Complete Works (85 page)

“If someone showed that the likes themselves come to be unlike or the [b] unlikes like – that, I think, would be a marvel; but if he shows that things that partake of both of these have both properties, there seems to me nothing strange about that, Zeno – not even if someone shows that all things are one by partaking of oneness,
⁵
and that these same things are many by partaking also of multitude. But if he should demonstrate this thing itself, what one is, to be many, or, conversely, the many to be one – at this I’ll be astonished.

“And it’s the same with all the others: if he could show that the kinds [c] and forms
⁶
themselves have in themselves these opposite properties, that would call for astonishment. But if someone should demonstrate that I am one thing and many, what’s astonishing about that? He will say, when he wants to show that I’m many, that my right side is different from my left, and my front from my back, and likewise with my upper and lower parts – since I take it I do partake of multitude. But when he wants to show that I’m one, he will say I’m one person among the seven of us, [d] because I also partake of oneness. Thus he shows that both are true.

“So if – in the case of stones and sticks and such things – someone tries to show that the same thing is many and one, we’ll say that he is demonstrating
something
to be many and one, not the one to be many or the many one – and we’ll say that he is saying nothing astonishing, but just what all of us would agree to. But if someone first distinguishes as separate the forms, themselves by themselves, of the things I was talking about a moment ago – for example, likeness and unlikeness, multitude and oneness, rest and motion, and everything of that sort – and then shows [e] that in themselves they can mix together and separate, I for my part,” he said, “would be utterly amazed, Zeno. I think these issues have been handled with great vigor in your book; but I would, as I say, be much more impressed if someone were able to display this same difficulty, which you and Parmenides went through in the case of visible things, also
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similarly entwined in multifarious ways in the forms themselves – in things that are grasped by reasoning.”

Pythodorus said that, while Socrates was saying all this, he himself kept from moment to moment expecting Parmenides and Zeno to get annoyed; but they both paid close attention to Socrates and often glanced at each other and smiled, as though they admired him. In fact, what Parmenides said when Socrates had finished confirmed this impression. “Socrates,” he [b] said, “you are much to be admired for your keenness for argument! Tell me. Have you yourself distinguished as separate, in the way you mention, certain forms themselves, and also as separate the things that partake of them? And do you think that likeness itself is something, separate from the likeness we have? And one and many and all the things you heard Zeno read about a while ago?”

“I do indeed,” Socrates answered.

“And what about these?” asked Parmenides. “Is there a form, itself by itself, of just, and beautiful, and good, and everything of that sort?”

“Yes,” he said.

[c] “What about a form of human being, separate from us and all those like us? Is there a form itself of human being, or fire, or water?”

Socrates said, “Parmenides, I’ve often found myself in doubt whether I should talk about those in the same way as the others or differently.”

“And what about these, Socrates? Things that might seem absurd, like hair and mud and dirt, or anything else totally undignified and worthless? Are [d] you doubtful whether or not you should say that a form is separate for each of these, too, which in turn is other than anything we touch with our hands?”

“Not at all,” Socrates answered. “On the contrary, these things are in fact just what we see. Surely it’s too outlandish to think there is a form for them. Not that the thought that the same thing might hold in all cases hasn’t troubled me from time to time. Then, when I get bogged down in that, I hurry away, afraid that I may fall into some pit of nonsense and come to harm; but when I arrive back in the vicinity of the things we agreed a moment ago have forms, I linger there and occupy myself with them.”

[e] “That’s because you are still young, Socrates,” said Parmenides, “and philosophy has not yet gripped you as, in my opinion, it will in the future, once you begin to consider none of the cases beneath your notice. Now, though, you still care about what people think, because of your youth.

“But tell me this: is it your view that, as you say, there are certain forms from which these other things, by getting a share of them, derive their
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names – as, for instance, they come to be like by getting a share of likeness, large by getting a share of largeness, and just and beautiful by getting a share of justice and beauty?”

“It certainly is,” Socrates replied.

“So does each thing that gets a share get as its share the form as a whole or a part of it? Or could there be some other means of getting a share apart from these two?”

“How could there be?” he said.

“Do you think, then, that the form as a whole – one thing – is in each of the many? Or what do you think?”

“What’s to prevent its being one,
⁷
Parmenides?” said Socrates.

“So, being one and the same, it will be at the same time, as a whole, in [b] things that are many and separate; and thus it would be separate from itself.”

“No it wouldn’t,” Socrates said. “Not if it’s like one and the same day. That is in many places at the same time and is none the less not separate from itself. If it’s like that, each of the forms might be, at the same time, one and the same in all.”

“Socrates,” he said, “how neatly you make one and the same thing be in many places at the same time! It’s as if you were to cover many people with a sail, and then say that one thing as a whole is over many. Or isn’t that the sort of thing you mean to say?”

“Perhaps,” he replied. [c]

“In that case would the sail be, as a whole, over each person, or would a part of it be over one person and another part over another?”

“A part.”

“So the forms themselves are divisible, Socrates,” he said, “and things that partake of them would partake of a part; no longer would a whole form, but only a part of it, be in each thing.”

“It does appear that way.”

“Then are you willing to say, Socrates, that our one form is really divided? Will it still be one?”

“Not at all,” he replied.

“No,” said Parmenides. “For suppose you are going to divide largeness itself. If each of the many large things is to be large by a part of largeness [d] smaller than largeness itself, won’t that appear unreasonable?”

“It certainly will,” he replied.

“What about this? Will each thing that has received a small part of the equal have something by which to be equal to anything, when its portion is less than the equal itself?”

“That’s impossible.”

“Well, suppose one of us is going to have a part of the small. The small will be larger than that part of it, since the part is a part of it: so the small itself will be larger! And that to which the part subtracted is added will [e] be smaller, not larger, than it was before.”

“That surely couldn’t happen,” he said.

“Socrates, in what way, then, will the other things get a share of your forms, if they can do so neither by getting parts nor by getting wholes?”

“By Zeus!” Socrates exclaimed. “It strikes me that’s not at all easy to determine!”

“And what do you think about the following?”

“What’s that?”

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“I suppose you think each form is one on the following ground: whenever some number of things seem to you to be large, perhaps there seems to be some one character, the same as you look at them all, and from that you conclude that the large is one.”

“That’s true,” he said.

“What about the large itself and the other large things? If you look at them all in the same way with the mind’s eye, again won’t some one thing appear large, by which all these appear large?”
⁸

“It seems so.”

“So another form of largeness will make its appearance, which has emerged alongside largeness itself and the things that partake of it, and [b] in turn another over all these, by which all of them will be large. Each of your forms will no longer be one, but unlimited in multitude.”

“But, Parmenides, maybe each of these forms is a thought,”
⁹
Socrates said, “and properly occurs only in minds. In this way each of them might be one and no longer face the difficulties mentioned just now.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Is each of the thoughts one, but a thought of nothing?”

“No, that’s impossible,” he said.

“Of something, rather?”

“Yes.”

[c] “Of something that is, or of something that is not?”

“Of something that is.”

“Isn’t it of some one thing, which that thought thinks is over all the instances, being some one character?”

“Yes.”

“Then won’t this thing that is thought to be one, being always the same over all the instances, be a form?”

“That, too, appears necessary.”

“And what about this?” said Parmenides. “Given your claim that other things partake of forms, won’t you necessarily think either that each thing is composed of thoughts and all things think, or that, although they are thoughts, they are unthinking?”
¹⁰

“That isn’t reasonable either, Parmenides,” he said. “No, what appears [d] most likely to me is this: these forms are like patterns set in nature, and other things resemble them and are likenesses; and this partaking of the forms is, for the other things, simply being modeled on them.”

“If something resembles the form,” he said, “can that form not be like what has been modeled on it, to the extent that the thing has been made like it? Or is there any way for something like to be like what is not like it?”

“There is not.”

“And isn’t there a compelling necessity for that which is like to partake of the same one form as what is like it?”
¹¹
[e]

“There is.”

“But if like things are like by partaking of something, won’t that be the form itself?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Therefore nothing can be like the form, nor can the form be like anything else. Otherwise, alongside the form another form will always make its appearance, and if that form is like anything, yet another; and if the form
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proves to be like what partakes of it, a fresh form will never cease emerging.”

“That’s very true.”

“So other things don’t get a share of the forms by likeness; we must seek some other means by which they get a share.”

“So it seems.”

“Then do you see, Socrates,” he said, “how great the difficulty is if one marks things off as forms, themselves by themselves?”

“Quite clearly.”

“I assure you,” he said, “that you do not yet, if I may put it so, have an inkling of how great the difficulty is if you are going to posit one form [b] in each case every time you make a distinction among things.”

“How so?” he asked.

“There are many other reasons,” Parmenides said, “but the main one is this: suppose someone were to say that if the forms are such as we claim they must be, they cannot even be known. If anyone should raise that objection, you wouldn’t be able to show him that he is wrong, unless the objector happened to be widely experienced and not ungifted, and consented to pay attention while in your effort to show him you dealt with many distant considerations. Otherwise, the person who insists that they are necessarily unknowable would remain unconvinced.” [c]

“Why is that, Parmenides?” Socrates asked.

“Because I think that you, Socrates, and anyone else who posits that there is for each thing some being, itself by itself, would agree, to begin with, that none of those beings is in us.”

“Yes – how could it still be itself by itself?” replied Socrates.

“Very good,” said Parmenides. “And so all the characters that are what they are in relation to each other have their being in relation to themselves but not in relation to things that belong to us. And whether one posits the [d] latter as likenesses or in some other way, it is by partaking of them that we come to be called by their various names. These things that belong to us, although they have the same names as the forms, are in their turn what they are in relation to themselves but not in relation to the forms; and all the things named in this way are
of
themselves but not
of
the forms.”

“What do you mean?” Socrates asked.

“Take an example,” said Parmenides. “If one of us is somebody’s master or somebody’s slave, he is surely not a slave of master itself – of what a [e] master is – nor is the master a master of slave itself – of what a slave is. On the contrary, being a human being, he is a master or slave of a human being. Mastery itself, on the other hand, is what it is of slavery itself; and, in the same way, slavery itself is slavery of mastery itself. Things in us do not have their power in relation to forms, nor do they have theirs in relation to us; but, I repeat, forms are what they are
of
themselves and in relation
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to themselves, and things that belong to us are, in the same way, what they are in relation to themselves. You do understand what I mean?”

“Certainly,” Socrates said, “I understand.”

“So too,” he said, “knowledge itself, what knowledge is, would be knowledge of that truth itself, which is what truth is?”

“Certainly.”

“Furthermore, each particular knowledge, what it is, would be knowledge of some particular thing, of what that thing is. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes.”

“But wouldn’t knowledge that belongs to us be of the truth that belongs to our world? And wouldn’t it follow that each particular knowledge that [b] belongs to us is in turn knowledge of some particular thing in our world?”

“Necessarily.”

“But, as you agree, we neither have the forms themselves nor can they belong to us.”