than previously. But I myself think that I am a fellow-slave of the swans and devoted to the same god, and that I possess prophetic powers from my master no worse than they do, and that I depart from life no more heavy-hearted than they. But because of this it is necessary to say and to ask whatever you want, as long as The Eleven of the Athenians permit."

"You speak well," Simmias said. "I will ask you, then, about what [85c] is bothering me, and, in turn, this one here will say why he does not accept the things that have been said. For it seems to me, Socrates, perhaps just as it does to you, that to have clear knowledge concerning such things in the present life is either impossible or at least very difficult. However, to not cross-examine the things being said about them in every way and to not desist before tiring, examining them in every regard, seems entirely to be characteristic of a man who is weak: for it is necessary, concerning them, for him to accomplish one of the two: either to learn or discover how it is, or, if this is impossible, taking the best of human arguments and the most difficult to refute, [85d] being buoyed on this, as though on a raft, running the risks he must sail over his life, unless he should be able, more safely and with less danger, to traverse it upon a surer vessel, or the word of some god. And especially now, I, at least, will not be ashamed to ask questions, since you are also saying this, nor will I censure myself later on, because I didn't say what seemed best to me. For to me, Socrates, when I consider the things that have been said, by myself and with Kebes here, they do not seem to have been sufficiently explained."

[85e]

And Socrates said, "Perhaps, friend, this seems true to you. But tell us in what way they have not been sufficiently explained."

"In this way, as it seems to me," he said, "the way in which, in fact, someone might present this same argument about harmony, and a lyre and its strings: that harmony is something unseen and incorporeal and very beautiful and [86a] divine in a tuned lyre, but the lyre itself and its strings are bodies and corporeal and composite and earthy and akin to the mortal. Whenever, then, someone either shatters the lyre or cuts and breaks the strings, if someone should rely on the same argument as you do—that it is necessary that that harmony still exist and has not been destroyed—he would say that it is necessary, then, that the harmony itself still exist someplace, and that the wood and the strings would rot away before the harmony would suffer something. Therefore, Socrates, I, at least, think that you yourself have also thought about this, that we suspect most of all that the soul is a thing of such a sort: that our bodies are stretched and held together by heat and cold and dry and wet and things of such a sort, and that our souls are [86c] a mixing and harmony of these same things, whenever these things are well and moderately mixed with each other. If, therefore, the soul happens to be a kind of harmony, it is clear that whenever our bodies are loosened immoderately, or are tormented by sicknesses and other evils, it is necessary that the soul immediately perish, even though it is most divine, just like the other harmonies which are in sounds and in all the crafts of skilled workmen, but that the remains of each body remain for a long time, [86d] until they are burned down or rot away. Consider, then, what we will respond to this line of reasoning, if someone should think it right that the soul, being a mixture of the things in the body, is first to perish in the thing called death."

Then Socrates, staring with his eyes wide open, as he was accustomed to do quite often, and smiling, said, "Simmias speaks justly. If, then, one of you is more ingenious than I, why didn't he respond? For he seem to be attacking my argument fairly well. However, it seems necessary for me, before responding, to hear from Kebes [86e] what it is that he finds fault with in the argument, so that, in the meantime, we may take counsel about what we shall say; and then, after hearing, it seems necessary for us either to agree with them, if they seem to harmonize in some way, but if not, to defend our argument. But come," he said, "Kebes, and speak, what was the thing that, troubling you, is causing disbelief?"

"I will tell you," Kebes said. "For it seems to me that the argument is still at the same point, and the same objection which we were bringing up in the previous discussion [87a] still seems to hold. For I do not object that the fact that our souls existed even before they came into this form has not been demonstrated very beautifully and, if it is not irksome for me to say so, not completely sufficiently. But the fact that, after we die, it still exists someplace, does not seem right. And I do not agree with the objection of Simmias, that the soul is not more powerful and longer-lasting than the body. For it seems to me to be superior in all of these respects by a lot. 'Why, then,' the argument might say, 'do you still not believe, when you see, after the man has died, that the weaker part still lives? And the more long-lived part, [87b] does it not seem to you to be necessary that it is still preserved in this time?' Consider, then, the following, in response to this, whether I am making sense. I also need some sort of comparison like Simmias, as it seems. For these things seem to me to be spoken similarly as if someone should give this account about an old weaver, that the man had not died, but still existed safe somewhere, and should provide as proof the cloak in which he was clothed, he himself having woven it, that it was still intact and had not perished; and if someone [87c] should not believe him, he would ask whether the human race is more long-lived, or the race of himations which are in service and being worn; and with someone answering that the human race is much longer-lived, he would think that it had been demonstrated more than anything that the man was safe, since the thing that was less long-lived had not perished. But I do not think, Simmias, that this is correct. For consider what I am saying. Every man would suppose that the man saying this is saying something silly. For this weaver, having worn out many such cloaks, and having woven them, perished later than them, though many of them were [87d] in existence, but before the last one of them, I think, and for this reason a man is not at all worse or weaker than a cloak. I think that the soul might behave in the same way vis-à-vis the body, and someone, saying these same things about them would seem to me to speak reasonably, that the soul is more long-lived, but the body is weaker and more short-lived. But he would say that each soul wears out many bodies, and especially if a man lives for many years—for if the body should wear out and be destroyed while the man is still alive, [87e] the soul would always revive that which is worn down. However, it would be necessary, whenever the soul should perish, that it should happen to have its final robe, and that it perish before this alone, and once the soul has perished, then would the body demonstrate the nature of its weakness and depart, rotted. The result is that, in this argument, it is no longer right for someone to take courage in the belief that [88a] after we die, our souls still exist someplace. For if someone should agree even more with the person saying the things which you say, granting to him not only that our souls existed in the time prior to our existence, but also that there is nothing preventing some of them, even after we die, from continuing to exist, and coming into being in the future many times, and in turn dying many times—for it is, by nature, such a strong thing, that the soul, coming into being many times, endures—but granting these things, someone might no longer agree to this, that it does not suffer in its many births, and dying in a certain one of its deaths, it is completely destroyed, but someone would say that [88b] no one knows which death and dissolution of the body is the one that brings destruction for the soul—for it is impossible for any one of us to perceive this. But if this is so, it is fitting for no one taking courage with respect to death to take courage foolishly, whoever is not able to demonstrate that the soul is immortal in every respect and indestructible. If not, it is necessary that always the man about to die fear on behalf of his soul, lest in the unyoking from his body at that time it perish completely."

[88c]

All of us, then, hearing them speak, were made uncomfortable, as we were later telling each other, because they were seeming to throw us once again into confusion, as we had been thoroughly persuaded by the previous argument, and to cast us down into disbelief, not only in the words previously spoken, but also with regard to the things about to be spoken, as if we were worthless judges or the matters themselves were not worthy of belief.

E: By the gods, Phaedo, I feel bad for you. For it occurs to me myself, too, now, hearing you, to say a thing of the following sort [88d] to myself: "So what argument will we trust in the future? For though being very persuasive, now the argument which Socrates was presenting has fallen into disbelief." For this argument captivates me wondrously, both now and always, namely that our souls possess a certain harmony, and when it was mentioned it reminded me that these things had also seemed good to me before. And again, I entirely have need, as though from the beginning, of some other argument that will persuade me that the soul does not die along with someone who dies. So tell me, then, by Zeus: in what way did Socrates pursue the argument? And [88e] did that man, as you say that you all did, become clearly aggrieved at all, or not? Or did he instead gently assist his argument? And did he assist it sufficiently, or in a paltry way? Go through all of these things as precisely as you can for us.

P: Indeed, Echekrates, having wondered many times at Socrates, not ever before was I more amazed than I became then. [89a] That that man had something to say is perhaps not surprising. But I was amazed at him most of all, first, because of this, that he received the argument of the young men pleasantly and favorably and with admiration; and next because he quickly perceived what we had experienced from the arguments; and finally because he healed us well, and, as though we had fled and been defeated, he called us back and turned us forward to accompany and contemplate the argument along with him.

E: How?

P: I will tell you. For I happened to be sitting at his right hand, [89b] next to his couch, on a certain low-lying seat, and he was on a much higher one than I was. So, stroking my head and grasping the hairs on my neck—for he was accustomed, whenever there was the chance, to play with my hair—he said, "Tomorrow, Phaedo, you will perhaps cut these pretty hairs."

"It seems so, Socrates," I said.

"But not, if you obey me."

"What do you mean?" I said.

"Today," he said, "both will I cut mine, and will you cut these, if, at least, our argument dies and we are not able to bring it back to life. [89c] And, if I should be you and the argument should escape me, I would make an oath, like the Argives, that I would not grow out my hair before I won, renewing the fight against the argument of Simmias and Kebes."

"But," I said, "it is said that not even Herakles is able to fight against two."

"But," he said, "summon me as Ioleos, while there is still light."

"I summon you, then," I said, "not as Herakles, but as Ioleos summons Herakles."

"It will make no difference," he said. "But first, let us take caution lest we experience something."

"What sort of thing?" I said.

[89d]

"Lest we become," he said, "haters of arguments, as though having become haters of men, as it is not possible," he said, "that someone might experience an evil greater than this, than hating arguments. Hatred of argument and hatred of men come into being in the same way. For hatred of men is entered by trusting someone very much without skill, and believing that in every respect that the man is true and healthful and trustworthy, and then, a little later, discovering that he is worthless and not trustworthy; and then, in turn, by this experience with another. And whenever someone experiences this many times, and most of all at the hands of these men whom he should most of all consider [89e] to be nearest and dearest, indeed, in the end, quarreling often he hates all men, and he considers that there is nothing salutary in anyone at all. Or have you not at all noticed that this happens?"

"By all means, I have," I said.

"Therefore," he said, "is it not shameful, and is it not clear that such a man attempts to make use of men without the skill that concerns itself with human affairs? For if, I think, he were making use of them with skill, precisely as is the case [90a] he would have believed that the useful and the worthless, each, are very few, but those in between are most numerous."

"What do you mean?" I said.

"Just as it is," he said, "with things that are very small and very big. Do you think that it is something fairly rare to discover either a very big or a very small man, or a dog, or any other thing whatsoever? Or, in turn, to find something either very swift or slow, or ugly or beautiful, or white or black? Or have you not noticed that, of all such things, the highest of extremes are rare and few, but those in between are bounteous?"

"Indeed I have," I said.

[90b] START

"Do you think, then," he said, "if a contest of worthlessness should be proposed, that very few men would appear as the winners?"

"It is likely," I said.

"For it is likely," he said. "But in this way arguments are not similar to men, but now, I followed you as you led me; but they are similar in that way, in which, whenever someone believes that some argument is true without the skill concerned with arguments, and then, a little later, after it seems to him to be false, sometimes being false, and sometimes not being false, and again with another argument, and then another—most of all, in fact, those [90c] busying themselves with contradictory arguments, you know that in the end they believe that they have become the wisest men, and that they alone have come to understand that there is nothing healthful or reliable, of any of matters or of arguments, but that all things which exist simply are turned upwards and downwards, as though in the Euripos, and that they are steadfast in nothing for no time at all."

"Indeed, entirely," I said, "are you speaking the truth."

"Therefore, Phaedo," he said, "the experience would be pitiable, if, with there in fact existing a certain true and reliable argument, and one capable [90d] of comprehension, then, on account of being present among certain such arguments, the same ones sometimes seeming to be true, and sometimes not, someone should then not find fault with himself and his own skilllessness, but, in the end, on account of his suffering, should gladly drive blame away from himself and onto the arguments, and should continue hating and slandering arguments for the rest of his life, and should be deprived of the truth and knowledge of the things which exist."

"By Zeus," I said, "pitiable indeed."

"First, then," he said, "let us take caution about this, lest [90e] we allow to pass into our soul that nothing of arguments runs the risk of being salutary; but, much more, let us allow to pass that we are not yet healthy, but that one must man up and and desire to be healthy - for you, then, and the others, for the sake of your entire remaining life, and for me [91a] for the sake of death itself, as I am currently running the risk, concerning this thing itself, of not being philosophical, but of being quarrel-loving, like those who are entirely uneducated. For also those people, whenever they dispute about something, they do not care about in whatever way it holds concerning the matters about which there is argument, but they desire this, namely that whatever things they themselves proposed, that these things seem right to those present. I, too, think, at present, that I will differ from those people only so much: for I will not desire that, to those present, the things which I say will seem to be true, unless they are of secondary importance, but I will care that to me myself most of all they will they seem to be [91b] so. For I think, dear friend, that if the things I say happen to be true, then being persuaded is good; but if there is nothing for me, after I die, but, in fact, for this entire time itself, the one before my death, I will be less odious to those present in bewailing, and this ignorance will not continue with me to the end, but will perish a little later. Having been prepared, then," he said, "Simmias and Kebes, in this fashion, I approach the argument; you, however, if you obey me, [91c] considering Socrates a bit, and considering the truth much more, if I seem to you to be saying something true, agree with me, but if not, resist the entire argument, taking care lest I, deceiving both myself and you at the same time because of my desire, I will depart, leaving my stinger behind like a bee."

"But we must begin," he said. "First, remind me what you were saying, if I don't seem to remember. For Simmias, as I think, doesn't believe, and is afraid that the soul, although being both more divine and [91d] more beautiful than the body, is the first to perish, being in the form of a harmony; and Kebes seemed to me to agree with me about this, that the soul is much older than the body, but to say that the following is unclear to everyone, whether the soul, having worn out many bodies, many times, after leaving behind its last body, it is then itself destroyed, and whether this thing itself is death, the destruction of the soul, since nothing prevents the body from always being destroyed. But are these, Simmias and Kebes, the things which it is necessary for us to consider?"

[91e]

Both of them in fact agreed that these were the things.

"Then," he said, "do you not accept all of the previous arguments, or do you accept some, but not others?"

"Some," they said, "but not others."

"What, then," he said, "do you say about that argument, in which we were saying that learning is a recollection, and, with this being so, that it is necessary that the soul exists before us [92a] someplace else, before it is bound in the body?"

"I, for one," said Kebes, "was persuaded by it wondrously then, and now I hold fast to no other argument."

"And indeed," said Simmias, "I feel similarly, and would be completely amazed if something else should ever seem right to me about this."

And Socrates said, "But it is necessary, my Theban friend, if this opinion remains good for you, that harmony be a compound thing, and that the soul be a kind of harmony composed of the things stretched throughout the body. For you will not believe, I think, [92b] as you were saying previously, that there was a composed harmony before those things existed, from which it is necessary that it be composed. Or will you accept this?"

"In no way, Socrates," he said.

"Then do you perceive," he said, "that it happens that you are saying these things, whenever you say that the soul existed before it arrived into the form of a man and a body—that it is composed of things that did not yet exist? For harmony is not, in fact, the sort of thing to which you liken it, but the lyre and the strings and [92c] the sounds come into being beforehand while being out of tune, but last of all is the harmony put together, and is the first to perish. So, for you, how will this argument harmonize with that one?"

"In no way," said Simmias.

"And yet," he said, "it is fitting for the other argument to be in harmony with the one about harmony."

"It is fitting," said Simmias.

"Therefore," he said, "this argument does not harmonize. But consider, which of the arguments do you choose: that learning is a recollection, or that the soul is a harmony?"

"Much more the former, Socrates," he said. "For the latter [92d] came into being for me without proof, with a certain likelihood and plausibility, for which reason it also seems good to many men. But I know that arguments fashioning proofs for themselves because of likelihoods are deceptive, and if someone doesn't guard against them, they deceive very powerfully, both in geometry and in all other areas. But the argument concerning recollection and learning has been spoken via a supposition worthy of reception. For it was stated in this way, I think: that our soul exists even before arriving at the body, just as its existence exists, the one possessing the name "existence." [92e] But I have sufficiently and correctly received this, in so far as I have convinced myself. So it is necessary for me, as it seems, through these arguments, to accept from neither myself nor another the statement that the soul is a harmony."

"But what about thinking about it in this way, Simmias?" he said. "Does it seem to you that it is fitting [93a] for harmony or some other composition to somehow be different from how those things are, from which it is assembled?"

"Not at all."

"And does it seem to you to be fitting that it neither do something, as I think, nor experience something different from the things which those things either do or experience?"

He assented.

"Therefore, it is not right that a harmony leads those things from which it is composed, but it follows them."

He agreed.

"Therefore, it is far from possible that a harmony would be able to be moved oppositely or to make a noise oppositely or to be opposite in any other way to its own parts."

"Far, indeed," he said.

"Well, then; is not each harmony by nature a harmony in how it is assembled?"

"I don't understand," he said.

"Or is it not the case that," he said, "if it is assembled more and more fully, [93b] if it really is possible for this to happen, the harmony would be more a harmony and greater, but if it is assembled lesser and to a lesser extent, it would be weaker and smaller?"

"By all means, yes."

"Then is this also true concerning the soul, with the result that even in the smallest regard one soul is more a soul and more fully a soul than another, or that one soul is less fully a soul and less a soul in the same fashion than another soul?"

"Not in any way," he said.

"Well, come on then, by Zeus," he said. "One soul is said to be thoughtful, and to possess virtue, and to be good, but another is said to be senseless and base [93c] and to be evil? Are these things correctly said?"

"Yes, truly."

"So, among those who accept that the soul is a harmony, what will someone say that these things in souls are, namely virtue and wickedness? Will they say that these are, in turn, another harmony, and a discord? And will they say that the one, namely the good one, has been harmonized, and that it possesses in itself another harmony, itself being harmonized, and that the other one is discordant, and that it itself does not have another harmony in it."

"I am not able to say," said Simmias. "But it is clear that the man accepting that to be true would say things of such a sort."

[93d]

"But it has already been agreed," he said, "that one soul is no more nor less a soul than another soul. And this is the agreement, that one harmony is in no way more, or to a greater extent, or less, or to a lesser extent a harmony than another harmony. Right?"

"Absolutely."

"And also that, being in no way more or less a harmony, it has been no more or less harmonized. Is this so?"

"It is."

"But a soul that has been harmonized no more and no less, is it true that it has more or less a share of harmony, or the same?"

"The same."

"Then one soul, since it is in no way more or less [93e] a soul than another soul, in the same fashion, has not been either more or less harmonized?"

"That is correct."

"And having experienced this, it would possess no greater measure of discord or harmony?"

"No."

"And, in turn, having experienced this, would one soul possess some greater share of wickedness or virtue than another, if wickedness should be discord, and virtue harmony?"

"No, no greater share."

[94a]

"Rather, I think, Simmias, no soul will possess a share of wickedness, according to the correct argument, if it really is a harmony. For a harmony, of course, being this very thing absolutely, namely a harmony, would never have a share of discord."

"Indeed not."

"Nor would a soul—being absolutely a soul—have a share of wickedness, I think."

"For how could it, from what has been said already?"

"From this argument of ours, then, all souls of all creatures will be similarly good, if truly souls are by nature this very thing, souls."

"It seems so to me, Socrates," he said.

"And indeed, does it seem to be well spoken in this way," he said, "and does it seem that [94b] the argument would be experiencing these things, if the hypothesis were correct that the soul is a harmony?"

"Not in any way," he said.

"Well," he said, "of all the things in a man, is there something that you say rules, other than the soul, and especially a thoughtful soul?"

"No, I do not."

"And does it yield to the experiences throughout the body, or oppose them? I mean the following: that, when there is a heat and a thirst in it, we see the soul pull towards the opposite, towards not drinking; and when there is hunger, we see it pull towards not eating; and with regard to countless other things, I think, we see [94c] the soul being opposed to the things throughout the body. Or not?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Did we not, again, agree in the previous discussion that it would never, being a harmony, sing things opposite to those things which are strained and slackened and plucked and experience any other experience from those things from which it happens to be composed, but that it would follow them and never lead them?"

"We agreed," he said. "How could we not have?"

"Well, then; now, is it not clear to us that it is doing the completely opposite thing, leading all of those things from which someone says that it [94d] is composed, and almost opposing all things throughout all of life, and being master in all ways, punishing some things more harshly and with suffering—those things concerned with athletics and medicine—and others more mildly, threatening some and admonishing others, speaking to the desires and angers and fears as though being one thing in one matter, and another in another? Just like Homer wrote, I think, in the Odyssey, where he says that Odysseus says, 'Beating his breast, he upbraided his heart with a word: [94e] "Bear up, heart; you have endured something more shameless before"' (Homer, Odyssey XX.17–18). Do you think he wrote these things having in mind that, because it was a harmony, it was the kind of thing to be led by the conditions of the body, but not the kind of thing to lead them and rule over them, because it was a much more divine thing than a harmony?"

"By Zeus, Socrates, that seems right to me."

"Therefore, my good man, in no way is it right for us to say that [95a] the soul is a kind of harmony. For, as it seems, we would neither agree with Homer, the divine poet, nor would we agree with ourselves."

"Yes, that's right," he said.

"Well, then," said Socrates, "the matters of Theban Harmoneia have been moderately propitious for us somehow, as it seems. But what about the matters of Kadmos, Kebes?" he said. "How will we gladden him, and with what argument?"

"I think that you will figure it out," said Kebes. "This argument against harmony, at least, you presented wondrously, and contrary to expectation. For when Simmias was speaking, when he was at a loss, I was completely in doubt as to [95b] whether someone would be able at all to make use of his argument. Therefore, it seemed completely out of place to me that it immediately did not withstand the first approach of your argument. So I would not be surprised if he should experience the same things with regard to the argument of Kadmos."

"My good man," said Socrates, "don't speak greatly, lest some witchery pervert for us the speech that is about to come into being. These things will be a concern for the god, but let us, going straight, in the Homeric fashion, test whether you are, in fact, saying something. This is the chief point of the things that you are saying: you think it right that our soul be shown [95c] to be indestructible and immortal, if a philosopher, about to die, taking courage and believing that, after death, he will fare well there differently than if he died, having lived in another life, will take courage that his courage is not silly and foolish. And the demonstration that the soul is something powerful and godlike and existed even before we became men, you say that nothing prevents all these things from not revealing immortality, but that the soul is a very long-lived thing, and existed somewhere before for an inconceivable amount of time, and knew and did many kinds of things. But [95d] it was no more immortal, but the very entrance into the human body was the beginning of its destruction, like a sickness; and, enduring hardships, it lives throughout this life, and finally perishes in what is called death. And you say that it differs not at all whether it comes into a body once or many times, as far as the fear of each of us is concerned: for it is appropriate that a man be afraid, unless he should be senseless, a man not knowing or being unable to make an argument [95e] that it is immortal. These are the kinds of things, Kebes, you are talking about. And I take this up again on purpose many times so that nothing may escape us, and if you want something, you may add it or take it away."

And Kebes said, "But I, at least, at present need to neither add nor remove anything. These are the things which I am saying."

And Socrates, pausing for a long time and reflecting on something with himself, said, "You are seeking something that is not paltry, Kebes. For it is necessary to completely examine the cause of creation and destruction. [96a] Therefore, I will examine my experiences concerning them for you, if you like; then, whatever seems useful to you of the things I say, you will employ it for the purpose of persuasion concerning the things which you are taking about."

"But I do want to hear," said Kebes.

"Listen, then, to me, and I will tell you. For I," he said, "Kebes, when I was a young man, how wondrously did I desire this wisdom, the one which they call the investigation of nature. For that wisdom seemed to me to be magnificent—to know the causes of each thing, why each thing comes into being and why it is destroyed and why it exists. And many times, [96b] I turned myself up and down, investigating first of all things of the following sort: whenever heat and cold take a kind of decay, as some people said, are animals then organized? And whether blood is the thing by means of which we are sensate, or is it air or fire? Or is it neither of these, but instead the brain that provides the sensations of hearing and seeing and smelling, and do recollection and opinion come into being (optative?) from these, and from recollection and opinion taking a rest, on account of this does knowledge come into being? And, in turn, examining the destruction of these things, and also my experiences concerning heaven [96c] and earth, finally I seemed to myself so talentless in regard to this investigation as to be nothing. And I will provide to you a sufficient proof: for, as it seemed to me and to others, so very much by this investigation was I then blinded that I unlearned the things which I knew clearly beforehand, and also these things which I thought I knew beforehand, concerning many other things but especially why humans grow. For I thought, beforehand, that this was entirely clear, that it was on account of eating and drinking; [96d] for whenever flesh is added to flesh from foods, and bone to bones, and thus in the same way to each other thing are added their own material, then, in fact, the bulk, being small, later becomes big, and so does the small man become a big man. Thus did I then suppose. Do I not seem to you to have done so reasonably?"

"To me, at least," said Kebes.

"Examine, then, also the following. For I thought that it seemed sufficiently clear to me, whenever a big man appeared standing next to a small man, that he was bigger by the head itself, and a horse was similarly bigger than another horse. And things still clearer than these seemed sufficiently clear to me: ten seemed to me to be greater than eight, on account of adding two to it, and thew two-cubit length seemed to me to be greater than the cubit length on account of projecting by half of its length."

"And now," said Kebes, "what seems right to you about them?"

"That I am further, I think," he said, "from supposing to know the cause of something about these, by Zeus, I who do not accept from myself, whenever someone adds one to one, that either the one to which it was added has become two, or the one having been added has, or the one having been added and the one to which it was added, [97a] on account of the adding of the one to the other, became two. For I am amazed if, when each one of them was apart from each other, each was one and they were not then two, but when they approached each other, this in fact became the cause for them of becoming two, and the meeting became the cause of them being placed closer to each other. And if someone divides one, I am still not able to believe that this, again, has become the cause of them becoming two, the dividing; for the opposite [97b] cause is coming into being, the opposite of them becoming two then. For then, on the one hand, it was because they became closer to each other and the one was added to the other; but now, on the other hand, they are being separated, and the one is moving apart from the other. I am convinced that I neither know any longer why one thing comes into being, nor, in a word, why any other thing comes into being, is destroyed or exists, in accordance with this manner of approach, but I myself randomly confound some other method, and in no way admit this one.

"But hearing a man read aloud, once, from a certain book, as he said, [97c] of Anaxagoras, and hearing him say that the mind is, in fact, that which arranges and is the cause of everything, I was pleased by this expostulation, and it seemed to me that the mind being responsible for all things worked well in a certain way, and I supposed, if this was correct, that the mind, in arranging everything, arranges and places each thing in this way, in whatever way is best. If, then, someone should desire to discover the reason why each thing comes into being or is destroyed or exists, then it is necessary to discover this about it, in what way it is best for it either to be or [97d] to experience any sort of thing or to do something; and from this argument, it is fitting for a man to examine no other thing both about that thing itself and about other things, save for what is greatest and best. And it is necessary that this same man also know what is worse; for the knowledge about them is the same. Happily considering these things, then, I thought that I had discovered a teacher for myself for the cause of things that exist to my liking, namely Anaxagoras, and I supposed first of all that he would explain to me whether the earth is flat or [97e] spherical, and that after he should explain this, he would, in addition, explain the cause and the necessity, explaining what was better and that it was better that the earth is of such a sort. And if he should say that it is in the middle, he would also explain that it was better for it to be in the middle. And if, to me, [98a] he should explain these things, I had prepared myself to no longer yearn for another type of cause. And especially concerning the sun, I had so prepared myself to learn similarly—and also concerning the moon and the other stars, concerning their speed vis-a-vis each other and their manners and their other experiences—how in the world it is better that each one does these things and experiences the things which they experience. For I would never have expected him, saying that they had been arranged by a mind, to have imputed any other cause for them than that it was best for them to be this [98b] way, just as they are. So I thought that in explaining the cause for each thing and in common for all of them, he would then explain the best thing for each one and the common good for all of them. And I would not have sold my hopes, even for much, but taking the books, entirely zealously, I read them as quickly as I could, so that I might know about the best and the worse as quickly as possible.

"My friend, I departed, borne away from my wondrous hope, after I perceived, in going forward and reading, that the man made no use of the mind at all, nor ascribed any causes to [98c] the arrangement of things, but alleged as causes airs and ethers and waters and many other absurd things. And he seemed to me to have experienced something very similar to this, as though someone, saying that as many things as Socrates does, he does all of them with his mind, and then, attempting to explain the causes of each of the things I do, he should say, first of all, that I am sitting here now for this reason, because my body is made up of bones and sinews, and the bones, on the one hand, are solid and have joints apart from each other, but the sinews, on the other hand, are of such a kind as to be stretched [98d] and slackened, covering the bones all over with the flesh and the skin that holds them in. And so, with the bones being raised in their joinings, the sinews, slackening and tightening, make, I believe, me able to my limbs now, and for this reason I sit here bent. And, in turn, concerning speaking with you two, if he should produce other such causes, alleging voices and airs and hearings and countless [98e] other such things, neglecting to identify the true causes, that, since it seemed to be better to the Athenians to condemn me, for this reason it has seemed better to me, in turn, to sit here, and more just for me to remain here and undergo whatever penalty they command. Since, by the dog, as I think, long ago [99a] these sinews and bones would have been around Megara or the Boiotians, borne by the opinion of the best, if I had not thought it to be more just and noble before fleeing and running away to obey the city in regard to whatever penalty it should hand out. But to call things of such a sort "causes" is extremely bizarre. If someone should say that without having things of such a sort—bones and sinews and as many other things as I have—I would no0t be able to do the things that seemed best to me, he would speak the truth. However, that on account of these things I do what I do, and that I am doing these things with my mind, but not [99b] with a selection of the best, would be a great and expansive laziness of argument. For that is to not be able to distinguish that one thing is, in reality, the cause, but the other thing is the thing without which the cause would never be a cause. The latter of which the many appear to me, as if groping in the dark, to be calling the cause itself, though they are using another name for it. Wherefore, one man, placing a whirl around the earth, makes it stay in place below the earth, while another places the air as a platform beneath the earth, as though it is a flat trough for kneading; [99c] but the power of them being able to be placed the best, as they are now situated, this they neither seek, nor do they think that it has some divine power, but they think that they can find some Atlas someday more powerful than this and more immortal and more all-containing, and they don't think at all about the good, which must bind together and hold together. So I would very sweetly become a student of any man of such a cause, in what way it is; but since I was deprived of this, and I myself was not able to discover it, nor to learn it from another, do you want [99d] do you want me to make a presentation for you of my second voyage for seeking the cause, in what way I have busied myself, Kebes?" he said.

"Indeed, I wish it marvelously," he said.

"So it seemed to me," he said, "after these things, after I had renounced investigating realities, that it was necessary to take care lest I experience that thing which those who contemplate and behold the sun during an eclipse experience: for, I think, some of them are destroyed with respect to their eyes, unless in water or [99e] some similar thing they look at its image. Some such thing I, too, thought over, and I feared lest I would be completely blinded in respect to my soul by looking at things with my eyes and attempting to grab on to them with each of my senses. So it seemed necessary to me that I, taking refuge in arguments, investigate the truth of realities in them. Perhaps, in fact, that to which I liken it [100a] is not the same in some manner; for I do not at all agree that the man examining realities in arguments is examining them in images more than the man examining realities in deeds. But I started out in this way, and assuming every time as a preliminary an argument—whichever one I picked—to be the healthiest, whichever things, on the one hand, seem to me to agree with this, I consider as true, both concerning cause and all other things that exist, and whichever things, on the other, seem to me to not agree, I do not consider true. I want to explain to you more clearly what I am saying. For I think that you do not understand now."

"Not very well, by Zeus," said Kebes.

[100b]

"But, I mean this," he said. "It is nothing new, but the things which I have always never stopped saying, both at other times and in the previous discussion. For, in fact, I am going to try to explain to you the form of the cause, the form that I have been busied about, and I will return to those things we have spoken of at great length, and begin from them, making the assumption that there is something called beauty itself, in and of itself, and goodness, and greatness, and all other things. Which things, if you grant to me and agree with me that they exist, I hope that from these I will show to you cause and will discover that the soul is immortal."

[100c] "But indeed," said Kebes, "since I grant it to you, you would not be too quick in achieving it."

"Examine, then," he said, "the things which follow them, whether they seem to you as they seem to me. For it seems to me that if there is some other beautiful thing aside from beauty itself, then it is not beautiful for one other thing, but because it has a share of that beauty. And I am saying that it is like this with all things. Do you agree with a cause of this sort?"

"I agree," he said.

"Then," he said, "I do not yet understand, nor am I able to come to know the other causes, these wise ones. But if someone says to me [100d] why something is beautiful, either having a bright color or shape or some other thing of such things, I let the others go—for I am stirred up in all the others—but this thing simply and without skill and perhaps simple-mindedly I keep with me, that no other thing makes it beautiful than the presence of that beauty or its communion or in whatever way and however it has been added. I do not yet affirm this, but I affirm that all beautiful things become beautiful by means of the beautiful. For this seems to me to be the safest thing to respond both to myself and another, and holding on to this, [100e] I think that I would never have fallen, but it would be safe to respond to me and to anyone else that by means of the beautiful beautiful things become beautiful. Or does this not seem right to you?"

"It seems right."

"And big things are big by means of bigness, as bigger things are bigger, and smaller things are smaller by means of smallness?"

"Yes."

"And you would not accept it, if someone should say that someone was greater than another by a head, and that a smaller man was smaller by means of [101a] this same thing, but you would protest that you were saying no other thing than that every one greater thing is greater than another by means of no other thing than greatness, and that it is greater on account of this, on account of greatness, and that a lesser thing is lesser by means of no other thing than by smallness, and is lesser on account of this, on account of smallness, fearing, I think, lest some opposing argument meet up with you, if you say that someone is bigger or smaller by a head, that, first of all, that the greater is greater and the smaller is smaller by means of the same thing, and next, that by a head, being small, the [101b] greater is greater, and that this is a marvel, something being big by means of something small. Or would you not be afraid of this?"

"I would," said Kebes, laughing.

"So," he said, "would you be afraid to say that ten is greater than eight by two, and that for this reason it exceeds it, but not by means of number and on account of number? And that the two-cubit length is greater than the cubit length by half, but not by size? For it is the same fear, I think."

"By all means," he said.

"Well. Would you not also be afraid to say that addition is the cause [101c] for one, with one having been added, of two coming into being, or that division is, with one having been divided? And you would yell loudly that you do not know if in some other way every thing comes into being than by sharing in the unique essence of each thing of which it partakes, and on this subject, you do not possess another cause of two coming into being than its participation in duality, and that it is necessary for things intending to be two to participate in this, and for whatever intends to be one to have a share in oneness, and you would let go these divisions and additions and other such refinements, allowing those wiser than you to respond. But you, being afraid, as [101d] it is said, of your own shadow and inexperience, holding on to that safe part of our supposition, would respond in this way. And if someone should attack the supposition itself, you would let it go, and you would not respond until you examined the things that came from it, whether they agreed with each other or disagreed; and when it should be necessary for you to give an explanation of that thing itself, similarly would you give it, proposing, in turn, another supposition which seemed to be the best of the higher principles, [101e] until you should come to some sufficient thing, and at the same time you would not jumble your arguments like disputatious people do, discussing the beginning and the things having been set into motion from it, if you should really wish to discover something of those things which are real. For for such people perhaps there is not just one argument or thought about this. For, stirring everything up together by cleverness, nevertheless they themselves are sufficient to be able to please themselves. But you, if you really are among the philosophers, [102a] would do as I say, I think."

"You speak most truthfully," said Simmias and Kebes at the same time.

E: By Zeus, Phaido, that is reasonable. For wondrously does it seem to me that that man spoke these things clearly, even to a person having a small mind.

P: Entirely so, Echekrates, and it seemed so to everyone present.

E: And also to us, who were not there, but are hearing it now. But what were the things said after this?

P: As I think, after these things were agreed by him, [102b] and it was agreed that each of the forms exists, and that the other things, having a share of these things, get their name from these very things, he asked the next thing: "Indeed," he said, "when you say that Simmias is bigger than Socrates, and smaller than Phaido, are you then saying that there is both things in Simmias, both bigness and smallness? Do you say that these things are so, or not?"

"I do."

"But," he said, "you agree that Simmias being bigger than Socrates is not so in truth, as it is stated in [102c] words? For, I think, Simmias is not bigger by nature in this, in his being Simmias, but in the bigness which he happens to possess. And, in turn, I think he is not bigger than Socrates because Socrates is Socrates, but because Socrates has a smallness compared with his bigness?"

"True."

"And, in turn, I think that he is not outdone by Phaido because of the fact that Phaido is Phaido, but because Phaido possesses bigness in comparison with the smallness of Simmias?"

"This is so."

"So Simmias possesses the title that he is small and big, being in the middle of both, endeavoring to surpass [102d] the smallness of the one by bigness, and handing over to the other the bigness which is prominent above his smallness." And with a laugh he said, "I seem to be speaking prosaically, but even so, I think it is as I say."

He agreed.

"And I am speaking for this reason, wanting what seems right to me to seem right to you, too. For it seems to me not only that bigness itself never wants to be both big and small at the same time, but also that the bigness in us never accepts smallness, nor does it want to be outdone, but that one of two things is the case, that either it flees and gives way whenever to it [102e] the opposite approaches, smallness, or, with that having approached, it is destroyed. But admitting and receiving smallness, it does not wish to be other than what it was. Just as I, accepting and admitting smallness, even still being the person I am, I am this same small man. But that thing has not attempted to be small, being great. Just as, similarly, the small in us doesn't want to ever become big or be big, nor does any other thing of opposites, still being what it was, want at the same time to become the opposite [103a] and be it, but it either goes away or is destroyed in this experience."

"It seems so to me in every way," said Kebes.

And then, some one of those present, hearing this, said—and who it was, I don't clearly remember—"By the gods, was the opposite itself of the things now being said agreed in our previous discussions, that the bigger comes into being from the smaller, and the smaller from the bigger, and was this simply not agreed to be genesis for opposites, from opposites? But now it seems to me that it is being said that this would never happen."

And Socrates, turning his head and listening, [103b] said, "You have remembered bravely; however, you are not considering the difference between what is being said now, and what was said then. For then, it was said that an opposite thing is generated from its opposite, but now we are saying that an opposite itself would never become its own opposite—neither an opposite in us, nor one in nature. For then, my friend, we were speaking about things that have opposite qualities, calling them by the names of those opposite qualities, but now we are speaking of those things themselves of which, since they are innate, the things being named possess the name. [103c] But we do not ever say that those things themselves would want to receive creation from each other." And, at the same time, looking at Kebes, he said, "Kebes, nothing of these matters of which this man spoke also bothered you, did it?"

And Kebes said, "I am not troubled now, and yet in no way am I saying that many things do not stir me up."

"Then we have come to agreement," he said, "simply about this: that an opposite will never be its own opposite."

"Entirely," he said.

"Further, then, also consider this for me," he said, "whether you will agree: do you call something hot, and something cold?"

"I do."

"Is it what you call snow, and what you call fire?"

[103d]

"By Zeus, no, I don't."

"But heat is something different from fire, and cold is something different from snow?"

"Yes."

"But this seems right to you, I think: that snow, receiving heat, will no longer be what it was—as we were saying previously—namely snow and warm, but with the heat approaching, it will either give way to it or be destroyed."

"Yes, indeed."

"And fire, in turn, when cold approaches it, either withdraws or is destroyed. However, it will never allow, admitting coldness, to still be what it was, fire and cold."

[103e]

"You speak the truth," he said.

"In fact, it is possible," he said, "concerning some such things, that not only the form itself is deserving of its own name for all eternity, but also some other thing, which is not that thing, but always has the shape of that thing, whenever it exists. But perhaps in the following what I am saying will be clearer. For it is always necessary, I think, that the odd obtain this name, the one of which we speak now. Or is this not so?"

"By all means."

"Is it alone among things that exist—for this is what I am asking—or is there also something else [104a] which is, on the one hand, not the very thing which the odd is, but, all the same, it is necessary always to call it this, along with its own name, on account of it being by nature of such a sort as to never be left without the odd? I mean that it is such as is the case with the number three and many others. But consider the number three. Does it not seem to you that it must be called by its own name, and also by the name of odd, though odd is not the thing which three is? But nevertheless, this is the case with three and five and entirely half of numbers, that [104b], not being the exact thing which the odd is, always each of them is odd. And, in turn, two and four and that whole other rank of numbers, not being the very thing which even is, nevertheless, each one of them is always even. Do you agree, or not?"

"How not?" he said.

“Observe, then, what I want to make clear,” he said. “It is this, that it appears to be the case that not only those opposites do not accept each other, but also as many as, not being opposites to each other, always possess their opposites, not even these are like those accepting that idea which is opposite to the one in them, but in fact they are destroyed [104c] by it or withdraw as it approaches. Or will we not say that three also will be destroyed and will experience any other thing, before it endures, while being three, to become even?"

"Indeed we will," said Kebes.

"And, indeed," he said, "two is not the opposite of three."

"No."

"And not only do opposite things not await each other as they approach, but even certain other things do not await opposites as they approach."

"You speak very truthfully," he said.

"Would you like, then," he said, "for us to determine of what kind these things are, if we are able?"

"Indeed."

[104d]

"Then, Kebes," he said, "would they be of the following sort, the kind which, whatever they obtain, they not only force to maintain their own form, but also always the form of something opposite to them?"

"What do you mean?"

"What we were just saying. For you know, I think, that whatever things the form of three takes hold of, it is necessary for them to be not only three, but also odd."

"Absolutely."

"And we say that the form opposite to that sort of thing, the form which creates this, would never come upon such a thing."

"No."

"And the odd was creating this?"

"Yes."

"And the opposite of this is the form of even?"

"Yes."

[104e]

"Then the idea of even will never reach three."

"Indeed no."

"So three is bereft of even."

"Right."

"And three is uneven."

"Yes."

"So: what I was intending to define—namely what kinds of things, not being opposites to something, all the same do not receive it, the opposite—such as now, the number three, not being opposite to the even, even so does not receive it at all, but it always brings its opposite against it, as two does with odd, and [105a] fire does with cold, and all other things. But consider whether, in fact, you define in this way, that not only does an opposite not receive its opposite, but also that thing, whatever brings something opposite upon that thing, upon whatever thing it itself may go to, it itself never receives the thing bringing onto it the oppositeness of the thing being brought. And again, remember, for it is not worse to hear it many times. Five will not receive the idea of the even, nor will ten, its double, receive the idea of the odd. The latter, then, is itself an opposite to itself, but it will [105b] not receive the idea of the odd; nor, in fact, will one and a half or the other such things, one-half, receive the idea of the whole, and, in turn, one-third and other such things will, too, if you follow and this seems good to you."

"Entirely does it seem good," he said, "and I follow."

"Tell me again, then, from the beginning," he said. "And do not respond with what I ask you, but imitate me. I am speaking of a response beyond the response which I was giving at first, that safe one, perceiving another safe one from the things now being said. For if you should ask me what will make something hot, in any body it happens to be, I will not [105c] give you that safe response, that stupid one, that heat does this in any body, but the more refined response, from what we have been discussing now, that fire does this in any body; and if you ask what will cause illness in whatever body it happens to be, I will not reply that sickness does this in any body, but fever; and if you ask what will be odd in whatever number it happens to be, I will not say it is oddness, but oneness; and so on. But consider whether you already grasp sufficiently what I want to convey."

"Entirely sufficiently," he said.

"Answer, then," he said. "What will be living in whatever body it happens to be?"

"The soul," he said.

[105d]

"And this is always the case, then?"

"How could it not be?" he said.

"The soul, then, whatever it itself takes hold of, will it always have reached that thing bearing life?"

"It will, in fact," he said.

"And is there something opposite to life, or not?"

"There is," he said.

"What?"

"Death."

"So the soul will never receive the opposite of whatever it brings, as has been agreed from the previous discussion."

"That is very much the case," said Kebes.

"Well, then; what were we calling whatever thing does not admit the idea of the even just now?"

"Uneven," he said.

"And the thing not receiving the just, and whatever does not receive the musical?"

[105e]

"The unmusical," he said, "and the unjust."

"Well; what do we call whatever thing does not receive death?"

"Undying," he said.

"So the soul does not receive death?"

"No."

"Then the soul is undying."

"Undying, yes."

"Well," he said. "Are we to say that this has been explained? Or how does it seem?"

"Yes, and very sufficiently, Socrates."

"Well then, Kebes," he said. "If it were necessary for the uneven [106a] to be indestructible, would it not also be the case that three would be indestructible?"

"How would it not be?"

"So if it were also necessary for the heatless to be indestructible, whenever someone brought heat upon snow, would the snow gradually disappear, safe and unmelted? For it would not have been destroyed, nor, in turn, remaining, would it have received the heat."

"You speak the truth," he said.

"And so, I think, it would be similar if the coldless were indestructible, that whenever something cold went onto fire, it would never be extinguished nor destroyed, but would go away safe."

"Necessarily," he said.

[106b]

"Therefore," he said, "is it also necessary to speak in this way about that without death? If the deathless is also indestructible, it is not possible for the soul to be destroyed whenever death comes upon it. For, in fact, from what has been said previously, it will not receive death, nor will it be dead, just as three will not be even, as we were saying, nor, in turn, will the odd be, and just as fire will not be cold, nor the heat in fire. 'But what prevents,' someone might say, 'the odd from becoming even when the even approaches it, just as has been agreed [106c], but when it is destroyed, instead of odd, it becomes even?' We would not be able to fight against the one saying these things, that it is not destroyed: for the uneven is not indestructible. For if this were agreeable to us, we would easily win the argument that when the even approaches, the odd and three go away. And also concerning fire and heat and other things we would similarly prevail. Or not?"

"By all means."

"Then also now concerning the deathless, if it is also agreeable to us that it is also indestructible, the soul would be, in addition to deathless, [106d] also indestructible. But if not, there would be need of another argument."

"But there is no need," he said, "for this reason: for hardly any other thing would not accept destruction, if the deathless will receive destruction, being everlasting."

"God, I think," said Socrates, "and the form of life itself, and if some other thing is deathless—by all would it be agreed that they are never destroyed."

"By Zeus, by all men," he said, "and still more, as I suppose, by the gods."

[106e]

"In fact, whenever the deathless is also indestructible, would the soul be anything other than indestructible, if it happens to be deathless?"

"Absolutely."

"Then when death approaches a man, the mortal part of him perishes, as it seems, but the deathless part departs safe and uncorrupted, withdrawing from death."

"It appears so."

"In fact, more than anything, Kebes," he said, "the soul is deathless and [107a] indestructible, and truly our souls will exist in Hades."

"I, Socrates," he said, "am not able to say anything else in addition to these things, and in no way can disbelieve your words. But if, in fact, Simmias here, or anyone else, is able to say something, he would do well to not remain silent, as I do not know to what other suitable time one might delay—save for the present time—wishing to either say or hear something about such matters."

"But," said Simmias, "I am not able to say how I am unpersuaded by the things being discussed. However, by the greatness concerning [107b] the things which are now being discussed, and lightly esteeming human weakness, I am compelled to still have disbelief in myself about the things that have been said."

"Not only that, Simmias," said Socrates, "but also this do you say well: that our first hypotheses, even if you trust them, nevertheless should be examined more clearly. And if you distinguish between them sufficiently, I suspect that you will come into agreement with the argument, in so far as it is possible for a man to do so. And if this very thing becomes clear, you will seek nothing further."

"You speak the truth," he said.

[107c]

"But the following, men," he said, "it is just to consider, that, if the soul is truly deathless, it needs care, in fact, not throughout this time alone, the time in which we say that life exists, but throughout all time, and the danger now would seem to be terrible, if someone will not have concern for it. For if death were a release from everything, then it would be a godsend for the wicked, who, in dying, would have been released from their bodies and at the same time their wickedness with their souls. But now, since it is clearly deathless, there would [107d] be no other escape from evils for it, nor salvation, save for becoming as good and sensible as possible. For having no other thing does the soul enter Hades than education and nourishing—which things, in fact, are said to help or harm the person who has died the most, right at the beginning of the trip thither. The story goes like this: that the guardian spirit of each man, the one which had obtained him by lot while he was alive, attempts to lead each dead person to a certain place, to where it is necessary that the gathered-together, submitting themselves to trial, travel [107e] into Hades with that guide to whom it has been enjoined to convey there those from here. And they, finding there those things which it is necessary for them to obtain, and waiting for a time for which it is necessary for them to wait, another guide brings them back here after many great revolutions of time. And the journey is not as Aeschylus' Telephos says: for [108a] he says that a simple path leads into Hades, but it seems to me to be neither simple nor single. For there would be no need of guides—for nobody would go astray going anywhere with there being one path. But really, it seems like it has many splits and branches: I speak judging from our sacrifices and customs here. So the orderly and sensible soul follows and is not unaware of the present circumstances; but the soul that desires its body, as I said previously, having been stirred up around it for a [108b] great deal of time, and around the visible world, resisting and suffering a lot, goes away being led off by force and with difficulty by the assigned tutelary divinity. And reaching that place where the other souls are, the soul that is unpurified and has done something of this kind, either having engaged in unjust murders or having done some other such things, which are kin of these things, or happen to be the deeds of kindred souls, every one flees this soul and turns aside from it, and wishes to become neither its fellow-traveler nor its leader, but it [108c] itself wanders, caught in total disarray, while certain periods of time occur; and once these have passed, it is carried by necessity into a home suitable for it. But the soul that has passed through its life purely and moderately, and that obtained the gods as fellow-travelers and guides, each such soul dwells in the place fitting for it. And there are many wondrous places on the earth, and earth itself is not supposed to be of such a kind and so great by the ones accustomed to speak about the earth, as I have been persuaded by someone."

[108d]

And Simmias said, "What do you mean, Socrates? For concerning the earth I myself have heard many things, but not these things which persuade you. So I would hear them with pleasure."

"But, Simmias, to explain what they are does not seem to me to require the skill of Glaukos. However, to explain that they are true seems to me to be more difficult than the skill of Glaukos can manage, and at the same time I, perhaps, might not be able; then again, if I knew how, it seems to me, Simmias, that my life will not be sufficient for the length of the argument. However, the idea of the earth, of what kind [108e] I have been persuaded it is, and its regions— nothing prevents me from explaining."

"But that's enough," said Simmias.

"So: I have been persuaded," he said, "that, first of all, if it is in the middle of the universe, and spherical, that there is need for it of no air nor [109a] any other such force so that it not fall, but that the likeness to itself of the universe itself on all sides and the equipoise of the earth itself is sufficient to hold it. For something in equipoise, placed in the middle of something similar, will not be able to be tilted in any direction, more or less, but being similar will remain untilted. First of all, then," he said, "I have been persuaded of this."

"And rightly," said Simmias.

"Moreover," he said, "I believe that it is something very big, and that we, [109b] those between the river Phasis and the Pillars of Herakles, dwell in a very small part, dwelling around the sea like ants or frogs around a pond, and that many other peoples dwell elsewhere in many such places. For I believe that there are, everywhere around the earth, many hollow places of every kind with regard to their types and sizes, towards which water and mist and air have flown together. But I believe that the earth itself lies pure in the pure heavens, in which the stars are located, and which they call the ether [109c], the many accustomed to speak about such things, that is. These are the sediment of the ether, and they always flow together into the hollows of the earth. I believe that we have forgotten that we dwell in its hollows, and we think that we dwell upwards, upon the earth, just as if someone, dwelling in the middle of the bottom of the sea, should think that he was dwelling upon it, and seeing the sun and the other stars through the water, should think that the sea was heaven, but [109d] on account of sluggishness and weakness, should never have reached the surface of the sea, nor should have seen it, but having emerged and popped up from the sea into our land, nor would he have heard from another who had seen it, how much more pure and beautiful it happens to be than his own world. I think that we have experienced this same thing. For I think that we, dwelling in a certain hollow of the earth, think that we dwell on top of it, and we call the air heaven, because through this, being heaven, the stars move; but I think that this is the same thing: [109e] because of weakness and sluggishness we are not able to pass through to the edge of the air—since, if someone should reach the upper parts of it, or, becoming winged, should fly, he would, looking up, perceive—just as here, the fishes from the sea, looking up, see the things in our world, so would he see some things, the things there—and if his nature should be sufficient to observe, I think that he would know that that was truly heaven, and the true light [110a] and the true earth. For this earth, and the stones, and the whole region here—they have been wrecked and used up, like the stuff in the sea affected by the brine, and nothing worthy of note grows in the sea, nor is anything perfect there, so to speak, but there are caves and sand and useless soil and muck—wherever there is also earth—and there are not things to be compared to the beautiful things in our world at all. But those things, in turn, would appear to differ from the things in our world much more. [110b] For if it is good to tell a story, it is worth hearing, Simmias—a story about of what kind the things upon the earth and beneath heaven happen to be."

"But Socrates," said Simmias, "we would love to hear this story."

"First, it is said, my friend," he said, "that the earth itself is of such a kind to behold, if someone should look at it from above, as balls of twelve strips of leather—variegated, interspersed with colors, of which the colors here, it is said, are like samples, which in fact painters [110c] employ. But there, the entire earth is composed from such colors, but yet much brighter and purer than these of ours: for one part is purple, and wondrous with regard to its beauty, and another is golden, and another is whiter than gypsum or snow, just this white; and it is said that it is composed of the other colors similarly, and of yet further colors, and colors more beautiful than those we have seen. For these things themselves, the hollows of the earth, being full of water and [110d] air, provide a kind of appearance of color, glistening in the variegation of the other colors, so as to present one appearance for it, continuous and variegated. And on the earth, being of such a kind, proportionately do the things that grow, grow: the trees, flowers and fruits; and similarly, the mountains and the stones have, in the same proportion, smoothness and transparency and colors that are more beautiful. Of which the small stones here that are the desirable ones—Sardian stones, jaspers, emeralds, and all [110e] the like—are parts. But there, there is nothing that is not of such a kind, and there are stones more beautiful than these. And the reason for this is that those stones are pure and have not been corroded or corrupted, like the ones here, by decay and brine from the things which have flown together here, which furnish deformities and illnesses to stones and the earth and the other animals and plants. And the earth itself has been decked out by all of these, and also by gold and silver and [111a] by other things of such a kind. For they are plain to see, being many in number, and big, and everywhere on the earth, so as for it to be a sight to see for fortunate spectators. And there are many other animals upon it, and men, some dwelling in the interior, others dwelling around the air, like we dwell around the sea, and others dwelling upon islands next to the mainland, which the air flows around. And in a word, the thing which is the water and the sea for our need here, there this thing is [111b] the air; and what is for us the air, for them it is the ether. And for them, the seasons have such power as for them to be without sickness, and to live for a time much longer than those here, and they stand apart from us in sight and hearing and thinking and all such regards, in the same proportion by which air is separated from water, and ether from air, as far as purity is concerned. And what is more, they have groves and temples of the gods, in which the gods really are inhabitants, and there are messages and prophecies and manifestations of the gods, and such conversations [111c] come into being for them with the gods. And the sun, moon and stars are seen by them as they happen to be, and their remaining fortune follows in accordance with these things.

And the whole earth is like this by nature, as well as the things around the earth. But there are many places in it, throughout its hollow places, in a circle around the entire earth, some deeper and more spread out than the place in which we live, and some of the ones being deeper themselves have a gap smaller than our [111d] region, and there are those which are less deep in depth than here, and wider. And they say that all of these have been connected together under the earth everywhere, and that they have passageways throughout narrower and wider things, where much water flows from each of them into the others as into mixing bowls, and there are great hugenesses of ever-flowing rivers beneath the earth, of both warm and cold water, and there is a lot of fire, and great rivers of fire, and many rivers of wet earth, earth that is purer and earth that is fouler, [111e] just as in Sicily there are rivers of mud that flow in front of the lava, and the lava itself. With these things each of the regions is filled, as the flowing around comes into being at one time for one group, and another for another, by chance. And all of these things move upwards and downwards, like a certain kind of shaking in the earth. And the shaking itself exists because of a certain nature of the following sort. A certain one of the pits of the earth happens [112a] to be the biggest, and to have been bored straight through the whole earth. This is the one Homer mentions, calling it: 'very far off, where there is the deepest gulf beneath the earth.' This both he and many other poets have called Tartaros elsewhere. For into this pit flow together all of the rivers, and from it, in turn, they flow out. And each of them becomes of such a sort as the kind of earth through which they flow. And the [112b] reason that all of the streams both flow out of here and flow in is because this fluid does not have a bottom or a foundation. And it floats and swells up and down, and the air and the wind around it do the same thing: for together they follow it, both whenever it rushes onto the thing on those parts of the earth, and whenever it rushes onto the thing on these parts, and just as the breath of breathers always goes out and in as it flows, so too there does the wind provide certain and irresistible blasts, being swayed by the liquid, both [112c] going in and going out. So, whenever the water withdraws into the place called downward, it flows into the things throughout those flows through the earth and fills them, as though pumping onto them; and whenever, in turn, it leaves them behind there, and it rushes here, it fills the flows here again, and they, filled up, flow through the channels and through the earth; and each of them, arriving at the places to which paths have been made for them, they make seas and lakes and rivers and springs. And from there, again, sinking [112d] down into the earth, some of them pass around larger and more plentiful places, and others fewer and smaller, and once more they rush into Tartaros, some of them much lower than where they were pumped over, and others a little lower. But all of them flow in below their flowing out, and some fall out opposite where they flow in, and others in the same place. And there are flows which, going around in a complete circle, either once or many times wound around the earth like serpents, running down as much as possible, rush in again. [112e] And it is possible to go down from either side up to the middle, but not further; for for both types of flows the part from the other side becomes steep.

"And there are many other great flows of many kinds; but, in fact, there happen to be among these many a certain four flows, of which the biggest and outermost flow around the earth is the one called Okeanos, and the one flowing opposite and oppositely is Acheron, which through other desert [113a] places flows, and, in fact, flowing beneath the earth, reaches the Acherousian lake, where the souls of the dead, many of them, go, and waiting for certain alloted periods of time, some longer and others shorter, they are sent back into the births of animals. And the third river goes out in between these, and near the going out, it falls into a big place burning with a lot of fire, and it creates a lake larger than our sea, boiling with water and mud. And from here, [113b] it travels in a circle, turbid and muddy, and being wound about the earth, it reaches, among other places, the edges of the Acherousian lake, but not being mixed with its water. And having been wound around multiple times beneath the earth, it rushes in below Tartaros. This is the river which people call Pyriphlegethon, the lava streams of which blow off branches wherever they happen to be upon the earth. And opposite this in turn the fourth flow goes first into a place that is terrible and wild, as is said, possessing totally a color like lapis [113c] lazuli, which they call the Stygian river, and the lake which the river creates pouring out, is the Styx. And it, falling in here, and acquiring terrible powers in the water, going under the earth, being rolled around, it moves opposite to the Pyriphlegethon and it meets it in the Acherousian lake from the opposite side. And the water of this is mixed with no water, but it, going around in a circle, goes into Tartaros opposite to the Pyriphlegethon. And the name of this is, as the poets say, Kokytos.

[113d]

"With these things being so, after the dead arrive at the place where the daimon leads each of them, first of all they are judged, both those who have lived in a good and reverent way, and those who have not. And those who seem to have lived in a manner in between, going to the Acheron and embarking upon the things which are ships for them, upon these they arrive at the lake, and there they dwell and, being purified of their wrongdoings and paying the penalty they are released, if one did something wrong, and for their good deeds [113e] they carry off honors, each in accordance with his worth. But those who seem to be incurable because of the greatness of their wrongs—having committed either a great many sacrileges, or many unjust and illegal murders, or other things, as many as happen to be of such a kind—the appropriate fate hurls these into Tartaros, whence they never return. And as many as seem to have committed great but curable wrongs, such as against a father or a mother [114a] having done something violent because of anger, and live the rest of their lives repentant to them, or become killers in some other such manner, it is necessary for these to fall into Tartaros, but the wave casts them out after they have fallen and spent a year there, the killers via Kokytos, and the patricides and matricides via Pyriphlegethon. And after being conveyed they arrive at the Acherousian lake, there they wail and cry out, some for those whom they have killed, others for those whom they outraged, and calling they beg [114b] and beseech that they allow them to leave for the lake and to receive them; and if they persuade them, they exit and cease from their suffering, but if not, they are conveyed again into Tartaros and from there back into the rivers, and they don't cease suffering these things until they persuade those whom they wronged: for this penalty has been enjoined upon them by the judges. But those who seem to have lived exceptionally with regard to living in a holy way, these men are the ones who are set free and released from these places in the earth, [114c] as though from prisons, and, heading up into a pure dwelling place, these are the ones who live upon the earth. And of these men themselves, those having sufficiently purified themselves by philosophy live without bodies for the entirety of the remaining time, and they reach dwellings even more beautiful than these, which are neither very easy to describe, nor is the time sufficient at present. But because of these things which we have gone through, it is necessary, Simmias, to do everything so as to have a share of virtue and prudence in life. For the prize is good, and the hope is great.

[114d]

"Affirming that these things are just as I have explained them is not fitting for a sensible man. However, that either these things are so, or that there are certain things of such a kind concerning our souls and homes, since the soul is clearly immortal, this, it seems to me, is fitting and worthy of taking a risk for anyone thinking that it is so—for the risk is good—and it is necessary for him to sing such things to himself, as it were. For this reason I have prolonged the story for so long. But because of these things it is necessary for a man to take courage about his soul [114e], whoever has said goodbye in his life to the other pleasures, the ones about the body, and beautification, as being fit for others, and believing that they cause more harm, but who has been zealous about the pleasures related to learning, having bedecked his soul not with the ornamentation of another, but with its own ornamentation, prudence and [115a] justice and courage and freedom and truth; and so he awaits the passage to Hades as one about to travel when his destiny calls. So you," he said, "Simmias and Kebes and others, each of you will journey there at some point in the future. But already now fate calls me, as a tragedian might say, and it is nearly time for me to turn to my bath. For it seems to me to be better to drink the drug after bathing, and to not provide the women the trouble of bathing a corpse."

[115b]

After he had said these things, Crito said, "Well, Socrates: what do you enjoin upon either these men or me, either concerning your children, or concerning any other thing, doing which for you we might best do something pleasant for you?"

"What I always say, Crito," he said, "and nothing out of the ordinary: that whatever things you do, you will please me and my family and you yourselves in taking care of yourselves, even if you do not agree now. But if you do not care for yourselves, and you do not wish to live along the tracks, as it were, of the things spoken now and in the past, not even if you agree a great deal [115c] at present and vehemently, you will accomplish nothing further."

"We will zealously do these things in this way, then," he said. "But how are we to bury you?"

"However you wish," he said, "if you catch me and I do not escape you." And, laughing quietly, he looked at us and spoke. "I am not convincing Crito, men, that I am this Socrates, the one now conversing and arranging each of the things being said, but he thinks that I am that one [115d] whom he will see a little later as a corpse, and indeed he asks how he is to bury me. And the fact that I have been carrying on a lengthy discussion for a long time, arguing that, after I drink the drug, I will no longer remain here with you all, but I will go off to some good fortunes of the blessed—these things I seem to say to myself in an empty manner, to encourage both you all and myself. So: give a guarantee for me to Crito," he said, "a guarantee that is opposite to the one he gave to the judges; for he guaranteed that I would remain, but you, guarantee for him that I will not remain after I die, but will go [115e] away, so that Crito may endure more easily and not be stirred up, seeing my body either being burned or buried, on my behalf, as though I am suffering terribly, and so that he may not say at the funeral that he is laying Socrates out, or carrying him out, or burying him. For know well, my good Crito," he said, "that not speaking well is not only incorrect in and of itself, but it also creates something evil in souls. But it is necessary that you take courage, and say that you are burying my body, and bury [116a] it in this way, however is dear to you and however you consider most lawful."

Saying these things, he rose to go into a certain room to bathe, and Crito followed him, and he told us to remain. And so we remained, discussing amongst ourselves the things that had been said and examining them well, sometimes discussing the misfortune, how great it had become for us, really believing that, as though deprived of our father, we would carry out the rest of our lives as orphans. After [116b] he bathed, and his children were brought in to him—for he had two small sons, and one big one—and the women of the household came, having talked with them in Crito's presence, and enjoining upon them certain things he wished, he bade the women and the children to leave, and he himself came to us. And it was already near the setting of the sun, for he spent a great deal of time inside. And coming, he sat down, having been bathed, and not many things were said after these things, and the assistant of the Eleven came, and standing [116c] at his side, said, "Socrates, I will not find fault with you for the same thing for which I find fault with others, that they complain to me and curse me when I tell them to drink the drug when the archons compel it. But you I have come to know in this period of time as especially noble and easy-going and the best man of those ever to have come here; and especially now do I know well that you are not angry with me, for you know who the responsible ones are, and you are angry with them. Now, then—for you know for which things I came [116d] to announce—farewell, and try to endure the things which must happen most easily." And, weeping while turning himself around, he left.

And Socrates, looking up at him, said, "Farewell to you, too; as for us, we will do these things." At the same time, he said to us, "What a polite man! Throughout this whole time he has been coming to me and speaking with me sometimes and was the most agreeable of men; and now how nobly he weeps for me! But come on, Crito, let's obey him, and let someone bring in the drug, if it has been ground up. If not, let the man grind it."

[116e]

And Crito said, "But I think, Socrates, that the sun is still over the mountains and has not yet set. And I also know that others drink it very late, after it is enjoined upon them, after eating their dinner and drinking heartily, and that certain ones are with those whom they love. So don't be hastened, for there is still time."

And Socrates said, "Those people suitably do these things, the ones whom you mention, because they think that they gain something in doing them. But I suitably will not do these things. For nothing [117a], I think, do I gain in drinking a little later, other than to deserve laughter from myself, clinging to life and sparing it, with there being nothing in it anymore. But come," he said. "Obey, and don't do otherwise."

And Crito, hearing this, nodded up to the boy standing nearby. And the boy, after he left and screwed around for a while, came bringing the man who would administer the drug, bringing it ground in a cup. And seeing the man, Socrates said, "Well, my good man, you are knowledgeable about these things. What is it necessary to do?"

"Nothing other" he said, "than that you, drinking it, walk around until a heaviness comes [117b] into your legs, and that you then lie down. And thus will it take effect." And at the same time he extended the cup to Socrates.

And he, taking it and, very gently, Echekrates, fearing nothing and changing nothing in his color or his face, but just as he was accustomed, looking up at the man from below, like a bull, said, "What do you say about this drink, about pouring a libation to someone? Is this allowed, or not?"

And he said, "Socrates, we only prepare as much as we believe is sufficient to drink."

[117c]

"I understand," he said. "But it is permitted to pray to the gods, I think, and necessary, that the move from here to there be fortunate. I pray, then, for these things. May they come to pass in this way." And just as he said this, he held the cup and he drank very calmly and contentedly. And the many of us up to that point were suitably able to hold back from crying; but when we saw him drinking, and then that had had drunk, we could hold back no longer. And against my own will my tears came in floods, with the result that concealing myself, I bewailed myself. For I didn't bewail him, but my own misfortune—I had been [117d] deprived of such a comrade. And Crito, even earlier than me, since he was not able to hold in his tears, got up and left. But Apollodoros did not stop crying even before then, and especially then, weeping aloud, wailing and being upset, there was no one of those present whom he did not make break down, save for Socrates himself.

But he said, "What are you doing, my strange friends? I sent the women away not least of all for this reason, so that they not [117e] offend like this. For I have heard that it is necessary to die in silence. But keep quiet and bear up."

And we, hearing this, were ashamed and restrained ourselves from crying. And he, walking around, after he said that his legs were being weighted down, lay down on his back—for thus did the man bid him to do—and, at the same time, the man who gave him the drug, touching him and waiting for a time, inspected his feet and legs; and then, squeezing his foot intensely, asked him if he felt it, [118a] and he said he did not. And after this, in turn, he squeezed his lower legs. And moving upwards like this, he explained to us that he was becoming cold and stiff. And he touched him and said that after it reached his heart, then he would depart.

Already, or nearly then, the things around his abdomen were becoming cold, and uncovering himself—for he was covered up—he said what was the last thing he said: "Crito, we owe a rooster to Asklepios. Pay him and don't neglect this."

And Crito said, "These things will be so. But see whether you can say something else."

But after he asked these things, he answered no more, but waiting for a little while, he stirred. And the man uncovered him, and his eyes were fixed. Crito, seeing this, closed his mouth and eyes.

This, then, was the end of our comrade, a man, as we might say, who was, of those whom we had experienced then, the best and most sensible and most just.