THE ARGUMENT OF THE ACTION ESSAYS ON CREEK POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY
SETH
a&NAIIDKTK
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THE ARGUMENT OF THE ACTION ESSAYS ON CREEK POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY
SETH
a&NAIIDKTK
Uurl""" .,;,;, a bmwlwti.,. ., Rllflfll &.rp""" Mit:6M( Dnis
Set:h Bcnardete has long been known for his remarkable and pc:neuating interpretations of ancient Greek poetry and philosophy. The essays colleaed in t:his volume, some never before published, ot:hers difficult to find, span four decades of his work and document its imprcssi~ rangefrom Hcsiod's Th« Pl•ro's TYtMeraus: On tbe Way of tbe Logos On Plato's Sophisr
17. The Plan of Plato's Slnttfmlln t8. On the TirnRtliS 19. On WISdom Md Philosophy: Th.c: First Two Clupr= of Ariscode'• Metaphysics A to. Suauss on Plam
Sekcud Work. by Seth .Benartktr
1
15
34 61
71
84 99 146 167
r86 198
tn tyz
1n 197 !21
354 176
396 407 4!9
P R
e E
There are many reasons to welcome a collection of essays by Seth lknardcte. His writinS$ on Grttk poetry and philosophy cover a mnge few have equaled. As ar home with Herodorus as ne is with Homer, and with Sophocles as he is with Plaro and Aristotle, Benardete is never guilry of narrowly specializing even though his command of the tats he interprets is unriva.led. Because be bas not derermin.e d in advan.ce what philosophers, historians, or poets are allowed to say, he i.l open to whuever they do say, scrupulously following their arguments with a care born of the expecrarion chat these autho.rs have everything co reach rum. The essays collected here span more than thirry years' work. from Benardere's studies of the Iliad, the subject of hls dissertation, to his recent rethinking of Plato's Theaanw, Sophur, and Statm1Ulll. Several of these pieces are tmnsctiptions of lccrures, published here for the first time; others appeared in books now out of print. We have long thought that collecting them into one vo.lume would not only make more accessible wha.t we have found in many cases to be the most illuminating commentary on the tat in question, but would also provide a helpful way into lknudc:re's book-length works. Beoardc:te's unique imprint rakes many forms: in the paradoxical formulations through which he sometimes expresses his insights, in the subtle lin.guisric analyses- of puns, erymologies, metaphoric extensions ofliteral usage-through which he uncovers the argument in the very language of the tars h.e interprets, in the Plaronic playfulness char pervades hls thinking. In these and other ways, Benardete's readinS$ seek to caprure "the argument of the action"-the title of this volume-and it is prccisdy in this cap3ciry that they open up a radically new pe1$pective on wha~ might have seemed a f:amiliar wo~. Of course, the very features of Benardere's writing that accomplish this with such brilliance are also a source of its difliculry and resismnce to simplification. On a work of such gmnd scale as Plato's Republic, Benardere's interpretation especially challenges the =der ro keep in mind the manifold threads he weaves inro the intricare pattern of the whole. The essays in this volume, while in some ways no
vii
vm
Preface
less demanding, offer the adV'3Dta.ge to which Arisrode poinrs in the Po~tia when he compares the plot of a drama to a living animal, whose beauty depends nor only on the arrangement. of irs pans, bur also on a size that allows ilie design of ilie whole to be perceived as a whole. G-.iliering ili= studies together is for us an ex:pression of profOund grarirude. Here, as so ofren elsewhere, Benardere has been our guide. In ilie last essay in chis collection, he traces co Leo Saauss much of what seems to characterize his own wotk. This generosity, which might initially strike one as misplaced and excessively modest, poincs rather tO the para· doxical experience of learning from another only after coming to under· St:Uld for ourselves, although we ilien realize that we had been directed in some way by the other from the starr. This experience lies at rhe heart of the pnctice of philosophy as interpretation. What is saikingly characteristic of iliis practice as Benardete carries it out is the depth of under· standing he achieves through an uncanny ability reallr to sec the surfucc of things, which in tum enables him tO see what ordinarily obscures this surfuce. l.n recalling us to the bidden surface of th.ings. these essays, and Benardete's work as a whole, exemplify what he once called " the being of rhe beautiful."
AcknowledgmmtJ We have consulted with Seth Benardete on which writings ro include in this collection and on the order in which they appear. In general we wish co extend our thanks for pe.rmission to include previously published writings. The particulars wiD be found in the bibliography listing Benardcre' s works. The Earhart Foundat.ion provided a grant ro assist us in the prepa· ration of this volume. We would also like to tha.nk Ba.rbara Witucki, who typed the manuscript, and Robert B~rman, whose ad,•ice was, as always, greatly valued.
I
N
T
R 0
C
T
I
0
N
For Seth Benardete, all particular qurnions, when one fOllows thetn f.u enough, lead ro the question of philosophy, and "wha.t philosophy is SC'tmS ro be inseparable from the question of how to read Plaro." 1 Accordingly, Benardete's work in general may be said robe concerned wirh articulating the core of Platonic philosophy. It is no wonder, then, that over half of the essays in this volume deal with Plato. At the same rime, since almost half do nor, in what sense can these rwenry essays on Greek poetry and philosophy be said to constirutc a whole? The poetS present an "understanding of the ciry, particularly of it:s subpolitical foundations, and of the law, particularly thc sacred law, [which) would remain in dukness wcre it nor for the light Plato brings ro them. • > Because the Platonic dialogue raises ro the I~ of argument the issues darkly embedded in the smries of the poets-above all those "experiences of the soul that are siruared on the other side of the &onder of the law"' -ir furnishes Benardere with a key to unlock the meaning of these stories. lt does so, however, in a fonn that shows just how deeply the Platonic dialogue is indebted to poetic:: drama.' To discover the path from Plaro tO the poetS requires rccognirion of the parh from the pocrs to Plato; Benardete can make such powerful use of the one bcc::ause he is so atruned to th.e other. For Benardere, as for so many before him in the philosophic:: tradition, the way to poetry lies through tragedy, and "tragedy &«ms to raise a claim that by iiSdf it is the truth of life." ~ The general formula for this truth is path~i matbos-learning through suffering, experiencing, or undergoing• ln its original location in the par:ados of Aeschylus's Agamnnnon (177), patki 11li111Jos is meant by th.e chorus to articulate the universal condition for human understanding. Poerry generally, oud dromatic poetry in particular, presem us with an artificial uperience from which Wp. 7 below. 9· See "Strauss on Plato." 410 below. 10. In the discussion of O..Jipw Tyramrw in "On Greek T l'llgc:dy" (eb.p. 7 below), Benwere rethinks with radical consequences his earlier reading of the play (see "Sophocles' Otdipw Tymnnus," chap. s below). prtcisely by attending even mo<e closely to the "obvious" perplexities.
xvii
xviii
lnuod:uction
See Ariotode's PHtia, cbopa:n ro-n. n. "On Plaro's SbphiSJ," '!4} below. 13. When Socat incomplere:nc:ss it is in order and good" {"On Plato's s,m;-ium." 173 below). J)- For this citation of Srntws, see ~srnws on Plaro, • 416 bclow. 34- See AntigDn
tJ
4
Chapter One
meaning (Suvallt~) of Zeus. It naruraUy comes om in a simile of the Muses. The third and last simile of the Tht4grmy compares the lighming of Zeus in its deploymem llgilinst Typhos to the mdcing of iron or tin; it is elfeaive against T yphos, who otbeJWise would have usurped b.is rule. T yphos's power consists in his ability to imitate the sounds of all things, including the language of the gocb. T yphos is the false god. ln his case the simile is true and Zeus's power is real. He is followed by the marriages of Zeus, after all the gods ha\<e agreed co his rule. His first marriage was ro be with Metis, or Mind, but it did nor take place; had it gone forward, and Zeus not swallowed her instead, Zeus would have been overthrown by his son. The name of this unborn god muse be Oucis, or No-Cloe. Between the anonymity of Mind and the false god Typhos is Zeus. Zeus is the lie like the truth, or, as Heraclitus says, The one is willing and nor willing to be ealled by che name of Zeus. The accusative of Zeus's name is Dia; it is indistinguishable from the preposition, which with the genitive divides things and wi.th the accusative desi.goaces a cause. ln the whole display of gods and goddesses which is rhe Thtogony. only one god does not come to be. His name is Desire, or Himeros. Concealed within Him-eros is the name .Eros. Himeros accompanies both the Muses and Aphrodite. On the occasion of the birth of Aphrodite, Hesiod explains why she is ealled "laughter-loving," philommridis. She is laughter-loving, he says, because she came co lighr from genitals, or mrdert. The word midea is in fact two words; one names the genitals, the other wise counsels. Wise counsels belong parricul3fly co Zeus. The movement of the poem is from sex ro mind, from mid~a ro midea. Could ir be, rhe.n, that concealed within lau.ghcer-lovio.g Aphrodite ace not jusr genitals bur wise counsds? Could V..OI1!1E1811~ mean 1A.6oo~o~? There is only one occasion, and this I am inclined ro believe ends Hesiod's poem, where rhe plans of the gods are in harmony wirb golden Aphrodite. lr is ar tbe birth of Medeia or Wisdom. She is rhe granddaughter of the sun, and her mother is JduU., "she who knows,»
Nott Hcsiod underscores the conncaion bcnveen Hecate, whose lim syUable is the same as the word "wiiling" (h.kon), by speaking of Hecate's possible willing· 1.
ness s·ix rimes (~19, 430, .o132, 43.9· 443, 447).
.••
•
-~,:'>
T, w · o
Achilles and the Iliad
T H E F I aS T Q U EST I 0 N AN 0 AN S WE a
of Porphyry's QUJZntionn
Homrriau run:
Wctt anyone 10 :ask. noting the worth and acdleoncemed a •ingle man; while in the other, even if Achilles excelled the resr, yet they roo were exceJient, and that Homer wished to show us not only Achilles bur also, in a way, all hrroes, and what son of meo they we"': so, unwilling to call it aftct one man, he used the name of a cil)', which merely suggnted the name of Achilles.
Achilles is a hero in a world of heroes; he is of the same cast as rhey, rhough we might all him rhe lim impression th:u h:u caught each point more finely man later copies. He holds within hitrudf all the heroic virtues that arc given singly to others (he h:u the swiftness of Oilcan and the suengtb ofTdamonian Ajax), but his excellence is still the sum of rhein. We do not need a separate rule to measllfC' his supremacy. 6ut before we can come into rhe presence of Achilles and take his mta$urc, we must lim ~ presented with rhe common warrior, wbo is not jun $0mething vaguely but specifically heroic, with whom Achilles shares more in common than he knows. The common warrior is the armature on which Achilles is shaped and rhc backdrop against which his story is played. Homer :wumes our ignorance of wha1 tbe her~ arc, the heroic world from which Achmes withdraws and yet ro which he still ~longs. And it
•s
16
Chapter Two
is our intention here to show how rhis wo.rld circumscribes, rhough it does not complere.ly define, AchiUes.
I. Men and Huoa When Hector's challenge ro a duel found no takers among rhe Achaeans, "as ashamed ro ignore as afraid tO accept it," Menelaus, after some time, adopting a rebuke inve.nred byThersites (2. 2H), berares rhem rhus: omoi, apeilrtiret, Athaida. oulut'Achaioi (7.96, cf. 235- 36, tr.389, :l.J-409). Warriors oughr to believe that ro be a woman is rhe worst calamity; and yet Horner seems to mock their belief, in malting Menelaus, who warred to recover the most beautiful of women, and Tbersites, tbe ugliest person who carne to Troy, the spokesmen for manliness. However rhis may be, both the Achaeans and Trojans not only insist on being men as opposed ro women, but also on being andm as distinct from amhropoi. Anthropoi are men and women collectively. and men or women indifferendy, and wharcvc.r may be. the vinues of an anrbropo•. it cannot be martial cournge, which is the specific virtue of men. Nestor urges the Achaeans to srand their ground (.14.661-63): "Friends, be men (andres), and ser shame i.n your heart before other human beings (anrhriipoi), and let each of you remember )'Our children and wives, and possessions and parentS." The Achaeans themselves must be ,zndrts, or "be-men"; others, their own children, parentS and wives, are anJhriipoi. Anthropoi are the others, either those who lived lxfure-proteroi anthriipoi--(s.637. 2J.3J:l., 790, cf. J.2jO, 6.J.02, 20.217, :t:l.O, 233, :1.4·535)-or chose yet co comeoprigonoi an~l.mipoi (3.287, 353. 460, 6.358, 7.87); and if the heroes e.mploy it of the livin.g. they ate careful .not tO include themsdves (cf. 9.134. 276). Othe.rs are anthriipoi, but never is another an ,znrhropor. If you wish co be ao individual, you mwt be either anir or gunl; but if you belong ro a crowd, indistinguishable from your neighbor, you are both cataloged rogether under ~human beings" (3.402, 9·134. 328, 340, 592. 10.213, 14.662, r6.6u, r8.288, l'f.:l., 20.104, 357, :1.4.202). The singular occurs bur th.rice in the Iliad, twice in a general sense and perhaps once of an iodividual, but in aU three cases Hornet s~ in his own name, and two of them occur in similes (t6.263, 3t5> 17.572). And not only do human beings in the heroic view lack aU uniqueness and belong more. to rbe past or the future than the present, but even Odysse.us seems to young Ancilochus, as a membe.r of a prior generation. more IZnfhroponhan 11J1b (2).787-91). Old age is as absolute as death, which deprived Hector and Parroclus of
AchiUi; and if b.uman beings do anything, it is only the tillage of rhe. fields (cf. 16.392. 17·549-50, 19.1~1 , bur cf. Hesiod Tlxogtmy roo). The b.eroes' contempt for speeches is bur part of their contempt for t111thr6f>Di (c£ 15.741, t6.610-JO, 2J.3S6-68, 248-57) , and yer th.ey depend on them for the immo.rtality of their fame (6.357- 58, ].87-91, cf. 8.579-So). A~~. thr6J>Di are the descendants of andm, rhe shadows, as it were, thar rhe heroes cast inro rhe future, wb.ere rhese poor copies of themselves li\'C on; and as the adular.i on rhey will give would seem tO justify their own existence, it is proper tb.at rhc:se later gener.uioos, extOlling rhe b.eroes beyond rheir worth, should look on rhern as demigods: so the word hbnilheoi occurs but once, in a passage on the furure destruction of rhe Ach•.eans' wall, and nor accidentally it is coupled rhere wirh tZIIdm (hbnithe5n genos andron. u.l:J).' Under one condition are rhe heroes willing ro regard themselves as anthropoi: if tb.ey refer at rb.e same rime to rhe gods. Achilles makes the two heralds, T altb.ybius and Eurybares, wimesses ro his oarh: pros u tht:On >naltirron pros tt thniton anthr6p6n (1.339). The gods are blessed and im· mortal, while anthropDi are mortal, and it is only his weakness. when confronted with rhe power of rhe gods. rhar makes a bero resign himself to being human. "Shall mere be evil war and dread strife," ask the Achaeans and Trojans, "or does Zeus bind us in fuendship, Zeus who dispenses war ro anthropoi" (4.8:1-84, '9-12.4). Whenever the heroes feel the oppressive weight of their mortality, rhey become, i.n rheir own opinion, like orher men who are always human beings (1.339, 3-279• 4.84, 320, 6.123, r8o, 9-[46o], soo. 507, 18.107, '9·94· 1}1, 2.24> 260, 2~.s66, s69. 23-788}. And rh.e gods also, if rh.ey wish to insist on rheir own superiority, or no longer wish to take care of the heroes, call rhem in rum anthropoi; as Atb.ena does, in calming Ares, wb.o b.as just beard of b.is son's dearh (14-139-411, cf. 4-45, 5-442, 21.461-66, 2.4-49): "Someone better than he has been slain before now or will b.ave beeu slain hereafter, but it is grievous ro save rhe offspring and generation of all human beings." If anyone
17
dl
Chaprer Two
had a righc m be called a hero, surely this Ascalaphus, a son of Ares, had; buc Athena wishes to point ouc his worchlessness and deprive b.im of aoy divine status, so that Ares' rcgrer ar his loss might be diminished. For the gods a.re noc concerned wich men insofur as rhcy arc morr-Al, but based on cheh possible divinity. The word "hero." which Homer identifies with tmir (me phase h&oes andm cb.rice occua, S-747• 9·l'1S· '1,.346, cf. Hesiod Wor*s and Days IS9), and which clearly has nothing m do with antbropoi, shows bow far apart rhe Achaeans and Trojans are from. ordinary men: even we can fed how jarring the union bmes anrhropoi would have been (Hesiod, in his live ages of men, never calls the heroes, unlike the other four ages, and1ropo~ Workstnui Days 109, 1,7, 143, r8o). Bur in whar consists the heroic distinction? First, in lineage: the heroes are either sons of gods or c.o.n easily find, within a few genetations, a divine ancestor; and second. in providence: the gods are concerned with their fine. Zeus is a father to them- patir antiron u rhriin te--who pities them and saves rhem from death, while be is not cbe &mer bur rhe ruler of human beings, hos to rheoiri kai anthriipoiJ-i anasui (~.669). Zeus aces toward the heroes as Odysseus is said co trear his subjccrs-patir hiis ipios iLn-and he acts toward tiS as Agame.m· non is toward his men: distant, haughry, i.ndifferenc. As che providence extended O\'et human beings is unbenevolenc (cf. 6.1, 12-19), Zeus dispenses war co anthriipoi, himself careless of irs consequences; buc ir is a "father Zeus" who, Agamemnon believes, will aid the Achaeans and de.fe:u the perfidious Trojans; and as f.lthe.r Zeus he lare.r pities Agamemnon and sends an eagle for an omen (4.84, 19.~~. 4-~35· 8.~5. cf. 5-33, 8.rJ~. 397, 11.80, ~01, 16.:!-50, 17.630). Andmand rheoibelong co the same order; they may be builr ou differem scales, bur they are commensurate with one another (cf. 19.95-96). Achilles is a rheios an& (l6.]98, ci. 5-184-85, 331-r~. 839): theios anthropoJ would be unthinkable. The direct intervention of the gods seems co e.Levare man co an&, whereas the fiux of fortune, in which no caring providence can be seen, degrades him co anrhropo1. "Of all rbe things char breathe and move upon rhe earrh," Odysseus tells Amphinomus, "the earth nurtures nothing weaker rhan a human being (akidnormm amiiTiipoio); for as long as the gods granr him virtue and his limbs ace strong, he rhi.n.ks he will rneec with no evil in the future; but whenever the blessed gods assign him sorrows, then he beaa them, though struck wich grief, with a sceadfast heart" (I8.IJO-H; cf. l-4-49). When, however, Zeus pities the horses of Achilles, who weep for P.atrodus, he regrets char he gave co mortal Pdeus horses ageless a.n d immortal, for • of all the things tbac breathe and move
Achilln and !he flillli
upon me e:arrh, nothing is more pitiful man a he- man. (11i:tur6tmm llndros. •7·4+4- •IS· cf. u .u ). Odysseus talks of tmt1Jr6poi. Zeus is concerned only with llndm. diose among u.s whom me gods favor and uy to raise above me common lot of men. lc is not the uncnt2inry in = 's life which S«ms to Zeus man·s sorrov.~ for me gods can pur an end ro chao<X and ensure his success; bur even me gods uc powerless ro change his fate. no matter how many gifr:s !hey might lavish on him . Mortaliryand morraliry alone makes for the misery of man. Odysseus, on the ocher hand, did uor find man's burden in monaliry (already implied in nnrhr6poi) bur in his inability to guarantee. as long as he lives, his happine$5. Nor his necessary death, in spite of me gods' attention, bur his necessary helplessness, because of rhc gods' willful despocism, seems to Odysseus rhe weakness of man. Even as me IVOrd ll1111Jr6po! is mort frequent in the OdyryY dum in the 1/illli. while me word hir61 occurs almosr twice as often in the Iliad (llluhr6pM: 118 in the ~. 70 in the 1/UuJ: hms: 73 in rhe 1/illli. 40 in the Odymy; che same racios apply lO anir (Iliad 9·714. 15.478), ph6s (Iliad 9-58, 1s-40), lmJtoJ (Iliad 9-415, 1).68)), so Odysseus saw the ci~ of many human beings, and Achilles cast into Hades rhe souls of many heroes. The OdyrJt:y takes place after cbe Trojan War. when those upon whom the heroes had rdied for thei r fame are now living and remember in song the deeds of rhe past (cf. 2..347-52, 8.479-80. 4.91- 93· with 1.35859· :1.1.))1- S)). l'hemiw among the suitors and Demodocus among the Phac:acians cdebrate an almost dead wholly heroic world; and Odysseus also, since he shared in mar past but never belonged ro it., recoums racber chan acts out his own adventures. As Odysseus's deeds are only murhoi, so ne hinuelf is an anrhr6pM (1.119, 1.}6, 7. 2u. 307, 8.S)1, ll.J6J- 66, n.-4J4-l)), not only as opposed m cbe gods, which even Achilles migh< allow to be true of himself, bur absolu<ely so.1 War is the butiness of ~Jiron llMm, peace. of 11nrhr6poi; and as Odysseus never did quite lir imo cbe IliAd and was an obscure figure (his greatest exploit occurred a< nigh
1}
1..4
Chapter Two
are distinguished from it. They are-what is inconceivable in narure-an ordered series of silent waves. The Trojans, however, exactly correspond ro their similes, myriads of ewes penY up rogether in confusion. Of rhe Trojans' other similes in the midst of banle, four single out the clamor rhey m2ke, as waves, or winds, or srorm (tJ.79S-8oo, IS-381-84, 16.364- 66, 17.263- 66, cf. 12.J38, 16.78, 373, 21.10); 6 bw rhe noise of the Achaeans, even when they do shouT (n-so, rS-149), only warranrs a simile if the Trojans join in (4-452--16, 1•H93-40l, 16.736-40), and rheyare compared bur once co warer in battle: when their spirit, nor any outward sign, shows vexation (9.4- 8). It is not di:fliculr ro see how the epirhet3 of rhe T rojaos are connected with rheir disorder, or how those of rhe Achaeans indicate their discipline. The high spirit of the Trojans would narurally express itself in cries, and the 6ne greaves of the Ach2eans would indicare a deeper efficiency. The T rojaos never equal the Achaeans in the closeness of their ranks. whose spears and shields focm a solid wall, and shield and helmer of one rest on helmer and shield of another (tJ.u.8- JJ, t6.2I1-17); nor do rhe Achaeans, on the other hand, eve.r retreat like rhe T rojaos: "Each one peered around ro where be was ro escape sheer destruction" {14.50'7, 16.187). They B.ee, as they artack, in disorder, and more by thum()s than by ~pirtimi are they warriors (cf. Thucydides L49·'1> :1.u.8, 874-5, 89.58). They are, in rhe later Gt-edcvocabulary, barbarians. Thucydides' Brasidas, in urging his troops ro &.ce the IUyrians, could be describing rhe Trojans; who "by the loudness of ~heir clamor are insupportable, and whose vain brandishing of weapons appears menacing, bur are unequal in combat to chose who resist rhem; for, lacking all order, they would nor be ashamed, when forced, ro desert any posicion, and a barrie, wherein each man is master of himself, would give a fine excuse to all for saving their own skins" (4.u6.s, cf. Herodotus 7.2n, J.212.2, 8.86). How, rhea, are we ro explain the silent efficiency of rhe Achaeans an.d rhe noisy disorder of the T rojans? Has Homer given a reason for this difference? Some one principle whose presence would force rbe Achaeans into discipline, and whose absence would let the Trojans sink into anarchy? Aidtir, "shame,• seems w distinguish them. There are two kinds of llidtir: one we may call a muYual or military shame. rh.e other au alien or civil shame (c£ Thucydides, where virtue and sbam.e are coupled: LJ7.1, 84.3• 1.51.l, 4-19·3· 5·9·9• 101). The 6rst induces respect for those who are your equals; or, if fear also is presem, your superiors (cf. Sophocles Ajax 1075-80, P~•co Euthypbro na7-c8); the second is respect for those weaker than yourself. The first is in the domain of andre5, the second of aJltln-iJpoi
Achilles and the //Uu/
(cf. Aeschylus Agamnnnon 937-38). Heaor shows civil shame when, in speaking to Andromache, he says, " I am terribly ashamed before rhe Trojans, men and women both, if I cringe like someone ignoble an.d shun battle" (6.441- 43. cf. 8.147-56, 12.3t0- 21, 17.90- 95). And Heaor is killed because be would be ashamed to admit his error (of keeping the Trojans in the field afrer Achilles' reappearance), ashamed lesr someone baser than himself might say, "Heaor, trusting to his strength, destroyed his people" (21.104-7• cf. Aristode Magna Moralia U9Iaj-lj, Eudnnian Ethia t2JOar6- 26). As commander of h.is troops, with no one set above him, Heaor musr either feel the lash of public opinion or become as disobedient as Achilles, who at first lacks all respect for Agamemnon and later all respect for Hector's corpse (2444). When, however, the Achaeans silendy advance against the Trojans, they show another kind of shame, • desirous in their beans to defend one another" (3.9, cf. 2. )62--63). Their respect is not for others but for themselves. Neither those monger nor those weaker than themselves urge them to light, bur each wishes ro help the other, knowing that in "conce.n td virtue" resides their own safety (tJ.2J7). "Be ashamed before one another," shouts Agamemnon (and later Ajax), "in fierce contentions: when men feel shame, more are saved than killtd; but when they 8ee, neithe.r is fame nor any su.,ngth acquired" (5.520- 32, 15.562-64). And even when the Achaeans retreat, they do not scatter like the Trojans, bur they stay by their tents, held by "shame and fear, for they call ro one another continuously" (tj.657-58, cf. 8.354-55• 17.357- 65). Whatever fear they have before thei.r leaders is tempertd by their shame before one anorher; and as, according to Brasidas, three thin.gs make men good soldiers-\vill, shame, and obedience (Thucydides 5·9·9• cf. r.84.3)- so the Achaeans show their will in preferring war ro peace (2..453- 54. u.13-14), their shame in murual respea (5.787, 8.228, 13·95· 122, tj.j02, 561), and thei.r obtdience in the fear of th.eir leaders (4.431. cf. t.J3t, 4.402, 2.4·435). Agamem.non as a good king and Ajax as a brave warrior appeal ro milirary shame when they incire the Achaeans; but the aged Nestor urges them in the name of civil vinue: "Friends, be men and place in your spirit shame before oilier human beings, and let each of you remem.bcr your children, your wives, possessions, and your parents, whether they still live or now are dead; for the sake of !hose who are not here l beseech you ro stand your ground• (ts.66t-66, cf. T acitus Histories 4.18.4, Gtm111nia 7·2S.r). Even as Nestor has plaoed his worst rroops in the middle, so that they would be forctd, though unwilling, m light (4.297-300, cf. Xenophon Mnnorabilia 3.1.8, Polybius rp6.1-4), so here he wishes to regard aU the
25
16
ChAp<er Two
AchaC'.uls as caught becween me Trojans in from and their own families behind them; and he hopes by this necessity, of avoiding death at the hands of one and humiliation in me eyes of the other, that they would resist. Nesror leaves nothing ro personal courage: ir is of a piece ro rely on necessrcy and ro appeal ro civil shame. fo.r to a man who has oudived rwo generarions the bonds of society seem srronger than those of an army, nor would his own weakness give him any confidence in others' strength. As a very old man he has no peel'$, and all relations seem ro him the relations of the young ro the old; so thar in making the Achaeans respc.'Ct rbeir parents he coverdy makes them respect hirosclf Uoable ro inspire his me.n by fear of himself and unwilling ro trust to military discipline, Nesror falls back on the rehearsal of his own past prowess and on bis soldiers' recollection of those absenc (cf. 4-303-9). Military shame never once arouses the Trojans, whom the cry "Be men!" always encour.IJ!es; and once, wh.en Sarpedon cries oo rally th.e Lycians -"Sb.am.e! Lyc:ians. Where are you fleeing? Now be keen!"- the appeal is ro civil shame; for as warriors they are urged co be vigorous, a.nd shame is only invoked to ch.eck their llighr (16....2.2- 30, cf. BT Scholian '3·95· •s.soz). The Trojans rely more on their leade.rs than on their troops (cf. Tacitus Germania 30.:2), for we always read of rhe "Trojans and Hector a.rtacking (•3·'· 129, I5-4:2, 403, 3:27, 449 passi.rn), as if the single vi rrue of Hector more rhan equaled the mass effort of his men (cf. 13.49- 54). If rhe Trojans act in concert, it is rather by the example of one man than by any bravery in themselves; and Hecror himself resembles Xenophon's Proxenus, wb.o · was able to rule rhose who were noble and brave bur was unable r.o instill sharne o.r fear inro his own troops, since be was acrually more ashamed before his men than tbey before him" (At~nbn.si.s 2.6.1'9). Aeneas, for =pie, an rouse Hector and the orher captains by an appeal ro shame, bur it would be unthinkable to employ the same argument before all h n35-41 ); and in this Nestor's call ro the Acha..EI;ttvopom~ (Paris, nttaSt between Achilles and Agamemnon. Odyssew is in me center, Achilles and Ag;unemnon arc equally six pl•ces away from him; but tbc number of ships is f.u guater on Agamemnon's side (731) than oo Aclillles' ~); and in accordance wirh !hat prcpondcran.ce, the wealth rather lhan the prowca of those wbo surround Ag;uncrnnon i! stressed: place-nama are twice as frequent there 11.'1 on Athillcs' side, and even rhe cpirhets S\ISS"t their prospertry. On Achilles' side rhc cities rhc warriors rule are ncglecred for stories about themselves (641- 4), 657-70. 673- 75. 687~, 698-703· 71t- 1S): but on Agamcmnoo's •ide link besides tbeir :ano:say is saX! abour the commaodcn.
})
T
E
The Aristeia of Diomedes and the Plot of the Iliad
heroic virtue: "Alas, even a fool would know thar Zeus himself aids the T rojnns: the spea.rs of all, no matt.er whether gOd or bad do hurl them, hir their target: Zeus makes all go maigbr" (r7.62.9-3~. cf. 1p.1.1-27, 20.242- 43, 434- 37, Odyssey r8.132- 35). Zeus's partiality makes it almost impossible ro practice virtue. Were Ajax ro recrear, he would be blameless (cf. 16.u9- 22, ' 7-97101). Zeus can render vain and usdess the distinction bcnveen good. and bad, base and brave. What should prove merit- success-may be whoUy undeserved. The javelin casr of Paris, were Zew to wish it, would go as straight as thar ofHecror; if rhe god.s had always fuvored Nireus, be would have equaled Achilles. Were nor rhe providence of the god.s inconstant and fitful (cf. 1).139-41, r6-'!46-47), they wou.ld obscure completely any intelligible order of ucelleoce; but as ir is, they sometimes withdraw and let the heroes run themselves. Then the world proceeds in the way we know it, and we see the heroes for what they would be among ourselves. After AchiUes set the prizes for the horse-race, and urged the best Achaeans to compere, Home.r gives us the order in which they accepted the chaUenge. First Ewnelus, who exceUed in horsemanship and had the besr ho.rses (2p88-89., ~.763-67); then Diomedes with the horses of Aeneas; third Menelaus with one horse ofbis own and one of Agamemnon's; and rheo Antilochus (2.90-304). Before Homer tells us who came lasr, Nester counsels his son oo the power of craft. Although Anrilocbus's horses were swifr-fooTed, they were slower rhan the rhree pairs of horses that enrered rhe race before him, yer f.lsre.r than M.eriones', which were 8 L UN 'f AJAX STAT R S T H E PAR A D 0 X 0 P
H
The Ari11eia of .Diomede:s
the slowest of all (304, 310, 530). Meriones was narunlly reluctant to compete; only after Nestor had spoken ar length (whose praise of era& gave him a chance) could he bring himself ro risk his horses in a contest they could nor possibly win. lf we look at the roce irself, we see that Homer bas pr:=nred the horsemen in the order in which rhey should but do nor win (consider the foouace, 754- 92). That Eumelus should have been 6nt, although he came in !JISt, Achilles, Homez, and aU the Achaeans acknowledge; and were it not that Achilles wished to gratify Antilochus, even in his misfortune. he would have r:aken second prize (m- J7, 556). Had not Apollo and Athena imenered, Diomedes woam•ib•rai andras (6.339). No longer Aphrodite hut Fortune is his goddess: Arhena has just refused the Trojans' prayer (Ju- 12). Helen feels despair more deeply !han Paris. Priam had kindly rece.ived her on rhe ramparu ofT roy; and she, provoked by his kindness, had burst out with: "Would rhar death had been pl
una
..,n
240o-
2. P. Cauer, Gnmd.fagm der Homtrlrritik (Leipzig. 1911), 3=494-
3· C£ H. Jordan, Dtr En4hlungsstil in tkn Knmpficmen der "/lias" (Breslau, 190j), '7 ·
4· \YI. F. Friedrich's attempt in Vmuundung und Tod in dtr "1/ins"(Giircingen. 1956), to distinguish three major kinds of killing (the grotesque, realistic, and severe styles) chat are then robe: 3SSigned tO different Iayen, rem on the unstated 3SSumption char tbe kinds of killing and the order in which they appeu have nothing to do with the plot of the Iliad He assumes that poeuy is the san:t< as style (8- to).
). Cf. H. Friinkd, Die hommschro Cleichnim (Gortingen, 19u), 36-37·
6. Cf. L. Straws, Th< City fllld Man (Chi01go, 1964), 194-91· Winston Churchill is reponed to have once said, "The way to die iJ co pass out lighting when your blood is up and you fed nothing." 7· To judge from G. N. Knauer's liStS in Die "Amtis" und Humtr (Gortingen, 1964}, the source of V~rgil's dolort has hirherro been unknown. 8. C£ G. Broccia, ·u rooti>"O deUa morre nel VI libro ddi'Jliade,• Rroitta di ji/o/ogia < ittrrtriOII< tfanim 9· Bu1 see S. E. &-tt,
l)
(1957) : 6HS9.
·on Z 119-2}6." Clamcal Pllilology 18 (191)):
r;8-
79· This is the lint time thor Homer uses the nominative cllttn. which does not refer to a defutire god. with an active verb (cf. s.78). 10.
u. Shakes]Xare. Troilus and Crmida, 2.2.19112. It seems tO me that Thucydides' mention of the w.Ul .. ha•ing been buih immediatdy on the Achoeans' landing arTroy does not stand in the way of r 0. L. Page unac•-ounrably faiu to mention (Hiswry IHid rh< Hom,-ie Jliaa'[Berke. ley and Los Angeles, 1959), )tS-14). Thucydides is perftctly wiUing ro disreg:ord the plot of the Iliad for hJs own purposes. His eoncem is with the Trojan War and not the Iliad: his single mention of Achilles does not even pertain to the Trojan War (r.3-3) . He assertS rhar A1;2memnon was able tO gather the ocpcdilion togerher nor our of cham (rhe oaths ofTyndarus) bur through feu {•·9·' ·J). He equaUy ignOTd both Paris's raJX of Helen and the meaning of rbe con8ic:t bc:rween
59
6o
O..ptu Three
Aclillles and Agamemnon (Jli4d uss--&l). He rruokes use of Agamemnon's bur nor Achilles' scq>tct (L9-1>· Could it be then tbot he just as deliber.uely ignores the m15· Sec also Ch. Voigt, Ubtrlegung und En1Stbeitbln~ S=lim cur Se/Jmm.jfassunt, tks Mmu:lm r INi Homn (lkdin, '9H). S7-91..
22.
23.
Cf. M. L.euounn, H~mcriJcbe WOrter (Basel, 1950), u s-Ill. a . Wohmowitz-Mocllendoof, Di~ "Jlim" ,ntf Homtr. I<J9-IO.
1.4· C£ Strauss, Tht Cil] and Man. to8, 70. Despite Homer's prot'm, by which one is led tO expect tO h= about souls of many whom Achilles sent tO Hades, ther< are only two, Pauoclus's and Hector's; and ag:Un, despir< m< ptl'ls. Cf. Wilamowia.-M.....UIJoroi 298- 3o6; cf. Eummidn 84); and, finally, they do oot .k now why Clyremesna killed her husband. Those who vote for the condemnation of Orestes vote for the right of the mother without qualificarion-she does oot have to be in rhe right; those who vote for the acquirral of Orestes vote for a limited right of the lather-the mother must be in the wrong. The jury therefore vote in a way in which we could not have voted; but we do not .kn.o w whemer the jury ever reaJiu the compatibility of their principles. lf lphi· geneia's sacrifice had been known ro them, they might have condemned Orestes unanimously. Our ignorance of the jury's motives and under· sranding rhus functions as the j ury's own ignorance of the titers of the case and their possible fu.ilure to understand their own principles and Athena's purpose. Our ignorance of the jury makes the jury be wholly in the dark. Prior to entering the san.ctuary, the propiJ&is divides her address to the gods imo two pans. The first she calls a prayer, the second a speech (1, 20, zt). In her prayer she pucs Earth 6.rsr, in her speech Athena. Her prayer is about the temporality of prophe.cic succession; her speech is about the presence of gods in different places. Apollo is a god in and of time,
63
6i
Chaprer Pour Athena in and of place (cf. 6)). ln Iter prayer the prophitiJ de.nics that there bas been any conflict bc.cween the pre-Olympian and Olympian gods. The transmission of the &eat of prophecy tO Apollo bas been wholly peaceful. In her speech, however, the last of the Olympians, Dionysus, employs violence and kills the Thracian Pentheus "in the manner (dikln) of a hare." The pre-Olympian gods reject force, the Olympians do not. They back a matricide and punish an unbeliever. At Delphi a perfect harmony between the old and the new gods prevails, but not at Athens. Athens knows only of th.e worship of the Olympian gods. The Athenians are the sons of Hephaesrus (lJ). The Furies are rhe daughters of Night; they do not share a common ancestry with the Olympian gods through Earth. They do not come &om the castration of Ou.ranos. They are among the oldest gods, but they have never been seen by anyone. Tbe prqphiti.s can make only imperfect likenesses of them. Athena's wisdom does nor consist in working out a compromise between Olympian gods and gods ro whom the Athenians have a prior loy2iry; her wisdom consiSts in intro· ducing the Furies ro Athens. She chooses to dilute the worship of the Olympian gods wirh older gods. Athena effects a transmission of power as peaceful as that ar Delphi. The Furies, then, are the newest gods and wholly under the control of Athena. If Apollo had not hinted to them where tO find Orestes, rhe Furi: perhaps would never have shown up (224). Wherever else Orestes went, his purification by Apollo was thought to suffice (184-85). Only at Athens is there some doubt as tO its efficacy. Athen.• becomes a holdout through Athena. Athens is another Thebes. On her return &om the shrine, the prophitU speaks of her terror. We assume rhat the Furies Crighrened he.r; bur the Furies turn our robe asleep, and though her descripdon arouses our loathing, her fear seems ground· less. Athena alone testifies to the frightfulness of their faces (990). The only rhreat in the prophitils account is posed by Orestes, whom she de· scribes first. He is wide-awake and holds a newly drawn sword (4:1). We are thus srarcled into realizing that the prophltiJ is not an intrusion into the story. She muse have delivered Apollo's oracle to Ore.
t>
Chaprer r1ve phic tiTchai. As violation of wvine law chey point tO me archai that Lie behind me anchropomorphic gods. If me Olympian gods gave men cheir own shape (cf. 1097- U09), rbe prohibitions against ina:st and pauicide would mean that man was nor to ~reb into rhe shapeless dements beyond these gods. If be did he would find Chaos with irs offspring Night and all things mixed together. He would find Ouranos as the son and husband of Eanb- the pri.m e example of inceSt in the Greek rbeogonyand Ouranos casr:rated by his own son. n Oedipus, then, who discovered what man is in his i!ido1, seems to have discovered in his hubris the nonhuman gmnil of man. The whole of earrh, sacred rain, and Light, of which Creon forbids Oedipus ro be a pan, must be informed by the sacred if ir is jusdy to exdude Oedipus (1424-18, ef. 238--40, 1378- 83). The sacred must bind together and keep apart the public (Light) and the private (earrh)." If the whole does not have this bond of Olympian sacredness, which guarantees the human in man, then Oedipus, whose rhumos points joindy to rbe homogeneity of law and rbe homogeneity of nature, is truly the inhuman paradigm of man. This is the question that the three panicles that most nearly make up me name of Oedipus, ou di pou ("Surdy nor>"), can be said to inrroducc-a question raised in uuer disbelief, bur somerimes answered affirmatively (ef. 1042, 147~).:.0 In Oedipus at Coibnus, we learn char Oedipus, toward rhe end of his life, came to the bronu-stepped threshold rooted in the earth (tS90-9I), where Hesiod says grow the roots, the beginnings, and me ends of the earth, sea, aod sky;15 and that just after his disappearance Theseus was seen reverencing together in a single speech Eanh and the Olympus of the gods (1653-fs}.
Nota An earlier venioo of chis chap«< appeartd in J. Cro[>.!ey. AncimlS anti MotimiJ, copyright@ 1964 by Basic Books, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Basic Books, a member of Perseus Books. L.L.C. 1. Xenopboo Mnnorabili4 -t..j-20-2}. 2. Perhaps, then, one should read o:t rsos. ml spht, pat~r, idlis (Do not overlook - 5. n. Cf B. Knox, Oedipus ttl ThtiH> (N<w Haven: 1957), r8J-8+ IJ. The c.ribrach phon"' (murderer) occurs three times as mt 6m foor in the line (362, 703. 721) , rwice of Oc:dipus as me murderer of uuus, and rhe mird time in Jocasra's denial c:hat laius's son kiDc:d him; bur whac Jocasr• says sraru "a wandering of the soul and agicuion of the wits" in Oc:dipus (727). whicb is also the third and last time mar Oc:dipus refers to his soul (64, 94). And again poteron {whemer} C)(lCUU Wet times at the beginning of me Jine ( IU, 750. 96o)r:wice of laius and once of Polybus, Oedipus's supposed &tber. 14. 794--97· cf. Sss-59· 897--910, 964- 7215. Cf. Herodorus 5·9"· 16. a. Plato R
100
Chapra &Yen
ics absoluteness is usually suppressed, and rh.is is done so systemaricaJly that so1ne effort is required to .notice wh11t has been suppressed. Although the srories of tragedy, like irs language, are taken from heroic epic, the word hn-o in the Homeric sense does not occur in the extant plays. The legends of tragedy are nor legendary; irs representation of the pasc is shadowless. Monarclllcal mle had long ceased in Athens (the word king survived as the name for a magisnate who no longer ruled the cicy), yer tragedy bas nothing but kings and queens for irs protagonists; tbe people are hardly more conspicuous in uagedy than they are in Homer.J Its women move as freely in the open as do irs men; and there is hardly a line in Aeschylus or Sophocles ro re.m iod the audience that their own women are confined suicdy to the home. Again, whatever irs origin might be, tragedy as we know it is Athenian; but the stuff of tragedy is not. Thebes looms larger than Athens; when Aristophanes bas Aeschylus boast that his Sn~tn Agllimt Thebes once filled tbe audience with martial spirit, he is sharply reminded rhar the Theba.ns are his beneficiaries.• Tbe greatest single event in Athenian history, in which the Athenians would legitimately take pride and to which we ourrelves can hardly be inclifferentrbe defeat of rbe Persians at Salamis is shown to rbem as a Persian cara.srre>phe, and in order to make it all the more unre.lieved, Aeschylus has the Chorus prerend that Dari.us never mounted an expedition aga.inu Gm:ce and Marathon did not take place. On the other hand, Sophocles must have seemed as enigmatic as the Sphinx when he aruibured to Oedipus's grave an eternal power to defend Athens from attack, for the audience would have been hard put ro remember any such occasion. Were they ro believe that at some future time Sophocles would be vindicared! lf, finaUy, the role of the Areopagus were a political >ssue at the time of the Ortttdit (458 II.C.), what political lesson could Aeschylus have conveyed in revealing that its first uial ended in a hung jury and that Athena spoke for the acquittal of someone who pleaded guilty to the charge of matricide? The placelessness and timelessness of Greek rragedy remind one of Plato's Rtpublic. in which Socrates presents the best city in speech. There, nor only does rhe ever-present urgency of the problem of justice occasion the best cicy in speech, iu utopian nature is readily granted to be a consequence of irs beaury. The beau!)' of Grttk tragedy, however, is a ni.g htmare, in which the terrible is not absuaaed from bur distilled. Greek rragedy is, as ir were, the offscouring of Socrates' city. The criminalicy against which rhe city has devised its strongest prohibitions is the setting for uagedy's celebration of its proagoniscs. Tragedy prosecutes as ir praises. It crosses the beautiful of epideicric oratoty with rbe justice of
On Grec.k Tragedy forensic oratory, but it whoUy fails to join them with the good of delibetation.1 Tragedy simply suspends the political good. even while ia horizon is the ciry's. Aeschylus's Oytemestra could have swung the Cho.rus of elders to her side had she but seen fit to link Agamemnon's injustice in his killing of their daughter with the general injustice of the Argive suffering at Troy, for which rhe Chorus are convinced Agamemnon deserves punishment. But she refuses ro condemn the war, despite the f..ct tha.t her enticrment of Agamemnon tO walk on rich embroideries can only be desi.gned to provoke the people's resentment at his impious and barbaric squandering of the royal wealth. Clytemestra muffs her chance to found a regime that wou.ld combine authority with consent. The killing ofAgamemnon exbausa bet hs68- 76); it serves Aegistbus but neither herself nor tbe people she has ruled for ten years. She lets Cassandra divert the Chorus from the political issue of the war ro the inherited fate of the Arreidae, even though this enrails that lphigeneia's sacrifice, about which Cassandra knoW$ nothing. be forgotten and Clytemcsrra herself appear to be a common adulteress.' Cassandra's diversion of the Agam~m11on's initial !heme seems to be typical of tragedy. The plague that alfeas all of Thebes is due, we are told, to the murder of ia former king; but Oedipus becomes so enthralled, as are we, by tbe riddle of his origins that he never learns from the sole eycwimess of Laius's death whether in faa he is guilty of regicide. The city would have been satisfied if Oedipus's discovery had been so limited but, as matters rum out, it has only his inference to rely on, and even at the end we do nor kn.ow wherher his exile is still needed as a civic purification. We reali-u here, as elsewhere. tha.t we have become estranged from the ciry's primary concerns, and that what bas estranged us is rbe sacred. The sacred loses its political place in tragedy. "First and Fifth," Aristode says, is rbe care of rbe divine; 1 it is fifth for the city and firsr for tragedy. Prior ro its admission into rbe city, rhe city attenuates rbe sacred. ln the Anrigon~, where there is a conflict berween divine and human laws, Tiresias reaffirms rbe sacredness of burial wirbout vindicating Antigone {1016-12, 1070-71). He inrerprets the divine law as applicable ro eaeh and every corpse; he d~s not limit !he obligation to the liunily, ignoring rbe faa thar Antigone wou.ld not have done what she did if Polyneices bad nor been her brother. The 6m stasimon of rbe play allows for civiliry to be part of the uncanniness of man; but to be devoted to rbe sacred strikes the Chorus, when they first catch sighr of Antigone, as a demonic monstrousness, and, after they have beard her defend rbe sacred, rbey detect in her her father's bestial savagery {]76, 471-71); she is, of course,
101
ro1
Chapter Sc:vcn
rhe daughrer of Oedipus. Arisrode distinguishes between moral and heroic virtue, and rheir respective opposites, vice and be~cialiry. 1 Tragedy looks away from moral virrue- the pairs of vicious extremes are rhe subject of comedy-and toward heroic virtue, which, wirhour the mean of moral virtue, ceases w be the opposir.c of bestiality. Antigone herself speaks of her criminal piery; she says she stops ar norhing in the performance of holy rhings (74). Anrigoneshatters the sin.gle limit which the first srasimon ascribes to man (death), and sbe shattea it by becoming at one with the sa~. The sacred shines chrough Antigone nor despite the fact that she is rhe offspring of an incestuous union bur because. ofir. Out of rhe Eunily chat violates the family comes the defende.r of rhe family's inviolability. Antigone means "anrigeneration." At rhc beginning of his History, Herodorus identifies human happiness with political freedom and gfl'amns (q.J-4). He goes on oo indicate char justice is incompatible with such happiness (1.6.2, J:4.4), and be rhen illustrates their incomp:uibiliry with the srory of Croesus. After having made Lydia ioro an imperial power, Croesus invired the Athenian Solon to inspect his ueasury and then asked him whom of those he had seen did he judge ro be the happiest. Solon's answer was T ellus th.e Athenian: Athens was well-off, his sons were beautiful and good> they had made him a grandfather, he himself was well-off by Athenian standards, and his end was mOSt brilliant, for in an engagement wirh Arncns's neighbors be roured. the enemy and died moSt beautifuUy, in return for which rhc Athenians buried him ar public expense at rhe spot where he fell and honored him greatly. in chis judgment the private goods depend on the public good and arc fully in harmony with ir: rhe sacred is absent- Croesus, however, is not saris6ed and asks Solon whom of those he had seen he would put in second place. Solon does nor answer this question, for he now does nor speak as an eyewirocss but repom a srory, one in which rhe beautiful and the political good are absent. The srory concerns Cleobis and Biron, rwo Argive brothers whose livelihood was adequate and whose bodily strength was sucb rhat rhey had both won contests. Ir is nor s;Ud that Argos, where they lived, was well-off, nor that they were be-.turiful. On a day sacred oo Hera, their morher-she must have been a priestesshad to be conveyed ro the .sanctuaJ:)', bur since the oxen could nor be found and rime was running our, Oeobis and Biron yoked themselves to the carr aod dragged it fony..fivc srades. "Observed by rhe festival garnering." Solon rdares, "the best end of life befell them, and the god showed in their case that it is better for a human being w be dead than ro live." These verbs of seeing and showing are deceptive. for jtm as the scory is
On Grcdc T rage:ly
only hearsay, the cause of what follows is speech and whac follows is itself ambiguous. The Argive men blessed rhe strength of the Argive youths, the Argive women blessed their mother for having such sons, and she, overjoyed by their deed and irs acclaim, stood before the srame of Hera and prayed to the goddess to gram her sons whatever is ~t for a human being to obroin. The brothers lay down io the temple and never got up again, and rhe Argives, on rhe grounds that they had proved to be best, made Stlltues of them and dedicated them at Ddphi (1.31). Solon reUs these rwo stories as if rbe moral common to them bothno one is to be judged happy before be is dead-'Could conceal their dilferences. These differences constitute rbe double &arne of Greek trag· edy: rbe political in irs ionocent autonomy and tbe sacred in irs subver:sion of that ionocence. The last words of Aeschylus's Sn~e• against Thtbts, which are rbe last words of rbe trilogy (the 6rsr rwo plays are lost), give perfect expression co rbis doubleness but do not resolve ir. The Chorus of maidens divides between rbose who side wirb Antigone in her resolution to bury Polyneices and those who side with rbe city th2t prohibits it. The 6rst group says: "Let rbe city injure or not rhe mourners of Polyneices; we shall go and joiJl in his burihoroi is divided into rwo unequal parts, a high and a Low.
On GK 191
'9'
Chapter Ten
Zeus is needed in order ro sanction the ero:urion of criminals. This is nor something that Promethean man could. figure ouc for himself: he could not figure out, on the basis of rhe difference bet\veen an and nonan, mar criminals are not the ignorant. Protagoras implies, therefore, that the politi.cal an is teachabl.e but is not an. This massive contradiction exp.l2ins why the structure of the Protagortts is so complex.: if the political an is virtue and is teaeh2ble, every argument that Socrates mounts that purports ro prove chat virtue is knowledge should meer with Protagoras's immediate acceprance; but Protagoras balks at accepting every one of Socrates' arguments, which are all designed ro u1iue Socrates and con· Jirm Protagoras's claim. To understand why Proragoras does nor let his own claim be vindicated by Socrates is at the bean of the mystery of the
Protagortts. Socrates had said chat the Athenians do not believe that everyone has political vinue; to prove, to the comrary, that everyone partakes of justice and the rest of political virtue, Protagoras offers the following. Ifsomeone says he is a skilled flute pbyer and is not, everyone laughs or gers angry, and his relatives try to put sense into him as if he were crazy; bur if someone whom everyone knows is unjust denounces himself in front of the many, everyone says this is madness and nor mode.ration; and everyone ought 10 say he is just regaid.less, and everyone who does not pretend co it is crazy. This proof .is not easy to undeman.d: bow does it prove that everyone really believes that men paruke of justice and moderarion and nor that everyone must pretend to partake? Protagoras seems to be saying that the distincti.on between moderation in technical knowledge and moderation in morality shows that moderation is nor just habit bur rational and evidence of the presence of good counsel in all men. More cauriously, one can say, everyone knows that one must rell lies, and rhe cicy of Promethean mao is the city of truth-rel.ling. or, in Socrates' language, the true city, and that justice is not possible without falsehood. The city, then, does not rest on a myth, as Socrates wou.ld have it, but on rhe universal knowledge of the use of myths. The.re are two requirements of political life, jusrice and sanity (knowing when 10 lie and when not). Zeus arranges for justice by allowing men to ex~tc the justice-incompetent; the human equivalent for moderation i.s ro agree that the truthful unjust man is craz)'. The crazy, however, cannot be justly killed; the ciry kills on.ly the sane; they kill those who lay claim to justice; they kill those whom Zeus forbade them ro kill, for rhc savage are chose outside rhe city who do nor know enough about justice to lie about it. Protagoras, then, can get everyone sensible and moderate but not simulraneously just; and in the argument
Protagoras's Myth and Logos with Socrates Iacer he creates a diversion before he would have been forced to identify justice and moderation and reaffirm the unity of virtue. If, moreover, one puts together Protagoras's argumenr about me universal distribution of moderation wim real justice, one gets Socrates' counterexample before Cephalus, from which it would follow of necessity mar nor everyone has good counsel, for otherwise one would nor need to lie because no one would be crazy. Protagoras's evidence for me reachability of virrue is punishment. No one unless he is like a beast punishes irrationally. Proragoras assumes rhar this image qtJa image is always an effective deterrent; otherwise, he would have to admit that .i t would be possible to pun.ish bestially and irrationally, and so it would be possible 10 institute a city of quasi-beasts. As Proragoras develops his argument, ir turns our rha.t the city can punish rationally if ir punishes on each occasion for th.e sake of 1hose who wimess d1e punishment and who are thus deterred from injustice. So regardless of whether the city punishes rarionally or not, it punishes rationally if the desired dfea is achieved. Proragoras confuses rationality wim the reaching of a lesson. He rakes the literal meaning of nouthereb-10 pur mind into someone-as the true meaning of ~knocking sense into someone" by bearing him up. Punishmem is rational because what one says one is doing is what one is doing. It is me collective jusrice of the. city rhar marches the individual's sensible refusal ro admit tbar he is unjust. The esse.nce of irrarional punishment or vengeance is ro tty ro undo the done. No man in th.e city is unaware of the irreversibiliry of action, and in this sense everyone in rhe Jovian ciry is rational. Promethean rnan, then, was apparendy unaware of rbe noncanceUability of time. The arts because they are synthe~ic do not contain this knowledge. Promethean man did not know mar he would die, or he believed in resurrec.cion. So Zeus brought man through Hermes the psychopomp the knowl.edge thar death is final. Man m.e o became sober. The Jovian law of eucution ~ vealed the minimum condition for sobriety. "IGU rbe unjusr!" meant "Know that you are mortal. • Now i1 is remarkable that in Aeschylus's account, pre-Promethean man did have knowledge of his own death while Prometheus removed it and put in blind hopes instead. Proragoras has apparendy taken this to mean that the universal opi.nion that man is mortal is a posr-Prome1hean gift of Zeus. (In any case, one should consider in ligh1 of this, Pindar's Olympian II, where the overrh.row of Kronos by Zeus is taken to entail the cancellation of time through the invention of the soul. The Zeus of Piodar acknowledges man's irrational resentment against time and tries ro moiJify us with the hope of an afterlife.) lf, then,
193
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Cb•prer Teo
Prora.goras is connecting the awareness of time wirh Zeus, the unimelli.gible sequence of Promethean man's ans would re.Becr his unawlll'eness of nme. The parade of irrationality in the guise of rarionaliry in Prora.goras's myth emerges in rwo ways. He says the Athenians punish chose rhey beJjeve are unjusr; they rhus violate Zeus's commandment to punish the jllsrice-incornpetent, for that oommandment depends on knowledge and not opinion. Prora.go.w willlarer say rhat rhe mosr unjust wirhi.n the ciry i.s just if compared ro the savages oursidc the ciry. He thereby implies that none of these can be punished in conformity with Zeus's commandment. Prora.gow's silence, moreover, about war once the Promethean city dissolves is explicable if one draws the consequence of his argument: rhe enemy are killed because they ace in.capable of partaking in jusrice. Thus the war against beasrs in th.e Promethean ciry becomes realized i.t1 rbe Jovian city because the enemies are beasts. The. bescializarion of man belongs together with the civi.liu.tion of man, and ir is nor rrue thar the savages do not partake of Justice. Prora.goras bas oo eire a comedy in order ro show whom he means by savages. Savages are an invention of the poets designed ro conceal the savagery of the. ciry. So much for Proragoras's myth; when he comes ro answer Socrates' question, why the good do nor reach their own sons ro be good, Prora.goras calls it a logos. This d.isrinction should reflect rhe difference berween the minimal justice and moden.cion all citizens must have and the good counsel reserved for rhe good. Ir should reflecr the difference berween the justice and shame Zeus disrribmed and the good counsel Zeus himself had in so disrributing them. So the myth and rhe logos sections ought to correspond oo a distinction berween morality and prudence and fit more or less with the movement of the &public. lt is nor ar once obvious that this is the case' if Prora.goms had wanted to do so, he could have dropped all mention of piety in the logos--section- Piery, however, belonged to Promerhean man and was separ:ne from justice and sban1e.. lr could not be dropped without dropping every con.necrion berween art and morality and thus admitting that the political an cannot be caught. "Belief in gods" ar the beginning imp]jes that in rime it can become knowledge. Perhaps the mosr remarlcWle feature of Proragoras' s logos is the resemblance of irs srages to those of the Rtpublit 2-3 together wirh an exrraordinn.ty emphasis o.n beating. Prota.goras's education is both musieal and unmusical; it is as if be maintained the identity of the philosopher and the d og, with which Socrates srarrs our as a serviceable image, and preserved it throughout, whereas Socrates gradual!)' moves from the pte-
Pro01goras's Myth ond Logos
senrarion of education as the music-..J education of the rhumoeideric ro i!S truth as the education of the erotic. Such a movcmem does nor take place in Protagora.\s a.ccount. This Orpheus is the enehanring preaeher of punishment and reven.ge. Protagoras divides education into two srages, private and political Private education is itself divided imo a prdirerare and a literate mge. The family has irs biggest role at the first mge, when rhe noble, the jusc, and the holy are taught. Protagoras. however, is silent about the good; indeed, he never spc;Ua of the. good as a piece of instruction by anyone, even though he claimed rhat good counsel or advice about the good was his own art and the city's knowledge. A sign of this is the ellipsis of the apodosis at 315d5, where he does oor say what the consequence is if one obeys or is persuaded by one's earliest reachers. Proragoras is much more explicit about the consequence of disobedience: the child is bent and twisted like a piece of wood un6l he is srr-.Ughtened out by threatS and bearings. If, however, the boy is so straightened our, how come be does not keep hi.s acquired shape? How come at rhe end the city has to straighten nim out again after he bas finished his private education? In the second stage., the central lesson comes from good poets in whose poems there arc models of emulation. Protagoras soys not a word about the gods. What Proragoras presentS so casually, the praise of good men, is the hard...:arned result of nine books of the RLpublic, where in the tenth book the possibility of such encomia is granted alongside the hymns to the gods. In the third stage, which belongs co good lyric poers, Procagoras moves, just as Socraces does in Book 3 of the &public, from spccch ro rhychm and harmony. Sue perhaps what is more astonishin.g, the training in courage is emirely given over to gymn:u-rics; but this reassignment, which portrays courage as entirely corporeal, is the culmination of the movement in the separation of courage and moderation in Socrates' account so thac they finally emerge as problenutic objects of inquiry. Protagoras does all this with the left hand. It looks. then, ac this point thac justice and piety are learned in nursery school, moderation and courage in grammar and high school, and Pr~ ragoras of course is the graduate dean. Bur where is the college of wisdom? The answer is. rhe laws of the city. The city compels the young co learn the laws and live in conformity wirh them so that they rnay not act at random. As f.u as the city goes, all rhat expensive education is a waste, for whacever che young have been taught and however they have been whipped into shape are wholly inadequate for instilling obedience ro rh.e law. \Vhat has happened? The laws of the city are the legislation of the
191
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Cluptor Teo
ancient good legislaroo. The good legislacors are nor the good poers, for if they were, Protago.ras could not have said that the former poers coo· cealed their sophist.ry under ~he guise of poerry; but it is now revealed that the secret sopbisrs who were poers are openly used for education in private. Protagoras rhus admits thar education in poeuy is in fundamenral viol:uion of the city and irs laws. He admirs in &bon with Socrates that anciem poeuy cannot be the proper education if the srandard is vi.nue as the city undenrands virrue. Pro~ras admi.rs, then, rhat poetry does not teach political vi.nue and that poUrical vinue is nothing bur the result of terror and pain. Insofar as the city reaches anything, it reachc:.• one not to get c:tught. That Pro~ras knows or at least comes ro know rhar rbis is the consequence of his a:rgumem comes out larer when, in abandoning rhe main argument that vinue is a whole of pans, Protagoras criricius Simonides for having a contradiction in a shon lyric poem. Pro~ras calls such criticism a large part of education. He thus implies thar educa· cion in poetry is not political virtue and is incompatible with it. In criticiz. ing Simonides, be sides with all men who believe that to keep virtue in one's possession is the hardest of all things, whereas the poers are at one in saying thar once it has been acquired it is easy ro retain. The poets say virrue suirs man, Pro~ras says iris croublesome. Pro~ras, in attacking poetty, in the name of univeJ:Sal opinion, urges the city to abandon music education and rely entirely on punishment and threars. Proragoras the rationalist urges the brutalization of III2Jl. Larer in the dialogue there is a discussion of rhe word Minos, which literally means "rerrifying" and comes ro mean "skilled and dever." It is the word used at the beginning of the. 6rst stasimon of the AntigontnoA.I..a 'ta 8e1 va KOU8€v &v9proJtou 8u VO'tepov ~tE.I..n: the uncanniness of man turns out to be behind Pro~ras's myth. Pro~ras claims that the teachability of virtue is the same as the hidden unity in the double meaning of lkinos: To teach is to terrify. Now such a forced mating of Beating with the Muses amounts to the theme of the Gargim, where Socra· res explores the possibility of a punitive rhetoric. The Protagorm and the Gorgias are a paired set of dialogues that mke the R~public apan. The Gorgias examines the soul-muaure of the &public apart from the city, and the Proragorm examines the ciry-srrucrure of the Republic apart from the soul. The rwo dialogues thus ful611 Socrates' daim that the relation between rhetoric and sophiscry is analogous to rbar berween the an of justice and tbe art of legislation, which he sketches at the beginning of rhe Gargim. There he asserts that as cosmetics is ro cookery so sophiStry is ro rhetoric, and as gymnastics is to medicine so legislation is to justice.
Proagor:u's Myth and Logos
Sophistry and rheroric are the phantom images of two genuine am. They are phantoms because they pass off the irrational as rational, Gol:gias in starting from the so-called Socratic th.,is tha.t virtue is knowledge, and Protago.ras from the rationaliry of punishment. The movement of the N.'O dialogues is rhus rcvened. In the Corgias, Socrares passes from the epistemic-h.igh of the Gorgias section, through the rationality ofjust punishment, to an attack on pleasure, whereas in the ProtagorQJ. Protagoras begins with the rationality of punishment, and Socrates separates them through his Spartan myth, where Spartan courage is the mask of wisdom, only to end up with a pseudo-science of pleasure. Socratic politics in its truth is as alien from hanhness as it is from hedonism, but this does not preclude it from playing at botb as genuine displays of iu own good counse~ rather, it is all but compdled toward these.
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E L
E N
On Plato's Lysis [Prof....,, James Gordley] had osserttd rhar within limits a word c.m be app~ed to different pan.irulaJ:s, but srlU have an invariable meaning. Thus, one can make a "friend" of a muluplicity of human beingsthough not of a kangaroo. Professor Daube replied, "Perhaps in sraid Berkeley, a sincere and lasting friendship with a lcangaroo is beyond the pale, but in San I'r:w.cisco, where I l;ve, it is rogarded as enrlrely normal ... 1
present himself :tc his sleaziesr. He reports how he undertook to pimp for rhe silly H ippothales and succeeded first in smashing the false pride of Lysis and dten in breaking down rhe disrinaion between love and friendship, so rhat Lysis could nor bur accepr Hippothales into the same association he shared with Menexenos. The puzzle, Who ls a friend? served as a cover for the display of Socrates' erotic redmique. That he did it for free seems to make it all the more reprehensible, since he did nor have the excu.~e of his own advantage for disillwioning Lysis about his family and advancing Hippothales' inreresrs. [f we disregard the frame and consider the argumentS about rbe friend in themselves, we imita're Socrates, who argues for the neutrality of body, soul, and other chings, if each is taken by itself, as if there ever were a living body rhar was neirher sick nor healtl:ty. The rheorerical arrirude thar Socro:res ocempli6cs. in urgi.n.g the perspective of neutral being, is as false to the nature of things as is the detachment of the perplexicies of friendship from a serring that determined from the srarr the rrium phanr assimilacio.n of philnn ro mm This harsh indicrmeru of SocmR$ iJ ddivered by Socrares himself. He makes himself look bad without offering any defense. His accoum, which confirms the worst nightmares of Athenian F.uhers, supplies his auditors with Jar more info.rmarion abour whar reaUy happened than anyone within the dialogue. could know. The,re is, in rhe lirsr place. rhe difference between the circle ofyoung men, whom Socrares meets ouuide .Mikkos's palaestra, and the boys within, who do nor know the purpose of IN T II E £ YSJ S PLATO HAS $0 C R AT B S
•98
On Placo's Lpis
Socrates' questioning, The boys are naive theoreticians of friendship, the young men have already lost theit innocence. Among the boys, moreover, Lysis sh~ with the young men an argument that Menexenos does nor know; Lysis shares with Socrares a conversation that the young men aff not privy tO; and we share with SocrateS his inr.erpretation of events no one knew at the time. We know in patticular of a mistake Socrates almost made. Even if, however, we are more privileged than anyone. else, we still have not been fully taken into Socrates' confidence. We are not his most intimate friends before whom Socrates lets down his hair and from whom he holds nothing back. Socrar.es' shamdessness, in allowing us, on the basis of evidence he himself supplied, ro look at him in the worst possible light, cannot be construed as candor. Socrates has left things out. He does not expl2in, in general, why be re.tells the story, and, in parricular, why he decided to hdp Hippothales our and nor continue on his way to the Lyceum. Although he is not unamacted by Hippothales' invit:ttion to join him and enter the palaestra, he still resists before he finds out whether there. is anything in it for him. In the interval between SocrateS' question- "On what condition shall I enter?" -and the arrangement that guaranteed the ensnarement of Lysis, Socrates heard something that made up his mind to enter. We are left ro punle our for ourselves what finally induced Socrates to show oR' his skills and blacken his name. The complete crust we associate with friendship, Socrates assi.g ns to knowledge. It is through wisdom, Socrates tells Lysis, that Lysis could be universally loved and at the same time g;Un the freedom ro do as he liked. Jusr as whoever is rrusred to be an expert cook can add ro the soup all the salt he wants, and whoever is trusted ro be an expert physician can pour ashes inro the eyes of the son of the Persian king. so Socrates, who proves ro Hippothales his own competence in erotic things, can ddude any forlorn lover, who puts nimsc.lf entirely in his hands, and carry our any whi.msical enterprise he hru in mind. On this occasion Socrates' whim is to declare his lack of friends and baffiernenr before the question, "Who is a friend?" Within the claim robe wise in erotic things, Socrates discusses his own ignorance. While he prerends to know in an instant who is lover and who beloved, he pretends nor ro know who is the &iend. [fwe assume that the lover wants to become. a friend, or, ar least as Hippothalc:s puts it, wants to become &iendly (prosphilis) to rhe beloved, Socrates' knowledge scops at inequalities, but if and when an equality is realiud, his ignorance begins. Socrares knows everything there is to kn.o w about the imbalance and instability of relations, bur when it comes to harmony and what the proverb koina ta phi/1;n means, Socrares is ar a loss. Philosophy,
199
l.OO
Ch•pIophia had nor ~ designated erolDsophia (wisdom of love), and if Socrates had been in charge from the lint:, whether philosophy would have been srarnped with his own nnderstartding of ir. If Socr.nes is nece$$a(ily a secondary development within philosophy, Is the emergence of eros as philosophy likewise secondary~ Pannenides' own chariot is urged on by thwnos, bur when Pacmenides is a Plaronic character he speaks at least metaphorically of ero1. t Ir might !,., thought, alternatively, that Soccares is perfectly satis· 6ed with "philosophy," and nothing is at stake in the apparenr difference IJ04
Chaptc. Eleven
offipring gave w Her.ades on. the basis of their kinship, Hippotbales would have written an old-fashioned Pindaric epinikion. We can easily reconmucr on a Pindaric model the general plan of such a poem. lc would have begun with the parallel between Hippothales winning Lysis and his family wirming chariot aces. There would chen have been an account of the relation between the universal and the local, between Zeus and the daughter of the hero-founder of an Attic derne, and how this relation led to the bestowal of a heredinuy priesthood of the He.raclidae on the family ofLysis.1 Hippothales' love-poem and vicrory ode in one would also put side by side a scory of love and a story of friendship (unismos}. A mytbic:al connectio.n would have been made between em and philia. The Pindaric Hippotbales would be saying that the heroic contains within itself both tb.e beau!)' of eros and the sacred bond of friendship, and the Iauer is an offspring of the forrne.r. One's own is erot.ically divine in origin, bur genealogic:ally ir is preserved through the sacred. All this would then be renewed in the mutual love of Lysis and Hippothales, of which the poem icself would be the n.ew offspring. Socrates dismantles this entice f.Ucy tale. Ir may do as poetry, bur it does not answer H:ippothales' n.eeds. Ktesippos saw char Hippotbales had lost sight of Lysis in writin.g up family history and myth. Despire the anemion he must have given to Lysis, Hippotbales could nor come up with anything that was both properly Lysis's and lovable. Lysis's beauty, which made him known to Socrates, was in the form of t!idos (204es) it manifesred the class-and everything else Hippothales collected had nothing peculiar (idion) to Lysis in iL Ir is, I chink, chis remark of Kresippos that setdes the issue for Socrates whether he is ro inrerrupr his journey or not. The idum, which is good and does not become u.niversal once there is knowledge, determines Socrates' inquiry inro the friend. In raking away from Lysis any ground for hi$ pride, Socrates offers simultaneously the exhilaration of omnicompetence or wisdom char would give back w Lysis even more chan was taken away. But what happens co Soctares, who knows cha.r wisdom is impossible? How can he keep anyrhin.g his own in light of his ign.orance1 Socrates can knock Lysis down while he sets him up, but is not Socrates already down and our for the coum? The picture he paints for Lysis-the freedom co do whatever he likes while usurping through. his wisdom what is really his-cannot even be a dream for Socrates. \Vithin the domain of his erotic science, Socrates can of course become everyone's friend and do with them what be likes, bur rhis partial scien.c e is as nothing 10 what Socrates does nor know; and
On PLuo'• /..pis
besides, even within the erotic domain, Socrates does not have an)'thing that is his own, for by his knowledge his own returns to him as a universaL It is precisely because the wise Lysis would have nothing of his own that Socrates has to offer him the freedom of whimsi.cality. The i.n dilkrenee of vdleity survives rota! wisdom, and nothing else. It is the counterparr ro Socrates' peaonal rasre for friends in light of his erotic wisdom. Lysis's peculiar good, which Hippothales failed to spot, is discovered by Socrates. An outburst of Lysis against his express promise not to be more than a listener elicits Socrates' pleasure at his phiwsophia (213d7). Philosophy seems to be that which can be one's own despite one's ignorance. A blush immediately followed lysis's outburst. He realized that he had erred and against his will confessed it. This involuntaty expression of shame, which publicly displays something one wishes to keep private, is at the opening of the Lyris. Hippothales first blushes when Socrates sees through his carefully neutral and philosophic answer to Socrates' question, ~Who is the beauty?~ "One of us thinks one is, another another. • By his wording, Hippothales wanted to forestall Socrates' question, but instead he left an opening. He wanted Socrates to enter without declaring his interest. His wording expresses the same indifference as Socrates does when he puts his love of friends on a par "ith any other acquisitive preference (104b3, md7-8). Hippothales blushes a second time and even more after Socrates tells him about his peculiar gift. Socrates' gift seems to be nothing more than the capacity to understand the blush. That the blush occurs exclusively in Socratically narrated dialogues-1Uld nowhere more frequently is there the verb for it (n-urhrian) than in the Lyrir'-.suggesr:s that it is of some importance for philosophy and Socrates' need to retain his own withom knowledge. The Lysis also contains the only occasion when Socrates admits he almosr made a mistake. After he. ha.s nU!Diliated Lysis, he was about to point out triumphantly to Hippothales that rhis is how one goes about cutting a beloved down to size, but hluo's Lysis •n on rhe modd ofphilippot and pl!ilortux, he is a philophilot, or, as he phrases ir in ordet, perhaps, to lessen the paradox, a phiktaiTOJ (me8) ;11 but in the ordinary understanding of a friend, Lysis has Menexenos as his friend, he does not have someone who is .nothing bur a friend. A horse or quail exists in irsd.f, and chen one acquires ir; but Socrates wants co acquire what is before his acquisition of it a friend. The friend, rhe.n, must be from rhe scm his own; bur if he does not have it, it musr be alienated from him, and wbar he wants is for his own ro be restored co him. Socrates says be bas lived in thu radical form of sdf-11lienarioo since childhood. lr is as if he IY.Id directed early on the argument with Lysis against himself and discovaed what was his own was not his own. The primary furm of this experience i.l ro doubt the legitimacy of one's birth; we may call it the T demaehean expe.rience in honor of the one who lim exprmed it in Greek liretacure. 16 According co Socrates himself, the young experience philosophy just as if rhcy realized they were adopred: they no longer consider as uuc anyrhing the law tells them. 17 Socrates, then, would have just delivered rhis shock-treatment ro Lysis; and in order to set him on rhe. righr course represents himself as permanently in rhis condition. Wbar is rhis condition? If we replace Socrates' phiktairOJ with pbiibphilos and rhereby make the second element as verbal as the first. Socrates' pbilein is of a pbikin. Since ir is bard to imagine what that second phikin could be except philosophy, Socrates would be a love.r of philosophy from ehildhood. lo order for this ro make. sense, it would have co be rbe case rhac philosophy was elusive, and not eve.ry time Socrates engaged in a philosophic i.lsue w:u Socrates engaged in philosophy. Socrattf would necessarily be aware of what constituted philosophy, but philosophy would not automatically be before him once he started asking about what he did nor know. A physicist is doing physics while he is looking for the answer co some problem: bur the philosopher does not have available ro him a way of goin.g about philosophy. He falls into philosophy.'* What rbe Stranger shows in rhe Sophi1rand Srarmnan is rhat philosophy comes with the breakdown of one's way and rhe subsequent awareness of the necessiry of irs breaking down, but rhar one cannot anticipate rhe breakdown and srarr with the correction of error built in (c:£ LysiJ :t13e2-3) . Socrares' own name for this is a second sailing. Thar Socrates has philosophy in mind as his dusive friend is not obvious; bur in surveying the arguments one cannot help noticing that Socrates leaves behind the poets and those who talked and wrote about natu.re and the whole as soon as he scans over again wirh rhc unprcct:denccd notion of the neither I nor. The plan of the eight ~>tgun>cnrs about rhe friend is as follows:
1.n
Ct..pcer Eleven 1.
Argument witb Lysis:
the destruction of the oikt>s and the oilttion ofL}-.is (2.07ds-11od8).
z. Argwnenr wirh Menexenos: ho phibJs '"" phiwu (wd6- 113ds). J. Argument with L~il: 4- Argument with Mc:nexenos: 5· Argumenr with Menexenos: 6. Argument with Menexon05: 7. Argument with MtntxJ6
C~ter
Twelve
quires rhat Charmides not be ashamed of exposing himself ro a manger, and the easiest way to auange tbax, Critias believes, is oo make the relation a professional one between doaor and patient: Doetor Socrates has automatic access ro the secreo; of Cbarmides.2 Knowledge makes shame vanish. It is the psychic equival.e nt to the public display of nakedness that. established by custom, distinguishes Greeks from barbarians. Cririas tells Socrates that Charmides bas been waking up each morning wirb a headache. "The headache is." ro quote a medical manual for the family, "without a doubt the most common symptom of man: almOst any disorder can initiate an mack." The headache is a universal sign, manifest in a part, that some pan or other is nor in il'S proper condition. Cbannides' headache is no more than suggestive of the doctrine Socrates ascribes to Tbracian doaors, that the good condition of the pan depends on the good condition of the whole, for the headache is a general sign, it i& nor a sign of the general The experie.nce of disorder in a part that by itself points directly to the plausibiliry of a disorder in the whole as being causally related to it. i& left to Socrates. When Charmides bas come over and sat down, his ditea glance at Socrates forces him ro look away and down; Socrates tberwpon sees ta mtos and has an erection, which be describes to the auditor in suitably veiled language. It is not Cbarmides' headache but Socrates' own experien.ce, ro which no one present is privy, that iniriates the elaborate tale of Thracian medicine with its incanrarions and drugs. We have then a sptit between the basis of the dialogue and the basis of the narrative. Cbarmides' experience of immoderation is the occasion for the form in which rbe question of soplmmml arises; but it i& Socrates' immoderation that expe.rienrially grounds the Thracian teaching. What is theory for Charmides is faa for Socrates. The examination of Cbarmides' siiphrostml serves Socrates' self-knowledge. The auditor learns that Socrarcs at this moment was no longer in himself (m munaou}, be learns this when Socrates is fully in control: as narrator he can say and nor say what he wanrs about himself and everyone else. Self-control i.n the su:ict sense sett)lS ro be possible only if there is complete control of everyone dse. N:marion is the retrospective equivalent of what in the present would be universal ryranny. Socrates had returned ro his customary haunts with all rbe confidence that the routine brings; his being white on white bad assured him that be would not be forced to depart from his ways by anyone. Socrares could always adapt to any circumstance and play the role it called for. Cbarmides was no challenge. Nothing could surprise Socrat.cs. He is incapable of wonde.r. He cannot philo.wpbize, for philnsophy ceases to he itself if it becomes routine. It
lnterprerhlg Plato's Channitks is not possible to think philosophically if what one thinks is a tradition, in which thought has become belief. Thus the issue of the transmissibility of philosophy is the same as the issue of Socrates' self-knowledge. To be oucside oneself is the necessary condicion for philosophy, and to be outside oneself is to be wholly lacking in moderation and self-knowledge. Socrates says that the approach of Charmides caused much laughter. Everyone, in trying to make room for him next to himself, pushed his neighbor, and rhey succeeded in knocking one man at one end sideways, and anorher at the ocher end was forced to stand up. The expression Socrates uses, epoiise gelota polun. makes it unclear whether anyone actually laughed when they were pushing in earnest (spoudii); and it is perfectly possible that the laughter belongs to the narrative level: the auditor should find it funny. The funny indeed is the only way in which philosophy can be transmitted intact, for only it by nature contains within itself the necessary distance between surface and insight. What then was funny about the siruation Socrates describes? Since everyone had heard what the arrangement was, rhat SOcrates was to converse with Charmides, arid that accordingly the only proper place for him was between Critias and Sacrares, ir is hard m see why room was not made for him at once. Only if everyone was no less excited than Socrates and hence embarrassed to stand up does their pushing make sense. The auditor is thus forced to experience in the form of laughter the intrusion of the unexpected that Socrates himself underwent. The wholly particular character of eros is transmitted in the universal form of the laughable. Techni and aporia, "art" and ..perplexiry," cease m be opposed to one another. Socrates informs Charmides that the drug for the head. is. of no use without a prior incantation. Charmides says, "Then I shall copy it from you." The incantation is a universal formula that allows for the name of the patient to be inserted in the appropriate slots. The incantation is in the. form of any successful transmission: Charmides can recite it where and when he wants to without the presence of Socrates or any Other witness. The stripping of his soul is either unnecessary or it can be done by himself in private without shame. Socrates' question seems to grant Charm ides' assumption: "If you persuade or even if you do not?" There is nothing intrinsically impossible in transcribing the incantation, regardless of whether Socrates himself has written it down or not: Socrates could be forced to hand it over. 1t turns out, however, that the incantation is not necessary; the drug by itself could cure Charmides' headache, but the Thracian doctor strictly enjoined Socrates not to give the drug without first applying the incanrarion. Wirhout sOphrosuniit is of no use for Char-
237
138
Chap<er Twd..:
m.ides co bhrosuni is unique because it is of itsdf and aU the other sciences. Cririas, rbeo, first denies 6o
Cruaprcr Thirteen mode as the only auly Hellenic one, and clearly despises the esteem in wh.ich Athens holds tragedy {J.8:Wl-b6, 188d2-8). Al the same rime, however, Laches cltarly does not reg:ud himself a.s devoted to war ro the same extent he bclit=s rh.e Spaams are, and Nicias deh.berarely gets his goat by citing the phil4polotW$l.amachus as no less wise than be {197C5- 7).8 Whar best shows off perhaps his Artie strain is his camch.rcsis of mou.siltos and doristi (t88d}, 6). Mou.sikos does not mean for l.ach<S "skilled in music, • which ir Still does for Soccues when he says In rhe &public that Glaucon, Adimanrus, and be wiD not be nwu.siltoi before rhey are thoroughly acquainted with the species of moderation and courage in themselves and their images (4mb9-e8}; but Laches' mou.siltos has mken on a novel sense rhat, while drained of tahni, does not preserve any connection with the performance of music either, even though Laches has to borrow the musical rerm doristi, but again it u unrelated ro any scale. In spite, however, of these noncognidve extensions of mbusiltos and h1Zt7110nia, Laches is saying that the real man (Ms al£thiis IVIir on, r88e8) is not as reticent as a Spartan but has speeches ro march his deeds. He may be claiming, it is true, a love of speeebes only to accommodate Socrares, from whom be seems to expect an eloquence that he can then borrow as his own and thus live up to the rc:ally (tiii ortti) harmonized man he has posrulared; bur Laches' admiration for Soc.rares soves him from being entirdy Socrates' timocraric rnon, who is more willful and slightly less musical than Glaucoo (&public 54lle4-549a1).' There is more ro Laches than he eon ttpress; but there is also more in what he says than we find in his words on courage. His vi~ of courage is much narrower than what he indicates he believes constitutes a real man. Although it would seem that a phrase like "a man auly a mao" should be no differen~ from the narure of manliness, Laches never connectS the virtue on~ with what he takes to be the anir mou.siltos. That Laches senses a connection is shown particularly in his confrontation with Nicias, where he plainly appeals to himself and othe.rs as proof positive that Nicias could not be mon: mismken.. Perb2ps what stands in the way of Laches' thematizing the connection is his agn:cmeot with Socrotes that andr~ia is a pan of vinue, whereos he surely d~ nor suppose a rrue man is defective in any way. Laches, then, fails ro grasp courage because he feels compelled ro resrricr it to a part while what he meems is a man who is a whole and all of a piece. IfNicias srumbles because he oxpands a parr inro a whole, Laches mUses the mark the other way around: he has a whole in mind that courage as a pan cannot m.eosure up ro. The loose language of contempt- like Oeon's "If th.e generals were men" - which
Plato'• 1.-uha
Laches fully exp~ and somewhat understands, re$ists guiding or even bcing raken inro account once Socrates .-aUes the formal question, What is courage? Not only the language but th.e opinions generally held have drifted away from the reality of what it means ro be a man. The shift· from substantive anir to possessive adjective andnio69
270
Chaprer Thirreen is involved in a play of which he is at first the spectator and finally the protagonist. Nicias and Laches seem at first to be totally unlike. Nicias is specularive, Laches is factual when it comes roan assessment of Sresilaos's kind of instruction. Laches looks to the man, Nicias to the ways in which a whole cluster of sciences would arrange the events of one's life. This difference about IJoplztik~ is then expanded and developed into the deeper issue of courage. The natural beast-man of Laches is opposed to the knowledge ofNicias, which knows the good and evil of every past, present, and future: event. Laches tries to get Nicias to say that Nicias himself is the courageous man in his sense (195e3-4); bur Nicias will nor be drawn and persists in developing an argument that is wholly divorced from any known carrier of the knowledge. If we label Laches' undemanding of courage ucharacrern and Nicias's uplor,n we have the two elements that make up any tragedy. Pulled a pan, as they are in rhe dialogue, plot overwhelms character. Nicias devises a plot of inescapable necessity, in which everything unfolds in the future in accord with a causal nexus rhar stretches far back into rhe past and fiu forward into the future. This plot is wholly indifferent to character and, curiously enough. it sweeps Nicias up into irs net and displays him ro us ren years before the denouement as already fared to act out his historical future. Plato, in other words, by inserting the LadJtS into rime, allows us to watch the beginning of the catastrophe we read in Thucydides. We become spectators of a man fighting in armor, who ties himself up in such a way that the solution is the outcome we already know. Nicias, Thucydides says, least deserved the degree of misfortune he mer with (7.86.5); bur Plato has Nicias himself draw up the rhc:ory that predetermines that end. Nicias lives a peculiarly Athenian tragedy. As Socrates leads Nicias to explicate his understanding of courage, a certain brutality comes to light in Nicias and Laches that could pass for either the: ruthlessness of reason or the indifference indispensable to rhe general who must send men to their deaths. It is again the split between plot and character, so that one should nor rake the agreement between Nicias and Laches on this point as necessarily having the same source and admitting of the same rationale. In answer to Laches' objection that neither rhe doctor nor the farmer is courageous because he has knowledge of the terrible and encouraging things, Nicias gets him to admit that just as it is nor better (am~inon) for all to live so it is preferable (kr~itton) for many to be dead (195d1-3). That Laches docs nor think at once of the general as rhe one who has this knowledge shows that he does nor rake the estimation of battle-losses ro be a judgment on the worth of rhose
J mao··
Pl•ro's Uuha who are going ro be killed. Whar, howeve,r, about Nicios~ Of whom is he rhinking when he denies that the soothsayer knows whether or nor ir is berrer ro suffer death, defear, disease, or loss of money? Laches dismisses the possibility thar Nicios could mean a god-immonals have nothing ro fear-and assails Nicias for his insincere elusiveness. He grantS that if they were on trial, Nicias's ractics would be in order (19634-b]); bur he docs nor see rhu Nicias's model is rhe judge, who passes sentence in lighr of the good and evil the accused should undergo. Nicias's judge, howeve.r, must be divine, and his knowledge be a theodicy in accordance with which everything rurns our in conformity wirh right. lJ That Nicias himself believes thar he is in possession of such a releolog· ical horoscope eme~ from his actions in Sicily. Just prior ro the moon's eclipse, and su~uenr ro a disasrrous nighr barrie, Demosthenes recomme.nds withdrawal; bur Nicias refuses, and rhe first reason he gives is thar on their rerum rhey will face a hostile court and be condemned by the very sol.diers who are now complaining so vociferously about the dread· fulness of their presenr circumsrances, and thu he ar least prefen ro be killed by the enemy-he does nor speak of death on the bardefiddrather rha.n ro perish unjusdy on so base a charge ar rhe hands of the Athenians (7.48·3-4). The eclipse of the moon gives Nicias the chance to bring about a coincidence between his judgment thar his army would be berrer off dead in Sicily than unjust and alive in Ath.e.ns and the interval needed ro insure that result. Nicias saves rhe Athenians from rhernselves without lifting a finger: he merely follows divine guidance. The salvation he grants them agrees ro the lerrer wirh the theory Plaro assigns him. To condemn so many men for the sake of holding them back &om o.n error thei.r nature would otherwise make them commit. surely requires nerves of steel. This is a grace under pressure Hemingway never dreamed of. Nicias's knowledge of the terrible is terrible. !! [fa theodicy stands in the background of Nicias's undet$tanding of courage, what srands in the foreground? The knowledge of Ill deiM itai ta mi is usually formulated in a speech that is desi.gned to give others con6.dence in the policy one proposes. Demosthenes, for example, ar Pyios makes such a speech (4.10), jusr as Phonnion docs before the second naval batde of the \Yar (2.89); bur it seems strange to identifY the confideoc:e Demosthenes or Phormion mighr have had in his own speech with knowledge. If, however, one's proposal were &amed in terms of grearer and lesser risks, then J.."ttowledgk. Rd'umcion of Cebet J. Myth 4· Socrates' dearh
Jacob Klein has observed that the comea of the Phaedo is mythical because, when Phaedo has tO explain to Echecrares rhe reason for 1he delay in Socrates' execut ion-between me rime he was condemn.ed and the rime he drank the poison-he has to 1ell the story of how Theseus saved fourteen Athenian youths from the Minotaur, which was the yearly contribution tha.t Minos, the Icing of Crete, required from Athens. And in Phaedo's description of those who were pr=nt on this last day, he mentions fourteen names. At the end of the dialogue, Socrates is referred to as loolcing like a bull- loolcing somewhat like a Minoraur. A wholly mythical structure is imposed upon Socrates; it is not something he devises. It is rhe labyrinth our of which be will have to lead his fourteen companions and save them from the fear of death. Now rhe consequence of this story about Theseus is that every year the Arhenians send a ship ro Delos, during which rime the law prohibits public executions. Ac· cording to Phaedo, this constitutes a purification of the city. So the occa· sion of the PhMdo, which is now corning to an end, is that the city, Athens, has suspended its righr to execute criminals it has lawfully con· demned tO death. And this is said to be a purification. During this rime, then, Athens has given up its own identity, therefore allowing for the possibility that the city itself is based upon an unrighteous foundation. The purification rums our to have led Socrates to revise his interpretation o( his recurring dream about what be should do. The dream kepr on telling him tbar he W2S to practice music, and he had inrerprered chis tO signify the practice of philosophy. Because the city has suspended its own nature, Socrates bas wondered whethe.r he, roo, is guilty of misunderstanding the dream. He has turned to his own form of purification in writing poetry. The purification of Athens and the purification of Socrates ue the mpics of rhe fir:st and last sections of the opening part of the Phaedo. When Socrates is engaged in his own activity, namdy philo· sopby, the city is engaged in irs own activity. And these two activities are in direct conJlia with one another. When the city, on the other hand, suspends irs own activity, Socrates suspends his also. So the normal under· standing of the rdation between Athens, in doing what it does, and Socra· res, in doing what be does, is a situation of rwo intersecting activities leading ro his coodemnati.on. When however, the city suspends itself and Socrates suspends himself, they meet in the realm of poetry and myth:
On Plaro's Phut/4
uch doing lben, works out a way in which his maieutics could he undersmod as fully in conformity with Protagoras's understanding of wisdom. The Procagorean rbesis has two anchors. The 6rst is relacively uivial. The bitterness or sweetness of wine depends on the condition of the drinker. At the other end is the plausible thc:sis that cities ate likewise either hcalrby ot sick, but the set of aurboritacive opinions of each ciry, which o.re called laws, dete.rmine what is beautiful and just or what is ugly and unjust. We can call the beautiful and just together mornliry. Mornliry is the way in which the ciry expresses as a symptom irs condition. It is rbe equivalent of a plant's percepcions-its turning to the light, for example, or its sending our roots in search of moisture-that reveals to the farmer its unde.rlying state, which the plant knows no more about chan the ciry knows about itsdf. Each ciry holds its morality to be true, but morality is nor uue or falslam's Sophhl
leading if it is not accompanied by a procedure that informs us how to trarulate itS letters into sounds- irs apbiina inro rumphona. The. key ro this procedure is provided by the observation that only one of the letters of his alphabet is o:plained. !king, motion, l'IU is qualified with hosper or the like. If we ra.ke the qu:Uilicarion stticcly, ic is not the case thar we are ignoranr of everything hupar, only in a sense are .,.., so ignoranr: the Strange.r pe.rhaps refen 11..
10
the knowledge of ignorance.
A sign of this is the mysterious he*<Jusion at 1]6eo applied to politiU as
opposed to the tyrant. The tyrant rules over hoi bWoi as the statesman over hoi heltflUSioi, but the voluntaty natur< of his art cannot he in opposition tO cbc rduaanc:e of the tyrant. The distinction. ofcourse, between volunrary and forced is Iacer admiued to be inapplieahle 10 $cicnri6c rule (196, t9SI· •Achilles and H«tor. 1n. Homeric Hero. • Ph.D. dis.sc:mrlon. UniV0. I b96J): t- (1981): »7-4"· • "The Furies of AcscbyiU$. • Mmwcript. 1981. The Bnng -/the &tsoph] jounwl n (1986): 9- ;6. Sl"'J''Oi""'. Translation. lA Th< DUtlopn .fPLno, >jr-86. New York: B.nram 1.\oob,
•986. a..;.., of M. Gir>udcau. l.el ,.,mm, ~ n lflt:Wn tbee HmN/4t9S- J09·
•"Procq;oru' Myth and Logos.• Monwcript. 1988. S«nrtn ' S«onti S.ifin:: On PLno I ~bli and Convcnion: Apuleios's Mrntmoryhosa." In Utnmy 1-fhuulon, Ancimt and MDdun: £mty. in Hont1T of Dalli.J Gror•, cd. Todd Brqfugle. lSS-76. Chiago: Univcmty of Chicago Pteos, 1999· "Socraias, !£ Agathoo: and Atiswplunca. 121- 71, lb. ~ poruy in •pccch o( 176: apccch of. 12s- n; Suau.sa on. i!1i wisdon•
=
o£. ~ A&: in O<Jipus TJ"'nnMS, :u; nruc· rurc of. Jh; rruc in Rrp.-bliS-•7• !:!2; spliu Socn.1cs, J~: w.~y of. H> -n
411
426
Index Elecm. in Chos k•talhos, split between Laches and Nidas. 1.72
'117
4>8
l.ndcx
Lop: lS"nt and aetion in, 1!!' ari dunm·
/Gmtr/4 (peulstcnoe), '73
KiUi.ng: :wd dying in Hom«. 16-n; and being kill61-M· n!. •z6n.n. !1! !Z. Niemd>e, on tragedy, !ll Norni.I:W sentence. l2i: J94n.lz; idealicy of, 1h. ill Nonbeing: being of, !Hi and logos. :!iZi. in ~phis; i l l u the Oss P•usanias, and Eryxim>chus, !1! Pak.rasty. th~,; and philosophy, ~ Ptnrbeu.s: conve:r:sion of. ~ maollncss:
of. J£ PetjW)'. ~ in Mnding of. 198 PhiloS4 Philosophy, U& ddi.nition of. r68, 1!>; experience of, = :a.nd good, »I: highest rhane of, >S4: bomde.ss. ~ hopeless, nor helpless, '-'9. >s4: in Lpis. 211- n ; withour method, 422.! and pcdera5ty, 17 9; and political philosophy, llt; and poetry, 4Q1! nonroutine ch:u-aacr of. ~J6; split in, p6; ""'"' of. uS; and ~Yt •:lso u::aditioa of: if!! ua.osmissioo ot 1?3· 118. ~ 198: and wiodom, Ulndigm of science of !he OUter, !Zin~!: in Suusma•, }5S!l Polus, mistake of, Porphyry, on IW and Otlyssq. !1 Posridon. n-a.rnc of, ~ Po~SI: of man, !ll Priest-king. in /uhem, ll2. Principle, ,.cri6ce of, l!Z! }4! Pcomethcus, 122.! ans and crimes of, rl4!1i comp.let.. Zeus's project, ~ d"''"ir of, IJ9: good coomcl of, IBl!;, in HC$tod, l3i ignor.mcc o£, tt7, 1SS homtthtw &Mru/, :and Prougom. ~ Prophros, at O.,lphi, 6>-64 Protagoras: oounrua.rgumcnts of, r91; and democr:acy, 191; cvidtmiaJ suppon for, 107; logo5 o~ ~ on · man the mc;a..
•= ·." •so: myth md logos of.
~
and &pl Soc>
. ,.
Seeming: in Oedipus TJ'"""'"· ~ in Sophist, ~
Self (•utos) , ~ de6ned in Pb.u~ •24•·J; illusory pcrpcwarion of, th Sdf-2."Nare.nm, yo-4-1 Sd.(..contl':ld.iaiun. in Phiutlo~ 2.94!!.1 Self-ronttol, ~ loo.s of in Socn.o:s, 1=16 Self-knowledge. m. !!!i and dialogue, 138: meaning of. 146: as pbilooophy, 1.11; not teadubl~, ~04: and wisdom~
404. See Dlso Knowledge Stven ag11ins~ Tbebts. 100, 12.9, ~74Jl.JO Sexual grnetation, and making. 1 Shame, 2.!, ~ 141- 4>; of Cbmnides, ~ of Cririas, 14S: and feu in Arisrode, ~ in Hippof]M, 88-89. 91; in Owisdoms, !04. po; plays doaor. ~JS ~ doublcnm of, I1h: cro; love of philosophy, w. 1:11.; in L_.,U. 197-99; m.akcup of, 200; on mimesis, z; mother of~ 1!!! noble Ue o( m; os ~. ll2!i the pcdc..st. rcvc.rscs Pbacd..,., !2S os pimp, .198; of Plas: of Socrates, ~ ili Sun. in lkpublie and TimMtU, J8s s,ponum, ~ polidc:al-thcologic:al dirDMSion o(, ~ tim~ of. ~ 181; mgic spcrchcs in, !ZZi unity of, t6ll Symptoms: of conditions, U£ moality ... 1!!2.
r. iNtUh>o pr41Uim as an and principk. H+=W of Somtcs, Jzm.to Taming: in Pro-"-' Bftrul. uB Tcchnology, ill. ill Tdcmacbus: os hero, !2i shame of, w Tdcology: of C\il, :!-4!, ~ of Socrates, ~90::91
Thcaeterus, J>0->1: heaucy of, JO>: dassi· 6es roots, 11in. s~ combinc:s Heradirus and Prougoras, lQZi defines knowJ. edge, tU: capcdcncc of S=nga, JSt: four olfsprin& of, 12£ IW knowledge, JOt: made barren. :w.: narwe of. J•s'W in S.phisr. ~ 1o6: on soul, l!:li U&lincss of, .lQQ TINALtnru, !!!; argument of, !.fL logos of, 197: two principles of, 1o6: rda· Jt~Ument of TIN- 112: on Thact, 100: utopi· anism oC ill TIN~"!· plan of. s
Triple coad. in o.Jipou Tpnma, 19 Trojan!: c:lu.ncrrr of, !L ~ once silent., nn.6 Truc:h: and error. J!ii and ~e. ,.. n: of fabc mucturc, !!2, SN Jso Enos Two: conjWJU: puts of. !2!!, 184: pleasure of. 141; and wisdom, l!.! Vowel~ atad consonanrs, l14i nama: of,
!.li
War, in .ProtagtJms, ~91-24. Wasbi.ngton. G., 2?..w.n. Wtaviog.. ~ ~9~n.z~ of A.Wna. no; di.a~ lccrks as, 37« and shame. ~ LWO kinds of, )4,9; of vinue, •~~> Whole. the: wd one, !Zli and port., !3§, ~ ~ 41:.; in 1'11