Complete Works (253 page)

What do you mean?

Between ourselves—for
you
won’t denounce me to the tragic poets or any of the other imitative ones—all such poetry is likely to distort the thought of anyone who hears it, unless he has the knowledge of what it is really like, as a drug to counteract it.

What exactly do you have in mind in saying this?

I’ll tell you, even though the love and respect I’ve had for Homer since I was a child make me hesitate to speak, for he seems to have been the first teacher and leader of all these fine tragedians. All the [c] same, no one is to be honored or valued more than the truth. So, as I say, it must be told.

That’s right.

Listen then, or, rather, answer.

Ask and I will.

Could you tell me what imitation in general is? I don’t entirely understand what sort of thing imitations are trying to be.

Is it likely, then, that
I’ll
understand?

That wouldn’t be so strange, for people with bad eyesight often see
[596]
things before those whose eyesight is keener.

That’s so, but even if something occurred to me, I wouldn’t be eager to talk about it in front of you. So I’d rather that you did the looking.

Do you want us to begin our examination, then, by adopting our usual procedure? As you know, we customarily hypothesize a single form in connection with each of the many things to which we apply the same name. Or don’t you understand?

I do.

Then let’s now take any of the manys you like. For example, there are [b] many beds and tables.

Of course.

But there are only two forms of such furniture, one of the bed and one of the table.

Yes.

And don’t we also customarily say that their makers look towards the appropriate form in making the beds or tables we use, and similarly in the other cases? Surely no craftsman makes the form itself. How could he?

There’s no way he could.

Well, then, see what you’d call
this
craftsman?

[c] Which one?

The one who makes all the things that all the other kinds of craftsmen severally make.

That’s a clever and wonderful fellow you’re talking about.

Wait a minute, and you’ll have even more reason to say that, for this same craftsman is able to make, not only all kinds of furniture, but all plants that grow from the earth, all animals (including himself), the earth itself, the heavens, the gods, all the things in the heavens and in Hades beneath the earth.

[d]
He’d
be amazingly clever!

You don’t believe me? Tell me, do you think that there’s no way any craftsman could make all these things, or that in one way he could and in another he couldn’t? Don’t you see that there is a way in which you yourself could make all of them?

What way is that?

It isn’t hard: You could do it quickly and in lots of places, especially if you were willing to carry a mirror with you, for that’s the quickest way of all. With it you can quickly make the sun, the things in the heavens, the earth, yourself, the other animals, manufactured items, plants, and [e] everything else mentioned just now.

Yes, I could make them appear, but I couldn’t make the things themselves as they truly are.

Well put! You’ve extracted the point that’s crucial to the argument. I suppose that the painter too belongs to this class of makers, doesn’t he?

Of course.

But I suppose you’ll say that he doesn’t truly make the things he makes. Yet, in a certain way, the painter does make a bed, doesn’t he?

Yes, he makes the appearance of one.

What about the carpenter? Didn’t you just say that he doesn’t make the form—which is our term for the being of a bed—but only
a
bed?
[597]

Yes, I did say that.

Now, if he doesn’t make the being of a bed, he isn’t making that which is, but something which is like that which is, but is not it. So, if someone were to say that the work of a carpenter or any other craftsman is completely that which is, wouldn’t he risk saying what isn’t true?

That, at least, would be the opinion of those who busy themselves with arguments of this sort.

Then let’s not be surprised if the carpenter’s bed, too, turns out to be a somewhat dark affair in comparison to the true one.

All right. [b]

Then, do you want us to try to discover what an imitator is by reference to these same examples?

I do, if you do.

We get, then, these three kinds of beds. The first is in nature a bed, and I suppose we’d say that a god makes it, or does someone else make it?

No one else, I suppose.

The second is the work of a carpenter.

Yes.

And the third is the one the painter makes. Isn’t that so?

It is.

Then the painter, carpenter, and god correspond to three kinds of bed?

Yes, three.

Now, the god, either because he didn’t want to or because it was necessary for him not to do so, didn’t make more than one bed in nature, but [c] only one, the very one that is the being of a bed. Two or more of these have not been made by the god and never will be.

Why is that?

Because, if he made only two, then again one would come to light whose form they in turn would both possess, and
that
would be the one that is the being of a bed and not the other two.

That’s right.

The god knew this, I think, and wishing to be the real maker of the [d] truly real bed and not just
a
maker of
a
bed, he made it to be one in nature.

Probably so.

Do you want us to call him its natural maker or something like that?

It would be right to do so, at any rate, since he is by nature the maker of this and everything else.

What about a carpenter? Isn’t he the maker of a bed?

Yes.

And is a painter also a craftsman and maker of such things?

Not at all.

Then what do you think he does do to a bed?

He imitates it. He is an imitator of what the others make. That, in my [e] view, is the most reasonable thing to call him.

All right. Then wouldn’t you call someone whose product is third from the natural one an imitator?

I most certainly would.

Then this will also be true of a tragedian, if indeed he is an imitator. He is by nature third from the king and the truth, as are all other imitators.

It looks that way.

We’re agreed about imitators, then. Now, tell me this about a painter. Do you think he tries in each case to imitate the thing itself in nature or
[598]
the works of craftsmen?

The works of craftsmen.

As they are or as they appear? You must be clear about that.

How do you mean?

Like this. If you look at a bed from the side or the front or from anywhere else is it a different bed each time? Or does it only appear different, without being at all different? And is that also the case with other things?

That’s the way it is—it appears different without being so.

Then consider this very point: What does painting do in each case? Does [b] it imitate that which is as it is, or does it imitate that which appears as it appears? Is it an imitation of appearances or of truth?

Of appearances.

Then imitation is far removed from the truth, for it touches only a small part of each thing and a part that is itself only an image. And that, it seems, is why it can produce everything. For example, we say that a painter can paint a cobbler, a carpenter, or any other craftsman, even though he [c] knows nothing about these crafts. Nevertheless, if he is a good painter and displays his painting of a carpenter at a distance, he can deceive children and foolish people into thinking that it is truly a carpenter.

Of course.

Then this, I suppose, is what we must bear in mind in all these cases. Hence, whenever someone tells us that he has met a person who knows all the crafts as well as all the other things that anyone else knows and that his knowledge of any subject is more exact than any of theirs is, we must assume that we’re talking to a simple-minded fellow who has [d] apparently encountered some sort of magician or imitator and been deceived into thinking him omniscient and that the reason he has been deceived is that he himself can’t distinguish between knowledge, ignorance, and imitation.

That’s absolutely true.

Then, we must consider tragedy and its leader, Homer. The reason is this: We hear some people say that poets know all crafts, all human affairs concerned with virtue and vice, and all about the gods as well. They say [e] that if a good poet produces fine poetry, he must have knowledge of the things he writes about, or else he wouldn’t be able to produce it at all. Hence, we have to look to see whether those who tell us this have encountered these imitators and have been so deceived by them that they don’t realize that their works are at the third remove from that which is and are easily produced without knowledge of the truth (since they are only
[599]
images, not things that are), or whether there is something in what these people say, and good poets really do have knowledge of the things most people think they write so well about.

We certainly must look into it.

Do you think that someone who could make both the thing imitated and its image would allow himself to be serious about making images and put this at the forefront of his life as the best thing to do? [b]

No, I don’t.

I suppose that, if he truly had knowledge of the things he imitates, he’d be much more serious about actions than about imitations of them, would try to leave behind many fine deeds as memorials to himself, and would be more eager to be the subject of a eulogy than the author of one.

I suppose so, for these things certainly aren’t equally valuable or equally beneficial either.

Then let’s not demand an account of any of these professions from Homer or the other poets. Let’s not ask whether any of them is a doctor rather than an imitator of what doctors say, or whether any poet of the [c] old or new school has made anyone healthy as Asclepius did, or whether he has left any students of medicine behind as Asclepius did his sons. And let’s not ask them about the other crafts either. Let’s pass over all that. But about the most important and most beautiful things of which Homer undertakes to speak—warfare, generalship, city government, and people’s education—about these it
is
fair to question him, asking him this: “Homer, if you’re not third from the truth about virtue, the sort of craftsman [d] of images that we defined an imitator to be, but if you’re even second and capable of knowing what ways of life make people better in private or in public, then tell us which cities are better governed because of you, as Sparta is because of Lycurgus, and as many others—big and small—are because of many other men? What city gives you credit for being a good [e] lawgiver who benefited it, as Italy and Sicily do to Charondas, and as we do to Solon? Who gives such credit to you?” Will he be able to name one?

I suppose not, for not even the Homeridae
¹
make that claim for him.

Well, then, is any war in Homer’s time remembered that was won
[600]
because of his generalship and advice?

None.

Or, as befits a wise man, are many inventions and useful devices in the crafts or sciences attributed to Homer, as they are to Thales of Miletus and Anacharsis the Scythian?
²

There’s nothing of that kind at all.

Then, if there’s nothing of a public nature, are we told that, when Homer was alive, he was a leader in the education of certain people who took pleasure in associating with him in private and that he passed on a Homeric [b] way of life to those who came after him, just as Pythagoras did? Pythagoras is particularly loved for this, and even today his followers are conspicuous for what they call the Pythagorean way of life.

Again, we’re told nothing of this kind about Homer. If the stories about him are true, Socrates, his companion, Creophylus,
³
seems to have been an even more ridiculous example of education than his name suggests, for they tell us that while Homer was alive, Creophylus completely neglected [c] him.

They do tell us that. But, Glaucon, if Homer had really been able to educate people and make them better, if he’d known about these things and not merely about how to imitate them, wouldn’t he have had many companions and been loved and honored by them? Protagoras of Abdera, Prodicus of Ceos,
⁴
and a great many others are able to convince anyone who associates with them in private that he wouldn’t be able to manage his household or city unless they themselves supervise his education, and [d] they are so intensely loved because of this wisdom of theirs that their disciples do everything but carry them around on their shoulders. So do you suppose that, if Homer had been able to benefit people and make them more virtuous, his companions would have allowed either him or Hesiod to wander around as rhapsodes? Instead, wouldn’t they have clung tighter to them than to gold and compelled them to live with them in their homes, or, if they failed to persuade them to do so, wouldn’t they have followed them wherever they went until they had received sufficient education? [e]

It seems to me, Socrates, that what you say is entirely true.

Then shall we conclude that all poetic imitators, beginning with Homer, imitate images of virtue and all the other things they write about and have no grasp of the truth? As we were saying just now, a painter, though he knows nothing about cobblery, can make what seems to be a cobbler to those who know as little about it as he does and who judge things by their
[601]
colors and shapes.

That’s right.

And in the same way, I suppose we’ll say that a poetic imitator uses words and phrases to paint colored pictures of each of the crafts. He himself knows nothing about them, but he imitates them in such a way that others, as ignorant as he, who judge by words, will think he speaks extremely well about cobblery or generalship or anything else whatever, provided—so great is the natural charm of these things—that he speaks with meter, rhythm, and harmony, for if you strip a poet’s works of their musical colorings and take them by themselves, I think you know what [b] they look like. You’ve surely seen them.